Sunday, March 16, 2008

The lost diaries

Moving a desk for the painters (three more days to go), I found three diaries that I had been keeping for a woman who was my first friend when I moved to NYC. She had an even tinier apartment than I did, right across the hall and I spent most of my time camped out on her couch until I got my bearings. She took care of me when I arrived, crumbled from my divorce. She took care of me when my fiance died. We leaned on each other for support. But oh, what great times we had! She always found cheap tickets to Broadway, to the ballet, to any sold out show and she and I crashed the parties that turned out to be revelations rather than just fun.

She was funny and smart.

She was amazing.

And then, five years into our friendship, she had a full blown psychotic breakdown. Diagnosed late onset schizophrenic. She attacked a child, demanding to see his ID. She punched a professor in the face and drew blood. She thought the government had spies out after her and she nearly caused an accident on the California freeway because she thought spies were trying to drive her off the road. And then she was hospitalized and medicated.

She's been in and out of hospitals for years now and the last I saw her, she was delusional and paranoid, sure people were following her. She blamed me. She yelled at me and then stepped out into NYC traffic while I, screaming, tried to grab at her. She jumped into a cab and that night called me to tell me that she didn't want to talk to me anymore. I was so upset I went to a shrink myself to figure out how I could help her. ("You can't," was the answer.)

So yesterday, I sat on the floor among all my boxes and read her journals (she always said I could) and it was an ache in my heart.

I don't know where she is anymore. I don't know how she is.

I've been wanting to write about her for years, which is something she always wanted. I suppose I want to do this to try and heal that wound, but I can't find the way into the story. Maybe it's just too soon or maybe I just want to still protect her. Maybe I feel guilty that I couldn't save her. Maybe it's my next novel or maybe I should mind my own business and be silent.

Does writing heal? Writers want to write about what is often a thorn in the heart, but what if it involves someone else's pain (as well as your own)? What do you do then?


Unknown said...

Hi Caroline,

Someone once told me that healing your past, heals everyone else in it as well.

It might take a master to write her story. Thankfully, you are one.

Clea Simon said...

How horrible that must have been, Caroline! My heart goes out to you.

No, you couldn't do save her. I'm sorry that science and her doctors couldn't either, though maybe they have - and she's someplace starting a new life. But you couldn't be more than her friend, which you were. You Were!!

But as for writing about her, and your experience with her, that may help. First and most important, what you experienced is your experience - and yours to use. And of course if you experienced this, then someone somewhere else has, too, and if you write about it, someone else will feel less alone and less guilty and confused.

Use it, soothe your soul. Be well. love

Jeff Lyons said...

Someone much wiser than me once told me, "There's magic in the telling." You're a magician. Go for it.


Leora Skolkin-Smith said...

This is so sad and I know you will write a beautiful, healing story for all of us.

Gina Sorell said...

Ouch. So painful.

I personally think that writing heals.

I also believe that one can only write about their painful pasts when they are ready, and that we will know when that is.

And when you are, and you do, I have no doubt it will be wonderful.

Katharine Weber said...

You can give her the life she should have led.