May, 8th 2017 — The rising hand, the fallen king
This article is part of the series “What is like to attempt suicide and fail”. Start there, if you have not read it yet.
Monday, D Day + 31
5 dias until discharge
I woke up early to deliver my latest clothing offering to the table of the laundry table goddess. The clinic charges every month whether you use the laundry or not. So I jammed my basket with everything I had. I even put on a pair of blue macaws. Beautiful specimens.
The closer I get to my discharge, the less I believe it will happen. It feels like it’s all a play, a scan to trick my brain. I am not getting happier as the days progress. I will be happy when I out of here and only then.
I had breakfast, with a slight strategic change. I skipped the black coffee for the chocolate. The coffee was giving me an infinite diarrhea from hell. At least I think it was the coffee. So many things could be the culprit here. The important thing is that the coffee has gone away from the diet and the chocolate has been welcomed.
The first lecture of the day was given by the psychologist Bad Cop . He likes to start the lectures with an embarrassing little dance in which he calls the happiest patients to the middle of everyone. I’m not the most cheerful. I’m probably the most sad faced guy ever here. But, because of our history, I figured he would call me to dance in the middle of the everyone. And so he did. In seconds, I was in a ridiculous situation, from which I left with the same speed I entered.
I returned to my seat and watched the speaker write on the board “Freedom and Responsibility”. He finished writing and asked “what is freedom to you?”, addressing the group. Each person said something from their places. The one I liked the most was “Freedom is being free”. It made me smile. So simple and so perfect.
But then, our Bad Cop made an unexpected move. In a quick gesture, he changed “and” to “is” turning the phrase into “Freedom is Responsibility.” In a millionths of a second my hand rose. It was not even enough time for the brain to authorize the movement. It was the most automatic thing I’ve ever seen.
He asked me for a minute, concluded his position on how “Freedom and responsibility” only exist together and finally gave me the word. I said little and I do not know how if I said it beautifully. But I did argue that Freedom is one thing and Responsibility is another. He said he meant that there is no Freedom without Responsibility, which is a plausible argument, but to say that both things are the same is an impossible connection.
Anyway, I know that our initial shakeup made the speech completely unravel with the other interns talking to each one, usually nothing to do with anything at all. In the end he quoted Paul, the apostle, saying that “All things are lawful for me; but not all things are expedient,” I said that Paul is correct and he proves my point. One thing is what I can do. Something else is what’s appropriate to do. “Freedom with Responsibility” is what he should have written on the board. Anyway, that’s what happens when you call me to do the embarasing dance.
Continuing the list of things to move life from now on:
- Learning to cook (well): that’s it. When I photographed Jamie Oliver for an ad campaign, there was a moment when we were together, just the two of us. Do you know what he told me? To be honest I do not remember, but all the photos I took of him were great. Anyway, I resolve that I want to be a good cook. I want to invite people to dinner, which I’ve cooked. I want them to be impressed, crying, writing love letters about my food. That’s what I want.
- Listen to more classical music: my friend, Dr. Irapuan was the first to know of my trouble with trying to die. I did not know what to do or who to call. As a good doctor he prescribed me a dose of Wagner. What remedy that was. It reminded me that I love classical music and I do not listen out of sheer shamelessness. Dr. Irapuan went further. “Listen with no commitment, no need,” he said. Remedy for life.
- Say “no” more often: to please, I always said “yes”. For almost everything. Even those things that would take my time, my money and my joy. Saying “no” will be my standard. At least inside my head. There I decide what the mouth will say.
- Traveling by motorcycle: in 2008 I accomplished one of the great dreams of my life. I bought a Harley Davidson Sportster just the way I wanted it. Almost a decade later I continue with the same bike and the same passion for taking the road. It sets me free. Brings me peace. The smell of asphalt, bush, burnt vegetation, wind in the face. Very little in life tells me more about freedom than a ride with Joan (that’s her name). And it’s with this little girl and, maybe others, that I want to hit the road around the world. With friends, or just me and her.
- Traveling more for pleasure: I travel a lot and I consider myself fortunate because of this. But it’s always for work. I end up having one day here one day there for pleasure in the middle, but do you know that trip that we do to enjoy and nothing else? It’s been a long time since I have one.
- Cry: I’ve always been a crybaby. Always. I weep with music, film, advertisement, with the bag flying in American Beauty, with Lester Burnham saying, “And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can not feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life … You have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m sure. But do not worry … you will someday, “my Holy Baby Jesus, I’m crying buckets right now, just having copied and pasted this part of the movie. But I do not cry like everyone does. I sob, I put to shame the person next to me. People stand up and leave. And this item is on my list just so I can remember something I already do and I intend to do even more.
More items to the list coming tomorrow.
The day still had the Operative Group meeting — the one that solves all the troubles of the group (aka almost none) — and it occurred exactly like all previous editions I witnessed except for on vital detail: this time, instead of inertia, some privileges were removed. Those who smoke, will have less cigarettes. Those who shop, will shop less. Those who get some perks from the family (that extra Coke or chocolate bar) can all forget about it.
At the end of the meeting, Darth Vader (the coordinator of the place) proclaimed the end of romance. He wants to hear no more of flings in a small place where men and women live confined for months and months. I do believe we have enough TV shows to prove that’s impossible. But here, no way. Under penalty of going to the infirmary. Oh, that infirmary.
I entered and left the meeting in absolute silence. Straight to the afternoon coffee-break when I got some chocolate, butter and bread. I will start skipping this coffee as well. It’s decided.
But the important thing here is not the coffee-break, but the intrepid presence behind me. Standing, looking over my shoulder for the entire time, following each on of my sips and chews, there he was, Mr. Chess.
I had to concede. I stood up saying “hey, Mr. Chess, wanna go for one play?”. Emphasis on “one”. He didn’t smile, because he doesn’t smile. At maximum he moves one or two muscles on his face. The excitement of the moment, however, was clear. In some form, that sculpture-like face transmitted a smile without changing a single physical aspect. He ran behind a black curtain on the TV room — his hideout for the chess board — and came back in zigzag to the table of our tournaments.
I brought two chairs and we started. I went marfim and he went mahogany (that’s whites and blacks on Mr. Chess’ world). Pawn up, a move here, another there, got his Queen, got his Tower, goodbye Horse, this is my game, a sudden turn, my Tower collapses, my Queen is gone, the kingdom is in pieces, a bloodbath, and — what the hell? — I lose the game
“One more, one more”, says Mr. Chess in a hurry, already putting the pieces back in place. This time, it wasn’t even fun. I lost the second match without starting. And the same thing happened one more time, and a fourth.
Until the very last one, when I was about to make a move and Mr. Chess caught my hand midair. “Why don’t you try taking my Bishop here, instead of doing what you were about to do?” As soon as he said it, it was obvious he was giving me the perfect move.
I did what he told me and ended up winning that match. Or, in fact, he let me. He wanted to lose. And he wanted to lose to me. Mr. Chess, Mr. Chess. I don’t know what he has, what are his monsters. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t interact with anyone. Comes and goes without people noticing. But he plays chess with me. And seems to like me. I will study a little more of the game. Maybe before I leave this place I can give you a match worthy of his mind.
Still at the playing table, a monitor came in a hurry to call him up. Apparently, to play against me he committed the crime of turning the lights up. “Do that again and you’ll spend two days at the infirmary,” warned him the monitor. Oh, that infirmary.
Mr. Chess, I have no idea what goes on inside of your head. But I hope that Queens, Bishops, Horses, Dragons, Princesses and whatever else you may come up with in your imagination can set you free from understanding and suffering the “sanity” of this place. Long live the King. Yours and mine.
I loved seeing the direct comments on Medium. Please, continue!
I will post more tomorrow. I’ve created a list of songs I’m listening to while inside the psychiatric clinic. To listen, subscribe to the “After Death” playlist on Spotify.
If you want to talk to me, write to rodrigo@bressane.com.
Be kind,
Rodrigo Bressane
