Get Me Out of Here (33 page)

At times I still felt the angst of missing him, a melancholy feeling as I imagined what he might be doing with his family, wishing I could be there to enjoy it with him.

But, for the first time, I didn't resent his absence. Surely I preferred that I see him. But I no longer felt as abandoned. I knew he would be coming back, and I knew that the separation didn't sever our feelings.

Tim and I had hosted Christmas dinner once again. The simmering resentments, the absurd game of musical chairs, my father's outbursts, and my mother's alternating grandiosity and victim's pout had not changed. Nancy, as usual, didn't lift a finger. Sally still saw me as her waitress. Joe and Jackie fended off the direct and indirect attacks on their relationship, and Bruce played the middleman.

The script hadn't changed. The way I dealt with it, however, did.

With an emerging confidence, I calmly told Sally that what she saw on the table was what we were offering. If she felt her kids were being nutritionally deprived, she was more than welcome to bring her own food.

When Nancy called the next day, as she always did, to vent her caustic opinions about Jackie and Sally, I told her that I didn't see things quite the same way and preferred not to discuss the matter. And, for the first time that I could ever recall, when my father began to badger us, I openly disagreed with him.

In sum, I viewed the situation from the perspective of an adult and acted like one. While the members of my family were obviously stunned, there were no explosions. Armageddon did not come. It was the calmest family gathering I'd attended in years.

Afterward I noticed that nearly all of them were keeping a distance from me. The family roles had been set for so long that the change in my attitude and behavior left them confused and not universally pleased. Only Joe and Jackie seemed to be drawn closer to me. For years they'd interpreted my silence during the attacks on them as passive agreement. Now they knew differently. With all I had been through myself, I couldn't fathom judging them for the strained and often difficult course of their own relationship.

People could grow; people could change. If anyone knew that, it was me.

I was feeling good about myself and my ability to handle both my family and my separation from Dr. Padgett on the eve of 1994's first therapy session. Tim and I had taken the kids out sledding, and all of us glowed with satisfied exhaustion as we sat in front of the fire when the phone rang.

It was Nancy.

“Rachel, there's something on my mind, and I have to discuss it with you,” she said with the authoritative air of the oldest child.

“What's up?” I asked.

“You've been acting strangely lately. I'm pretty concerned about it.”

Yeah, real concerned. I'll bet you are
.

“How so?”

“You're so distant these days. Quite frankly I think you're getting pretty rude and arrogant.”

“Hmm …”

“I'm serious,” she continued, clearly irritated that I had not crumbled into a diplomatic litany of apologies. “You're different.”

“You're right. I've changed.”

“Well, it's pretty disturbing to the rest of us. The way you treated Mom and Dad, the way you talked to Sally. You were very cold, you know. Very rude.”

“So suddenly you care about how Mom and Dad feel? How Sally feels?
This
is news.”

“See?” she exclaimed. “See what I mean? It's that kind of thing. That … that … I don't know…. That
attitude
you've got now!”

“What attitude?”

“You're so … so
flippant
. You really don't care what you say anymore; you don't care whose feelings you hurt.”

“I say what I think is true,” I replied calmly, noting that the calmer I was, the more emphatic she became, a fact not necessarily displeasing to me. “I have a right to my opinions, and you have a right to yours. Obviously there are some things we don't agree on.”

The baby of the family had stepped out of the role of compliant peacemaker, and Nancy had no intention of accepting it.

“You know, I'm beginning to wonder about that therapist of yours. He's driving you away from your family. What kind of a therapist is he anyway?”

My family had driven me away years ago and had been turned against each other for as long as I could recall. The only difference was that now I was realizing that sad fact. But I couldn't let the comment about Dr. Padgett pass.

“Dr. Padgett is a damned good psychiatrist,” I replied, trying to maintain my calm facade but feeling the anger rise within me. “He's helped me change in ways I've needed to change.”

“I liked you better before.”

“It isn't about what you like or you don't like, Nancy. It's about
me
liking
me
.”

“What kind of bullshit is that?” she exclaimed. “You're part of a family. You knew all of us before you ever met him.”

Hold your temper, Rachel. She's trying to get a rise out of you
.

“I really don't like the direction this conversation is taking. What I do with my life is my own business.”

“Well,” she sniffed, “I don't like the direction
you're
taking. You're acting like you're better than anyone else in this family.”

“I'm not acting like I'm better or worse than anyone else. I'm finally saying what's on my mind, and none of you are used to that. If you don't like that, well, you're entitled to your opinion. You don't have to like it.”

“How selfish can you be? All of a sudden you don't give a damn about anybody but yourself. That therapist isn't helping you. He's screwing you up!”

“And you care? Is that why you blast Jackie and Joe every time you get a chance? Is that why you haven't said a civil word to Sally in years? Is that why you slam Mom and Dad every chance you get?”

“You're hateful. You know that? How dare you say those things!”

“Not hateful, Nancy. Just honest.”

“You don't give a damn about any of us, do you? Families are supposed to love each other. Sisters are supposed to stick together.”

“It's up to you,” I sighed. “If you want to stick by me, then you're going to have to accept the person I've become. If you choose not to, well, that's you're business not mine.”

“What about Mom and Dad then? They're your parents. How can you act like that to them?”

This from the woman who, in her days of therapy and well beyond, had blamed them quite openly and belligerently for her every shortcoming.

“They're going to have to accept me too. If they really love me, they will. If they don't, well, then I guess we'll all just have to learn to live with it.”

“God, you're so distant. Mom's always been right about you. You're selfish as hell. Don't you even love your own parents?”

“I'm not sure what I think anymore, Nancy,” I said, unsettled by the realization that I wasn't sure of the answer to her question. “I'm sorting everything out. I'm not sure who I love. Sometimes I've wondered if I've ever really known what love is.”

Why do you have to be so goddamned honest, Rachel? Nancy's not going to understand this. Just lie and say, “Sure, of course I love them.” It might be true
.

“This is downright scary, Rachel. Let me ask you another question then. I'm your sister; do you love me?”

At the moment it was the furthest thing from my mind.

“I told you, Nancy, I'm not sure how I feel about anything or anyone anymore. I need some time to sort things out.”

“You really are crazy, aren't you? Maybe you'll get enough of a grip to understand the horrible things you've just said.”

“Maybe I will,” I said unsteadily, now as upset as Nancy, both of us in tears.

With that, Nancy hung up on me.

My newfound confidence had been severely tested, and I was not sure if it would hold. Angry that she had destroyed what had been a quiet and relaxing evening, I was at least grateful that, tomorrow, I would see Dr. Padgett again and perhaps make sense of it all.

January 1994.

It had been two and a half years since I had first entered the hospital and begun the painful introspection of therapy. Now I was in a frightening black hole, an emotional purgatory. I was no longer convinced that slow suicide was the answer, yet I was unsure of what to do with my potentially long life.

I had stopped running. But in doing so I found myself in an unfamiliar place. Much of what I had come to believe in the past had been refuted. I could no longer rely on the past. I could no longer rely on anything.

With the decision to live came the much more difficult choice of
how
. As dysfunctional as it was, I still had a family of origin, as well as a family of my own. My decisions would not just affect me, but my children too.

If I were to simply turn my back on the Marstens, I'd also be depriving Jeffrey and Melissa of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Here I was, teaching them lessons about family, about caring for each other. How could I explain it to them if I opted out of my own family?

I'd come to the realization that nothing was black and white, that I was neither perfectly good nor perfectly evil. The issues of responsibility in relationships were never clear-cut. I wondered how much I contributed to the dysfunction in my family.

How many times had I reveled in Nancy's slander of my siblings? How many times had I been secretly pleased to outdo one of them, to see one of them abused because it further enhanced my own standing?

It was an emotional maze that grew exponentially. The deeper I delved into these issues, the more elusive the answers seemed to be.

I couldn't trust my own emotions. Which emotional reactions were justified, if any? And which ones were tainted by the mental illness of borderline personality disorder? I found myself fiercely guarding and limiting my emotional reactions, chastising myself for possible distortions and motivations.

People who had known me years ago would barely recognize me now. I had become quiet and withdrawn in social settings, no longer the life of the party. After all, how could I know if my boisterous humor were spontaneous or just a borderline desire to be the center of attention?

I could no longer trust any of my heartfelt beliefs and opinions on politics, religion, or life. The debate queen had withered. I found myself looking at every single side of an issue unable to come to any conclusions for fear they might be tainted.

My lifelong ability to be assertive had turned into a constant state of passivity.

Anger was also a perplexing dilemma. Could such an emotion
ever
be justified,
ever
be rational? Upon sensing the slightest stirrings of anger within, I quickly doused them. Rage is one of the primary defining characteristics of borderline personality disorder. Any outburst could represent succumbing to my illness.

And yet I had a lingering fear that my story would follow the script of
A Clockwork Orange
. That, perhaps, deprived of anger as the rogue had been stripped of violent instinct, I would be denied the fuel of my life.

It was a painful state of near nonexistence, another trap. Perhaps I had finally reached my core, found my essence and identity. And nobody was there. Nothingness. I was an empty shell.

The words of my phone conversation with Nancy replayed themselves in my mind. If I was incapable of love, then what did I have with Tim? What did I have with Jeffrey and Melissa? It was a bleak time for me. I found it hard to even drag myself out of bed in the morning. Someone was getting up, going to sessions, and taking on the adult responsibilities of mothering, household, and career. But she was operating on automatic pilot without feeling or passion.

The house was cleaner than it had ever been. I was getting work done and providing the family with a flow of income. The unpredictable emotional outbursts and the arguments with Tim had all but disappeared.

Still Tim was disturbed by it all. He wanted his wife back, the passionate woman he had met years ago. I didn't know if she would ever come back or if her passion was forever lost. Tim continued to support me, to encourage my therapy, to say the words and show the signs of his love. But I knew his fear was much like mine. Maybe I had been better off as an untreated borderline than what I had become.

Sessions with Dr. Padgett lacked the explosions of earlier ones. Rarely, if ever, did I come up with conclusions of my own. When Dr. Padgett did, I simply acquiesced. Even when I felt he might be wrong, a flicker of disagreement rising within me, I quickly thwarted it.

Who was I, after all, to be able to trust my own judgment when it had proven to be distorted so many times? If Dr. Padgett was surprised by my sudden change in disposition, he did not express it. Instead he reassured me that there was a core within me, that I had an identity, and I would ultimately find it. In the interim he would be at my side, accepting me no matter who I was or how confused I might be.

The Stepford Wife. Was this destined to be a perpetual state?

There wasn't a flicker of sunshine as the snow continued to pile on the ground as it had for nearly two days. Somehow Tim had been able to maneuver his car out of a freshly plowed mound of snow and make it to the office, but the streets were barely passable. Almost every school and many businesses had closed for the day.

At noon I had gotten a call from Dr. Padgett's service. He, too, had been unable to navigate through the snow and had to cancel my session. The kids were as housebound as I was, bickering over a game of Candy Land.

I tried writing, but I wasn't in the mood for it, my thoughts forced and meaningless. I settled in with a trashy romance novel I'd picked up for a dime from a yard sale, but its foolish glamour and inane dialogue left me irritated and unable to concentrate.

Around midafternoon the phone rang. It was my insurance company, disputing a claim from several months before. Most likely a result of anorexic behavior, my periods had become highly irregular. I'd missed one or two and then had one that lasted for an agonizing twenty days. Not wanting to take any chances, Dr. Padgett had referred me to both a gynecologist and an endocrinologist.

It didn't surprise me that the insurance company was calling. Denying the first submission of a claim was the norm for them. With all the medical bills we'd accumulated and the number of specialists I had seen in the past few years, I had grown adept at the workings of insurance. The woman on the other end of the line was particularly surly.

“We've seen your appeal,” she said, “but we have to deny the claim on these visits. We'll pay for the first gynecologist's visit but not the other doctor.”

“Why not?” I asked patiently. This woman was fortunate to have caught me in my era of passivity.

“You are only allowed to see one specialist in a field,” she answered haughtily.
Is she the one with the attitude, or am I just perceiving it that way?
“Any second opinions have to be preauthorized, and you didn't get preauthorization.”

“These specialists aren't in the same field,” I replied calmly. “One was a gynecologist, and the other was a hormone specialist.”

“That isn't what my records show,” she sniffed. “My records show that you consulted two doctors for a first and second opinion on irregularities in your menstrual cycle.”

I winced at the words. I'd grown more comfortable in discussing such things with Dr. Padgett, but this woman was a total stranger.
She's a bitch. Stop it, Rachel. You are being irrational. She's only doing her job
.

“There must be some kind of misunderstanding. Actually my psychiatrist referred these two different specialists to me. I've been anorexic, and I've also been on a number of medications. He was concerned that the problem might be more than just gynecological.”

“Apparently, your
psychiatrist
didn't do any preliminary research on your policy coverage before he made the referrals,” she snapped.

Is this woman stigmatizing me, or am I just overly sensitive?

“Mommy!” Melissa ran up to me shrieking, her eyes streaming with tears. “Jeffrey says I'm too stupid to play Candy Land!”

“Mommy's on the phone,” I said, my hand over the receiver. “Tell Jeffrey you aren't too stupid to play.”

“But Mommy!” she protested.

“I'm on the phone, okay?” I said, irritated, not wanting the insurance lady to hear me. Melissa stomped off, flashing me a dirty look.

“I'm sorry,” I told the woman apologetically. “You know how kids can get when they're cooped up inside all day.”

“I wouldn't know,” she replied tersely. “I don't have children. All I do know is that I'm very busy right now.”

This woman is cold. No, you're the one who's cold. Why should she care about your kids anyway?

“In any event,” she continued, obviously annoyed by the interruption, “we cannot pay this claim. You've exhausted your appeals. Actually, if it is related to anorexia nervosa,
both
claims may fall under the scope of mental illness, in which case, your copayment is 50 percent instead of 10 percent.”

“How much are we talking about here?” I asked.
What's wrong with you, Rachel? How can you just sit back and take this? Who is she to try and reverse a claim that has already been paid? You're getting angry, Rachel. Watch it!

“The second opinion claim, which is totally your responsibility, comes to $125. The gynecologist's bill was $80. If we determine that it was mental illness–related, your copayment would change from $8 to $40.”

“Mom!” this time it was Jeffrey tugging on my shoulder. “She scratched me! Look. I'm almost bleeding!”

“Well,” I said, less patient this time as I covered the receiver with my hand, “she shouldn't have done that. But if you go around calling her stupid, what do you expect?”

My words were met with an instant look of innocence, that of a martyr unjustly accused.

“I didn't call her stupid!”

“We'll talk about it later, Jeffrey. I'm on the phone,” I said tersely, then continued with the insurance rep. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

“Ma'am, I'm very busy today,” she said haughtily. “I called to inform you that your claim is denied. Period. I don't have the patience to sit here while you lose your mind with your children. Maybe you ought to call your psychiatrist.”

No doubt remained in my mind about that comment. It was a definite slam against me. Whatever attitude I might have had, she was out of line with that one, and I knew it.

I heard one slap, then another, and then both kids were in tears, each trying to shriek louder than the other.

I'd had enough.

“Damnit!” I cried out, not bothering to cover the receiver. “I'm on the phone! Both of you, stop it—now! Once I get off this phone, you are both really going to get it!”

Jeffrey and Melissa sobbed softly, stunned by their mother's outburst. It had been awhile since one had happened.
Careful, Rachel, you're losing it!

“I don't have time to waste on you,” the insurance woman said. “I suggest you get out your checkbook. Both of these bills must be past due by now.”

The dam broke.

“Listen,” I said tersely. “I've been very patient with you and your attitude. I'm the customer, and I'm entitled to be treated with respect. I also know what my rights are. Anybody who doesn't know what the difference is between a gynecologist and an endocrinologist doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground. It will be a cold day in hell before I let you get off the hook on this one. I'm not done appealing. I've just begun to fight!”

“I don't have to listen to this,” she retorted. “Obviously you have an attitude problem.”

“You
will
listen to this because I am the customer, and I'm in the right. And you have an attitude, not me! You wanna know what
I'm
tired of wasting my time on? I'm tired of wasting it on people like you in some glorified clerical job taking out your frustrations on other people because you think you have some kind of power over them. I'm tired of people like you and your company that don't recognize mental illness as an illness, even though science has proven it to be a fact!

“But you know what? You're messing with the wrong lady. I guarantee you that your company will pay every single dime of these claims.”

“My, aren't we overemotional,” she snapped sarcastically. “You really are crazy, aren't you?”

“No. You're the crazy one to treat a customer the way you have because I intend to document every word of this conversation and your discriminatory attitude and take it directly to your supervisor. You have just made a big, big mistake.”

“Are you finished?” she said, still with a superior air but a glimmer of worry in her voice that I might carry out my threat.

“Yes,” I said. “I believe I am for now. But trust me, you'll be hearing about this.”

She hung up the phone. I, too, slammed down the receiver. I refused to listen to another word of Jeffrey and Melissa's self-righteous protests and banished both of them to their rooms.

Still shaking and a bit stunned at the re-emergence of an anger that had been absent for well over a month, I grabbed a pen and a yellow legal pad and began to write furiously. Undoubtedly I'd lost my composure and had probably overreacted to the circumstances. A part of me, however, felt strangely relieved. I wasn't sure what to make of it.