27. The Voicemail

The afternoon it all began to come crashing down

Hello Beautiful Human,

And holy heck, hello Friday – how grateful I am to see you. This week kicked my butt and as usual, I am exhausted. Of course, that is nothing new – it is seemingly the theme of all of these introductions I write and I often find myself asking, especially as I sit down to share my week with you all – am I always going to be this tired? Am I always going to get to Friday and crawl into bed at 5 PM, completely obliterated from the week prior? 

The truth is –  probably yes, I will always be exhausted come Friday. But unlike the many decades I lived where I was tired from exclusively fighting illness, I am now tired from my illness AND from living. And that – that is quite beautiful and something I am actually really proud of. So, if you are here with me – exhausted come Friday every Friday, instead of shaming that exhaustion, I say – Here’s to us. Here’s to us being tired from living AND fighting illness. Yes – here’s to us doing both because holy heck, that is quite something.

Amidst many cups of coffee and daily cold plunges to keep me alert, I had an interview with NPR this week. During the interview,  I was asked how my work in online storytelling has evolved over the decade that I have done it and what stood out to me most – aside from the arrival of all of you which has been by far the greatest gift of that time period – and the fact that I am still tired all the time – was the fact that I finally do this for work – the fact that even without a book deal, ten years later I am doing what I always dreamt of. I am a full-time mental health advocate making my own messy, forever exhausted way through the day to better the days of others. What a privilege.

That privilege is never lost on me and this week, my way of honoring it is bittersweet. I am doing so by kicking off the darkest chapters of Maura + Me – the beginning of the end of the book, so to speak. The piece this week and the few chapters that follow are immeasurably heavy. Quite honestly, writing them had me reeling and triggered in a way I hadn’t experienced in years. But these chapters must belong in this world so people with serious mental illness can know that they too belong in this world. So, this week, I begin that adventure, and even in their imperfect, triggered state of expression, I am sharing them with you. I am forging the path forward, one cold plunge, bowl of chocolate chip oatmeal, peloton ride, and screaming phone call of excruciation to my besties at a time. Yes, I am writing this damn book honestly because it is time for people like you and me, to finally belong in our whole truth, even if it makes the rest of the world uncomfortable.

And now, without further ado, I take you back to the sunny afternoon when I thought I had finally escaped a life of inpatient treatment in a locked unit…

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27. The Voicemail

The afternoon sun never shone brighter. In broad daylight, in downtown Hanover, New Hampshire, I danced my way down Allen Street back to my truck. Opinions be damned. Shame be damned too. I was free. I was actually free and had a chance to live my life in that incredible reality.

Taking full gulps of fresh air as I blasted the Dixie Chicks out my window, my mind drifted to Maura and the many drives we had taken together just like this one. Windows down, screaming into the wind proclaiming our freedom, country road drives were one of our favorite things to do together. No destination in mind, we always got in the truck with nothing but the open road and a full tank of gas. 

As a different song clicked over on my well-worn Dixie Chicks CD, my mind wandered back to the many adventures of the summer prior that we had shared together – the swimming holes we had discovered, the tailgating picnics we had curated with an old pizza box as a charcuterie board, and the company – yes, that above all. My mind wandered to the company of Maura - to a companion, a best friend, a true partner in someone who was with me in it.

As I daydreamed about the many adventures we had laughed our way through, a rising panic began to consume me. What had I done? Where was she? I had missed our last few weeks of calls. Shit. How could I have been so outrageously selfish? How had I disappeared from the one person who got me? Who was with me? The brightness of the drive disappeared as these thoughts surfaced and I quickly descended into the self-loathing spiral that took over each time I received good news — the overwhelming hatred of myself upon realizing how egocentric I had been.

It always happened like that – the disappearance and the selfishness. Mental illness was just like that for me. It was a tunnel without light at the end of it. It was drowning in an eerie isolated darkness that I fought my way through. Oftentimes, when I was really digging into the metaphors in therapy, I would explain how mental illness was just me, lost in a galaxy of one. I had no idea how much oxygen I had left to breathe. I had no idea how long I had been trapped there. I had no idea how long I would continue to be trapped there. I simply had no idea about any of it. All I had was my fight for survival – my fight to get back to earth. Mental illness, in the hard times, was a life suspended in perpetual panic and survival mode fighting on my own Apollo mission just trying to survive long enough to catch my breath. 

Over the years, I had come to realize that in the dark times, no one was really with me, at least until Maura. Family and friends tried to be there and their attempts to love me were the greatest privilege and blessing. But I never felt their love or their support. It always passed me by – mere satellites flashing in the sky – and as hard as I tried and as much I wanted to, I could never hear them, touch them, feel them, know them, or understand the Morse code they were violently blazing at me. And I certainly could never catch them long enough to hold on for dear life and take an actual break from my endless fight. 

It was always like that – this perpetual disappearance of self. And then – always then – the light would flood in. My helmet would be removed and my feet would touch the solid ground. And instead of feeling the deep relief of another chance at existence or ecstatic with having one more day to prove my worthiness to Earth before disappearing again into my own galaxy, I would find myself where I found myself driving home that afternoon, burning red hot with shame – recognizing that I had never left Earth in the first place. I had only been locked in an earthbound spaceship of my own making wearing a goddamn helmet that kept all the light out.

Lit up with self-hatred and remorse at how my one life on Earth could be so selfish and small and how ungrateful I had been for the messages of love that had been screamed at me for weeks, I burst into tears. How did I just disappear into myself? Why did I lock myself away and block out all the light? 

Pulling into my driveway, I began to scream

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU KATE??? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?

You have everything that everyone doesn't – a family, health insurance, an apartment, a job, a therapist. A friend. A best friend. You have it all, Kate. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?”

Rushing into my apartment, I barely made it over the threshold of the doorway before collapsing as I continued chastising myself.

Grappling with the pure privilege my mental health care experience was, I fought to reckon with the blatant contrast between what I had and what I felt – between what I was blessed with and what I did not trust to be my own.

After weeping in shame, guilt, and embarrassment for a bit, I found a thread of composure, and with my head bowed in humiliation, I curled up on my couch and I dialed the involuntary unit in Concord, New Hampshire. It wasn’t Saturday and Maura wasn’t even allowed inbound calls but I knew I had to try. I had to do something to make up for disappearing on her.

To my shock, the nurse who answered willingly patched me through to Maura’s room. Startled to be given the opportunity to speak with her, I went mute for a moment or two but Maura knew it was me without my uttering a single word. Her smile carried over the crackling phone line as she launched into a dynamic spiel.

“Well thank God my bipolar bear! I was getting reallllll tired of behaving in here.”

She went on to erase every single thought of self-loathing I had just had as she acknowledged how our disappearances were part of our package deal.

“Disappearing is just our ordinary, you wildling, and when the hell are you going to learn, I love you, exactly as you are? Yup, I. LOVE. YOU and your batshit crazy ordinary disappearances and all.”

We talked for two hours that sunny afternoon. She told me how she had finally learned to people-please “as god damn sickeningly” as I had. She said she deserved “a god damn medal of people pleasing fuckery,” but that being well-behaved and medication-adherent had given her access to daily walks and two-hour phone calls. She also said she had been so perfect that she could puke but that she also would be out next week and couldn't wait to make up for all the good behavior with “some serious wilding bipolar bear activities.”

Rocking myself on the couch in relief, hilarity, and glee, we caught up entirely. After she shared all of her inpatient shenanigans and commentaries on people-pleasing, I told her about Atlas and how they wanted to send me away but how I had refused to sign off on my life sentence in a locked ward. She cheered loudly at my persistence when I told her that I stood up for myself and remarked on how we had seemingly switched roles for a while – her the newfound people pleaser following everyone's orders to a t and me the renegade, finally standing up for what was rightfully mine – a free life on this Earth.

The two hours passed far too quickly and when the nurse hopped on with a five-minute warning, an ache in my chest rose. How I missed her. How I had missed her. I needed her home. I couldn’t wait to have her home. As Maura snuck in one final story about a psych ward shenanigan she and a recent patient had pulled with chocolate pudding, a blocked number blinked across my screen. I silenced it as she finished her story. No way was I going to miss a single second of Maura time. She wrapped up the story with a gleeful hoot sharing the punch line – how multiple patients had eaten what the nurses thought was feces off the floor and we both guffawed and beamed in celebration of their prank. And there, in the giddy love palpating between us, I was finally home.

The nurse then popped back on and delivered a stern final warning. So, with her on the line, we shouted our love over the phone in colorful glory before hanging up. And just then, a new voicemail alert popped up on my phone screen. 

To this day, I wish I had waited to listen to that voicemail. I wish I had savored that afternoon conversation - that homecoming, that time with Maura. But I didn't. I immediately clicked the alert and even after smiling at her warm salutation, before I knew it, I was swirling into madness and panic as the therapist who I thought was going to be my new teacher, my one chance at freedom, explicitly stated that she was not.

“I need to cancel our next appointment and discontinue our working relationship. I do not want to meet with you in person again for fear our bond will be too great and foster dependency issues that will only add to your burden. I am recommending that you pursue an inpatient program for a number of years. Your illness is too severe to manage independently now, if ever. Please call 911 or your current doctor if you fear for your safety as a result of this message. Please follow up with your current doctor for suggestions regarding an in-patient program. Thank you and goodbye.”

 I listened to her words again.  And again. And again. 

They echoed in the emptiness of my apartment. 

“Your illness is too severe to manage independently now, if ever.”

“Your illness is too severe.”

“Your illness is too severe.”

And just like that, as fast as freedom had arrived and Muara had built us a home in mere conversation, I disappeared again into my galaxy of one – lost in the fear and terror of a truth I couldn’t fight anymore – the truth that my life, as I knew it, was over and that dream of a life – of an actual life – was simply that, a dream. A dream that would now be forever deferred.

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In case you missed it…

Our next solidarity salon is next Tuesday, November 21st at 7 PM EST. 

This salon we will be focusing on navigating holidays and the many hard conversations that arise over the course of them. As in all salons, we will first write for 15 minutes and then spend the remainder of the hour sharing our written pieces. This time, pieces will be focused on past experiences of holidays and/or fears ahead of Thanksgiving. I so hope to see you there!

There are three recent podcasts with three incredible guests.

• Navigating Eating Disorder Recovery with Rachel Havekost — Listen Here.

• Surviving Madness from The Outside with my sister Josie Fisher — Listen Here.

• Filming The Doctor Waffle Documentary with Director Dan Brauchli — Listen Here.

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Probably Anxious is an entirely reader-supported publication. Being a paid subscriber makes my mental health advocacy and education work possible. If you are able, please consider becoming a paid subscriber today.

A subscription costs $6 a month ($1.50 a week) or $60 a year ($1.15 a week).

Paid Subscriber Benefits Include:

• The Patient is In — a podcast exploring serious mental illness through the lens of those affected.

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Please know: I am not here to add any additional stress to your life whatsoever so if you cannot afford a subscription and would like access, simply email hi@katespeer.com with the words “subscribe” in the subject line and I will add you no questions asked.

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That’s it from us this week. We hope you all carve out time to nourish yourselves this weekend with whatever that beautiful being of yours needs. For us — surprise, surprise — it’s going to involve a whole lot of sleep.

We already can’t wait to see you next Tuesday and in the meantime, we love you and we wish you a weekend.

Kindly,

Kate, Waffy, and Tug