ERNIE AND ERNESTINA: Searching

Book Two, Chapter 53: Help on the Horizon

It’s after eight at night.

I’ve barely been up all day, but I make myself rise from the floor and head to the library’s computer to print out California tax forms from previous years. Joshua’s due refunds from those years which we didn’t know to claim. Is there a statute of limitation on tax-return claims? Jesus, I don’t want to think about tax work, but thinking about tax work keeps me from thinking about suicide.

I print out the forms. Just before leaving the library I glance at a rack holding LEO, the city’s free alternative newspaper. Suddenly a plea comes to my mind and to my lips. Give me a sign, I whisper to LEO as I pick up a copy. I need help. Let there be something in you to help me. Give me a sign.

I return home to my pallet on the floor. Because I can’t sleep, I read and re-read LEO. It’s three a.m. now, and I suddenly notice an ad on a back page. How did I miss this ad? Its headline screams at me: Depressed? Feeling Hopeless? Not wanting to take anti-depressants? I want to shout YES! YES! YES! THAT’S ME!

I dial the phone number listed, and a kind, comforting voice tells me to leave a message, which I do. The woman with the kind, comforting voice calls me back before noon the next day. Her name is Kitty, and she’s screening people for a depression study being conducted by professors from a local university’s psychology department. It’s a cognitive-behavior study.

I want to be part of this study. I need to be part of it. I answer Kitty’s questions. No, I’ve never been part of a research study before. No, I’ve never been diagnosed with an emotional problem before. No, I have no diagnosed physical problems. No, I’m not on any medication. And yes, for the majority of hours in the past month I’ve been depressed. In truth, each day for months now I’ve assaulted myself with negative thoughts. I’ve picked up a butcher knife. I think about this knife. I see myself stabbing myself with it. I see the blood.

I don’t tell Kitty this. If she knew my thoughts, she’d think I was too high-risk to even make it through the study, which extends over twelve weeks. She sets up an appointment for me.

At noon next Wednesday I hope to enter the university’s out-patient health-care building and cross the threshold of the sixth-floor suite of its Depression Center for a three-hour psychiatric evaluation.

I must pass this test.