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

time
that we change the schedule of our meetings—to once every other
week.
    I was horrified. I needed more therapy, not less—even in the midst
of my worsening state, I knew this was true. I was also baffled; in
effect, he'd cut our time together in half. Was this rejection? Was I
such a disappointment to him? Finally, Dr. Hamilton explained that
he was being rotated. As of the next month, he would be transferring
to another unit in the hospital. So the news was even worse than I'd
thought: He would no longer be able to treat me at all.
    I tried to cling to the logic of his explanation, but it only felt like
loss. It was Dr. Hamilton who'd led me out of the dark woods the last
time—how would I ever get out of the woods now? By the time I
arrived for my next appointment, I had deteriorated badly; I could
barely speak, I could not meet his eyes.
    Years later, after I received my records from the Warneford, I read
the note Dr. Hamilton wrote upon seeing me that day: "Looks
ghastly."
    He asked if I was thinking of killing myself.
    "Yes." Hunched over again, eyes to the floor. Don't look at me,
don't look at me.
    "You have to come back into the hospital, Elyn. Right now."
    And so, eight months after my first hospitalization—where I had
had the vain hope for a quick fix and had begun to experience the "am
I a student/am I a crazy person?" two-trains-running conundrum—I
wearily checked back into the Warneford for my second
hospitalization, officially one of those patients who had "come back."
The admission note summed things up pretty well: "Thin, tall,
chain-smoking, sad, inappropriate laughter at times, seems physically
and mentally retarded."
    I hated myself.
     
    chapter six
    A LL THROUGHOUT THOSE first long hours of my second stay at
the Warneford, I stood alone in the dayroom and rocked back and
forth, my own arms wrapped around me like a straitjacket, rocking
myself much as a mother will quiet a distraught baby. The even
regularity of the movement comforted me. Skeletal, dirty, and
gibbering disjointed syllables under my breath—and unceasingly
rocking—I slid deeper and deeper into my head with each passing
moment. Doctors, hospital staff, and other patients moved in and out
of the room and along the corridor outside it: I could barely see or
hear any of them, and I cared even less.
    Finally, a nurse carefully walked up to me and positioned herself
directly in front of my face. "You seem so agitated, Elyn," she said, in
    that deliberately moderated tone of voice one might use to approach
an animal chewing its own foot. "I would like you to see the doctor on
call."
    I shook my head, and the room spun around me. "No. That's not
necessary," I muttered. "I'm fine. Thanks anyway."

As she quickly left the room to search for a doctor (evidently, she
didn't think my self-diagnosis very credible), I just as quickly headed
in the other direction, to go outside and wander about in the hospital
courtyard. It was January—cold and damp and raw, with light patches
of hoarfrost on the ground. I was wearing only jeans, a T-shirt, and
sneakers, and I was cold to my bones; given the circumstances,
however, I might have been just as cold if I'd been wearing a down
jacket, wool hat, and heavy winter boots.
    My legs gave way beneath me, and I slowly crumpled to the ground
in a heap. There I stayed, curled up in a ball, for at least an hour. What
was happening to me? Why had it happened? And who would help
me? But no one came. No one will ever come , I thought. I am
worthless, I cannot even control my own mind. Why would anyone
want to save me? Eventually, I pulled myself up and wearily went
back inside, stumbling around until someone directed me to the place
    where I was to sleep. I never did see a doctor that night.
    The following day, I met with a group of half a dozen doctors for
what they told me would be an intake evaluation. The meeting was
held in a very large and intimidating office. I was relieved to see Dr.
Smythe, who