In looking back, again, I don’t blame my dad. The night I locked myself in the bathroom and asked him to get me pot convinced him that I was addicted to drugs, and he suspected ones much more harmful than marijuana, such as acid or angel dust (PCP), which I have never touched. When you add the ride he took to the Colorado airport with the twelve-step taxi driver, he thought he was doing the right thing. But I don’t blame my mother, either. I’d be pissed too if someone abducted my daughter in the middle of the night against her will.

  Though I was drugged to my eyelashes and loopy as ever, I somehow knew my mom was on my side. During her visit I was able to articulate that I didn’t like my doctor. I told her that the one assigned to me wasn’t someone I could open up to or relate to. A suit and a tie and a serious stare only made me want to act crazier than I already was. (I’ve described how I made him wear the hat with pom-poms on it when he and I had private meetings in my room, remember?) It seemed that he just wanted me to shut up, and I just wanted to get the fuck out of the mental ward.

  Unfortunately the crazy in me hadn’t left the station yet. Though I was stuck and drugged, I wasn’t quite ready to surrender. I begged my mom to spring me. I called lawyers and my friend Danielle and begged them to come get me. My mom told me she couldn’t take me home, but she would see if she could get me a different doctor.

  It was about this point when I decided to become Chief, the character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I kept to myself, said little, and watched. I ate peanut butter out of those little Smucker’s packets, which led me to an intense peanut butter addiction, which was helpful, actually, because I’d become so skinny. I barely spoke with any of the patients. The most exciting part of the day was the cigarette break. As if you were in front of a firing squad, they allowed you just one cigarette per break. I would smoke it away from the others by myself.

  I robotically complied with the daily routines assigned to the patients in the ACU, mostly group therapies, meals, and arts and crafts or some other type of mindless activity. A nurse named Mary, an Irishwoman, who was actually kind of sweet, told me to take my meds, listen to the doctors, and do as I was told and I’d get out of there quicker. I did it all.

  As bleak as things were, I saw a glimmer of light. I’d begun to think about my uncle Billy. Billy always had a place in my thoughts, but I thought of him mostly when I felt lonely or vulnerable. I would talk to him, or pray to him. Soon after I began talking to Billy, a male nurse or a nurse’s aide, one who came every other Friday, appeared in my room. He was large and tall and had long red hair, like my uncle. He was also a musician and would play the acoustic guitar for everyone in the common area.

  One day he came into my room and began to talk about Pac-Man. I hadn’t mentioned to him that I had a vintage Pac-Mac arcade game in my bedroom at my dad’s house, and that I used to stay up until four in the morning high on weed beating my personal best. Yet here he was, sitting on the edge of my bed, randomly comparing Pac-Man to my situation. “You just got to keep eating all the ghosts,” he said with a smile that was so familiar it gave me chills. He’d play a guitar outside my room, and I began to believe that I was going to survive. He would joke with me the way my uncle used to. He made me laugh, something refreshingly new.

  The hope he brought to me was fleeting, however. I remember looking out of the window of my room when he’d leave me. Through the bars I’d see the desolate winter view and know that people out there were living their lives, going to restaurants and the movies. I wanted to live again.

  My spirit was greatly dimmed and saddened. My body was weak, tired. The sensation of bright lights in my eyes was becoming increasingly painful, and I didn’t dare tell any of the nurses that loud sounds were starting to hurt my ears. The only fragment of the old me, or the true me, was the wooden painted statue of Ganesh, the magnificent elephant-headed deity, and my favorite lip gloss, which a therapist gave me when she saw that I was desperate for some reminder of my old reality.

  In looking back, I was a frightened little girl in Levi’s flared jeans, which were a challenge to keep on my hips, and my orange and navy Adidas dunk sneakers, which had my drawings all over them in ballpoint pen, and a far-too-large hoodie sweatshirt. That image is certainly not anywhere close to the one depicted on Rich Girls.

  I’ve mentioned it was winter. Cold weather was, and still is, a great fear of mine. I wore about six layers of random pieces of clothing. I was adamant about wearing a tight tank top or undershirt, a long-sleeve tee, short-sleeve tee, a sweater, a vest, and a coat. Scarf, hat, gloves were a given. I had perfected the art of socks: Sometimes I’d wear two pair of thin cotton, and other times a heavy wool, depending on the shoes. Cashmere made my feet sweat, and sport socks were not warm enough. It took me a long time to get dressed, configuring all of the layers together like a puzzle so that I would not only be comfortable and warm, but not too hot indoors, and not look like a stuffed sausage. (As a result of Lyme, I still get anxious every time I have to dress or pack for cold weather!)

  Although the Chief role remained my default setting, after a week or so in the ACU I did begin to interact with a couple of the other patients. One was a young kid about my age who looked as if he’d done too much ecstasy or acid. We liked to draw together. He was an incredible illustrator—he’s probably a tattoo artist now if he isn’t dead. In the journal Dr. B had me keep are amazing sketches of mushrooms with human faces my friend drew for me.

  I also warmed up to a woman named Giddy, who was a very tall, eccentric character with a huge head of short, dyed red curly hair. She reminded me of Lucille Ball’s film version of Auntie Mame, circa 1974. She was glamorous and wore velvet bathrobes. Once a therapist herself, she had entered a deep depression when her son died. I think I was one of the only people to whom she opened up. You know how I got her to do it? I listened. That’s all. I was able to do for Giddy what I’d yearned for myself. When you just listen to someone it’s amazing what happens.

  After about two weeks, the doctor upped my meds to a point where it was difficult for me just to keep my eyes open. I remember thinking I might as well just give in to the power of all the medication. I slept as much as I could. I was dead tired from the meds and the fact that I hadn’t slept for the two weeks before I was hospitalized. Now, however, I didn’t want to stay awake. There was no reason to. I didn’t know what was the matter with me and no one was telling me why I was in the hospital. I cried myself to sleep wishing that I would wake up in my own bed, away from all of this physical and emotional pain.

  With each day that passed at Silver Hill I lost more faith. For a while I’d hoped for a hero, perhaps my dad, who would realize his mistake and see things for the way they truly were—I was ill, not crazy. But as time passed my hope dimmed until it was just a dying ember. I began to believe in my heart that no one was riding to my rescue. I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a dark emotional place.

  One day about three weeks into my stay at Silver Hill Hospital’s Acute Care Unit, the curtains in my dark room were swooshed open with great intention, as if a magician were revealing a trick. It was around seven in the morning and I slowly opened my swollen eyelids to see a woman with wavy chestnut hair, sparkly eyes with purple eye shadow, a long purple silk coat with lots of flowy pink and purple scarves, and more keys on several jingly key rings than a janitor. She was about fifty, my height, and she had a warm smile.

  “Good morning Alexandria!” the woman said in a quick, bright way. “How do you feel, sweetie?”

  She moved as swiftly as she spoke, and she seemed like a whirlwind of purple and pink jingly dreams, a fairy godmother coming to save me. In fact, for a little while I thought she was a dream. She introduced herself as Dr. Shander. A psychiatrist, she was replacing Dr. B. As it turned out, my mother was the one who had ridden to the rescue and made the hospital change my doctor. She had also given Dr. Shander an earful about my being overmedicated.

  In my room that day, Dr. Shander promised that she would get me out of the ACU very soon, which made my heart soar. I didn’t even ask her where I would go. I just wanted to leave the unit. She told me that the process of getting me out would speed up if I stopped sleeping so much.

  “But I have never felt so tired in my life. All I want to do is sleep,” I said.

  She promised that she was going to have my meds changed and I would feel a little bit more like my old self. I didn’t know what my old self was like at that point. The life I’d left behind seemed so long ago.

  Dr. Shander asked me if I knew why I was in the hospital and I told her I had no idea. One of the nurses had said something about PTSD and I thought that maybe I’d experienced some kind of trauma that I didn’t remember (which actually wasn’t too far off the mark).

  “I think I freaked out my dad,” I said.

  “How did you do that?”

  “Channeling Bob Marley and reading too many tarot cards?” (Not to mention the little surprise on the silver tray I handed him.)

  The doctor laughed in a way that made me feel safe and called me a “special girl.”

  She talked to me about my use of alcohol and marijuana and said that there was a lot of marijuana in my system when I came in. She thought maybe some of what I smoked was laced with formaldehyde, which could have flipped my switch and led to psychosis.

  “My flip had been switched long before I began smoking pot,” I said, and she laughed again. It’s only now that I realize how appropriate my statement was.

  “Okay, Alexandria, we are going to lower your dosage of medication; you’re going to stop sleeping so much, participate in the daily activities, and stop reading tarot cards because it makes you look a little nutty to the nurses. And I’ll be back tomorrow!”

  As she left my room, Dr. Shander bowed in front of my mini Ganesh statue, which was sitting on top of the desk, and said, “Good morning, Ganesh. Please look after Princess Alexandria today.”

  And poof! The door swung open with her flowing silk coat and tasseled scarves floating behind, and she jingle-jangled away down the hall.

  After she left, I fell asleep, and when I awoke again I wasn’t sure whether or not I’d dreamed the doctor’s visit. My pillow was soaked with sweat, tears, or both and I felt a sense of elation that I hadn’t experienced in weeks, maybe months. Although I didn’t know it then, Dr. Shander would become my spiritual Sherpa, guiding me through the wilderness and telling me how to face the dragons, how to carry my pack, when to sleep, how to survive in this totally foreign world. She was the one of whom I had my vague dream. She was my phantom healer.

  There were only one or two little problems: I was still on just about every psychiatric drug imaginable and I was so weakened by my condition and the medication I could barely get out of bed. And the hospital I was in wasn’t treating me for what was really making me sick.

  I will tell you this, however. I might have weighed only eighty-seven pounds but I’ve always been a fighter, and if there was any way for me to fight my way out of the darkness in which I’d been encased, I was about to try my hardest.

  sixteen

  THE PURPLE GODDESS

  “Antibodies to the bacterium that causes Lyme disease have been found in a number of psychiatric patients, suggesting that Lyme disease might trigger psychiatric illness.”

  —AMERICAN JOURNAL OF PSYCHIATRY

  Though I didn’t fully know why I was in Silver Hill Hospital, I was so happy to be out of the ACU that it really didn’t matter. Earlier I packed my things and was driven by a white van the fifty yards that separated the buildings. We pulled up to Barrett House which looked like a traditional early American home with charming windows and pretty landscaping. As I approached the home-style door, I was looking forward to being in a place that didn’t have bars on the windows and hospital corridors. I was taken to a room with two beds, so I knew I had a roommate. Not the most ideal situation, but anything was better than sleeping where I had been.

  After I put my stuff in the room, a counselor led me to a living room, where I sat on a caramel-colored wooden chair with an oversize back. Surrounding me were women of all different ages who sat on a couch, armchairs, a rocking chair, or folding chairs; one person was sprawled out on the floor. My joints were aching, and I couldn’t sit comfortably in any chair; therefore I was fidgety. Thank goodness the chair on which I sat at least had a cushion. I didn’t care that it was mauve, stained, and lumpy; I just didn’t want it to squeak while readjusting.

  A woman walked into the room who looked like she had been working there for quite a while. She had on a peach sweater, pleated khakis, and gold-rimmed glasses. “Okay, ladies, we are going to fill out a PTSD packet today. Does anybody know what PTSD is?” The woman was chipper, yet firm and meant business. She reminded me of one of my math teachers in sixth grade at the Convent of the Sacred Heart.

  A woman in her late forties with bushy blond-grayish hair, skinny legs, and a large gut raised her hand. She was wearing baggy teal leggings and a pale yellow turtleneck. Her face was red and bloated and she looked as if she hadn’t slept for days. I didn’t know where any of these women came from, why we were all here, and what we were doing. “I’m a nurse,” the lady said, “so I am very familiar with post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  Naturally, I thought the group therapy session I’d joined was about PTSD. Both Dr. Shander and the nurses in the ACU had mentioned that I might be suffering from post-traumatic stress. As I sat there, however, I realized that PTSD was not the main focus of the discussion. We had to fill out a pamphlet that asked questions like “When was your first drink or drug?” or “Do you black out when you drink?”

  Why do they want to know about drinking? I wondered.

  In looking back, I know it seems crazy (pun intended) that it took me so long to realize I was in an alcohol and drug rehab. You have to remember, though, they were still pumping me with all sorts of meds, even antipsychotics. You could have asked me who was the president of the United States and I might have gotten it wrong. But also, my alcohol and drug use wasn’t at the top of the list of things I thought I had a problem with.

  As a seventeen- and eighteen-year-old, I partied with the best of my peer group, even drank some college kids under the table. At times, did I drink too much? You betcha. Smoke too much pot? Yup, yup. But I never felt as though I was addicted to alcohol or pot. I was attempting to ease the pain I was in. I used pot and alcohol more as a misguided attempt to feel normal. That’s all I really wanted—to feel normal and not hurt.

  On the questionnaire, I wrote that I needed to smoke pot. I had insomnia, my joints and muscles were in constant agony, I frequently felt nausea. Pot soothed my stomach, gave me an appetite, and helped with my headaches, I wrote.

  I looked around the room, and some women were crying while writing their answers. I finally put the pieces together: This house was for women who abused alcohol and drugs, and my doctor thought I was one of them. I was freaked out and confused. I was paranoid that I had pulled the wool over my own eyes and was perhaps in deep denial that I had a real alcohol or drug addiction problem. It messed with my head.

  I knew I was in no condition to tell them that I didn’t think I belonged. So I gave in to the circumstance. I decided I’d just ride out whatever this was and hope for the chance to talk to someone who could get a little better sense of what was going on with me.

  After that first group session, I found myself in the sunny backyard of the hospital’s Barrett House. Still layered in multiple items of ill-fitting clothing, I felt comforted knowing that I could go outside and sit on the gray wooden bench to stare at the little creek while sucking down as many cigarettes as I could. Just having fresh air to breathe, albeit laced with Marlboro Light smoke, while letting the warm sun rest on my face felt a little closer to freedom.

  The creek reminded me of one near Nonnie’s house. My cousin Mike Fredo had placed troll dolls in the roots and hollows of the trees that grew near the brook. It was like a little troll town. I wanted to live in a tree like the trolls, and when I was little, every time I came upon a tree hollow enough to hold me I’d climb in and feel warm and safe. Outside the Barrett House that first day, my heart and soul still felt numb, probably number than in the ACU, but being around nature brought back happy childhood memories of running around in the forest behind my houses in Greenwich. The peace and stillness made me feel settled.

  The fact was, though, I wanted to say in the worst way, “Get me off whatever you have stifling my personality, and I’ll be your best friend forever.” Instead, I just kept taking the goddamn meds in fear that I would be locked back up in the ACU if I didn’t.

  In the backyard of Barrett House I felt the same way about telling anyone that I didn’t think I was an alcoholic or drug addict. I was afraid if I did they would send me back to the ACU.

  Later that day, I met with the senior social worker, a woman in her sixties who looked friendly. As I walked into her tiny office filled with little dried bouquets of roses and porcelain tea cups, tears began to swell as I realized that she had a life on the outside, and there was life beyond the lock and key of this institution. Maybe this woman would have a heart. Maybe she would understand that I really didn’t need to be here.

  My plea and cry to go home did not work. She saw through me like a CT scan! She grinned and nodded and listened. She didn’t say much. She actually pretended to consider my request, which did give me a glimmer of hope. I was so desperate to go home. I was still walking around with what felt like Vaseline smeared in my eyes. My brain was pure butter, and ice encased my heart and soul. I couldn’t feel feelings or express any joy or even sadness anymore, except at night in bed when I would cry. I could barely process the information they were giving me, and I wasn’t good at making friends because I was still acting like Chief. I only let my guard down with Giddy, who seemed to have compassion for me and what I was going through.