The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness by Elyn R. Saks Page A

cancer."
    "No," I said. "Just depression."
    "How did they treat you for it?" he asked. "Because you are being
treated, aren't you?"
    Here it comes. "I was in a mental hospital."
    He paused a moment. "Did they give you any medicine or
anything? Don't they have medication now for depression?"
    "Yes, they do," I told him. "I didn't want to take it, but finally I did,
and it has helped."
    Yes, there it was—definitely, it was relief I saw. "Let's go and tell
your mother."
    We walked without speaking to their room.
    My mother was sitting on the edge of a chair, clearly waiting for
some kind of dire news that would no doubt involve my impending
death. When I told her what was actually going on with me (albeit the
same shortened, tidier version of the truth that I'd given my dad), she
initially flinched at the news, but relaxed when she heard about the
medication. It was a problem, there was a solution, and now it was
fixed. End of discussion. Each person's privacy and dignity was still
reasonably intact. And so, where shall we go for dinner? "Elyn, you
simply must eat more."
    What transpired among us didn't much comfort or reassure me,
but at least my worst fantasies had not come true. They didn't disown
me, or tell me I was a failure, or accuse of me being weak by having to
take medication. In fact, they were kind, concerned, supportive. But I
was such a horrible disappointment to myself. How could I not be a
disappointment to them as well?
    For the remaining days of our Paris trip, my parents pressed me to
eat. Have a bite of this, try a taste of that. And, as pleasantly as I could,
I took a tiny taste, faked a little bite, but in truth I continued to resist.
I am bad. Only good people get food. I deserve to starve. I deserve to
be tortured. Starvation is a fitting torture for me.
    When I returned to Oxford from Paris, it got worse. I felt compelled to
go back to my first tutor, because he was the top person in ancient
philosophy at Oxford, and I wanted to study with the best. But it was a
complete disaster. His manner was distant, even dismissive; in my
view, he had a very low opinion of me. I felt doomed. I could not
concentrate. I did not write. I did not sleep, I did not eat. I did not
bathe.
    I spent more and more time gibbering to myself, restlessly pacing
through the streets of Oxford, imagining what people were saying
about me. I narrated events to myself as I walked: Now she's walking
down the street. She's ugly. People are looking at her. People are not
to be trusted. Be careful. Be vigilant. They will hurt you That man's
face just turned into a monster face. Be inconspicuous. Don't let them
see you.
    There were fantasies as well.
    Dr. Hamilton finds me in my bed, emaciated and confused. I have
not been able to get out of bed for weeks. He is gentle and reassures
me that he can help. I want to believe he can help me. He helps me
get out of bed, but even with his help I can barely walk. I am too
weak. I am weak.
    Thoughts of suicide came rushing back in, along with intense
fantasies of exactly how I'd do it. Throw myself into the river. Set
myself on fire. I was particularly drawn to the latter. I was, after all, a
witch; being burned at the stake seemed especially fitting. It was only
what I deserved.
    Meanwhile, I was telling Dr. Hamilton some, but not nearly all, of
what was going on inside my head. He'd made it clear he didn't want
to delve into my darker self—and since I was still desperately trying to
please him, how could I tell him something so ugly? Please like me;
please want to help me. Please don't be disgusted with me. He
constantly urged me to eat more—and then suggested (or maybe went
along with my request, I can't remember now which it was) that
perhaps the medication needed review. Maybe it was the medicine
that was failing me, rather than me failing myself.
    I'd barely had time to digest this possibility when he announced
that I shouldn't become too dependent upon him, since it was