Crazy Times

One thinks of the craziest things when one is experiencing a nervous breakdown. Some people write notes and letters to all their friends, telling them how much they are loved or hated. I know of a woman who cleaned her entire house before she broke apart, as though the world would think ill of her if everything wasn't left "just so." Another woman, a realtor, sold three houses the day before her breakdown. Another woman, a brilliant physician, was fine, even "perfect," the entire day, seeing patients, dictating reports, and smiling at her staff, right before she leaped across her desk and creamed the chief of staff with a paperweight. Probably the most unique breakdown that I've ever heard of is the man who drove himself 90 miles an hour to the hospital, on the wrong side of the interstate, praying that God would give him a sign "by the parting of the cars."

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Anyone can have a nervous breakdown, especially rescuers, encouragers, enablers, and those of us who must be in control and save all things. I remember the events that led to my breakdown. I was 42 years old, and my husband was serving in the US Navy on a ship that we jokingly referred to as the USS Neversail. As assistant ombudsman, I was given the care of a young woman who was married to one man, pregnant by another, and madly in love with yet another. My list of burdens was endless. If you had a problem, I was the one to call. I was hurtling towards a total emotional crash.

I started giving away my favorite possessions. Everything I did had a finality to it that screamed, "I'm still in control!" But I wasn't in control. I was terribly out of control. I began dropping my classes at school, and I began talking about death – a lot. At the time, I had no relationship with God, except an internal screaming: "Please help me!"

One day, after spending an hour on the phone with a woman who had called me to enumerate all her troubles, I began to slip to the end of my rope. One person was doing this to her. Another person was doing that to her. She couldn't understand why she couldn't keep a man, even though she slept with everybody. Everyone was persecuting her, and nothing was ever her fault. Could I please tell her what to do?! I tried to advise her, and she hung up on me, right after she screamed into the phone, "Stay out of my life!" OK, why did she ask for advice if she wanted me out of her life? "Fine, I'll stay out of your life!" But I was sliding down hill, unknowing.

The day continued to spiral downward. I worried all day about my husband and the dysfunctional ship to which he was attached. Younger wives depended on me to give them strength and advice. One after another called me all day long. I encouraged here. I advised there. I was an equal opportunity rescuer. Everyone got rescued – except me. I listened to their complaints, and by nightfall I was miles behind in my college studies. I felt alone, hounded, and exhausted.

That's when the phone rang. This time I had to bring jumper cables to a young woman who left me standing in a restaurant parking lot. It was nearly midnight, and my homework was yet to be done. The world seemed to be going crazy around me, but I was the one who lost it. In a daze, I simply did what I always did. Help. Save. Encourage.

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I don't remember much after that. Life seemed as though it was happening at the wrong end of a telescope, distant and vague. I don't remember driving home. I remember sitting in the driveway with the car running, wishing I was breathing carbon monoxide. But I couldn't do anything to hurt myself. It just wasn't in me to take that awful step.

I turned off the car, and I went into the house. My two beautiful, young daughters were sitting on the couch. I said some awful things that both of them heard. It pains me still to think how much it must have hurt them, but their concern was only for me. Jenny called a therapist friend, who gave me the only advice that she could legally give, but only after I insisted.

"If it were me, Jaye, I would admit myself to the psychiatric ward."

I knew she was right, and she was able to call a wonderful psychiatrist, who immediately accepted me as his patient. He made arrangements with the civilian hospital, but I had to make arrangements through the Navy hospital, and get my own waiver.

Jenny, her young face filled with fear and concern, dialed the phone and handed it over to me. It was a Sunday night. A young lieutenant, with no medical experience, was the weekend duty officer. What a wonderful blessing he was. The first thing I did was start sobbing. Then I stumbled through every word of my story. My guess is that he had never received a call like that before, nor since. He was so kind.

"No problem, Mrs. Lewis. I'll handle everything. I'll wake people up, if I have to. Don't worry. We'll take care of you, and my wife and I will pray for you." He took my information, including my husband's legal information, and I thanked him through shaking sobs. In retrospect, I realize that he was the one who notified the Red Cross, who notified my husband's ship. I was ready to go to the hospital. Now all I had to do was find a ride.

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Jenny, age 16, did not have her full license yet, so she couldn't drive me. Several ladies in our Navy Wives Support Group were called. They gathered at my house and had an endless circle of dialogue as to who was responsible for driving me to the hospital. Each of them had a perfect reason why it couldn't be her. "You go." "No. You go." Nobody said, "I'll go." It's only much later that I realized they may have been afraid of me. I felt abandoned by my friends. The bottom of my life became a wretched hell.

After that, I thought I didn't care anymore. How I could be in so much pain and still feel numb is beyond my comprehension. Once the shock wore off for the well-meaning ladies, the discussion of how to get the emotionally disturbed woman to the psychiatric ward continued. I don't remember the details. I just know that they chose the most alcoholic Navy wife they could find to drive me to the hospital, which was an hour away.

Although very kind and well-meaning, this woman began every day with 30 ounces of cola, which she promptly poured half out. Then she filled the cup with rum, whiskey, or vodka, whichever was available. She nursed this all day, every day, continuously refilling with liquor, until she fell senseless to the rug in front of her TV set. She gargled with so much mouthwash between glasses, that if you lit a match she would catch fire. Thankfully, she didn't smoke. This was the person who my trusted friends chose to drive me on the interstate. Somewhere in my mind, beyond the pain, a sense of the ludicrous was beginning to take shape. I could almost feel a chuckle bubbling somewhere deep inside of me.

So, they packed my night clothes, day clothes, and a few personal items into the car of the totally smashed woman. I wanted to grab the stuffed dog that my husband had given me. My thoughts immediately went into gear: If they see me with a stuffed dog, they'll think I'm crazy! Hello! Reality check! I was going to a psychiatric ward with an alcoholic! Of course I was crazy! Again that distant chuckle. I left the dog at home, and I climbed into the car. "Please, God, don't let her kill me," I prayed.

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The woman was reassuring, kind, and all over the road. First we started down the wrong side of the interstate. Then, with a hysterical suggestion from me, she crossed the median and weaved her way to the right side of the highway. Then she headed for the outside lane, completely passing over to the shoulder plummeting towards the ditch. Whoa! Quickly she turned the wheel to the left, and we were headed towards the median. Then she reverted back. Back and forth we went, as my life passed before my eyes.

I didn't know whether to pray that the police would stop us, or pray that they wouldn't notice us. I began to imagine the conversation, after they pulled us over.

"Offisher," her voice would slur, "I'm sssssshoffering thish woman to the pssshychiatric hoshpital."

"Well, I'm sorry ma'am. I have to give you a ticket, and you'll have to change drivers. Ma'am," he would say, looking at me, "do you have your license with you?"

"Well, yes, officer, I do, but I can't drive."

"You don't know how to drive?"

"No, sir. I know how to drive, I just can't drive."

"Well, why not?" He would ask, irritated by now.

"Well," I would explain, "you see, I'm on my way to the psychiatric ward. Trust me. You don't want me to drive."

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Thankfully, angels surrounded that car, and we arrived at the hospital unscathed. I couldn't have been happier than to hear the huge, steel door clang shut behind me. By this time, I was just glad to be alive. I began to laugh, as the kind nurse led me to my room. In some crazy way, I knew that all this could only happen to me, in quite this way. Laughter brought hope, and hope began my healing. And low as I was, I was certain that with time, excellent care, and the grace of God, I would be well again.

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