Early Monday morning on my way down to Morgantown to find a flower shop job, I stopped at the clinic to see Dr. Sands. It was good fortune that he was available without a wait. After he invited me into his office and motioned to the patient’s chair, Dr. Sands reminded me of my appointment with him for next Thursday.
I told him, “The sleeping pills you prescribed worked fairly well but only if I take two at a time instead of one. I’m almost out and I need a new prescription.”
My request sounded simple and straightforward but Dr. Sands wanted more details of my nightmares, which he called “fatigue- driven hallucinations.” Since I couldn’t remember what details I had disclosed in our first session, I decided to tell him the full truth of the attacks, not as nightmares, but as the reality I experienced. He listened patiently with no expressive reaction.
When I was finished with my tales of terror, Dr. Sands excused himself saying he wanted to consult with the clinic supervisor. He returned with a stocky, balding psychiatrist, Dr. Green, and I was asked to re-tell my story of the demonic attacks for the benefit of Dr. Green. Afterward, both doctors excused themselves, saying they wanted to talk without me being present, and they left the office. After a few minutes, Dr. Green returned and sat down in the chair next to mine. His tone was somber and slow as he spoke, “We believe you are suffering from a condition called, Borderline Personality.”
“Borderline of what?” I asked.
Dr. Green continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “We do not treat this disorder at this clinic and so I must ask you to leave and seek treatment elsewhere.” He sat back in the chair, his eyes steady on me.
I was confused at his remark and asked, “I’m sorry, did you say you cannot treat me or you will not treat me?”
“Again,” Dr. Green said with a bite, “I must ask you to leave. We do not treat borderline personality disorders here.”
“OK…” I started as acceptance of his words began to sink in. “Could you at least tell me what a borderline disorder is? Am I borderline between depressed and exhausted? Or borderline between anxiety and hallucinations? I really don’t understand. I just need help sleeping.”
Dr. Green stood up and opened the office door. “Good-day, Ms. Tricot and good luck,” he said gently pushing me out of the office and the clinic with his hand on my back.
I sat in my car for a minute, wondering what had just happened. I had been kicked out of a psychiatric clinic because my personality straddled some undefined borderline.
Shaking off the confusion, I continued my trek down the mountain to Leah’s house. Over mid-morning coffee, I asked Leah if she had ever heard of borderline personality disorder.
She asked, “Borderline of what?”
“That’s what I asked, too!” I exclaimed, “But he refused to tell me!”
I told Leah about the clinic and the sleep aids I had gotten from Dr. Sands that worked better than the over-the-counter kind.
“Doctors make a lot of uneducated guesses based on five minutes of conversation,” Leah said, dismissing the doctor’s rudeness. Her attitude toward the psychiatric science was contagious and in that moment, blind acceptance of my life’s contradiction crystallized.
The attacks were still happening as they had been, unchanged for twenty years. No matter what treatment I had received whether it was medical, holistic, psychiatric, homeopathic, psychological, psychic, magical, meditative or even backwoods exorcism, it still did not change anything. My black shrouded assailant still appeared every night, emerging three or four times during the day, to curse, beat and laugh at me. It had burned and bit under my flesh until I tore my own skin. Loud chaotic insults and constant threats of, “I’ll beat you until you die,” had been screamed at me, unaltered, no matter what, for twenty years.
I saw those years like a large maze that was set in darkness, which I was destined to wander until the demon would finally carry out Its final threat. At that moment, I knew two things; nothing could save me and I had only a few years left. The pressing question of the moment was what to do with my few remaining years.
