Ticket to Madland is the true story of a mysterious mind-body illness that took me to multiple doctors and therapists, a rehab center, and finally a locked psych ward. (Spoiler: I recovered.)
In this excerpt, I recount a few of my experiences at the rehab center, where I was supposed to stay for a month. I left after five days. You could say I didn’t give the place a real chance, but honestly, I knew at first sight it wasn’t going to help me. For a couple of our interviewees, however, a similar sort of center was the key to recovery, which just goes to show … different spaces for different (head) cases. –Jocelyn Davis
***
After lunch. The early afternoon was taken up with a visit to my assigned therapist, Natalie, who wore a broomstick skirt and a pleasantly neutral expression. We sat in chairs placed six feet apart in a meeting room on the second floor of Harmony. I gave my account: vertigo, insomnia, anxiety, nerve pain, and so on and so forth. Natalie listened empathetically. She explained that I would have group therapy on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and one-on-one therapy on Wednesdays and Fridays, but not this Friday, since I was officially in quarantine.
“That’s all the one-on-ones?” I asked, disappointed. I had assumed they would be daily.
“You can request extra sessions, and I’ll do them if there’s time. We like to emphasize the group therapy, though.”
“Ah. I see.” Listen, maybe group therapy will be good. Don’t pre-judge.
Of all the things Natalie said, I recall just two. First, she asked me if I knew about “relaxing your shoulders,” prompting a small fit of internal hysteria as I thought about replying, No I know nothing about relaxing my shoulders, but I do know all about deep breathing. Second, she described the “adjunct therapies” on offer from outside specialists. One was a thing called EMDR, which stands for eye movement desensitization and reprocessing. “It’s good for trauma,” she said. “Many people find it helpful.”
“OK … I mean, I guess I am traumatized. Sure, why not.”
“And we also offer horse therapy.”
“Oh, wow! Can you actually ride the horses?”
“Well, no, but you lead them around. It’s all about body language and trust. And leading.”
“Oh.”
“It’s very popular. Only five clients per session. Would you like to do it?”
“Yes, please.”
She handed me both forms to sign and said I should take them to the front desk right away and pay in advance with a credit card, because EMDR and horses tended to fill up. Sane Me blinked at the cost—in the hundreds for each program, nonrefundable—but, who knows, maybe it’ll help. Take everything that’s going on. I hurried over to Reception, once again congratulating myself on the possession of my wallet. Kind Friendly Receptionist affirmed the wisdom of my purchases as she swiped my card through the reader: “Oh, EMDR is amazing! It’s really, really intense, but so great for trauma. And the horse therapy, you’ll love it.” As I walked back to my cabin, I reflected on the advantages of a captive customer base.
Still, everyone at the center clearly wanted to help and was trying their best. This was plain to me even as I sat in another group circle in another room in Harmony, Security Brain duking it out with Exhausted Brain while Natalie led a class that consisted mostly of her reading aloud to us, interminably, from a workbook about coping skills; even when I returned to the Unity meds room at four p.m. only to be told that I needed to fill out a separate insurance form for the pharmacy, which meant my meds wouldn’t arrive for another 24 hours; even when, walking back from Unity, I came across Mindy leading a session on the picnic patio with Therapy Dog Edith, joined in, and discovered that Edith, while undeniably handsome, was a cold-hearted therapy dog, laser-focused on treats and impatient with fondlers.
Yes, I could see everybody meant well. It’s just that I needed much, much more than well-meaning finger-snaps, or well-meaning counsel to relax my shoulders, or a well-meaning workbook about coping skills, or a well-meaning(ish) dog to snarf kibble from my palm. I needed medical treatment. And it seemed to me, as my first full day at the True Healing Center drew to a close, that the majority of my fellow inmates (clients!) were in better shape than I was; that this so-called healing program was serving, primarily, to keep them away from drugs and alcohol while they received help dealing with past psychological traumas, traumas that had led to self-loathing and self-sabotage. Of course, they needed treatment, but mostly, I thought, they needed encouragement. All have won, said the Dodo, and all must have prizes.
I did realize I was better off than the fawn girl with her cutting scars; indeed, better off than all the fawn girls, three or four of whom, I came to learn, were housed in a building called Serenity and did not attend group sessions. At the nighttime meds lineup, one such girl would hunker on the weedy ground against the property’s coyote fence, wrapped in a light blue blanket, her wistful face luminous in the moonlight. She and I discussed sleep aids: Seroquel, in her experienced opinion, was the best, while Trazodone she thought worthless. She told me Serenity was “where they put you if you can’t ever be left alone. Somebody watches you 24-7.” OK, I thought, I’m glad that’s not me.
But the grownups, the cabin people: they all seemed in pretty decent shape. I envied their relaxed camaraderie. I envied their ability to sit at ease on their front porches, reading books and waving to me as I walked by. I envied them their bright, reasonably well-rested eyes.
At five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, I was sitting on my bed, illicitly needlepointing an owl onto a change purse, when the cabin door rattled. Shoving canvas, yarn, and needle under my left hip, I snatched up my book of crosswords.
“Knock, knock!” came the cheery voice of CT Pat. “I’ve brought you a roommate!”
She entered, followed by the unhappiest-looking person I had ever seen.
***
Ticket to Madland: How I Went Insane and Met New People is available on Amazon and wherever books are sold.
