CRAZY BAG LADY

 

I just got back from a week in Atlanta playing with my four year old grandson. Traveling is rough on a purse, jammed with everything one might need while stranded on a tarmac. In a half-crazed mode, the easiest way to clear the deck was to dump out my purse on the bed. My grandmother was famous for such episodes. She could lose her purse in the middle of the night and she could decide to clean out her bag at midnight. Today is National Handbag Day and National Mental Health Day. I think the two go hand in hand.

One Band Aid. $15.62. Galaxy phone. Receipt from Raising Cane Chicken at 8:45 p.m. after the express snack service between ATL and LIT. Blue peepers. Extra pair of Peepers Readers. My EpiPen Auto Injector 0.3 mg stored in an extra Peeper Holder for my wasp allergy and a Sting Kill Pack – external anesthetic.

A good bag and good shoes. A mantra in my house growing up. Of course, my Daddy worked in Department Stores all of my life. I don’t remember my first purse but I now own thirty-five handbags, wrapped in tissue and tucked in dresser drawers or drawn up in cloth bags filling two laundry baskets in the closet. This is a curated collection of many years.

KN95 Mask. Grocery receipt for 37.10. Purell Hand Sanitizer. Chanel Rouge Coco 468 Michele.

Clutches. Evening bags. Saddlebags. Fabric bags. Mesh bags. Handbags. Crossbody bags. Shoulder bags. Large totes. Zippered bags. Magnetic closure or Toggle Bags.

Three have key fobs. I have red tassels and black tassels and brass hang tags. Bags with feet. Silver chains and brass chains.

Black bags. Black patent. Orange patent. Red. Turquoise. Tiffany Blue. Sea Mist Grey. Variation of blue and grey shimmer. Jade green. Gunmetal. Off White Quilted. Color blocked red and black and another red, navy and tan. A straw bag. Embossed bags. A hot pink bag studded with LOVE I carry to weddings and cool occasions.  

Coach. Brahmin. Michael Kors. Anne Klein. Liz Claiborne. Brighton. Cole Hahn. To name a few.  Many of my bags were purchased 30-40% off. My most expensive bag, a Black Patent Coach was on sale and my least purchase was a red glitter bag from Walmart for Halloween.

My oldest purse belonged to my grandmother. A maroon clutch Alligator bag lined in suede with a suede coin purse inside. My newest bag I bought during the Pandemic when I just had to go to the store for new sheets. Look what else came home, my brown Embossed Crossbody bag I love.

I have memory bags. A large Cole Hahn Black Tapestry shoulder bag with outer leather and brass accents and brass studded tassels. I have traveled everywhere with that mammoth bag stuffed with a water bottle and Sudoku book. It is the last bag I bought that I could share with my Daddy. He was in the hospital and I walked in fresh from Dillard’s with this sharp bag thrown over my shoulder and he said “Oh you shouldn’t have!” And I brought it closer and he began to admire the design and quality while still exclaiming “You really shouldn’t have.” But he was a lost cause at that point, Mr. Quality over Quantity. This bag is thirteen years old and gets a treatment with a black Sharpie every fall. I just can’t part with it, yet.

A Sea Bag Maine. Reclaimed sailing canvas printed with regional nautical maps and rope handles. I was visiting my cousin, Dede, who lived in Maine, when she had to go back into the hospital. Her bone marrow transplant was failing but we didn’t know that, then. I came in the last morning before I left and she was pleased as punch with a beautifully wrapped sack with a Sea Bag tucked in.  Dede took a pen and put a dot on the map right at Southport Island. The last sweet moments I would have with my dear cousin. Just a purse.

A wedding photo of two young people running through a shower of rice and love and wishes. There I am, taupe clutch in hand. Just like the Queen.

A Uni Ball Vision Elite Black Pen. A sea glass leather wallet with my Driver’s license, Starbucks card, two credit cards, ATM, insurance, Covid Vaccine Card, $15. Red pill case with Tylenol, Imodium, Benadryl for the wasp sting and clonazepam. The things we carry.

***

Four hundred suitcases were found buried in the attic of the former Willard State Hospital in New York in 1995. Shut up, put away. Patients living lifetimes in the institution. A multitude of belongings marking what was never needed again, tucked in the eaves of a one hundred twenty-six year old “asylum for the insane.”

This discovery told a story which had not been told before. As a result, a small portion of the forgotten suitcases were turned into a traveling exhibit, The Lives They Left Behind: Suitcases from a State Hospital Attic which debuted at SAMSHA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration) in September 2006. I was able to see the exhibit as part of a conference I attended. 

Nine suitcases each with a story to tell – a handful to speak for the years and the thousands abandoned. A toothbrush.  An alligator wallet.  Sewing patterns.  Fine china.  A Bible.  A ration card. Letters. Postcards. Baby booties. Textbooks. Fine clothing. Hundreds of items telling the stories. Things for now and things for later. I connected with these lives, saddened for them but relieved for myself.

I carry my mental illness with me every day. I did not choose this little gem. It will probably never wear out. No one else wants it. Some days, it is heavier than others. The fear of the unknown. The whys and what ifs. Frustrating impairments. Undone everything. The stigma turning away would-be friends. Regrets of unmade memories and memories soured. Incomplete.   

For my journey, I pack what I need. Resiliency to jump back from setbacks. Buoyancy for whatever comes my way. Hope, without hope, everything looks lost even when it’s not. I need my stubborn streak. Self-determination is not hard for me. When I decide to do something, don’t get in my way. 

I carry strength to achieve my goal. I carry the strength of people who love me anyway. The power of words hidden in my heart. I pack being present. Not looking back. Trying not to obsess on forward. Knowing my own presence and sensing when my body and mind need rest.

I have travelled with a story for many years. The only value this little gem has given me is a story to share with other people. Otherwise, the disease wins. Stigma wins. I fight back with good doctors, therapists, consistent medication, support and faith. Recovery. Living my best life possible. What to produce from the ups and downs. How to respect an imperfect life.

And if it helps, a good bag on my arm.     

"Gunter, Where's My Purse?"  Randomonium June 1, 2022 

 

 

 

 

 

NO CUCKOO IN THIS NEST

I am just an ordinary person. With a big mouth and a love of writing. And total willingness to throw stigma to the wind. Stigma for a mental illness that can be caused by a biological difference to the brain and genetics, according to the Mayo Clinic. Physical. I had absolutely no control in procurring my lovely disease.

May is the month for Mental Health Awareness. I have lived with Bipolar Disorder Disease since college.


I strongly believe medical compliance and therapy are the two most important requirements for living a successful life with mental illness. A life of recovery. Good doctors and therapists, along with my faith and the support of my family are crucial. Being the best me I can be. I truly believe I would not be here without this combination.  

***

I pulled my suitcase out of the closet. Earlier in the day, when I gave up my full bottle of tranquilizers, my psychiatrist said I needed to go to the hospital. Months earlier, I found the extra bottle while I was unpacking. I had held the bottle in my hand but it gave me a weird, creepy feeling like walking past a gun counter. I knew he was right. I had to trust him. I had not been hospitalized because of my mental illness in twenty-seven years. For all of those years, I had managed to stay upright with the help of family.

I always thought I would feel like a failure if I had to return. Despite the ups and downs, those years in between were full of joy raising a beautiful daughter. Decorating homes, hosting parties.  Cooking chicken and dumplings for those in need.  Raising pups. Starting a blog. Writing poetry. Volunteering. Cross-stitching beautiful linen samplers. A third set of ears when the going got tough. Traveling. Learning to knit and to play Mah Jongg. Hitting the keys again. Teaching a Sunday School class of older ladies. Painting my office. All the while, using medication and therapy to help me be the best me possible, living in recovery. 

This was not packing for a holiday. I am known for my precise, neat packing which is exactly how I packed my suitcase. Three pairs of jeans, folded once to fit inside. A couple of tee shirts, a designer navy, white polka dotted, cotton shirt with three-quarter length sleeves, a green knit tee style gown, a Muumuu, socks, underwear. I packed my toothbrush, styling brush. No liquid. No makeup. No blow dryer. I slipped a picture of my daughter in my bag.   

How did I get here? Blame it on the Christmas money burning a hole in my pocket in April. My big box store was out of stock. I drove thirty miles to another store. I was feeling good, maybe too good. But I was in control. 

I walked over to check out my new CD/stereo system. A large screen television caught my attention. “If you give a Moose a muffin….”  I could use a new television for the bedroom.

A young man and woman took me through the department. Accessories were piling up. One is good and more is better. She detailed my new purchases. Between confessing my illiterate electronic skills and entertaining this new group of friends, I was definitely getting a buzz. A little mania is never a good thing, only addictive.

I do remember offering to buy them supper and inviting them to my house for homemade chili. I didn’t blink spending hundreds of dollars. But later that night I started to worry. They had my phone number and my address. And why did she give me her personal cell number? And they knew I could drop a bundle without flinching. What if they came to my house and tried to scam me or worse, kidnap me? It could happen. 

*

My first depression occurred in high school. By my junior year of college, I knew something was wrong. Some mornings I would wake up glued to my bed. Days of hopelessness, worry over classes. A day later I would feel happy, successful and positive. I was the one in the lampshade. Three schools in four years but I graduated. Ten years and no clue. Rollercoaster.     

I married my husband just after graduation. I had never lived in an apartment, paid bills, cooked regularly. I was trusting and naïve. Two months later, I took a job in a doctor’s office. The patients loved him. I came to hate him. He was verbally abusive, emotionally manipulative and sexually harassing.  No one talked about these things. I had just been married six months.  In front of the whole office, he said “your husband isn’t man enough for you and someday you will find someone who is.”     

After leaving the job, stress threw me into a depression which I medicated with food, gaining forty pounds in three months. This was just the start of decades of yo-yo dieting and tensions over my weight. The first two years of marriage were extremely difficult, setting up a pattern.

*

No kidnapping during the night. Now I was sitting in my own apartment. My world was teetering on extinction. Piercing quiet days spent sleeping on the sofa, jerking like a baby. Taking calls from friends and family, forcing my lying words into chit chat. No appetite for the instant potatoes, saltines, yogurt, protein shakes, Coca-Cola. Nothing stayed in my system.

Then the afternoon I fell. What I call flat on the floor with Jesus. But on this afternoon, I lost all hope. Jesus couldn’t help me now. But He was hovering. I was face down in the rug. No neighbors came running but I don’t know how they did not hear my guttural anguish at my world destroyed. I couldn’t move. Breathing dust in and out, smelling like butterscotch sweet and salty, lives walked, shoes and crumbs. I don’t know how long I stayed down. Finally, I sat up. My face was scratched and my eyes were swollen shut.   

I called Mama. She has always been there. Calm. I could hardly put words together. I told my mother I didn’t want to live. All those years ago, when I had been born two months premature and laid in an isolette for a month, she drove to the hospital every day and sat in a chair, watching nurses take care of me. She couldn’t even hold me. On this afternoon she told me I did want to live. I had to promise her I wouldn’t do anything. Everything would be alright.

I promised to call my therapist. I saw Sheila weekly. When I called her on this horrible afternoon, she didn’t miss a beat. We had spent four years together and she knew what was happening in my life. Minute by minute, over the years she had gained my respect and minute by minute, I had given her the authority for our present hour. She talked. I would talk. Was I going to be okay for the night? Yes. We had a plan. I told her I had promised my mother. I got into bed and went to sleep.

One of the values of consistent therapy is the professional relationship between the therapist and the client, the trained versus the bewildered. A therapist is non-judgmental. One therapist told me to say anything I want, spit words on the floor and then he would sweep them out the door. 

Living with a mental illness is a hard way to do life. This is not a river cruise on a beautiful summer evening. Life is checking what’s going on in the engine room, inhaling diesel fumes. Or going back up top and watching for snakes hanging from low limbed trees. Alligators pushing off from shore, diving below, waiting for you to fall off the boat. Everyone else is sitting thin and pretty, chatting with friends. Their lives are full and happy, with energy to run an efficient home, mother two or three babies, have a full or part-time job and read books, play bunko and tennis. How many times I pushed through the pain of depression to attend an occasion, hoping I was smiling enough, wanting to appear just like everyone else. 

Despite years of successful living, even armed with valuable information, I was now going back into the hospital for the second time. Willingly committing myself for medical help, hoping I could push a reset button and gain back my health. 

One of my best friends was beside me. The moon was full and so was the hospital. They took my suitcase as I entered the admissions area. “ What brings you here?” By this time, I was covering my arms and face with wet paper towels. Mental illness is a physical illness. While I felt relatively composed, my anxiety was giving me a headache, making me nauseous and light-headed. My meal of crackers and lemonade the night before and my one meal of this day, a Starbucks tall latte with one sugar, were not helping. I was told a dinner tray would be brought once I had a room.

I was frightened but every nurse and employee met me with kind eyes and reassuring words. Hours of data entry, vitals and bloodwork. “What brings you here?” When I stepped into the small, sterile medical room, I looked down and saw a penny, for me a little piece of comfort when I needed it. Two blue gloved nurses checked me out from top to bottom. Anticipating the unknown is usually worse than the reality. I actually felt safer afterwards. 

Hours later, I fell asleep in a rolling cot between two other women. My shoestrings were removed, along with the underwire from my bra. I was given a paper sack with my possessions minus my soap, brush and cell phone. My dinner ended up being Goldfish snacks from the nurses’ station. Even with an extra blanket, I was miserably cold.

I called this medical excursion Spring Break. The required daily activities were group therapy, my psychiatrist visit, meds handout, mealtime, dayroom activity and bedtime with fifteen minute bed checks. One day, a nice, young woman with an extremely short term memory asked me if we were children. “What brings us here?”

I was moved to another room. My roommate, who was there on court order, said I was her nicest roommate of all. The bathroom door was a short-type curtain. There was no privacy with the consistent observations by people and cameras. In this setting, most people didn’t give their last name or talk much about family and home. Very little about what brought us there. We didn’t psychoanalyze each other. Days were spent in the day room coloring pictures, napping in chairs, drinking insidious coffee while the television blared MTV and the majority taking outside smoke breaks. My phone calls were not restricted. I never felt threatened or unsafe. 

My main complaint was the cold. I wasn’t cold-natured. My second night, I was fed up. I woke up and walked down the hall to the water fountain near the nurses’ station. “Can we help you, Amy?” “Just water.” In addition to my nightshirt, I was now wearing three cotton tees and a Muumuu along with two pairs of jeans, sock and shoes, socks on my hands and my designer cotton blouse wrapped about my head. Other than that, I was perfectly normal. And I wasn’t cold.

When Spring Break ended, I took my paper bag to the desk to verify my original possessions. I was escorted through a set of double locked doors into a foyer to wait for my things. I was amazed at how much better I felt. I was ready to go forward. My mother was there to pick me up. I felt like a six year old again, so excited to see her standing there, waiting for me. A nurse came through the doors. I took my suitcase in hand and headed out into spring.

 From Hi Low Happy Sad @2017 Amy Holt Taylor