She sat at the table with the crayon clinched tightly between her fist. She colored the printed flower with great vigor. The flower was green, the stem was yellow, and the entire page was covered with red crayon and ballpoint pen marks. She did not stay “inside the lines”. She wanted to share her picture with us. She loudly asked us if we thought it was pretty? We bragged on her artistic talent. “Addi or Hannah?,” you might ask. No. This struggling artist was my mother-in-law who is not 3, but 79.
She told us that she thought if she would show them (referring to the hospital staff, I am certain) that she could “do something” then maybe she could leave. She was trying hard to “color inside the lines”. Sadly, mental illness has no lines. Break a leg- you can see the cast; cancer- you see the bald head or the ravages of chemotherapy; car accident- the bruises, stitches, and marks are visible; mental illness- surely you can “think yourself” out of this “imagined illness”. Not so. I remember in vivid detail an incident in my life where I did not “color inside the lines.” I was in second grade. Mrs. Jefferson was my teacher. I was, for the most part, the student that teachers loved to have. I always “colored inside the lines”. On this particular day, a day in October, we were coloring our color page from the Weekly Reader. The picture was of a scary cat sitting on a fence, with pumpkins all about. Remember, this was in a day and age when no one worried about the celebration of Halloween being offensive to anyone. There were directions as to what color everything should be. For some reason, on that particular October day, I did not want my pumpkins to be orange, and for the moon to be yellow, and for all of life to follow the directions at the bottom of the page. I wanted it all to be black. I can still remember the look of “disgust” on Mrs. Jefferson’s face. I thought her blue hair was going to turn red! I also remember that she wrote on my paper that I did not follow directions, and that I colored outside of the lines. I felt ashamed and humiliated, much as I think my dear, sweet, refined mother-in-law would, if her “thinking” were right. A broken arm heals, many people are cancer survivors, car accident victims often recover, but mental illness…our brains remain with us, and the wiring, which I feel arrives with us at birth, can seldom be “re-wired”. Treatments that once worked, or at least gave some temporary relief, can no longer be used because of age and health issues. The doctor openly admits that he does not know what to do. So, here we are at this point, praying for a reprieve, for a better day, for relief, just praying that someone can help, that someone can help her to get to the point where more of the colors are inside the lines. I am so thankful for our support system. For those who always ask, and for those who care. I am thankful for my husband and for my brother-in-law, who, like the doctors, don’t know what to do, but are willing to do whatever is needed. Remember Betty Courington in your prayers. There has never been a better Christian woman, and to have to see her as she is at the present is heartbreaking.
She told us that she thought if she would show them (referring to the hospital staff, I am certain) that she could “do something” then maybe she could leave. She was trying hard to “color inside the lines”. Sadly, mental illness has no lines. Break a leg- you can see the cast; cancer- you see the bald head or the ravages of chemotherapy; car accident- the bruises, stitches, and marks are visible; mental illness- surely you can “think yourself” out of this “imagined illness”. Not so. I remember in vivid detail an incident in my life where I did not “color inside the lines.” I was in second grade. Mrs. Jefferson was my teacher. I was, for the most part, the student that teachers loved to have. I always “colored inside the lines”. On this particular day, a day in October, we were coloring our color page from the Weekly Reader. The picture was of a scary cat sitting on a fence, with pumpkins all about. Remember, this was in a day and age when no one worried about the celebration of Halloween being offensive to anyone. There were directions as to what color everything should be. For some reason, on that particular October day, I did not want my pumpkins to be orange, and for the moon to be yellow, and for all of life to follow the directions at the bottom of the page. I wanted it all to be black. I can still remember the look of “disgust” on Mrs. Jefferson’s face. I thought her blue hair was going to turn red! I also remember that she wrote on my paper that I did not follow directions, and that I colored outside of the lines. I felt ashamed and humiliated, much as I think my dear, sweet, refined mother-in-law would, if her “thinking” were right. A broken arm heals, many people are cancer survivors, car accident victims often recover, but mental illness…our brains remain with us, and the wiring, which I feel arrives with us at birth, can seldom be “re-wired”. Treatments that once worked, or at least gave some temporary relief, can no longer be used because of age and health issues. The doctor openly admits that he does not know what to do. So, here we are at this point, praying for a reprieve, for a better day, for relief, just praying that someone can help, that someone can help her to get to the point where more of the colors are inside the lines. I am so thankful for our support system. For those who always ask, and for those who care. I am thankful for my husband and for my brother-in-law, who, like the doctors, don’t know what to do, but are willing to do whatever is needed. Remember Betty Courington in your prayers. There has never been a better Christian woman, and to have to see her as she is at the present is heartbreaking.
