Me or the Tree

I parked the car in front of Virginia Beach General, turned to my brother, and said, “Well, here goes nothin’.” At least, that’s what I think I said. But as I’ve mentioned before—some details are lost.

I don’t remember walking through the parking lot toward the hospital. I’m sure we passed a tree, and I probably wanted to grab onto it and refuse to let go—just to avoid whatever was waiting inside.

Eric was up on the fourth floor in the psychiatric ward. The hours—days, really—that passed from his arrest to admission are ones I’ll let him describe in his own words in a later post.

All I knew at this point was that he was mad at me for putting him in there.

And just as I feared, during our visit, Eric asked who had called the police. My brother confessed. Then we both tried to reassure him it had been our only option.

Not only was Eric upset, but he still wasn’t himself. Whatever had a hold of his mind hadn’t let go. He wasn’t manic anymore—but he wasn’t Eric either.

It was devastating.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, I looked at my brother and said, “He’s not OK.”

He quietly replied, “No. He’s not.”

When I walked into my parents’ living room and saw my mother’s face—waiting, bracing for the verdict—I collapsed beside her on the couch and sobbed, burying my head in her lap like a child.

The rest of that week is a blur. Ethan stayed with friends in North Carolina, and I stayed in Virginia with my family.

Somehow—don’t ask how—Kate, my brother, and I ended up at a Dave Matthews Band concert. Kate had never been to one, so we figured, why not? Maybe it would lift our spirits.

And then they played The Space Between.

The lyrics hit hard. Like, sob-in-the-middle-of-a-crowd hard. It was as if Dave himself knew which song from his repertoire would land right in the chest of the woman whose husband had just been committed. Kate wrapped her arms around me as I cried, both of us realizing how absurd it had been to think we could outrun the heaviness of what was happening.

I look forward to the day we can have a proper do-over for her first DMB concert. So many of mine have been unforgettable for the right reasons. Funny how we thought this one might be too.

Later that week, I returned for a second visit—this time with Kate, who has always been my ride or die in the truest sense. She didn’t hesitate when I asked her to come, even though it was the last place either of us wanted to be. The three of us sat together while Eric showed us his journaling and sketches. There was something childlike about the way he shared them—his voice, his expressions, the raw openness. It didn’t feel like we were sitting with my husband. It felt like we were sitting with a boy lost in a grown man’s body.

After our visit we both agreed that Eric still wasn’t ready to come home.

When it was time to leave, I hugged Eric goodbye, and I could feel how much of him still wasn’t there. It wasn’t just the medication or the sterile walls or the weight of the week—it was something deeper. Like the light had gone dim, and no one knew how to flip the switch.

Two days later I was finally able to speak with the psychiatrist on duty. I was prepared to hear him say my husband would be there for at least a month. I needed time to figure out what to do. So as much as I hated leaving him there, knowing he hated it too, I needed time. I didn’t know what to do.

Instead, the doctor told me Eric was being released. That day.

I was shocked. How could that be? I wasn’t prepared. The man I had lived with—the man in that hospital—he was not my husband.

But with no other choice, I drove to pick him up. My brother headed south to pick up Ethan so he’d be there when we returned with his dad—who he hadn’t seen in seven days.

When Eric finally emerged from the double doors of the ward, the hug he gave me was brief and cold. He actually showed more affection towards a tree in the parking lot, that he placed his hands on for a long pause before getting in the car. He was clearly happier to see the tree than he was to see me. Honestly? I got it. The tree didn’t put him in that awful place.

We drove straight to the Lakehouse—as we call it. My parents home on Lake Joyce, the place I grew up, where Eric and I got married. When we walked in, my entire family was there waiting. My mom asked us to gather in a circle and pray over Eric. It was a beautiful moment.

It was Sunday, August 29th which also happened to be Jammin’ on the Joyce—the annual lake party. My father’s prize possession, Joyce’s Revenge, was gassed up and ready to join the other pontoons.

As the saying goes, when in Rome. So we joined in. Because that’s what we would’ve done any other time. I wasn’t thinking about what was best for Eric. I was scared, uncertain, and doing whatever I could to cling to something that felt familiar. Everyone else was doing the same.

So we headed out and joined the festivities. One of the pontoon boats had karaoke, and we convinced Eric to sing—something he used to do without hesitation. But this time, sober and unsure, it was different. But he still did it. Later, he’d tell me he felt like a puppet on stage, under a microscope.

As the day went on, he seemed ok. Maybe he just needed us and fresh air. In the moment I was thinking if everything looked ok on the outside then we could figure out the rest.

On the drive home we began planning the party we would throw for this momentous occasion. Just kidding…

I don’t know if it was a silent drive home. It was likely the three of us with our minds reeling about what just happened. Eric trapped in his new body and mind recounting his youth watching his parents with the same struggle we now faced.

After dropping Ethan at school the next day we continued the process of finding Eric a psychiatrist. The one in the hospital discharged him with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder with a prescription to continue Depakote.

Not only was I terrified of Eric and the unknown. Eric was processing the diagnosis he had feared his entire life; being bipolar like this father. I didn’t blame him.

Where do we go from here? How do we pay the mortgage, the bills, how do we find a psychiatrist that will take Eric without health insurance?

How how how how?

Well, when there’s only one option left, it’s God.

Isn’t it sad that we treat our God the same way many treat the last kid to be picked for the kickball team at recess?

But before we move forward, I feel like I owe you the full story. All of it. The part that came before the breakdown.