The Number

Lucy M. Logsdon

I know there is a finite number to the times my husband checked me into psychiatric units; I know there is a finite number for the times he called an ambulance; I know there is a finite number for how often the police seemed to appear at our house. But they are not countable for me. They are an unstoppable, cyclical series of events. I could dip my hand into memory and pull up any time. 

The number of times I found myself naked beneath a hospital gown, the number of times strangers and institutional medics called me by my first name—always too informal, always too intimate.

The number of times becomes a question that multiplies: the authorities arriving—always suddenly, unexpectedly there. The number of times I was grabbed forcefully and strong-armed into an ambulance. The number of times my futile resistance ended with me on my stomach, flat on a concrete sidewalk, weeds in my hair. The infinite number of black shoes I found myself staring at. 

The number of times dignity flew from me like a wounded bird. One learns to go blank, to not be, to erase every thought in one’s mind. I learned to not argue; I learned to submit. I became skilled at letting go and surrendering. I mastered riding in ambulances and arriving at emergency floors.

The number of times they stripped my clothes from me. The number of hospital gowns with my ass hanging out. Losing track of the specifics, losing track of the why, losing track of myself. One must welcome numbness. A cog in a wheel, a piece of machinery. —One becomes as inanimate as possible. One must learn to blur. If an event were to stand separate, it's actuality would kill what's left of the self you have stored and secreted deep inside.

The number of times I walked in the woods. The number of creatures I watched hide. Their ability to blend. The raccoon flat against a tree trunk. The red fox still as silence in small saplings. A squirrel frozen on a large oak's limb. The copperhead beneath dried, brown leaves.  The number of times they have hidden. The number of times they were shot; the number of times they were not.

As a child, I studied and I watched. My soul filled my body—tingled and swelled. Whenever it floated free, it came back. In psych wards, there is no room for a soul. One must shove it down one’s throat.

I learned to not open my mouth; I learned to become one among many. I learned to become stone still. Camouflage is protection. Patience is protection. Forgetting how to count becomes a form of defense. A waiting.   

The number of times the copperhead did nothing. The number of times, threatened, angry, wanting survival—yes. The number of times it tensed, then fast as lightning became motion—an open mouth, venom, and fangs. —The number of times one slowly, silently coils looking for the chance to finally, finally become action, to use words, to begin, at last, to speak.