As a teen I have read Alexandre Dumas' novel The Black Tulip, like my mom did before me. She always used to mention it fondly as one of her favorite books while growing up, so I was a bit disappointed to find out that it was less of an engaging read than Dumas' other novels I have digested before it, like The Count of Monte Christo and The Three Musketeers which I went and re-read even twice, enjoying the sophisticated plots and witty dialogues in revisit just as much as on the first time encounter.

Remembering however my mom's affection for the story of the young Dutch who tried to breed the mysterious dark colored flower to his misfortune, when I went to the Netherlands, shortly after graduating from high school, I picked up there a bunch of tulips' tubers at a size of a ping pong ball each, wrapped up all nicely in a big Dutch clog made of white porcelain with blue water color illustrations on it, and brought them to her so she could have a go at planting them in her plant pots in the balcony to see if anything grows out of them.

Which, surprisingly, to me at least, it did.

It happened during spring time. That year winter was awfully cold, and long. I was supposed to enlist and start my army service on April, following a three months pre-service course wherein I would be trained as a flight inspector, a role that I was allegedly chosen for based on my high scores in the preliminary psycho-technic exams, and for which I have since continued going through additional pre-trials and screenings along my entire senior year in high school.

The course started on January, and it was held at the Air Force instruction base in the far south at Ovda, which consisted mostly of a few concrete boxes in the middle of a dry yellow desert. I had irregular shoes for which I was berated repeatedly by some of the commanders and in addition I managed to lose my cap on the second night there and had to buy a replacement when we were sent back home for the weekend. That Friday night the temperature at Jerusalem went down as to reach sub-zero level. I was oblivious of the extreme weather however, and similarly as in many Friday nights before, had gone out with the guys for drinks that now came accompanied with inescapable jokes and teasing about my new status as property of the Israel Defense Force.

I went back to the course on Sunday, armed with all my new gear I had my mom purchase for me the evening before, to some reluctance on her part. On the next day during the morning order and gathering I began to feel faint and breath heavily. They laid me down on the floor and summoned a car that drove me to the clinic. The doctor said I was having a panic attack and referred me to the officer psychologist. I spent the day there and come evening three girls from my course came to check on me and escorted me back to our barracks by foot.

It was at about dawn when I woke up feeling like I was going up on fire. I awakened one of my co-inhabitants of the small room we were housed in, and she touched my burning forehead and said: "yeah, you have a fever alright". Come morning I was back at the clinic. That evening my course commander came to see me there. Two minutes in, she got a phone call. The expression of shock her face wore that instant, eyes and mouth all widened, and the strange gasping of her voice, I could never forget.

As it turned out, there was a terrible aerial accident over a northern settlement near the border of Israel and Lebanon. Two helicopters packed with warriors on their way to the farthest post in the so-called Security Belt were flying in structure and, as they approached the border, the air crew killed the lights per an order they got from base; At that exact minute the one from behind lost direction and impacted the one at the front, at the same location its rotor was. Both air crafts lost control and crushed and all 73 souls in total on board plummeted to their unavoidable death. Several of the deceased were from my high school, only one year older than me, from the class preceding mine.

The next day, I tried to resume the course and catch up on the materials, to no avail. I felt in class I was about to suffocate and went out of it for frequent breaks. Eventually on the last day in which it was still possible, I told my commander that I wish to sign a waiver and leave the course, to which she replied: "I think that would be best".

When I got back home, I got sick again. I had a fever for about two weeks that would not come down and barely slept.

I began to feel estranged from my friends. I found myself in fights and arguments with them more and more often. I had swift and extreme mood changes, laughing and crying like I have never done before. Sometimes once I started I was unable to stop.

I found mundane tasks and day-to-day functioning more and more challenging. I could not remember what have I eaten for lunch the day before. I had trouble to even get myself out of bed, put on clothes and go to town to buy there some item my mom requested, like a pack of printer papers.

At that point my mom decided that enough was enough and took me to the mental health center in the nearing neighborhood. They committed me, involuntarily, for a period of 10 days, after which I was reviewed by a committee of three, which extended the warrant for a second 10 days period. After that one ended too, my mom and my treating physician made me sign an agreement form to remain under the hospital care and admittance. It took my mom about another two weeks to realize I was not getting any better there, but only worse. Finally, and not without a fight, we were able to leave that horrible place behind us after a total of about 6 weeks, during which I was experimented on with almost any drug possible and experienced all kinds of brutal side effects.

Now, when Tulip asks me: "why were you hospitalized?", I pause. I doubt she has interest or patience to hear any of that. She strikes me as a type of person who is only into bottom lines, not contextual accounts. When she questions me as to what age was I at when I realized I fancied women, she only wants a number, not an outline of the stage of my life I have been in. A long and convoluted story intertwined with national scale trauma is probably not what she is expecting. The gist of it? I had a psychotic episode.

Yet before I get a chance to answer the video chat is interrupted by another call, one off the cellular network. Saved by the unblocking character of the messaging app, I contemplate of the tulips that bloomed while I was in the hospital. Or so my mom told me, at least. I never got to see them. When I finally got out, they already withered away and nothing was left but a dry thin wand.