we can file this one under "realistic fiction"
Names have been changed.
I get ahold of my dear friend Ruby early on a Sunday morning. I have been going through my phonebook, wishing any of the numbers would ring me first and calling myself when they do not. Just a bunch of machines. When I ask and she says she doesn't work, I am both relieved and nervous. All of my emotions begin to form like an air bubble coming to the surface of a lake. Slower and first, then faster and faster, barreling towards the surface. Pop.
After I inform her the door is unlocked, I push "Save the Last Dance" into my VHS player and begin to pack. Throw in some shirts, take a shot. Pants, underwear, socks. Shot. Toothpaste, toothbrush, mouthguard. Shot. My journal, 2 books, my teddy bear. Shot. I try to pick up my trashed room best I can. Take out all the half eaten food plates, toss junk into the trashcan. Throw all the clothing on the floor in a pile. I am in the midst of putting away dishes when my ears assert an instinction to look to the left. She walks over and breathes an unsteady "Hey" as she wraps her arms around me and I cry. She knows what I want her to do. I grab a sweatshirt from the rack, lock up, make my way to her passenger seat. The drive is a short one, a long one. We speak a little, think a lot. "You sure you want to do this? You don't want to just go to my apartment for a bit? No one's there." I shake my head. Everything in her eyes is pleading with me to just go the other way but my mind is made up; a dangerous thing.
She stays with me for awhile as they put me in a room with a hospital bed and a chair. They take my ponytail, bracelet, and then my backpack. We flip through magazines, point out to one another which shoes and outfits on each page are our favorites and least favorites. Then a nurse comes in, asks to take my vitals, ask questions, draw blood and I ask Libby to leave. She doesn't need to stick around for this. I hug her goodbye, tell her I will call her as soon as I can, thank her again. I watch her walk past the glass doors as a sterile needle is pulled from a wrapper.
My blood pressure is high, which is frightening since it is normally spot on, within an interveral or two. I am handed a pill for it, which i swallow. I watch my red blood fill the tube growing darker until it is filled. I am given a glass of water and left to my own devices. There is a television, I leave it off. The magazines stare silently at me from the chair. A hour or two goes by. I am offered a ginger ale and a phone call, both of which I accept. My dad is on his way. I begin to think of what he will say, if he will be cross with me, have a million questions. If he will tell mom. I turn on the television and wait for his arrival. He sits with me for awhile. He asks questions like I had assumed he would, but at a slower pace than usual, his tone is neutral, curious even. For the first time in my life I lift up my shirt a ways exposing the incisions I felt must be placed upon my ribs. I don't see his reaction because my eyes are closed crying tears of shame. He remains with me for a about an hour. Holds my hand. I tell him it is getting late and to head home and get some sleep before work, manage a smile. He says I am on the right track and it feels good. He gives my hand a squeeze and it feels good. I lean over, hug him goodbye, promise to call him soon.
I begin to feel sick. I was over double the legal driving limit when I was tested with the breathalizer at the time of entry. The pills I had taken to give me the courage to get here are wearing off. Everything that has been in my system for the past several days is starting to wear off. I ask to use the bathroom, begin to dry heave. Nothing comes. I crawl back into the little bed, crawl under the blankets this time. Shiver and shake, shiver and shake. I am informed I am being picked up to go to the psych hospital a little after midnight. I nod to the nurse, she takes my vitals again. I feel dizzy, foreign. I stare at the television on the wall until I am told it's time to go. They ask me if I want to hold Oscar, my brown little fuzzy friend and I say yes. We are loaded onto the stretcher, buckled in. My backpack is slung on the back and we begin being wheeled down long corridors. At the bottom an ambulence is waiting to accept me with doors open and the process is frightening. I am scared I will be dropped. I am silently walked to my room and told my roomate is sleeping. My items are taken away from me and in trade I recieve a pair of scrubs at least 3 sizes too large but I put them on anyway and lay my head down on a plastic pillow with no pillowcase. I close my eyes.
The next morning I am greeted by a slew of unfamiliar faces who all want something from me: my signature, my blood, my permission to X, Y, Z. I am still cold, still shaking. I ask another blanket that never comes. Dry heave. Blood pressure high. Oxygen low. I do as they say, scribble my name on the dotted lines. I appreciate that they put an "X" there - takes away the guesswork. I don't ask questions, only answer them. I have a vague recollection of how this all works. I tell myself I am not learning anyone's name. I will not be here long."
Though there are checks every 15 minutes, I sleep through them all. It is not until the hurt of hunger wakes me that I come out of my room. Whatever the meal was had surely gone cold so I take the apple and a milk carton from the fridge. I am called over for morning meds. I try to explain to her there is nothing for me here but she encourages me to take a multivitamin and B vitamin to which I wordlessly wash down. I know I have to go to groups as part of the process so I show up and my eyes glaze over for an hour as one of the Techs writes on the board about how events lead to thoughts which lead to our actions and therefore consequences. Real rudimentary shit. My problem isn't that I had never thought of that before, it is just I cannot help myself and get tangled up somewhere in the middle. I start to second guess myself and when group ends, head to the common room. I pour myself a cup of decaf coffee, help myself to some saltine crackers I am still hungry, drink a large glass of water. Lunch wont be for over an hour. I scan the newspaper, read the Ask Abby and my Horroscope. Check the Classefieds. I notice a guy who another patient, who is my roomie, discloses to me is someone who used to work there. "He's a good, guy, a really good guy," she speaks at the speed of light, "he just must have got messed up with it all somewhere along the way." Later I will notice he never goes to group meetings, which he must be well aware is key to ever leaving. Even later I will notice he spends his days writing, a constant sort of writing, while going up and down the hall, sometimes doing some sort of excersise, a few of which I recognize from my days of track during our warm ups. Later still I will notice the steady, light, repeated red scars over his wrists.
My roomate attaches to me right away. Her name is Mary, she is a 42 year old coming off of methadone. She looks maybe 35. We spend hours talking, coloring in pictures with markers to pass the time, talking about our lives and making silly jokes. When I get my privledges to go to the cafeteria we eat together. We exchange numbers, plan to meet in the "real world". She plans on going to a women's shelter relatively closeby before another much furhter away more permanently. I can't bring myself to ask if this is her long term plan. I just try to keep her calm when she gets ticked at the staff. I want to see her get out of here and she gives me a bunch of great advice for myself; after all, this is her 7th time here.
The next day I paddle down the hall for my fake "hopefully I can psych myself out" decaf coffee and can smell the tension in the air. One of the patients, who mumbles only to himself and doesn't appear to be aware of his body oder, has once again made a mess of the coffee area without cleaning it. Mary is coloring with a new girl at the circle table, her lists she is always writing next to her, babbling away to anyone who will listen as usual. Empty handed and in socks, it is easy to slide against the wall. I can sense shits about to go down and while I dont want to be involved I want to be around in case anything needs to be done. A few words are said and within seconds, Smelly Guy's hot coffee goes flying into the face of the other patient who blocks and impeding elbow with his own. A punch is thrown, and then another. Two grown men going at it can really make a table fly and they do, catching Mary in the ribs and her chair, containing her, is brought to the ground.
Staff memebers rush in and rush to them and I rush by and rush to her. She begins to cry. I ask if she is ok, look for signs of damage, but I can tell from the way she is crying it is not out of true pain but panic and upset. The men, now removed, allow space for me to walk her back to our room. I hate violence I hate violence, she keeps repeating it through tears, clearly freaking out, constant I cant stant the violence, I just hate it. Since she's been clearly escalating, another staff comes into our room and I slip out. Go back to the empty room. I straighten the tables, pick up the chairs, wipe the floor, clean the original mess (3 sugar packets and some milk) and pour myself a bullshit excuse of coffee. I look out the window, try to calm myself. I know I could walk right over and get the downer of my choice no problem but the longer I do that the longer I stay. I am here to try to control myself on my own. So I wait. I fear not having locks on my doors. I fear the shouting of people who are so reckless with their lives that mine may as well mean nothing to them. But you have to stand your ground. Though I do not talk to Smelly Guy or even look him in the eyes, I will walk into the common room when he is there alone mumbling to himself, running his hands through and through his greasy hair if there is a puzzle or marker I need. The fear will not control me.
The next day is a long one. I long for fresh air. Because I packed under the influence, I had forgotten the cardinal rule: no drawstrings. I am left with two changes of pants. I ask for my ipod, am told I cannot have it- mine has the capacity to take pictures and videos. I ask for my pillowcase - it never comes. Mary gives me one of hers which is better but I miss mine. I miss my bed, going to sleep with white noise. I call my oldest friend, he misses my call once, twice. It feels as though I am in some strange hotel. I find myself absentmindedly pulling on the door under the sink where a cabinet should be to find it wont budge. The shower button must be pressed exactly every 20 seconds for another 20 seconds of water. A few times I hear "Code Grey" or "Cancel Code Green East" to which I always leave my room and scour the surroundings, trying to figure out what each might mean.
Still, I try to arrange the few items I have asthetically as possible. Mary has walking privledges, picks me a purple flower. I put it on my desk next to my tea, journal, orange and copies of The Bell Jar and Possible Side Effects. I have nothing else. The bruise on my chin that took awhile to show itself, the way all the worst bruises do, has turned a deep purple. I spend my free time trying to help it; eating the apple had hurt. A few more even come out of the woodworks. It seems everyone has a comment. I keep my opinions to myself. I spend the rest of the day making a plan. I needed to come down for a day and then chill out for a day and I got that. Now I needed to come up with a plan. I read because sometimes thats how I do my best thinking. I start writing down some ideas. Some of them start to link up. A plan begins to emerge. I call Pete, leave a voicemail. I tell him I've moved up a level and am getting some good information and I miss him and am doing well. I end the one-sided conversation shortly after my voice first breaks. I ask for my mouthguard, am told I need a doctors order for it. For something I have used every night for years to be proactive of my health and the doctor has left for the day. Defeated, I head to my room, brush my teeth and lay down. The plastic shifts and makes noises underneath my weight. I miss him. I close my eyes, hear shouting, think of him. I try to remember every detail of how my head fit so perfectly by his shoulder. And then I remember it again. I don't like knowing I will be grinding my teeth but tonight I know I have no choice so I put a few of the blankets over my ear to muffle the noise and at some point sleep claims me.
I continue to work hard. I attend the meetings. I wear the clown pants which seem to be bigger every day. I tend to the bruise on my chin; it begins to break up. I end up learning the name of one or two other people. I am invited to play a game of Uno. It doesnt matter if one of them was technically dead a few days before and one literally claims to be Orville Redenbacher (yeah, the popcorn) in a past life. I find myelf enjoy the simple game. But now that I am on a sleep schedule I am tired. I am walking to head to my room and read for awhile before bed when a friendly looking woman I have seen before but was too wary to trust happens to be walking by. For some reason, I stop and lean against my doorframe instead of going in. For some reason, she stops. I don't know how long I had been waiting to talk to someone in the way I did just then: a few hours? Weeks? Years? I couldn't be sure. When I had finished my little speech, punctuated by a wipe of tears and then snot into my hoodie sleeve. But her face lit up. She said she knew just the thing. She gave me some great information and I felt... relieved. Happy, almost. Hopeful.
So I talked to her for another half hour. Maybe this place didn't save my life. I did and am doing that. But she changed it. She checks on me later in the evening. I am still awake, with sleepytime tea and reading at my desk til I get tired. We talk again. I had what AA would call a moment of clarity, but I think it's better described as "Duh!"
Something just.... clicks. "You know," I tell her "I used to go to the beach and be outside all the time. I used to be such a good dancer, and now I barely ever practice." I gesture at my book, my pen adjacent so I can underline the stanzas I like most. "I used to read all the time. I always tell myself I'll do it next week. Same with writing. I've always been a writer!"
The tears start welling up again.
"And you remember how much you loved doing those things, that's great. That's HUGE to recognize."
Spill over.
She smiles a friendly smile, does one of those rub-pats on the shoulder as if to say "atta girl" even though any form of physical touch aside from necessary restraints are against the policies of the facility.
Finally I look up from my book.
"No offense, but I never want to see you again." We both laugh, although hers is louder, longer. I can hear her laugh as she walks to the next room to do checks, which by now I realize is probably outside of the 15 minute window.
The next day I am offered my get out of jail not so free card. I meet with a Social Worker, Two Techs, A Psychiatrist, a Doctor, and the Program Director within a 2 hour span.
The doctor was the hardest to convince of all. "I think you're very angry about something."
I refer to this little psychological move the bait and switch.
"Me? Did you just hear all that yelling out there? Or about that fight yesterday? Or all the disrespectful language and swearing to staff out there. I have done everything I have been asked of since I arrived. I am cooperative and try to help out others when I can. If I am angry, what are all they?" This is getting ridiculous.
"This conversation isn't about them, though. It is about you. I have been doing this a long time."
"I'm not angry about anything. I don't know what to tell ya."
She shrugs, sighs, gets up, we exit the room.
I find myself signing away as I went through my Release Report: Prescriptions: A mulivitamin every morning.....No known allergies..... Focal Problems: increasing depression after multiple stressors, suicide ideation..... Has been hospitalized here before..... Patient Strengths: Seeking help, intelligent, uses music and baths as coping skills..... Nonviolent....
Sounds ok to me. I hand over the pen with a smile and go to pack.