Tag Archives: memoir

Sunday

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I’m at the CVS pharmacy where I’ve just placed my prescription refill order. While I wait I start browsing the magazines in the news stand. I lightly touch the magazines with the grand food recipes that are beyond my capability at this point: simple spring salads, easter ham, easy spring slow cooker suppers. Yes, these are easy recipes, recipes for the masses. All I can do is look at them longingly and dream of a day when I will be able to do something simple like throw a few ingredients into a slow cooker for dinner. Before you even get to the point of putting ingredients into a slow cooker you have to have the wherewithal to plan for that, make a list, get yourself to a grocery store, shop, and then come home and put all of those ingredients away.

That same morning I woke up with a splitting headache, and the floaty feeling that glues me to my bed. I roll out to go to the bathroom, and nearly trip over my own legs because I am so wobbly from the floatiness. I tell myself, “It’s Sunday. Don’t lose the day. Get dressed now. Go to the diner. Now. Do it now.” But no, the floatiness takes over, the world fades out, and I fall back into bed again. Somehow I find my phone on the nightstand with one hand by just feeling around for it. I call Doc, get his voicemail and leave a message. After some period of time I can’t quantify, I go in the closet to get some clothes. I find some clothes, and then fall into bed again from the exhaustion and floatiness. I now have clothes. I just have to get out of my pajamas and put them on. The phone rings. It’s Doc. We do the Emotional Freedom Technique together on the phone. I tap the appropriate points on my head, face, hands, and torso while I repeat after him, “Even though, even though I am scared and I don’t know why, I deeply, and completely love and accept myself.” We go through this again and again and again. Finally, I am able to stand without feeling wobbly. I am able to get out of my pajamas, put my clothes on, and gather my things to go to the diner for breakfast. I woke up at 9:05 a.m. It is now 11:15 a.m.

I head to the Okayish, Yet Preferred Diner. There was another diner I used to patronize on Sunday, the High Quality, Yet Gruff Diner. At High Quality they do things like make a Spinach Chicken Kabob Salad with dried cranberries, walnuts, blue cheese, grape tomatoes, and homemade greek dressing. Then there’s the crazily awesome homemade macaroni and cheese where they make their own superb cheese sauce, and it shows. However, at High Quality they do not treat you well if you are a solo diner. Even with empty booths in the diner they will insist you eat at the counter. But at the counter, people line up to pay their bill or pick up their takeout. Inevitably, I have people leaning over me as they wait for their takeout orders. I start to feel floaty when this happens. Having people in my personal space makes me shaky.

At Okayish you have to know what NOT to order. Here’s an easy rule. Never order soup there. I think they come prefab from some company. I once ordered Manhattan Clam Chowder that just seemed off. I ate so little of it they took it off my bill. One other time I thought I would try soup again, and I ordered Matzo Ball Soup. It was a vessel of liquid salt with a tint of yellow and a mediocre Matzo ball in the middle. So, yes, no soup. While we are on the Never Evers, never order any pastries here. I think they keep them in the pastry case to the point that they may be ready for shellacking for permanent keep. And don’t dream of the Buffalo Chicken sandwich. It’s just two frozen chicken fingers fried with some buffalo sauce inside a hamburger bun with a sprinkle of blue cheese. They do better with things they actually cook and prepare themselves, such as omelets, pancakes or waffles. They even know how to make excellent home fries, potatoes perfectly cooked, nicely seasoned with salt and pepper and crispiness here and there throughout.

But, the people who work at Okayish are some of the nicest around. Every time I eat someplace with better food I miss these guys. Just a few weeks ago, I was reading McCarthy’s Bar: A Journey of Discovery in Ireland while dining at Okayish when I started laughing right out loud as I was reading the book. The waitstaff wanted to know what I was reading. One waitress said to me, “I want to laugh too! What book is that?” On a recent Sunday the only available table was a small table wedged between two large tables. It was not an ideal place to be seated. The owner said, “I’m sorry, honey. It’s all I have.” I said that I was just glad to be seated. Then a booth cleared up after I placed my order, and they immediately moved me into the booth. I didn’t even ask to be moved. My favorite waiter, Chris, will tease me if I miss a Sunday, and he’ll say, “Cheating on us with another diner, are you?” One of these days I might be bold enough to say, “I got crazy and actually wanted some great diner food, but I always miss you guys.”

But, that was the morning. The diner outing is past, and now I loiter in the pharmacy wanting a reason to stay longer. I wander the aisles, but I have no need for anything else no matter how hard I look. I’ve already opened every greeting card that plays sound just to have something to do, and for the faint chance that Hoops & Yoyo would cheer me up. There is no need for anything else in this store. The prescription is ready. It’s time to go home.

Remembering Bugles

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bugles

Today I ate too many Bugles, the corn chip snack, not the instrument. Yesterday I was flitting through the grocery store on a quest for eggs when a sighting of Bugles stopped me in my tracks. Bugles have that effect on me. The last time they stopped me in my tracks was this past Christmas season. I was visiting my sister in Texas when we both spotted the tasty, nutritionally empty specimens at the same time. We looked at each other, and she spoke first, “Remember these? Bugles were the only snack that didn’t make me sick when we were kids.” In adulthood she would learn that she has celiac disease.

Her simple question, “Remember these?” caused my heart to jump because there are many times I cannot answer such a simple question. I have large memory gaps from childhood, and anytime I can actually answer a memory question from childhood I am pleasantly surprised much the same way that Buffalo Bills fans are surprised when the Bills are faring well. The moment I saw those Bugles on the shelf at the HEB grocery store I saw a snack size package of those buggers flying out of a vending machine at the community swimming pool where we took swimming lessons as kids. She would get Bugles, and I would get Boston Baked Beans, the brown candy-coated peanuts. I’ve always been a sucker for snacks with nuts. But that is all I remember about Bugles, that they were part of our post swimming lesson repast as kids.

When I find something I remember as a child I tend to overdo it in my quest to find answers. It’s like the Bugles could be a possible missing key that will unlock more memories that are unavailable to me. And there I was this afternoon with the bag of Bugles unopened on my counter. I thought to myself that I could use a small snack. I should have known better, these were Bugles after all. With every crunch I would close my eyes, and see if anything would come to me in the form of memories. Nothing. I would crunch them cone end first, then cone end down, to no avail. Nothing except an overconsumption of salt.

The Mental Marriott

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The Mental Marriott* looks like any other large Tudor cottage with brick siding, and oddly shaped rooms that give it an Alice in Wonderland feel. I had one of those rooms with cornflower blue low ceilings that required you to bend your head as you walk so that you don’t hit your head. I did eventually forget and hit my head, but the room didn’t lose the Wonderland feel for me in spite of this.

Thirteen of us lived at The Mental Marriott for an average of 3 weeks, depending upon the agreeability of your health insurance company. Most of us were there for post-traumatic stress disorder.

At The Mental Marriott we took turns making dinner. I volunteered for more than my required number of turns, and I couldn’t cook enough for them. I made West Texas Stacked Enchiladas (my own contribution to the menu), Chicken Francese, Spaghetti and Meatballs, and more. I was astonished that I had the ability to cook for 13 people. I would often start cooking 2 hours before dinner just for the leisure in drawing out the experience, and I would have fantasies that the house would hire me just to be the house cook. In my own mind, I was the house cook while I lived there. It’s the best job of my life thus far.

After dinner we would gather in the TV room and watch The Big Bang Theory on TBS. There was a Big Bang marathon up for viewing every night, and woe to you if you wanted to watch anything else.

My nonstop cooking and loquaciousness on endless topics had many wondering if I really belonged there. I struggled at times, but never felt as bad as I did on my own in my apartment back home. I  was often introverted in the rest of my life outside of The Mental Marriott, but with this group I felt like I could be myself. I had no idea I had lost myself with trudging in the real world with PTSD at my heels.

As nice as the place was, there were times when we had to stand up for ourselves to the staff. One gal summed it up best when she said very simply to some staff members, “You know, we’re people too. You guys forget that sometimes.” Then there was my favorite therapist, Martha. She once made this statement in group therapy, “I don’t believe PTSD should be called a mental illness. I get so enraged by the way people are treated because of this condition. You have PTSD because of something that happened to you. Otherwise, you would not have it.” Needless to say, she had her own way of looking at things. We loved how she went against the group think of most of the staff in that place. She would say to me, “Beatriz, are you in a bad neighborhood again? Get out of that head of yours, girl. It’s a bad neighborhood.” She could tell I was ruminating by just looking at me.

We laughed at the irony of having the residential program on the campus of a famous Ivy League university. On the weekends we would go into town, and take in the college haunts with the rest of the students: the fun and groovy Indian restaurant, the chi chi bakeries, and nonstop bookstores. We had to return by midnight on Friday and Saturday. We would joke that our house was a sorority house, and we needed to sign in with the Sorority House Mother by midnight.

People often ask, “What do people with PTSD need?” Primarily and largely we need people. It is often that simple, not always though, but you might be surprised at how often that is answer in the moment. It’s not the cure, but it’s often what will carry the day.

There was a constant supply of frozen oranges in the freezer. We were taught that we could use frozen oranges to give us a “jolt” when we got stuck in a PTSD moment. In any random group therapy session you would see a number of frozen oranges in hand. I haven’t used a frozen orange since then. I associate them too much with that time, and it makes me sad to recall that time because I want it back. I want the thirteen place settings eagerly awaiting a person about to enjoy a meal.

* a special nod to Mary Karr for originally coining the phrase, Mental Marriott, in her memoir, Lit.