The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness Read Free Page A

my shoes were all lined up
in my closet. Or beside my bed. Some nights, I couldn't shut off my
bedroom light until the books on my shelves were organized just so.
Sometimes, when washing my hands, I had to wash them a second
time, then a third time. None of this got in the way of whatever it was I
was supposed to be doing—I made it to school, I made it to meals, I
went out to play. But it all required a certain preparation, a
certain...precaution. Because it was imperative that I do it. It simply
was. And it taxed the patience of anybody who was standing outside
the bedroom door or the bathroom door waiting for me. "Elyn, come
on, we're going to be late!" Or "You're going to miss the bus!" Or "You
were sent to bed forty minutes ago!"
    "I know, I know," I replied, "but I just have to do this one more
thing and then everything will all be OK."
    Not long after the little quirks became part of my life, they were
joined by nights filled with terror, which came in spite of all the
precautionary organizing and straightening. Not every night, but often
enough to make bedtime something I didn't welcome. The lights
would go out and suddenly it was darker in my room then I could
bear. It didn't matter (if I could just ignore the sound of my heart
thudding) that I could hear my parents' voices down the hallway; it
didn't help to remember that my dad was big and strong and brave
and fearless. I knew there was someone just outside the window, just
waiting for the right moment, when we were all sleeping, with no one
left on guard. Will the man break in? What will he do? Will he kill us
all?
    After the first three or four nights of this, I finally drummed up
whatever courage I had left and told my mother about it. "I think
somebody has been outside my window," I said in a very small and
shaky voice. "In the yard. Waiting for you and Daddy to go to sleep at
night, so he can come in and get us. Or hurt us. You have to find
somebody to make him go away. Do you think we should call a
policeman?"
    The expression on her face was so kind that it made it hard for me
to look directly into her eyes. "Oh, buby"—her term of endearment for
me—"there's nobody out there, there's nobody in the bushes. There's
nobody who would hurt us. It's in your imagination. Hmmmm, maybe
we shouldn't have so many stories before bed. Or maybe we're eating
dinner too late, and it's your tummy playing tricks on your brain.
Don't be silly now." As far as she was concerned, that was the end of it.
    I tried to believe her, I really did. And I fessed up to my fear to my
brother Warren when the two of us were at home alone, and we tried
our best to reassure each other—together, we'd muster up our courage
to go see if someone was indeed standing just outside the front door.
And of course, no one ever was. But my feelings didn't go away, and
for a long time, falling asleep felt like sliding into a place of
helplessness. I fought it every night, my head under the blankets, until
finally, sheer exhaustion and a tired growing body just took me under.
    I am seven, or eight, standing in the cluttered living room of our
comfortable house, looking out at the sunny day.
    "Dad, can we go out to the cabana for a swim?"
    He snaps at me, "I told you I have work to do, Elyn, and anyway it
might rain. How many times do I have to tell you the same thing?
Don't you ever listen?"
    My heart sinks at the tone of his voice: I've disappointed him.
    And then something odd happens. My awareness (of myself, of
him, of the room, of the physical reality around and beyond us)
instantly grows fuzzy. Or wobbly. I think I am dissolving. I feel—my
mind feels—like a sand castle with all the sand sliding away in the
receding surf. What's happening to me? This is scary, please let it be
over! I think maybe if I stand very still and quiet, it will stop.
    This experience is much harder, and weirder, to describe than
extreme fear or terror. Most people know what it is like to be seriously
afraid. If they