"I don't know," I say, "I'm new here."
"Oh, yeah," he laughs, "I knew that. I just figured maybe a nurse spilled the beans to you."
I chuckle. "Nope."
"I mean, they let you sleep in so I wasn't sure what other privileges they were gonna give the newbie."
"Oh? I'm sorry." I feel a sudden guilt for being given a pass that I didn't ask for.
"Nah, it's fine," he says, I can feel his annoyance, "they do that for patients they had to knock out to admit."
I sigh. I'm fucking crazy and people hate me for it. What else is new?
"You must have been a real fighter." He laughs. He looks away from me and stares up at the TV. The once black screen has turned into a fuzzy blue. Three nurses are gathered around a shitty 2007 DVD player and trying to figure out how to turn it in. You'd think they would have a clue if this is a normal occurrence. I turn to ask Lee but he has already started an energy filled conversation with two girls sitting in front of the couch. I drop my breath and give up on my questions.
Music begins to blare from the TV speakers and everyone cheers… except me. I have to get out of here sooner than later. Maybe it just follow what they say, they will ok with just letting me go after the 3 days. They can't give me medications so what's the point of being here.
I lean back and stare up. It would take years to count all of the tiles on the hospital ceiling. It is something that I would honestly try if I were given a chance.
Schizophrenic. The word flows through my mind repeatedly. I am schizophrenic. I have schizophrenia. It never truly registers. I know it never will. On top of that, I am bipolar. All of the people I have heard of who are bipolar have shaved their heads or done cocaine. I am neither of those. I don't understand why Dr. Simmons thinks that. I hope he is wrong.
You know he is wrong.
I know.
Then why do you believe him?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE WAKE
The grilled cheese tastes like shit. The pre-frozen mozzarella adheres to the bread like duct tape and frankly, it has the same consistency. I shove the tape sandwich down my throat and swallow it before the taste burns my tongue. My personal nurse, Nurse Juay — who I finally attached the name to after trying to catch a glimpse at badge without it seeming like I staring at her boobs — sits besides me, scratching on her clipboard. She is pleased with my eating. I hope that is the note she is writing.
I stare at her pen as I jam the last bite directly into my esophagus. She clicks the pen and puts it down when she sees my eyes. She looks at me and frowns. She doesn't like it when I glare at her clipboard. I can't blame her but she doesn't understand my self-consciousness. I already feel insane. I don't need her to validate my concerns in front of my face. It's doing a cancer screening by hand in front of the patient. It's cruel honestly.
"You are going to have to get used to being evaluated," Nurse Juay tells me.
"Why is that?" I ask, my temper seeping through my teeth, "Because I'm crazy so I'll always be somewhere like this?"
She shakes her head and sighs deeply. She has to stay calm or she'll lose her job. I feel bad for getting irritated but I can't help it sometimes.
People begin to shift in their seats. Most people are done eating their grilled ass. Every type of person is represented in this group of people. Skinny, chubby, every race and skin color. Mental diseases do not discriminate. Everyone is equally as likely to become a sociopath. Everyone is equally as likely to fucked over by life. Everyone is equally as likely to attempt to take their life. It's sad but we can't rule the world; the world rules us. We are simply the pawns in fates Chess game. Bound to die in the first 5 minutes. Nurse Juay stands up and checks her watch. This place is so meticulously scheduled that being even a second late could result in another day of being on suicide watch. Or so I've been told. People aren't necessarily friendly but they don't pull back on sharing negative information. Recreational therapy was simply an orchestra of shushing and shit talking.
"You have to get to group therapy." Nurse Juay says to me while continuing to stare at her watch.
"What exactly is that?"
"You'll meet the other schizophrenics in the ward." She tells me. Her tone has a hopeful feeling to it. She has more hope for me than I do.
I stand up and grab my tray. She starts to speed walk and I hurry to follow her. As we walk out of the door, I dump my tray. A thud echoes through the cafeteria. Momentarily, the chatter quiets. The distraction of new sounds offsets all of the conversation happening. Humans are just overgrown squirrels. I chortle silently and walk out of the door. When my back passes through the threshold, I hear the talking grow louder and louder until it levels at its original volume.
We walk through the hallway. The labyrinth grows more. I seriously doubt I will ever fully learn the layout. The shear number of doors makes me realize how many people have the same issues as me. Although they may not have the same diagnosis, many of them most likely have similar experiences as I have. Maybe that's what has caused most of the mental issues in the world. It's just a cycle. My grandmother instilled it in my mother, my mother tried to keep it from me until she succeeded which immediately instilled it in me. Now, I hold my child and hope to God that it doesn't happen to them. I will fight it day after day if it means that my child will never go through the hell that I do. Even if it is printed in their DNA I will make sure without a shred of doubt that they will healthy and mentally stable. God, please. Please.
My hand moves to my stomach and I rub it gently. This baby will have the best life I can provide. Maybe this treatment will help. I don't want it but maybe I do need it.
Nurse Juay stops in front of an open archway. The archway is brown against the blaring white paint of the hallway. The entrance causes a clean flow into the adjacent room. Instead of furniture, I am met with simple folding chairs, positioned perfectly into a circle. It is oddly placed in the middle of the room. The room around looks like a failed garage. Big industrial windows are on the far window. I can see the evening sky peek through thick metal Venetian curtains. The room is painted an off white. I can only assume that they attempted to adapt a machinery storage closet.
Nurse Juay gestures me forward. I walk in and sit in one of the shaky chairs. I feel incredibly uncomfortable. I have never met anybody who shares the voices. I thought it was normal to think this way until I was 20, when I ask Kane-
Are you thinking about him again?
Keep thinking.
I remember his dark hair blowing in the soft breeze coming from his fan. It was a hot summer day. He rubbed his index finger against my cheek. Sweat was falling from both of our bodies. The heat never conquered us. We greeted it and when it become overwhelming, we rubbed our bodies together and made it glue in our conjoined existences. It was magical in a world of blurs and scars. We had been together for almost 5 years. I was unbreakable. I could at least control the thoughts. They simply reminded me how lucky I was to be with Kane. He was so charming. I loved his goofy smile and his carefree attitude. We would escape the house and run through the street. His button up shirt would be open and flowing in the breeze that he made with his sprinting. I would run alongside him, in my shorts and barefoot; the biggest smiles on both of our faces. Life was good. I don't remember anything bad about those days. Just happiness.
But then.
I remember that night. He got angry because I was tired and didn't want to spend the night at his house-