Living with the 1st and 3rd Person

It was an experience in New York state that first made me aware of the two persons living inside me. In writer's terms we call these the first and the third person. During this time I was working for the Mental Health Department in a residential program for adults with mental illness. The home in which I worked was an old, 3 story, Victorian house. The residents which occupied it were as eclectic and intricate as the details within the home's architecture itself. My time there as a counselor taught me the roller coaster nature of life with mental illness. I saw first hand how a person could be in their right mind one day, and then suddenly not be the next. This was the situation I found myself in with a woman I'll call Maude.

Maude was a self assured, gracious, black woman when in her right mind. She hovered at about 6ft in height and had a large boned build that could make her look formidable at times. She was well dressed and carried herself with great dignity. In good mental health she was an elegant, poised, intelligent woman.

I was fairly new to working in this home, but had been there long enough to have had a few pleasant conversations with Maude. We'd talked about cooking, knitting and other points of interest. Sometimes I shook my head in amazement as to why this seemingly sane person was living here. But a few weeks later, Maude was in a downward spiral which all came to a head on the night of a full moon.

I happened to be working that night and was the first one to discover that she was up in the middle of the night emptying the kitchen cabinets of their contents. She was making piles of dishes and things all over the free-standing island in the middle of the room. I walked into the kitchen and observed her behavior as well as her disheveled appearance. Eyes that were warm towards me a week ago were now shooting daggers in my direction. In this state, her size and strength was downright scary. The staff realized how easily she could overpower any of us. At this point no one interfered with her dish rearranging in the kitchen. We figured that as long as her behavior wasn't threatening we would not interfere. I was warned to be particularly careful around Maude in this state because she had a history of taking out her aggression on employees who were new, white and female. The staff knew how easily I could be targeted.

When morning came Maude's psychosis seemed to have worsened. It was 6:OO when I (first person) walked into the kitchen that morning to discover Maude standing by the island. Maude saw me enter the kitchen. She then slowly picked up the new butcher knife the home had just purchased. She stood and faced me and began stroking the long, silver blade in a slow, deliberate manner. The other me (third person) began noting the details in an objective fashion, as if she were somehow outside of me.

The first person me felt a nervous twinge in my gut over seeing psychosis in its full blown state. My instincts told me not to turn my back on her but to just inch out of the room slowly, never taking my eyes off her. Meanwhile, the third person, writer in me was standing as a silent observer noting that the intricate details of this would make a perfect horror film scene.

The lighting was perfect. The first rays of morning light were streaming in the kitchen window in a beam that played off the glittering steel of an unblemished new blade. The light back-lit her hair and nightgown in an eerie fashion. Her disheveled hair was pushed into clumps that stood stiffly in odd angles like opposing enemies. The light illuminated her thin, flimsy nightgown, outlining her large framed, unclothed body underneath. The sterile white of the kitchen was also noted, the chips, the cracks, the years of use the kitchen had suffered; that it was utilitarian and worn. It lacked a homey warmth. It was all these details together that made it a notable scene.

The first person me experienced a level of fear, was disconcerted over being present during this psychotic episode. The third person looked into Maude's psychotic eyes and saw that it was a perfect Stephen King movie moment. This third person observed keen details coming together in one moment in a perfect way and then froze those mental details into it's brain for further recollection.

And this is when I knew that there were two of me, the first person who lives, feels, and experiences things first hand. Then there is the second me, that cool, calm, observant third person who shadows my every move, always on the lookout for recordable moments where she jumps outside of me with her pen and steno pad noting the details, the descriptions and records them in her collected fashion. Later she pesters me to listen and tell what she's observed. Finally, the two persons come together, the one who observes and the one who feels. They fuse together in the production of their final gift--the written word.