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Extended Work
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| The Lunatic (The Ghosts in Paris) | |
| By Emmuttmax | ||||||||||
| 06 June 2008 | ||||||||||
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More from my memoir. Unreality sets in.
The Ghosts in Paris
A trip to Paris, France is something many couples dream of. There is something about the fabled city that conjures up the epitome of romance. Linda and I had talked for years about making the trip, and not long after anxiety began to attack me fairly regularly, we decided to spend a week in the city for our 20th anniversary. Linda struggled with my odd behavior perhaps even more than I did. She is a beautiful, intelligent woman who has always been completely devoted to me. As I began the long slide to hell, she had no real idea what was happening. Neither of us did. We were not prepared to believe that I could be suffering from a mental problem. I was, she believed, too smart, too controlled to allow something to overcome me. I believed it too. Although celebration and romance were the stated reasons for our trip, the tacit reasoning was a vacation would probably do me a world of good; if I just got away from my job and the stress of taking care of my dad, the old Mike would reappear and life, as we knew it, would go on. We landed in the City of Lights in the early afternoon, in the middle of February. When we stepped out of the airport to hail a cab, my ears damn near froze. We arrived during one of the coldest winters in Europe since Hannibal crossed the Alps. Living in Texas does not fully prepare you for extreme frigidity, and my leather jacket was not much of a deterrent to the icy wind. I had the cabdriver stop at a bank so I could change some American dollars into French Francs, and shortly thereafter checked into our small hotel close to the heart of the city. The hotel was in a 17th century building on a narrow street, and it reeked charm. After checking in we navigated a narrow, winding staircase to our room on the fourth floor and unpacked. Weary from the long flight, I took a nap while Linda ordered some wine and read up on the sights we hoped to see during our stay. A couple hours later, I awoke slightly refreshed. My wife was watching a French television program and sipping wine. Hopping off the bed, I took two steps to the bathroom (it was a small room) to take a shower. As I showered, we discussed plans for the evening. Since it was our anniversary, a sumptuous meal was called for. Paris is known for its fabulous restaurants, but we had no idea where to go so when trekked down to the lobby and asked the concierge—George the Insolent—if he had a suggestion. Linda wanted seafood, and George recommended a place within walking distance of the hotel. As we emerged from the hotel, we were struck by the silence on the street. There was no traffic and the night was still. It seemed warmer than when we had arrived. Hand in hand we strolled, excited by our surroundings—buildings older than our country—and looking forward to our first French meal. We found the restaurant with ease, a small, well-lit place in the middle of a block. It was crowded, but we had no trouble getting seated. Neither Linda or I spoke much French, and our smiling waiter spoke little English, but we managed to convey to him it was our anniversary, and we wanted to order something special. He suggested the seafood medley, a three-tiered concoction piled with shrimp, lobster, crab, oysters and other goodies from the ocean. As we satiated ourselves with seafood and wine, I couldn’t seem to relax. Although we laughed and reminisced over dinner, I could not keep my foot still; the nervous tapping seemed to echo throughout the restaurant. When the meal was consumed and we were finishing our wine, our waiter and a couple of the other staff came out bearing a luscious cake into which sparklers were stuck and set ablaze. It was quite impressive. The waiter said “Happy anniversary,” and then he took the cake away. We didn’t know what the hell just happened, but we never saw the cake or a piece of it again. Since Linda was carrying our money, she paid the bill. Unfortunately, she was also carrying a bellyful of wine. I don’t remember what the exchange rate was between dollars and francs, but later, we discovered she had tipped the waiter $100. We left the restaurant full and happy, and when we stepped outside, it was lightly snowing. The sidewalk was dusted white, the softly falling flakes seemed to be the size of a baby’s fist, the air was still, and the silence hugged us like a warm grandmother. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. I held my wife and kissed her. The walk back to the hotel was magical. The magic turned black the next day. Our plans to explore the city that day were canceled. I had an episode. That’s what I was calling the periods of extreme depression and anxiety I would fall into. The cold gripped me, the small room was claustrophobic and I became delirious. I wouldn’t move from the bed, I wouldn’t go outside, and finally I fell into something like a coma. My poor wife was beside herself. Here we were, in a strange country and couldn’t speak the language and her husband, the guy who usually took care of everything was completely out of it. I really don’t know how she managed. During the next 24 hours, I was mostly incoherent; I babbled, gibberish filled my head and mouth. I was not awake and not fully asleep. Visions and voices surrounded me. I saw dead people; at least they seemed to be dead. Specters would pass quietly through the room; I felt as though I was the corpse on view at a funeral. I saw my dead mother again, pain in her eyes at the sight of me lying there. I know this sounds absolutely batshit crazy, but at the time it was as real as anything I’ve ever witnessed. Linda was in a panic. I’d never been this crazy before, and she didn’t know if I was sick or merely nuts. She pressed cold washcloths to my forehead, and prayed a lot. She is a spiritual woman and believes in angels. Lying next to me, she asked God to heal me and held on tight. I really can’t imagine what it must have been like for her. I’d like to say I returned to normal the next day, but I’d passed the point of no return months earlier. I did, however, rally enough to resemble a functioning human mammal, so Linda and I plotted a day of sightseeing and French cuisine. A stroll on the Champs De Lyses turned into short dashes from storefront to storefront to escape the raw wind and frigid temperature. We sought shelter in a bistro and overindulged in wine and food just to stay out of the cold. After a brief shopping excursion in one of Paris’ department stores, we returned to the hotel for the evening. The rest of our time in Paris was uneventful with the exception our trip to almost the top of the Eiffel Tower, at night, during a blizzard. Determined to see the Paris landmark, Linda and I waited in line for a couple hours during the late afternoon to ascend to the top of the tower. The cold wind shot through my ears and into my brain as we stood huddling amongst the other tourists, numbing my sanity and causing my brain to shiver. When we at last made it to the ticket window, purchased out admittance, and boarded the cable car for the climb to the top, snow began to fall. By the time we reached the first transfer level, the snow was no longer falling; it was blowing horizontally, pushed by what seemed like gale-force winds. After a brief wait, we were herded into a smaller car for the next leg of the climb and made it to the last station before the top; that’s when they closed the tower. The wind and snow had become too intense, and the falling temperature had caused ice to form on the structure. The platform we were on was packed and people were shoved together like cattle. The beautiful view of Paris expected to see was obscured by a white wall of high-speed snow. An announcement come over the loudspeakers informing the crowd one of the cable cars was no longer operable, but the voice assured us we would all be safely transported to the ground by the remaining car…as soon as possible. Soon didn’t come soon enough. Something exploded in my head, claustrophobic anxiety would be my best guess, and I began to tremble and emit low groans. I held on the Linda, afraid if I let go, I’d float away. I chanted a mantra to myself, “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t,” but with each repetition, my chest seemed to tighten. Linda could sense what was happening, although I never told her, and she held me close until it was our time to board the car for the trip to earth. It wasn’t until we reached our hotel and I downed an excessive amount of Xanax that I stopped shaking and the pressure in my head eased. After the episode with the ghosts and the sub-zero panic attack, I was finally ready to admit I was mentally ill. I was, in fact, a fucking lunatic. I truly believed I was going insane, I believed I had finally hit bottom. But the bottom wasn’t even on the radar. (c) 2008
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