I pick apart my unfamiliar, vague memory that I just created while walk towards here and pray to God that it brings me back. I don't even know my room number. I start my journey. Mash, mash, mash. I walk with uncertain confidence. I walk forward and it an intersection of hallways. I think I go right?
My feet decide before my brain and I turn right. The doors are endless. I don't even want to know how many mechanics, nuts and hinges it took to make this haven of entrances. The end of the hallway become slightly familiar — well, at least more familiar than the last. I scan the doors on my left. I think my room is somewhere here?
I can't run the risk of opening a door and seeing a fat naked guy or a mean old lady who starts throwing greeting cards at me when I even attempt to fully open the door. This is the russian roulette of openings.
I assay the first door hoping that neither of the latter greet me. When I push the door open, I see a sleeped-in bed with my backpack slumped on the side of it. I sigh in relief. My eyes have been spared this time.
I walk into the room and look around the floor. The rug is an ugly vomit color. You can tell it was stapled down in the 1980s. The whole room has an "unrenovated" feel to it. The walls are painted a pale yellow that I assume was once vibrant. Along the walls in a trim that resembles the design on 1990s styrofoam cups. I shake my head at the poor interior design and resume my search for shoes. The fact that I wasn't the one who took off my shoes makes it that much harder to find them.
They could be in Timbuktu and they would still be just as lost to me. I move the blanket off of the bed. Maybe they are under here? The old comforter peels from the mattress like a used bandaid. Years of germs are nearly visible. I try to not gag as I throw it on the floor. My shoes still remain invisible to the naked eye. My glance moves to my backpack. Why didn't I think of that before?
I pick it off of the ground and begin rummaging through it. My clothing is haphazardly balled up and throw in. I can tell it was packed in a rush. I can also tell that this wasn't my doing. I unpacked my backpack at Noah's. I dig through to the bottom. There are no where to be seen.
Then I look at the dresser. On the top are ugly tennis shoes. They are hospital provided and it looks like this is my only option. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull them on my feet. Now I have to make my way back to the nurse. Dear lord help me. This rat race is going to wear me out.
I turn back out of my room. My feet squeak in my new-to-me shoes. They make me unbelievably uncomfortable. I walk down the hallway. Retracing my steps is much easier the third time. Third time's the charm?
I walk with more confidence as I turn left, walk past copious rooms then turn left again. The nurse is sitting in one of the chairs, holding her clipboard. She looks up when she hears my footsteps.
"I see you found our stylish sneakers," she says, "They are in season, you know."
I chuckle. She starts walking through the maze again. I follow her. I stay directly behind her heels. I'm afraid if I don't follow her feet exactly then I will get lost, again.
She walks down the hallway for what seems to be a mile. The white tile's pattern is entrancing. I follow it with my eyes. The diamond into a wide doorway that spills into a cafeteria. Metal tables are scattered throughout the room. People seem to be grouped in some sort of fashion but without proper speculation, I can't decrypt the organization. Some people are wearing sweat suits, while others, like myself, are wearing our own clothing.
"You can go through here," the nurse says to me. She points to a queue line that is made of a dirty rope tied to individual posts. A huge sneeze guard covers a long metal trough of food. Assorted cooks are busy at all of the different stations of said trough. I walk into the line and stand in front of the sneeze guard. A cook smiles at me and hands me a plate.
"It's pancake day!" She says enthusiastically
I hate pancakes.
"Yum!" I respond as I take the plate.
The nurse still follows me. It feels weird to have someone always behind me. Every second I wonder when she will go away.
The cafeteria is almost as unrenovated as my bedroom. Peeling white paint covers the walls. Tacky posters of happy people are placed randomly along the perimeter. Nurses are also places randomly throughout the room. It seems like everyone is under 24 hour surveillance. The tables are unsturdy and no amounts of cleaning would rid it of the germ infestation taking place before my eyes. It makes me wonder if the rest of the world even cares about mental health. Sadly, I don't think they do.
I put my tray down at an empty table. I can feel people's eyes on me. Hopefully they will mind their own business sooner than later. I know they are looking at my stomach. It has grown a lot over the last couple days. 'Why is a pregnant lady here' is most likely ninety percent of their thoughts. Or maybe they can't even tell. The nurse sits next to me. It attracts even more attention. She very well could go stand with the other nurses than right next to me. That's like tattooing "new person" on my forehead. I guess it doesn't matter because they will figure out eventually that I am new. I definitely don't fit in. I have never been in a facility like this and some people here seem like this is their second home. They lounge around, comfortable as can be. I sit tense with the least amicable expression I can muster.
I cut into the pancake. When I get my forkful close to my mouth, I realize that I am not even the slightest bit hungry. I put the fork down and sigh.
"Are you going to eat?" The nurse asks. She sounds more worries than I assumed she would be.
"I'm not very hungry."
She doesn't argue with me at all about this and simply pulls her clipboard up and scribbles on it. A part of me feels like I'm going to get in trouble later for this. Oh well. The nurse looks at her watch.
"Your appointment with Dr. Simmons is in 20 minutes," She says, "Maybe I could walk you around and show you some stuff if you are sure that you are done eating."
I nod my head. I pick the fork up and eat just the bite that I already sliced. The sweet taste in my mouth makes me nauseous momentarily. The bite gets swallowed and I proceed to throw my plate in the trash. The trash can is placed oddly in front of a door. It looks like it hasn't been opened in at least 30 years. This place needs to be fixed up, badly.
The nurse urges me towards her. She is walking towards the exit. I catch up to her and we down the hallway together. She ornately describes the advantages to being in a mental health facility. After she starts describing the group therapy, I start to zone out. Perhaps she thinks that creepy men with guitars will get me excited.
How did I get here? I don't think I have any serious problems that would warrant a mental hospital check-in. The only thing I can think is that my father brought me in under my own will. Maybe he drugged me? I'm very confused. My backpack wasn't packed by me either. Somebody else threw my clothes in. My backpack was at Noah's so maybe he and my dad had a plan? My father did tell me that mental issues ran in the family and I told Noah about the voices. Did they communicate when I wasn't around? What about Tabitha? Does she think that I'm safely at Noah's or does she also know about this. I don't know my confusion can get an more convoluted and extreme. I'm really hoping that this doctor does explain to me and tell me what the actual fuck is going on.
We continue to stroll. As time progresses, so does my anxiety. Maybe I'm in here for my anxiety?
"Here is the office." The nurse points at a door in the hallway. This one sticks out; it is the only one that has a window in its frame. I look at it. It looks very suspicious. It's probably just my anxiety telling me to be cautious and paranoid.