The Other Side of Sanity

1. Summer Break

Summertime always felt like a different reality from the rest of the year. At least, when you're still attending classes it does. The weather is warmer, school is out, and a new adventure is always just around the corner.

In the summer of my twentieth year, however, I went on a very unique adventure.

My spring semester of college wrapped up much like any other, with stress, caffeine, and final exams. But, while my college friends were busy partying and celebrating the start of summer break, my last few days on campus were overshadowed by a distressing message from home: my mother was dead. She had died suddenly, in a freak car accident, on her way home from the grocery store. My father called and told me I needed to pack my things quickly and come back home as soon as possible. I had a funeral to attend.

So, with a numbness that can only be brought on by deep denial, I did as he said. I emptied the contents of my dorm room into my car and drove off, barely taking the time to explain what happened to my roommates before I left.

On the drive home, I stopped just down the street at Lake Hampshire. It was a clear, bright day, and the sun glistened off its rippling surface. My mom had never let me come to the lake when I was a kid, even though it was close enough to get to on foot. It was too dangerous, she always said. The water was unclean, and I could easily drown. I stared out at the water and contemplated jumping in. Letting myself sink beneath the surface so that I could scream. Scream and scream, without letting anyone hear me. The waves danced lazily on the shore, beckoning. Come in, wash away your sorrows, the water whispered. But I got back in my car. My mother wouldn't have wanted me to get any closer.

I returned to a house that no longer felt like my home. No longer felt like the place I'd grown up. No, now it was only a tomb, and encased inside its walls were the memories that my mother had left behind. Shrines of her existence littered every room: her pair of slippers by the front door, her coat hanging on a hook, her pile of travel magazines next to the couch, dog-eared and creased. My father looked more lost than I felt. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, his face haggard and unshaven, and his hands shook as he sorted through documents at the kitchen table. I couldn't believe how much damned paperwork needed to be done just because someone died.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I would ask, standing stiffly in the kitchen.

He would only raise his head and smile at me--a smile that did not reach his tired eyes--and say, "No, Emmie, you don't need to do anything. Just having you here with me is more than enough."

And that's how the first week passed, with my father sorting through the shattered pieces my mother left behind, and me wandering around the house like a zombie. My childhood friends began to stop by as they started returning to town from their own college campuses. I let them in, sat with them in our living room and nodded along and thanked them as they offered their condolences, but in reality, I wasn't listening to a single thing they were saying. I was too busy trying to sort through how any of it could be possible in my own head.

"You're not okay, Emmie."

I seemed to fall back into my body, to catch up with the present, as Carmen--the last one back in town, and by far my closest childhood friend--sat across from me on our couch and spoke with honesty.

"You don't need to keep telling me that you're okay," she said, looking me right in the eye. "I can see that you're not. And you shouldn't be. Something awful happened, and it's not fair and it's really sad. But you need to allow yourself to feel that sadness. That's the only way you can get through this. Otherwise, you'll be stuck."

Hot tears rolled down my cheeks, and my body began to shake. I sobbed and sobbed, and Carmen sat next to me, hugging me and rubbing my back.

"I know," she said softly into my ear, "I know it hurts. Let it all out. I'm here for you."