[Mb-civic] The voice of intrusion - Elissa Ely - Boston Globe Op-Ed

[William Swiggard]

  The voice of intrusion

By Elissa Ely  |  March 26, 2006  |  The Boston Globe

SHE WAS living alone for the first time, an independent woman, after 
years in the hospital and years living with others. It was a triumph.

A month after moving, she left a message canceling an appointment. She 
did not show the month after that, and did not answer the phone. This 
was not like her. Finally, family drove her in.

Her hair sprouted in a dozen electrified directions. Her voice had 
always been thin, a little vulnerable. But it had also been exuberant 
and full of self-love. Now she could barely bring herself to speak.

The apartment was fine. There were no problems with the landlord or 
neighbors. The elevator worked well.

''Streets safe?"

''Fine, fine."

''Phone's working OK?"

''Well," she said, and the formerly self-loving voice wavered. There had 
been some calls. One man at first, asking about her bank account. He 
said he could make her a lot of money. That didn't seem right. But she 
didn't hang up. She didn't want trouble. He said he needed her account 
and credit card number. He said she had to give them to him. She was 
afraid to hang up. He kept calling and calling. She didn't know what to 
say. Then he stopped calling -- and another man started.

''Did you worry they knew where you lived?"

''I thought they might come to the apartment and wait outside."

''Did you tell anyone?"

She was an independent woman. She had told no one.

We understand one another in comparative and self-centered ways. I had a 
memory. Many years ago, I was 12, maybe 13, alone in our big house for 
the first time at night. It was a landmark event, and I was keeping 
myself excellent company -- playing piano, heating the oven for cookies, 
contemplating an ill-tasting, forbidden nip from the company liquor shelf.

It was dark outside when the kitchen phone rang. A pleasant voice said 
he was taking a survey. He appreciated my time, it was a real help. The 
survey was about women's clothing. First he asked some questions about 
my age and grade. Then he asked a few other questions, more particular 
now, about my size and hair color. They seemed unnecessary, but I was 
raised in a polite culture to respond helpfully.

The next question came after a pause. For the survey, he needed to know 
this: What kind of underpants did I like? What kind of top? What exactly 
was I wearing at that moment? Would I describe it to him?

I was standing by the sink, facing the yard. The time for freely hanging 
up had passed. His voice sank. Now he was making suggestions, things I 
might be doing at that very moment. None of it was true, but he was so 
knowing. His knowledge was expansive and terrifying, bigger than a 
single sense that maybe he could see as well as hear; maybe he was close 
enough -- in the yard beyond the window -- for touch.

Now he began to tell me what he wanted me to do.

What is this survey for? I said in the tiniest final voice. There had to 
be a reason for these questions. Even then, I did not want to offend him.

The line went dead. I put the receiver on the hook, took it off the 
hook, put it on, and took it off. There was no safe location for it. It 
was off the hook when my parents came home. I did not tell them what had 
happened.

''Did these men know your name?" I asked the patient.

She chewed the implication over. Logic comes hard in the midst of 
terror, but she was here now, not home. No, she didn't think they knew 
her name, and if they didn't know that, they couldn't know where she 
lived. Come to think of it, they hadn't called for a few weeks now. 
Probably they were on to someone else. That must be what had happened. 
They had moved on.

But she did not look relieved. The realization that they were finished 
with her brought no comfort. We discussed sensible actions -- an 
unlisted number, caller ID. Nothing broke her distractedness. The 
apartment had been penetrated.

When the meeting was over, she made no move to go. She was still an 
independent woman -- but not a free one. The clothing surveyor had never 
called back, but it did not matter. The patient and I had this in 
common. The voices might have left, but they were not gone. For a long, 
long time, they were not going to go away.

Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist.  

http://www.boston.com/news/globe/editorial_opinion/oped/articles/2006/03/26/the_voice_of_intrusion/
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