Summary

The narrative recounts the author's experience of meeting Yevrah, a fellow patient at Chicago Lakeshore Hospital, their friendship, and the emotional impact of her untimely death.

Abstract

The author shares a personal story of a deep connection formed with Yevrah, a woman he met in a mental health facility. Despite their different backgrounds and circumstances, they bond over shared struggles with mental health and their sexual orientation. The author is captivated by Yevrah's beauty and spirit, and they form a close-knit group with another patient, Mel. After their release, they continue to meet outside the hospital, until Yevrah becomes distant. The author later discovers that Yevrah had passed away, which deeply affects him. The story is underscored by the song "Can't Find My Way Home" by Blind Faith, which resonates with Yevrah and seems to encapsulate her struggles.

Opinions

The author holds Yevrah in high regard, describing her as a captivating and exotic beauty with an infectious laugh.
The author admits a personal fascination and affection for Yevrah, despite being aware of the complexities of forming romantic attachments in a mental health setting.
There is a sense of camaraderie among the author, Yevrah, and Mel, as they consider themselves different from the other patients.
The author reflects on the cyclical nature of addiction and the healthcare system, noting how some patients manipulate their situation to stay in the hospital.
The author seems to believe that Yevrah's reaction to the song "Can't Find My Way Home" was deeply personal and indicative of her inner turmoil.
The author is deeply affected by Yevrah's death and is troubled by the manner of her passing, which he learns about through a brief and difficult conversation with her brother.

Yevrah’s Song

“Can’t Find My Way Home”

This isn’t Yevrah. I’ve lost all photos of her—photo by Marissa & Eric on Unsplash.

She was a beauty, inside and out.

I’m gay, and I fell for her. I knew that I had to have her, if only as a friend.

We met at Chicago Lakeshore Hospital, a mental/substance abuse medical center on the North Side. We had been placed on the third floor — the floor with no escape. It was a place where you were watched very closely.

I met a woman named Melissa, and we bonded instantly. Before I met her, I called her “the Cryer” because I never saw her without tears in her eyes. None of us wanted to be there but knew why we were.

In a good moment, Mel told me about a girl on the floor watching the door through which the employees came and went. She devised some instrument that kept the door from shutting all the way.

She got dressed in the only clothes she had, the ones she came in with. She waited until late at night when there were fewer employees around. Her ploy worked, and she got out, running down the street in heels which, Mel said, she threw off so she could gain more speed.

But rarely do these escapes work. She was followed by security, who quickly apprehended her. I thought that anyone with the “cajones” even to attempt such a plot had to be someone I needed to meet.

When it was determined that you were no longer a danger to yourself, you would be released to the second floor, which is where rehab really began.

Mel always said that she was a gay man trapped inside a woman’s body. On the second floor, the “straight” wing was full, so she was put in a room on the “gay” wing. And she had a roommate with whom I was already in some sort of love.

It was Yevrah.

None of us looked so hot in the hospital, except for Yevrah. Half Mexican and half Black, she was very exotic. She was as tall as me — about 5'11", had a beautiful complexion, long black hair, and an infectious laugh, despite the circumstances.

The three of us made a pact to always sit together during mealtimes and any other time we’d be in the same room because everyone else was “weird.” We were above them!

Not really. An addict is an addict.

Some of us had more time in what I called “the slammer” than others. Those who were on public aid could stay 30 days, at which point they’d get their disability checks, party hard for a few days, then come back to the hospital under the influence so that they’d be admitted.

With my private insurance, I was allowed only seven days. Same with Mel. Yevrah, on public aid, got to stay.

Once she got out, the three of us would gather at my place to party and shoot the shit, talk about our meds and their effects. After all, we were in for depression and/or suicide, not substances. Snicker.

One evening we were sitting around imbibing this and that, and the following lyrics played from my mixtape:

Come down off your throne and leave your body alone

Somebody must change

You are the reason I’ve been waiting all these years

Somebody holds the key

Yevrah’s eyes popped wide open when she said, “oh my God, what is this song?” She had obviously heard it before, but as she was younger than I, she didn’t really know much about it or who sang it. Nevertheless, she reacted to it as if it meant something very personal.

Well I’m near the end and I just ain’t got the time

And I’m wasted and I can’t find my way home

Mel eventually moved back to her hometown of Atlanta, leaving just Yevrah and me. We got to know each other better. She was estranged from her parents but was close to her brother. She’d formerly been married but was bisexual, preferring the company of men but the love of women.

I continued to try to engage with Yevrah with suggestions of doing things together, but she became aloof. I knew she was on edge.

The last time I saw her was at a Christmas gathering I held at my home in 2008. She had great social skills and won everyone over with her laugh.

It had been several months since I heard from Yevrah, and I’d left several voice messages. One night I was discussing this with my girlfriend Geetha, and she suggested we do a search. It was 2009, and I was not internet savvy like her. I didn’t even know what Google was.

My heart raced, anticipating the worst, as Geetha pounded away at the keyboard, asking me questions about her all the while.

“Found her,” Geetha said.

Yevrah had passed on August 25, 2009.

Subsequently, we were able to track down her brother. It was a short conversation. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it. However, he did admit that Yevrah passed in her bathtub as a result of cutting. That image will haunt me to the end.

And I’m wasted and I can’t find my way home

“Can’t Find My Way Home” lyrics by Steve Winwood. Recorded on the album “Blind Faith” by the band of the same name.