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It was supposed to be a wonderful weekend. The end of September weather was not supposed to disappoint, and my favorite band, Over the Rhine, was coming in concert. My friend Gabrielle was staying with me until her dorm opened for the school year. I was planning on enjoying my last week of summer vacation to the fullest extent.
I hadn’t done a particularly successful job of enjoying summer vacation up until that point. I had been plagued by depression, and often couldn’t do or enjoy anything. This was not an unfamiliar feeling, but as the weeks grew longer, the emotional season seemed unending. After months of loneliness and inaction, I called my mother and confessed my troubles to her, and she took control so fast it made my head spin. From Pennsylvania, she made me an appointment at the school’s health center, where I got antidepressants that messed up my body so much it made me swear off drugs forever. At this point, I needed to find long-term care, and the place to do that if you’re uninsured in Chicago is the Cook County hospital clinic.
I don’t know how to describe the awfulness of that experience. I sat among hundreds of other ill people, waiting for someone to call my name so I could be herded through triage, blood pressure. I sat, and knit, anxiously, stressed, listening actively, planning how to describe my symptoms succinctly, not wanting to waste anyone’s time. After six hours of going through the process, I decided this was also not a path I would choose to continue on. I feel my illness is very personal and specific. If I had broken my leg, perhaps it would be more bearable. But four questions and a Prozac prescription is not going to help me, with my experience and my particular view on how I am afflicted.
By the time Gabrielle came by to pick me up, I was at the lowest point- basically a small wet sniveling ball. She drove me home in silence. I transferred from the car to my bed. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but be sad and hopeless.
I can only relate the story from my point of view. I can’t imagine what it was like for Gabrielle, watching your host and friend have an emotional breakdown. She says that she remembers knowing how important it was to do and say the right thing, and the pressure made her unable to come up with ideas of what do next. I recall wanting her to give me a hug, and perhaps an activity, something to do to distract me. I was terribly disappointed in her, and I thought about why we are friends, and how I met her in the first place.
I know books shouldn’t be judged by their covers, but I admit to wanting to be Gabrielle’s friend just because of her hair. Her head is covered in these crazy curly corkscrews, which explode out like inspiration flying from her brain. I first spotted her at a prayer meeting right before we both started college. Her bowed curly head and folded hands plated with silver rings made me think she would be a fun and funky person who I would like to know. When she came over for dinner, I found we had similar interests in music, movies, and tea. We listen to Fiona Apple and Stars when we do homework together, drinking yerba maté or blue ginger tea. We watch films in Spanish and German with subtitles, loving Pedro Almadovar and Franka Potente.
Still, sometimes I wondered if I was basing our friendship on superficial things, and if our worldviews were similar enough to communicate. She talked about how much she loved Texas, her homeland, and how much she hated the city. How she missed the open wilderness and felt her spirit oppressed here. She missed her car. I live in Hyde Park because of the delightful community; the small-town feel with the benefits of a big city. She lives here only because she’s a University of Chicago student. We were riding the bus into the loop one night, and the skyline all lit up was so beautiful through the window, and the bus lights superimposed our reflection on top of them. We looked so hip and cool. We were young and beautiful and exploring a big city together. I tried so hard to articulate the beauty I found in this moment to her, but couldn't.
When she was unable to think of any fun activities on the day I was so depressed, I finally created a plan: I would take a shower, then we would walk to the beach. We passed a playground and swung on the swings until I achieved a Zen state. Then we went to the lake, took off our sandals and waded a little. I just stood there, staring out at the waves. She eventually got bored and started doodling in the sand with a stick. After awhile, she looked up at me and asked, “what are you thinking about?” I had hoped I had something deep and insightful to reply, but I told the truth, "cactus juice cocktails."
Cactus juice cocktails are an invention of my friend Charles. Their base is a Kool-Aid-type polish drink that is cactus flavored. Since Charles was coming over the next night for dinner before the concert, we decided to travel to his old neighborhood for the hard to find ingredients. We had a plan for tomorrow. This cheered me up immensely. Plans are very important to me. I like knowing when things are going to happen and assurance that I will get to do both what I need to do and what I want to do. Gabrielle works a completely different way- she doesn’t use calendars or planners. She seems to just keep everything in her head.
This different way of thinking reminds me of the previous summer. In the spring I had been so frustrated with our friendship. I confronted her about it, letting her know that I missed her and refused to invest in a friendship that wasn't committed to building our relationship. She was kind and apologetic and promised to do better. That autumn, her own moment of understanding came. She was telling me how her friend Eric had friends come and visit from back home in Kansas. She told how they whined about public transportation, and couldn't appreciate the beauty of the city. Then she said, "and I thought, this is how Caitlin must feel! I realized how wonderful it is to have these things, and I wanted them to appreciate them." it made me so honored that she recognized that as one of my struggles- and then she sympathized with me, feeling the same way!
I don’t know how to describe her enough to make her a whole person. Yes, she has curly hair, but her whole body is curvy. She is short, and sexy, and very comfortable with her own self. She has her own personal sense of style, and likes to buy clothing as much as I do- when we go shopping together, we always are out so long we lose our transfers. I don’t shop well with people who say things like, “I won’t try THAT on!” or “no, I look to fat in this!” Gabrielle wears what she likes and what’s comfortable. And if that’s a boy scouts shirt, a short pleated skirt, and Doc Martens, then that’s what she’ll wear. With fingerless mitts and striped tights, of course- it’s much colder in Chicago than in Texas. She has her own ideas and knows her own mind about everything, not just clothing. If she has an opinion, it’s one she’s formed on her own. Often she doesn’t know enough about it, and then she’ll say she doesn’t know, or doesn’t have an opinion, or she defers to the ideas of other, more informed, people she trusts. She seems to be comfortable anywhere we go and whatever we do, whether it’s going to the opera, being prayed for in tongues at a church retreat, or being hit on by a lesbian at a wild party. Whereas I am passive aggressive and assume others to be as well, reading subtext into everything that’s said, she is straightforward. One knows that if she doesn’t say it, she’s not feeling it, and you can take what she says exactly at face value.
The next day, my mood was continuing to crawl upward. We took a bus and two trains all the way to Andy’s Fruit Ranch on the northwest side of the city. When we arrived, there was a big parking lot out front! We could have driven! But the trek was half the adventure. The grocery store was new and modern, but I still felt like I was in Europe. The cashiers were all talking in Polish to each other, and the shelves were filled with assorted treats labeled in languages we couldn’t understand. We bought all sorts of interesting looking things. When we got back home, we baked a cauliflower cheese pie with grated potato crust for dinner, and Charles came over, impressed with dinner and humored by the cactus juice. We headed off to Schuba’s to hear Over The Rhine. Standing in that smoky room singing along, I was able to shake off the last of my depression, thinking how lucky I was to have not one, but two friends in the city who loved my cooking, and my favorite bands. And they even got along with each other.
This memory is one of my favorites because of the way such a horrible situation turned in to a wonderful experience by the end of the weekend. It is important for me to be understood, and I feel honored that Gabrielle cares enough about me to want to learn what I need. About a year ago there was a fire in my apartment building. As I was waiting for my carpet and windows to be replaced and cleaning all of my stuff, I was staying in a temporary place one floor down. Along with the stress of having my home displaced and living out of boxes, I was also starting a new semester at school and going through the absolute busiest time of the year at work.
One day I had to go to the post office to pick up a package. It’s impossible to get to, and I left work early to make sure I’d get there before it closed. I arrived at 5:02, and the doors were locked. None of my shaking or arguing with various discourteous postal employees would get me my package that day. I was again overwhelmed emotionally. The post office was yet another force outside of me that was controlling my life and making it as hard as possible for me to get through. The postmistress rudely made it very clear there was nothing I could do to get my package, and walking through the parking lot I felt overcome with frustration and anger. There was no way to express what I was feeling, and I started to scream. Various shady-looking characters walked by and looked at me strangely, wondering what in the world this little white girl was doing screaming in broad daylight at 47th and Cottage Grove. Out of breath, I started to sob and sob, and I got on the bus, still feeling like something uncontrollable was taking over my usually very restrained self, and I was frightened of what was happening to me.
I called Gabrielle, and she was home. I went over to her house, where she gave me tea and tissues, and petted my back while I recounted my story, and told me everything would be fine. It was such a comfort to me. First, the actions themselves were reassuring. But also, knowing that I had a friend who knew me well enough to know HOW to console me under such circumstances was comforting.
The Sunday after the Over the Rhine concert we slept in and had a lovely lazy day, painting, reading, and being creative and companionable. I patched her jeans for her, and she read Griffin and Sabine to me. She drew lizards on my stepstool as I knitted and told stories. That night we finished off what was left of the cactus juice cocktails and watched a movie. I French-braided her hair in a crown around her head. It ended up being pretty lopsided-- the product you would expect from a French-braider who’d had too much to drink, I suppose. This is who Gabrielle is to me: a beautiful girl with a crooked halo.