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I was standing there watching Jeff smash one glass from our kitchen cabinet after another on the floor. “This is how I feel like I’m breaking into a thousand pieces,” Jeff would say as each glass hit the tile. I was familiar enough with Jeff’s histrionic displays to just let them play themselves out. So, I wasn’t responding. Instead, I was thinking, what a mess. I’ll have to clean all this up and buy replacements. It all seemed surreal as if I was watching it all happen through a haze, observing it all from another time. And the more removed I became, the faster the glasses came. “This is how I feel like I’m breaking into a thousand pieces,” Jeff repeated with the final glass and fell to the floor in hysterical tears. I thought he would soon calm himself down, but he reached for a broken piece of glass, and before I could say or do anything, he slit his wrist. Blood started squirting all over the place. Jeff leaned back against the wall and dropped his arm to his side. He was doing nothing to stop the bleeding. I grabbed a dish towel, wrapped his wrist, and got him to the hospital. They bandaged his cut and placed him under observation. The next day, they transferred him to the psychiatric hospital, the one out on Henderson Road.
What I can’t get out of my mind was the look on Jeff’s face after he cut himself. He was staring straight ahead; his whole face seemed to drop down, his mouth slightly open as if he had nothing left to say. He did nothing, said nothing when I tried to stop the bleeding, and took him to emergency care. No matter what I said, no response. He was like a zombie. I kept telling him that everything would be okay, that we would work out our problems, that we could fix everything. But it was as if I was speaking to myself. Not a word from him and not a word to any of the medical staff. It’s like he just decided to stop, to stop being.
They still won’t give me any information or let me in to see him since we aren’t officially married. Can you believe that? We’ve been together for over twelve years. Twelve years, but that doesn’t count. Jeff’s mom has been great at keeping me informed. He’s eating and talking a little now, she said. When I asked her if he said anything about me, she said he hadn’t, but she didn’t know what he had said to the doctor. I want to know what he is saying. If I knew, maybe I could be of some help, tell them about how Jeff and I are together.
I keep going over what set Jeff off. It was nothing, really. I got caught in traffic and was late getting home. That was it. But Jeff was upset because I didn’t call. I guess I should have, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. I was only running about thirty minutes late. It surely became a big deal in Jeff’s mind. Before I knew it, I was being accused of all sorts of things—that I was seeing someone else, that I didn’t love him anymore. You know, that kind of stuff. I tried to tell him what he was saying was crazy, but every time I tried to speak, he seemed to get more upset. Kept saying I was lying. Then he started smashing the glasses.
I wish they would let me see him. I think it would help Jeff. I’d tell him that I’ll always be here, always be with him, no matter what, and that my life is not complete without him. I’d tell him I need him back with me. I’d tell him I cleaned up broken glasses, and I got us some new ones that I think he’d like.
Ronald J. Pelias has spent his career working with the fusion of performance, literature, and qualitative research methods in an ongoing hope he might find a momentary explanation, an emotional pause, a place of temporary rest. His most recent book is Lessons on Aging and Dying (Routledge).
Thought-provoking. Really well written
Very touching and somber - just we like it.