The last visit with Freyja was five weeks earlier. It was my spring break from working as a school psychologist. Freyja had telephoned prior to the visit to share the raw, jagged, news that she was hearing voices. A fear, like so many times before, enveloped me like a tangle of seaweed, threatening to drown me. I was strong. I was fragile. I made flight reservations to Denver once again. This time was different. This was serious. It was always serious like so many other times over the last eight years. I am going to see my daughter, Freyja. Who had been my son, Christopher, for 22 years.
I drove through the familiar route of expansive Chihuahuan desert, over the beautiful Guadalupe Mountain pass, for 2 ½ hours to the airport in El Paso, Texas. I was tense. I am always tense. I parked, caught the shuttle, passed through security, and sat at the gate. I boarded the plane in a mental fog. My anxiety increased as the airplane taxied, then ascended — the roar of the flight vibrating my body as if to say, get ready. My breath became shallower. My heartbeat escalated slightly as if I was ready to walk briskly along an overgrown path of brittle grass.
Upon arrival at the Denver airport early that evening, I rented a car as Freyja sounded too fragile on the phone to drive now. I drove south for an hour to Colorado Springs — the route was too familiar. I have been on too many trips to this place. Upon arrival at the apartment complex, I steel myself, I soften myself, I steel myself, before knocking on her door. We hugged. It was a long hug, as if to say I wish I could fix everything. To say I am sorry I cannot. Perhaps for her, the hug was simply to know I loved her.
There was a paper printout — a star inside a circle symbol with a green dot near the top, taped to the wall in the entrance to her apartment. “What is this?” She told me it is a pentagram, assured me it has nothing to do with evil, but since the star is right side up, it is considered protective. I was now entering into her new, invisible, frightened existence. Upon entering her bedroom, I found four more pentagram prints taped to the head of her bed. More protection. We sat on the bed, and began to speak of this newest, most frightening, difficulty. I heard someone talking as if from far away, yet nearby. Looking around her simple furnishings, I saw her iPad on the bed, upside down. I turned it over. There was a video playing of the television painting instructor, Bob Ross, speaking in his gentle, quiet, voice. I asked her why she is watching him. She told me she is not watching him but that his voice is soothing and helpful in covering the voices she is hearing. Oh God. I told her as gently as I could, that she is experiencing psychosis and needed to see a doctor. No, she said. “I have a ghost.” Having been disowned by my oldest adult child, Loren, for attempting to help him when he was suicidal, I was very wary of pushing the need for a doctor or hospital. I went along for the frightening ride of her beliefs — I did not want to lose another child.
I learned she mixed salt and alcohol together in a brass bowl and set it on fire, put salt in the carpet, purchased a few crystals, and a little bell, hoping these rituals and pieces of the earth would ward off her ghost. I am a mental health therapist — but first, I am a mother. I was a mother, and I was so very lost. Guilt, doubt, and fear were almost tangibly present. These dark companions followed me, scratched me, screeched at me, throughout the long illness of my beautiful boy — my beautiful daughter.
“Why do you believe you have a ghost?” “I researched it on the internet and talked to a guy at a store here who told me I have a ghost.” The internet. Of course, the answer for everything. To even explain the metaphysics of auditory hallucinations. We went to bed. I was exhausted emotionally and physically. The next morning Freyja and I went to a favorite restaurant for breakfast. We carried on a normal conversation and ordered our meal. I silently compared her to my ex brother-in-law who suffers from schizophrenia. She did not exhibit the same demeanor, but I knew hallucinations are not limited to that disorder, but can accompany severe depression and bipolar disorder, among others. I thought, “she can’t be that bad.” Wishing. Denying. As we ate, I asked her to tell me what the voices said to her. She casually agreed to do so. After a bit, she said in a matter of fact manner, the voices were saying, “fat, bad for you, do not eat it” referring to her fried potatoes. Upon more questioning I found out the voices were primarily male, derogatory, and demanding. I wondered, “how do you calmly eat breakfast — how do you live in this state of being?” My experience with severely mentally ill people was very limited — my knowledge base was out of reach in my fog of fear.
Freyja told me she wanted to go back to the metaphysical store as there was something she wished to buy. I drove us into the tree lined neighborhoods of historic Old Colorado City, part of Colorado Springs, where the metaphysical store was located. We entered the store and a young, somewhat hipster, man who worked there greeted Freyja as a previous customer. The air smelled earthy and pleasant, but anxiety was a bitter taste in my dry mouth. All around me were crystals, gems, and rocks for “energy work”, tarot and oracle cards, smudging bundles to burn that can be used for “many magical purposes”, essential oils for “healing”, pendulums, runes, books, herbs, pouches, candles, powders, shells, incense — all sorted and displayed, claiming to be the means to know the future, obtain peace, and be healed. Freyja browsed and found two round, dark gray, rocks. One was a bit smaller than the other, fitting into her soft palm. “Mom, this one is male and this one female. They can bring balance.” These round rocks — relics of her last days that will later come to reside on my bookshelf. Dusty and dull, denying any power but death.
After returning to the apartment, Freyja shared with me that her home needed to be cleaned to help dispel the ghost. I joined in, wanting her to feel accepted and loved rather than confronted. We began to clean the refrigerator, stove and bathroom. Then every drawer, closet, cabinet, shelf, and corner of her cozy apartment was examined. Unwanted items began to pile up near the door — old computer parts, clothing, shoes, and kitchen paraphenlia, among other unexplainable items. All deemed as needing to be disposed of. Only one box remained in a closet that she wanted to keep. All surfaces must be dusted, cleaned with a cleaning product, and floors mopped. The pentagram printouts and salt in the carpet must remain. We worked for several hours — the ghost must be chased out.
During the cleaning frenzy I noted Freyja brushed her teeth for a very long time and washed her hands repeatedly. I was bearing witness to the symptoms of Freyja residing in the distorted dimension of mental illness. Some items were taken to a thrift store, we picked up some food, and returned to the extremely clean apartment.
My return flight to El Paso was scheduled for the next morning. However, my weather app was predicting snow — during the middle of March. We awoke to a deep blanket of heavy, wet snow. There would be no return flight this morning. My own mental health problems began to close in as if I were buried under the suffocating snow. Anxiety continued to grasp my chest in panic — I need to go home — this is too horrible — I am helpless here — this can’t be true — I don’t know what else to do. Memories of the remainder of that day have disappeared with the exception of knowing at some point I rebooked my flight home for the next morning and had encouraged Freyja to go to a hospital which she refused once more.
In the dark of early morning I drove back to the Denver airport in a slush of snow. I waited at my gate where I watched planes being washed over with deicing chemicals. I knew how dangerous ice on the wing of an airplane was. The “what ifs” of anxiety swept through my mind on a rampage. What if ice forms on the wings of the plane? What if I die? What will happen to Freyja? Part of me did not care if I died. The last 8 years of caring for Freyja and losing contact with Loren, along with this dreadful visit, had eaten away at my usual level headed strong resolve to hope and help. The time to board came and I retreated into a state of mental avoidance — a mode of coping with trauma that I had learned at an early age. I went home, numb, exhausted, and returned to work the following day. To be continued…………………….
