when i left the nut house the first time as an inpatient i was mandated to attend an out patient program for the next 3 weeks. a bus picked me up every morning at seven o'clock and shipped me over to the out patient hospital. at the inpatient hospital i used to spend endless hours discussing my feelings and my reactions to my medications, but at the outpatient hospital we got to play games and draw pictures in art therapy for 9 hours a day.

one day in art therapy i remember that we were asked to draw something that would closely resemble what we were going through. at the time my boyfriend of 2 yrs had just dumped me and i had shaved my head and gained 40 pounds. i drew us tumbling down a hill together while i tried to slice his throat open with an axe.

there was this very amazing schizophrenic in my program with me. his name was henry but even the therapists weren't sure if that was really his name. he was admitted into the hospital after he called 911 to talk about the weather. the phone operator realized he was insane and a staff full of e.m.t.'s barged into his house and brought him to the hospital. at almost all times you could be sure he had no idea who he was. he would say things like "this weekend i think i'll go shopping with thieves" or "i'm going to be superfreak for halloween". his obliviousness and psychosis were enchanting. everyone loved him.

on the day i drew the axe picture i had to present it to my class. i noted that the picture was symbolic of the frustration and anger i felt about the termination of my relationship with billy. after my analysis and after class henry came up to me. he said, in a sunshine voice:

"hey laura, that picture you drew today was really nice. are you going to kill billy?"

at first his reaction was funny to me and i assured him that i wasn't, that i didn't even want to. but with my laughter came appreciation; for here was a man who had seen a crayon description of my wrath and vulnerability and decided to encourage it. he wasn't like the art therapist telling me that symbolism is one thing, murder another. he wasn't like the staff in the first hospital who had gotten suspicious when i played checkers with the homicidal patient. he got it. he knew that the picture was about the hemorraging of my heart, regardless of what action i took next. he knew i was in the hospital because of this hurt and respected my decision to want to murder over it.

in truth we all feel the things i draw and we all want to identify and console the way henry did: completely unedited. yet, we are so crowded with ideas of what is and is not normal that more often than not we don't write in poems what we really mean or say in words what we really feel. in henry's case it took the approval of being in a psych ward to free himself from what is and is not normal. in my case, a lifetime of shelved emotions in my closet left no room to store the silence.

2005-05-25, 11:29 p.m.
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