At the Park

by Wendy Atkinson

On this sunny Sunday, my sister and I are spending the day at the park with our children. I rarely spend quality time with her lately, not by choice, but simply due to distance and my busy schedule. I am thrilled to be with her today, after almost losing her several months ago. The shock has knocked some sense into me, so I now make sure I find the time to see her. Experience is a cruel teacher—first you get the test, then the lesson. Still, here we are.

The kids are busy on the playground, so we speak of things we otherwise would not. My sister suffers from schizophrenia, and she has suffered as badly as anyone I know. The whole family has, to some extent, but she has lived in a personal hell which few of us would relate to.

She tells me of some of her symptoms. She asks if I can relate. To many of them, I cannot. I tell her I have never heard voices, and following conversations, and trains of thought, comes blessedly easily to me. She looks at me with an envy that only those poor lost souls, such as she, can feel. Envy solely because I am "normal". Whatever that means. I tell her I have had depression, I have had panic attacks. At one point, as many as 10 or more a day. She says it's not the same. I tell her, I know that.

She then confesses another of her "symptoms" to me. She tells me, when she is not well, she looks at the faces in the crowd, and believes they are all there for her. I jump on this, and tell her, on some level, I can relate to this. I tell her my feelings on this subject.

It started when I was a very young child. Our parents would fight a great deal of the time. Alone in my room, I would pretend I was a princess.This, in itself, is common. It escalates from this point, however. As time when on, I would not only fancy myself to be a princess, but also half believe that someday, they would come for me, and take me away from this pathetic life I was living, and off to princess land, or wherever, to live the life I was destined for. Some variation of this fantasy followed me throughout my teenage years, and though I never really fully believed it, it just felt so damn good to imagine.

Now a grown woman, still I sometimes feel I have some place in the lives of passers-by. I know they are not there for me, of course, but if we make any kind of eye contact, or establish some mutual understanding, or quick bond, I think that is special. For example, in a traffic jam, I will glance over at the vehicle next to me. The person may smile, roll their eyes, grimace, whatever. I respond in a like manner, and we have a small bond of understanding. As the traffic clears, I think, "You are leaving me now? After all we've been through? The good times, the bad times?"

No, not really, but I am sometimes sorry to see them go, and I sometimes regret that I will probably never see them again. If that makes me nuts, then come get me. I prefer to think that I am just a person who very much cares. I get involved, and sometimes it hurts. I sometimes hope that people I know may think of me, in some small way, once in a while. I hope I was important enough to them to make a small impression, in some way. This thought makes me feel better about me. I know I am not at the center of their universe. A passing thought, prayer, or memory will suffice.

I ask my sister if this is what she means. She tells me not exactly, but it is closer than she thought I would come to understanding. Another bond has been formed. A bond of friendship and understanding. It is a good day, when this happens. For me, it makes life worth living.

Don't we all desire to be understood, to connect with others around us in some way? Are we so different, after all? We are all so close together, yet so very alone. We hunger for understanding, friendship, and connection to others.

Later, as we leave the park, I smile at an old man passing by, and secretly hope that he remembers me.

Copyright © Wendy Atkinson 2003