85 Pairs of Shoes on the Wall   

     Each time I was tried on a new drug that didn’t work, I didn’t throw it away I just put the bottle in the linen closest.  I was standing at the linen closet folding towels one day and felt as though someone were pulling me back to take a closer look at the contents.  I began to count the different bottles of anti-depressants that were lined up on a shelf like little soldiers.  I began, “One, two, three, four, five, six,” until I reached the number twenty-five.  My doctor said these drugs were new drugs on the market and it was a “process of elimination” until we found the group of ones that matched my physiological make-up.  I trusted this man with my life so I allowed him to use me as a guinea pig.  Aside from that, I felt like I had no choice; I needed help.  I always kept his emergency number in my wallet in case I ever had a bad reaction to any new drug I began.  One afternoon I felt as if I was literally going to lose what sanity I was trying so desperately to hold on to, so I dialed his number.  He said, “Go buy a package of Sudafed and take one immediately.”  He assured me the weird, sick feelings I was having would stop.  After hanging up with him, I raced to the local 7-11 and bought some Sudafed.  I took it and within 15 minutes, the weird feelings subsided.  From that moment on, I always kept some on me just in case I felt like I was coming unglued. 

  “My savior” diagnosed me with Agoraphobia.  I had pure, raw fear that manifested physically in the form of horrible panic attacks.  Anything that was brought to my attention that I thought might help my condition I tried.  I took cold showers, which seemed to help my flesh calm down and lift the depression.  He suggested I drive around with a paper bag in my car.  That way, if I had a panic attack, I could breathe in and out of it, normalizing the excess of carbon monoxide, which caused me to gasp for each breath I took. 

I would always drive in the right hand lane (for comfort) so I could pull off on the side of the road just in case the unthinkable happened and I passed out.  I felt it was also a safeguard against hitting someone as well.  Do not even try to get me on an elevator… no way.  I couldn’t bear to be in anything that was enclosed.  My chair would have to be near the entrance of any establishment I went into or I was not going in.  Fear crippled my life.  I tried to maintain a front but it was getting worse.  I was in a living hell.   

            I was running out of choices for groups of medications to try and finally, the doctor prescribed something for me that helped called Parnate.  There were a list of foods and liquids you couldn’t ingest, especially any kind of alcohol, while taking this medication.  I had become only a social drinker even though there was a well-stocked bar in our living room for company.  Not being able to drink was no big deal to me by now (well Donna Reed didn’t drink!).   I also fully understood the implications of what might happen if I did drink while taking these medications and it scared me into compliance.  Knowing that we were down to the last type of drug that was even an option, I had determined that it would work. The Parnate made me feel a little anxious, so he also put me on Ativan, which helped take the edge off.  Those two drugs brought me back to life.  I felt numbed into existence but was able to cope and it was a relief.

 Once a week, on Wednesday afternoons, I would sit across the room from my Psychiatrist and spew the pent-up hell inside of me and the anxiousness would deflate.  I would walk down the steps from his office feeling a great sense of relief, which would last for several days.  However, by the following Monday, things would be built right back up, and I would hardly able to wait until Wednesday rolled back around again.  Nothing ever changed; I just got older.  But I wasn’t about to quit going to the one man who had saved my life.      

 I was trying to run an office of a bank but the pressure was overwhelming.  I started to push the envelope not considering the consequences of taking anything in addition to my meds and every now and then, I would take a couple of hits off a joint in the evening.  If there were anything left come the next morning, I would hide it in the ashtray and take it with me to work.  I would drive around at lunch and take a few hits to calm me down. 

There was a fireplace in our kitchen and I started wanting to sleep in front of it when nighttime would come.  I would get all of our bedding, bring it downstairs, we would build a fire, snuggle up and pretend we were on a camping trip.  This was a sweet escape.  Yes, we did roast marshmallows.  This arrangement also helped keep me out of the bedroom and alleviated the pressure I felt there.  Sleeping in front of the fire made me feel like I was on vacation somewhere else, then morning would hit.  As the light would hit the backdoor window and dawn came, the feelings of sickness in the pit of my stomach would return.  I hated my life.

  The first Christmas I was married I ended up throwing the balls off the Christmas tree onto the floor because my husband had to work late again.  I was so lonely and the hours he worked were long.  I threw a fit because he had to go to work again.  He slapped me in the face because I wouldn’t let up.  I screamed, turned and ran upstairs to the bedroom throwing myself across the bed.  How dare he hit me!  My pride was wounded but deep inside I knew I deserved the slap.     

 I was very withdrawn for a while after that incident and I started to wonder what I was going to do.  Do I stay with him?  Do I even love him?  I didn’t know.  Why was I so horrible?  Did he deserve this from me?  Did I deserve a husband who was never there?  This is what I asked for and I got it, so I guessed I would stay and see what would happen.  I certainly decided I was not going to get divorced. 

            My routine during the week was to come home and throw my clothes all over the bedroom, justifying that I had worked all day and I was tired.  On top of that, I felt sorry for myself because of the ailment I had.  My excuse was, “I will straighten my bedroom out on the weekend.”  I really didn’t even want to work.  My husband would reply that he didn’t want to work either, but someone had to make money in order for us to live.  The memory of his mother coming to pack his clothes for our honeymoon floated through my thoughts, as I would listen to him, and I just knew something was not quite the way it should be.

 I had become very somber after the slap in the face and that evening as I was cleaning up our bedroom I wondered what was going to happen to me, to us.  As I was realigning the shoes against the wall in my closet, I began to count them.  I didn’t stop until I reached 85.  I was rather stunned.  I wondered why I needed 85 pairs of shoes.  Oh, well.   

 I came to the conclusion something was going to have to give between us.  If my husband was going to have to work all the time, then I was going to be a good wife and go where he was.  There was a popular lounge in the hotel he managed and he suggested I come down there on Friday and Saturday nights. 

 He suggested I call ahead of time from work on Friday evenings and he would have the chef create a dinner for me.  Upon my arrival, I would be escorted to my table and my husband would join me for dinner.  We would sit, eat, and describe to each other what went on during our day.  In my mind’s eye, things seemed to improve between us.  I also started to believe I was living out the TV show Dallas.  Now, I really could get used to this kind of life! 

 I started going there every Friday and Saturday night, telling myself it was so I could be a supportive wife.  Saturday Night Fever was huge at the time and there was always great excitement in the air as everyone wanted to learn to disco.  I started asking friends and family members to come and join in the fun of it all.  I would place an order for a drink (against instructions from my doctor) and sip it throughout the evening.  Once again, I was pushing the limit with my meds but when there were no adverse affects after I mixed my meds and alcohol, I kept taking the risk that nothing would ever happen.  Anyway, I felt it was harmless and I was having fun for a change.  I would sit and watch others dance, longing to be on the dance floor myself but knowing my husband was in charge of the hotel, I knew I had to keep myself in check and behave properly. 

  They had hired an instructor, who was quite handsome, to teach disco lessons to anyone who was willing to learn.  He would show up in a tuxedo night after night.  All the female patrons would swoon at the sight of him.  With the urging of my husband, the instructor started asking me to dance.  One thing led to another and over the next several months, we started dancing every Friday and Saturday night as a couple.  I learned to dance and loved every step I took.  Then my sips started turning into gulps and I started to drink heavily.  The more assured I became that I would not die from the medication and alcohol mixture, the more I drank.  I built my tolerance level over the course of an evening up to six double Black Jacks on the rocks.  I prided myself in nearly being able to drink any man under the table.  Then I would hit the dance floor and dance my heart away, having drunk my sorrows into the deepest sea. 

 Slowly but surely, I became attached to the dance instructor because of all the attention he was giving me.  I was obsessed with going to the hotel on the weekends dancing the night away with him.  I thought of nothing else.  I was doing something I loved for the first time in years and I didn’t care who liked it or who didn’t like it.  I was Dance Fever.                    

             I had overheard someone talking about the Dr. Atkins diet.  This was the no carbohydrate diet (what are those?) that claimed you could eat anything and still lose weight.  This was a win, win situation for me, and you could drink with this diet.  If a new weight loss fad came along (and it seemed as though there was always some new great way to lose weight), I would try it.  I bit the apple and went on the diet.  I recall one evening one of the waitresses on staff asking me, “You’ve lost just about enough weight, haven’t you?”  I smirked as I walked by and thought to myself, “Leave me alone.”  Must be working…I’ll just lose a few more pounds.  I would lay on my bed to zip up my size 7 jeans and I loved it. 

             I was searching for happiness in alcohol and on the dance floor.  Now I was starting to commit adultery with my dance partner, in my heart, right in front of my husband’s face while pretending and convincing my husband I wasn’t.  I craved attention.  The thinner I got and the more looks men gave me, the more I wanted all of them to fall for me.  

 In the middle of all of this weekend nightlife, things at work started to “heat” up as well.  I had become friends with an assistant manager at a local bank.  He stopped by my office one day to call on me supposedly since I was a business account of his.  I had an office in the lobby of the building I managed, as well as an office upstairs that I used when taking loan applications.  This was the first time he had been to my office so I took him on a tour.  We walked upstairs, went into my office, sat down and started to make small talk.  I was feeling very funny about the whole thing and was trying to maintain a professional demeanor when he suddenly blurted out that he had been on his boat with his wife the previous weekend and all he could think of was me.  He kept talking and said, “I want to leave my wife for you if you will have me.”  Well, at first, I was shocked, then stunned.  My pride and self-worth were definitely being stroked.  I had to go to his bank every day to make the deposit for my office and I would always make certain that I was fully dressed to kill.  I had played a flirtatious game with him and that was all it was to me.  I never anticipated a declaration of undying love but it was certainly exciting.  I showed him my ring and said quite sheepishly, “I am married.”  I thought, “I can’t have an affair with you.  Besides, my heart is with the dance instructor.”  When push came to shove, I would only fantasize about other men.  When they proclaimed they wanted me, the bubble would burst shaking me into reality.  Wake-up call, Molly!  I had egged him on and he had taken the bait.  He left that day and asked, “Would you think about it?”  I told him I would but I knew I had to make haste and end this flirtation.  I sat in a stunned daze the rest of the afternoon wondering what kind of person I was to drive a man to want to leave his wife. 

  So many things were happening to me and I began to hate going to work each day.  All of the pressure of my life was just too much, coupled with the responsibility of managing an office of a bank.  I wasn’t happy and I was in a mess.  I made the decision, after talking over it with my husband that I needed to find another job.  My whole life seemed to be a sham.  My customers and others around me always thought of me as “Miss 24-hour smile.”  But, I was exhausted.  My husband said, “If that is what will make you happy, then do it”. 

             It had been ingrained in my thinking from childhood that, “If you are not happy, then quit.”  How many times had I heard my dad say that to me?  I hated to give up the title and the admiration showered on me by my in-laws and my dad, but I was drowning and had to try to save myself and this is the only thing I knew to do.  I was under the constant care of a doctor but this seemed even beyond his realm of expertise.  So, I scoured the papers for another job, not telling anyone of my decision just yet.  I found a job and went to work as a teller at another financial institution.  It was less pay but less pressure.  I dreaded telling my in-laws I had resigned my job.  They had such a high opinion of my position that it was hard for me to be “less than” in their eyes.  I will never forget the disappointed looks on the faces of those who had admired me, even my dad.

 Several weeks into my new position, I was sitting behind the counter and I felt as if a bucket of ice, cold water had been thrown on me.  It suddenly occurred to me how good I had had life and everything that had gone with being a manager, but it was too late.  I couldn’t go back.  I was stuck.  I got what I had asked for and I knew I had made a huge mistake.