Freeing a Little of the Madness
by Laurette Folk
Editor’s note: I am including an excerpt from my novel A Portal to Vibrancy for two reasons: the novel was the impetus for The Compassion Project and this particular excerpt portrays a struggle with the proverbial inner “demon,” the belligerent critic that makes self-compassion nearly impossible. All compassion begins with the self and according to Karen Armstrong in Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life, distancing oneself from the strong emotions of the reptilian or “old” brain is key.
When I come home, everyone treats me with kid gloves. My mother asks me if I was “violated” in any way by Farin. I tell her no, I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do. Her eyebrows shoot up a few notches when I say this. She gives me a book to read, The Road Less Traveled, in hopes I will get on the right path.
My sister tells me I am free to wear any of the new clothes she bought at Express. This is not something we ever did, share clothes, but my sister finds it necessary now, to aid in bettering my appearance.
My father wants me to start an exercise regimen to make myself feel better. He shows me how to do wrist curls and various exercises with small weights to build up my muscles and make myself strong. He tells me that working out is a way of letting off steam, of feeling in control.
My grandmother sends leftovers wrapped in aluminum foil, with my name written on a piece of masking tape, to fatten me up.
I abandon my old bedroom because I can’t recognize the person who once lived there and opt to make my new living quarters in the basement where I have a television and a futon couch. I push my food around on my plate at dinner but cannot seem to eat it because I think my family is watching what I do and reaching their own conclusions about how much of a wreck I have become. I eat only at night, when everyone else is asleep, and the anxiety has dissipated somewhat. I sneak upstairs and rummage for food, like a raccoon in a garbage can, putting random, available things in my mouth.
Every morning, I listen to the sounds of the occupants of the house, the water running down pipes, footsteps across the kitchen, my father’s long confident stride, the opening and closing of the cabinet, the clink of porcelain, and the scrape of the kitchen chair. My sister shuffles out of bed, her slippers swishing and sliding, the suction of the refrigerator releases then reattaches. My mother darts around my father and sister with frantic snapping heels. I can hear my father scraping his cereal bowl, picking up the last morsels of evenly distributed flakes and milk so that nothing is wasted. When the last door closes and the cars drive away, I feel a heaviness in my chest, like a wad of lead. This is when Coco peaks her head down the stairs. She’s old now, so she meows a lot to perhaps tell herself she is still alive, or maybe ask if anyone is out there in the darkness, because her senses are defunct. So she thumps down the stairs meowing an eerie, violin-screeching sound. She pops up onto my chest, her old ribs heaving with happiness, purring a less-than-fluid purr that sounds like a machine in need of a tune up. We hold on to one another until I can’t stand the nameless dread anymore. I sit up and face the terror of the vastness of the day and debate with myself how I will climb the ladder to night.
Most days I go to my grandmother’s house because I cannot manage to be alone for great chunks of time.
I spy on my grandmother as she sews and talks to herself. “This dopey machine!” She steps on the pedal, and the needle stabs at the cloth of my uncle’s pants. “Now that’s it, that’s it,” she says, getting it to run, pushing the pant leg through so that it stays under the needle. Her lines aren’t as straight as they used to be; this is what my uncle tells me. As I watch her I hold my tongue, waiting for the right moment to announce my presence. It doesn’t seem ethical to spy on her, and yet I find myself wanting to observe her, to find out how she handles being alone. She looks up at me, putting her hand on her bosom.
“Ooh, Jackie, where did you come from? You nearly scared me to death!”
“I came in through the side door,” I say. “You always keep it open.”
She continues to push the fabric toward the needle, the machine speeds up and slows, jams with thread.
“Damn,” she says. “This dopey machine keeps screwing up today. I don’t think I’m putting in the bobbin right.” She waves her hand at it in disgust. “Ehh, I don’t have the patience for this now. Did you have breakfast? Do you want some eggs, hey? I can make them nice with toast and some juice.”
“I’m not really hungry, Grandma.”
“Look at you. You’re a bag of bones.”
Bones, the devil inside me reiterates. Bones and eyeballs.
“I’ll make you some eggs. You want ’em scrambled or over easy?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“What do you mean you don’t know! They’re only eggs!”
“Maybe I’ll have one.”
“You want it soft-boiled?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“She wants it soft-boiled,” she says, snipping the thread and folding the pants.
I follow her as she clomps up the stairs in her brown shoes with rubber heels. I notice the runs in her stockings, how the brown shoes have molded themselves to the bunions on her feet. She reaches the kitchen and clangs pots and pans, puts one egg in boiling water.
“What do you want on your toast?” she asks.
I start to worry about the toast; it’s too much.
“I don’t think I want toast,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Just an egg.”
“Just one? That’s nothing. How ’bout I make the toast, and if you want to eat it, you eat it. If not, I’ll throw it out the window to the birds.”
It’s only a matter of time before they put you in the hospital, the devil says. He spins an image of me in a blue hospital nightgown, a skeleton with ratty hair, tubes puncturing my skin. I feel a release of heat in my body, and my insides vibrate; I go to the bathroom to either throw up or shit. I switch on the light, and shut the door. My heart is racing; I’m trying to catch my breath. I look myself in the eye.
“Shut up,” I say aloud.
I listen for a retort. Nothing. Another chemical is released in my body; it coats my cells and I relax a little bit. I think about the placid Buddha. This is not compassion, I tell myself.
You’re a long way from that, the devil says.
I close my eyes. One egg and one piece of toast is an act of compassion. I think of the words over and over again, one egg and one piece of toast is an act of compassion. I pull down my pants and pee. It is a normal thing to do. I am a normal person. One egg. I pull up my pants, wash my hands. Toast. I dry my hands. Compassion.
My grandmother sets my place. I feel a smaller quake hit my body upon seeing the plate. She has buttered my bread and has placed jam on the table. There is a fork, orange juice in a glass. I want to run, race out the door, not sit down and eat, because she will see that I can’t. Nervous breakdown. I force myself to sit in the chair. My grandmother sets down the dish with the soft-boiled egg. The egg is just a harmless watery thing, slippery white with runny orange goo, like a miniature setting sun.
“There you are,” she says. She sits down across from me, pushes the salt and pepper shakers toward me. “You want some jam, hey?”
“No, Grandma, this is fine.”
I salt my egg, slip it down my throat quickly. I try for the toast, take a bite, another, another, forcing it.
“See, you are hungry,” my grandmother says.
The image of me again, bones and eyeballs. I force another bite. My body mechanically heaves. My grandmother sees this. I catch the expression of concern on her face.
“What’s a matter doll, do you feel sick?”
I want to cry, scream, but I can’t. You can’t, the devil says. You can’t get anything right. I am going to puke up the egg. I need to get out of the kitchen. I need to go see a shrink. I need to be fed intravenously. I need to get a life.
“I’m a mess!” I scream, grabbing at my hair.
I observe myself from above as I do this, as if I am two people at once. Grandma Gracie is stunned with my outburst. She leans back in her chair, observing me for a moment.
Then she comes closer, “No, no, doll, you’re not a mess. You’re just going through a difficult time, hey,” she says softly. “It happens to everybody.” I look at her, see her small glossy eyes behind her glasses. “Leave it if you can’t eat it. No harm done,” she says.
I shake my head. I look at my grandmother, I tell her, “I don’t want you to worry about me.” It’s much worse when people are worried about me.
“I’m not worried about you, doll,” she says. “Besides, time heals all wounds.”
But what if it doesn’t, the devil says.
“Can you kindly go fuck yourself?” I say aloud.
My grandmother looks at me with an exaggerated expression of surprise.
“Not you Grandma. Not you. I’m not talking to you.”
Silence.
“Well, then, who are you talking to, dearie?”
I note the word dearie; it’s not as sweet as doll.
I tap at my temples. “The devil,” I tell her, “is in my head.”
Her face is still frozen in the countenance of surprise; her eyebrows are a few notches higher. She’s confused, peeved.
“Well then, maybe you should talk to Father Kearns. Say a confession for your sins.”
I’ve now crossed some line. I’m no longer the goodie-two-shoes grandchild; I have to now confess my sins: the sex with Farin, the thought of doing harm to myself, the word fuck.
“Please believe me, Grandma. I wasn’t talking to you.” I put my hands over my eyes and try to hide. My grandmother gets up from the table; she doesn’t know what to make of me. She needs to keep her day moving. She will say a few feverish prayers for me later on. Then it hits me; something is different. I am less anxious. It’s as if I’ve freed something, let out a little of the madness.
I eat the rest of my breakfast.
“Freeing a Little of the Madness” is an excerpt from the novel A Portal to Vibrancy by Laurette Folk.
by Laurette Folk
Editor’s note: I am including an excerpt from my novel A Portal to Vibrancy for two reasons: the novel was the impetus for The Compassion Project and this particular excerpt portrays a struggle with the proverbial inner “demon,” the belligerent critic that makes self-compassion nearly impossible. All compassion begins with the self and according to Karen Armstrong in Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life, distancing oneself from the strong emotions of the reptilian or “old” brain is key.
When I come home, everyone treats me with kid gloves. My mother asks me if I was “violated” in any way by Farin. I tell her no, I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do. Her eyebrows shoot up a few notches when I say this. She gives me a book to read, The Road Less Traveled, in hopes I will get on the right path.
My sister tells me I am free to wear any of the new clothes she bought at Express. This is not something we ever did, share clothes, but my sister finds it necessary now, to aid in bettering my appearance.
My father wants me to start an exercise regimen to make myself feel better. He shows me how to do wrist curls and various exercises with small weights to build up my muscles and make myself strong. He tells me that working out is a way of letting off steam, of feeling in control.
My grandmother sends leftovers wrapped in aluminum foil, with my name written on a piece of masking tape, to fatten me up.
I abandon my old bedroom because I can’t recognize the person who once lived there and opt to make my new living quarters in the basement where I have a television and a futon couch. I push my food around on my plate at dinner but cannot seem to eat it because I think my family is watching what I do and reaching their own conclusions about how much of a wreck I have become. I eat only at night, when everyone else is asleep, and the anxiety has dissipated somewhat. I sneak upstairs and rummage for food, like a raccoon in a garbage can, putting random, available things in my mouth.
Every morning, I listen to the sounds of the occupants of the house, the water running down pipes, footsteps across the kitchen, my father’s long confident stride, the opening and closing of the cabinet, the clink of porcelain, and the scrape of the kitchen chair. My sister shuffles out of bed, her slippers swishing and sliding, the suction of the refrigerator releases then reattaches. My mother darts around my father and sister with frantic snapping heels. I can hear my father scraping his cereal bowl, picking up the last morsels of evenly distributed flakes and milk so that nothing is wasted. When the last door closes and the cars drive away, I feel a heaviness in my chest, like a wad of lead. This is when Coco peaks her head down the stairs. She’s old now, so she meows a lot to perhaps tell herself she is still alive, or maybe ask if anyone is out there in the darkness, because her senses are defunct. So she thumps down the stairs meowing an eerie, violin-screeching sound. She pops up onto my chest, her old ribs heaving with happiness, purring a less-than-fluid purr that sounds like a machine in need of a tune up. We hold on to one another until I can’t stand the nameless dread anymore. I sit up and face the terror of the vastness of the day and debate with myself how I will climb the ladder to night.
Most days I go to my grandmother’s house because I cannot manage to be alone for great chunks of time.
I spy on my grandmother as she sews and talks to herself. “This dopey machine!” She steps on the pedal, and the needle stabs at the cloth of my uncle’s pants. “Now that’s it, that’s it,” she says, getting it to run, pushing the pant leg through so that it stays under the needle. Her lines aren’t as straight as they used to be; this is what my uncle tells me. As I watch her I hold my tongue, waiting for the right moment to announce my presence. It doesn’t seem ethical to spy on her, and yet I find myself wanting to observe her, to find out how she handles being alone. She looks up at me, putting her hand on her bosom.
“Ooh, Jackie, where did you come from? You nearly scared me to death!”
“I came in through the side door,” I say. “You always keep it open.”
She continues to push the fabric toward the needle, the machine speeds up and slows, jams with thread.
“Damn,” she says. “This dopey machine keeps screwing up today. I don’t think I’m putting in the bobbin right.” She waves her hand at it in disgust. “Ehh, I don’t have the patience for this now. Did you have breakfast? Do you want some eggs, hey? I can make them nice with toast and some juice.”
“I’m not really hungry, Grandma.”
“Look at you. You’re a bag of bones.”
Bones, the devil inside me reiterates. Bones and eyeballs.
“I’ll make you some eggs. You want ’em scrambled or over easy?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“What do you mean you don’t know! They’re only eggs!”
“Maybe I’ll have one.”
“You want it soft-boiled?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“She wants it soft-boiled,” she says, snipping the thread and folding the pants.
I follow her as she clomps up the stairs in her brown shoes with rubber heels. I notice the runs in her stockings, how the brown shoes have molded themselves to the bunions on her feet. She reaches the kitchen and clangs pots and pans, puts one egg in boiling water.
“What do you want on your toast?” she asks.
I start to worry about the toast; it’s too much.
“I don’t think I want toast,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Just an egg.”
“Just one? That’s nothing. How ’bout I make the toast, and if you want to eat it, you eat it. If not, I’ll throw it out the window to the birds.”
It’s only a matter of time before they put you in the hospital, the devil says. He spins an image of me in a blue hospital nightgown, a skeleton with ratty hair, tubes puncturing my skin. I feel a release of heat in my body, and my insides vibrate; I go to the bathroom to either throw up or shit. I switch on the light, and shut the door. My heart is racing; I’m trying to catch my breath. I look myself in the eye.
“Shut up,” I say aloud.
I listen for a retort. Nothing. Another chemical is released in my body; it coats my cells and I relax a little bit. I think about the placid Buddha. This is not compassion, I tell myself.
You’re a long way from that, the devil says.
I close my eyes. One egg and one piece of toast is an act of compassion. I think of the words over and over again, one egg and one piece of toast is an act of compassion. I pull down my pants and pee. It is a normal thing to do. I am a normal person. One egg. I pull up my pants, wash my hands. Toast. I dry my hands. Compassion.
My grandmother sets my place. I feel a smaller quake hit my body upon seeing the plate. She has buttered my bread and has placed jam on the table. There is a fork, orange juice in a glass. I want to run, race out the door, not sit down and eat, because she will see that I can’t. Nervous breakdown. I force myself to sit in the chair. My grandmother sets down the dish with the soft-boiled egg. The egg is just a harmless watery thing, slippery white with runny orange goo, like a miniature setting sun.
“There you are,” she says. She sits down across from me, pushes the salt and pepper shakers toward me. “You want some jam, hey?”
“No, Grandma, this is fine.”
I salt my egg, slip it down my throat quickly. I try for the toast, take a bite, another, another, forcing it.
“See, you are hungry,” my grandmother says.
The image of me again, bones and eyeballs. I force another bite. My body mechanically heaves. My grandmother sees this. I catch the expression of concern on her face.
“What’s a matter doll, do you feel sick?”
I want to cry, scream, but I can’t. You can’t, the devil says. You can’t get anything right. I am going to puke up the egg. I need to get out of the kitchen. I need to go see a shrink. I need to be fed intravenously. I need to get a life.
“I’m a mess!” I scream, grabbing at my hair.
I observe myself from above as I do this, as if I am two people at once. Grandma Gracie is stunned with my outburst. She leans back in her chair, observing me for a moment.
Then she comes closer, “No, no, doll, you’re not a mess. You’re just going through a difficult time, hey,” she says softly. “It happens to everybody.” I look at her, see her small glossy eyes behind her glasses. “Leave it if you can’t eat it. No harm done,” she says.
I shake my head. I look at my grandmother, I tell her, “I don’t want you to worry about me.” It’s much worse when people are worried about me.
“I’m not worried about you, doll,” she says. “Besides, time heals all wounds.”
But what if it doesn’t, the devil says.
“Can you kindly go fuck yourself?” I say aloud.
My grandmother looks at me with an exaggerated expression of surprise.
“Not you Grandma. Not you. I’m not talking to you.”
Silence.
“Well, then, who are you talking to, dearie?”
I note the word dearie; it’s not as sweet as doll.
I tap at my temples. “The devil,” I tell her, “is in my head.”
Her face is still frozen in the countenance of surprise; her eyebrows are a few notches higher. She’s confused, peeved.
“Well then, maybe you should talk to Father Kearns. Say a confession for your sins.”
I’ve now crossed some line. I’m no longer the goodie-two-shoes grandchild; I have to now confess my sins: the sex with Farin, the thought of doing harm to myself, the word fuck.
“Please believe me, Grandma. I wasn’t talking to you.” I put my hands over my eyes and try to hide. My grandmother gets up from the table; she doesn’t know what to make of me. She needs to keep her day moving. She will say a few feverish prayers for me later on. Then it hits me; something is different. I am less anxious. It’s as if I’ve freed something, let out a little of the madness.
I eat the rest of my breakfast.
“Freeing a Little of the Madness” is an excerpt from the novel A Portal to Vibrancy by Laurette Folk.