And God said, "let there be foul language."
And there is, so watch out.
Deep Red EmotionAnyone who has the depiction of seeing people being tranquilized or sedated in a matter of seconds should get that out of their head. Unless it's elephant tranquilizers (but that's illegal in the mental hospitals, and very inhumane and inhuman). It took me a screaming, harried and painful 35 minutes and 12 seconds to finally calm me down, but it didn't help me.
Dreamless sleep is nonexistent, especially when copious amounts of unknown drugs are swimming in your bloodstream. I had night terrors, one where my daughter was practically begging to be killed because she couldn't stand me. My wife's body turning into a bed of flies. My daughter's eyelids peeled off and having her teeth pulled out one by one, and I had to watch. It was cyclical, and I hadn't the strength to open my eyes. I had to tough it out.
After 6 hours (felt like days) the drugs wore off and my eyes opened. I'm in a different room. I know because the windows are gone. It is dark but I know the room is white.
This is a psychiatric hospital. Of course everything is white.
My mouth is moist and tastes extremely bitter and sharp with chunks of regurgitated food.
Everything that happened hours ago is real.
I get up and walk out the door. It's dark, save for the distant cheap lighting. A guard sits there, plump and dark with glasses and pursed lips reading a book.
"Excuse me." I croaked. The lady looks up, wondering if I should be up or not.
"Can you lead me to the bathroom? I need to wash my mouth out."
"The bathroom's down the hall." She pointed with a long, intricately painted fingernail to the corner.
"Okay. I don't need an escort?"
"It's right down there and there's no window so you can't escape, plus I don't escort men."
It seemed logical, so I didn't bother asking more. I walked in there, no doors on the stalls. Safety protocol. I looked in the mirror. My hair was disheveled, a look that I would've prided myself over because my wife loved the look (as do countless other women).
But she's dead now.
I proceed to wash my mouth out. The water is lukewarm and (perhaps I am crazy) feels like it's softening my teeth. The chunks are out but I'm not satisfied so I do it ten more times.
If only mental hospitals had toothbrushes.
That being done, I walk back out, wave to the guard, who nodded at my existence, and walked back into my room. It is 4:18 am and I'm afraid to go to sleep, but there is no way to pass the time, and my eyelids are still heavy.
Everything that happened hours ago is real.
My mouth is dry but clean.
Everything is still white.
It's a psychiatric hospital.
The drugs still linger but I can fight them off.
They can numb feelings but they don't help.
---
After several hours I have a person wake me up and tell me to take a shower. Good thing, the smell was about to turn me crazy. Crazier than I needed to be in this place.
I get up and walk out of my room. Several other patients were getting up to go take showers. The same guard was here, passing out toothbrushes and tubes of toothpaste. She see me and smirks, or if this was her version of a smile.
"Hey there stinky breath." She jokes. I smile and take one. An orange one with extra-firm bristles. I like it.
"Thank you," I said, a croak still in my throat. "You don't know how much I needed this."
"Gotta keep my charges in check. You go get yourself cleaned honey."
One person I can trust in this place is her.
I follow the stream of patients into the designated washing room. I go into one stall (thankfully with a curtain) and strip off my clothes. A towel hung on the rack behind the faucet. A bar of soap on the dish. I turned on the water. It was ice-cold and it woke me up and I started to scrub furiously. I shake my hair in the water and let it soak. Cold water on my scalp felt so good. I usually never do this but I brushed my teeth in the shower. The taste of stomach acid can't be washed out by mere sink water. I finish brushing my teeth, rinse off then turn off the water. I quickly dry off and wrap myself in the towel. Stepping out, I see guys take out pants and shirts and putting them on. I wonder where they get the underwear.
"In the closet." A man points next to the bins where the clothes are in.
Who honestly made up a system that you get pants and shirts in bins and underwear in the closet?
I have to manipulate myself out of here.
I dress and walk out with the men, who go into a room with a TV on showing sports updates and a table laden with bagels, toast, coffee, juice and fruit.
What is this- a psychiatric hospital or a Motel 6?
Several men are groaning at the sports updates, griping about teams and point conversions, sipping coffee and tearing bagels with their fingers.
Maybe this is rehab.
Next door the women are in line to go into a room. I can see clearly because the wall that separates us is glass. The women sit down to Lifetime, eat the same food as we do, and curl into little balls on the worn sofas and chairs.
I can read them easily. Some have been sexually abused. Some have been ridiculed past due. Others are just mentally unstable, or far too clever or dumb to the world.
I turn to my coffee, bitter and weak. Caffeine is going to be nonexistent because some are on medication and caffeine will counteract with the medication. The thought saddens me.
"Jane?" The guard came in. Her presence makes me want to smile.
"You have an appointment with Dr. Miller."
I get up and follow her out of the room down the hall past the women's room.
"Dr. Miller will be speaking with you for a minute then you can go about your daily activities. Someone will go to your house to get your basic necessities."
"Who?"
"A caretaker under the surveillance of your neighbor. So you'll be having your own clothes, but you won't stay long."
"How long do you think I'll be staying?"
"As long as you need." We get to a door that says 'Dr. Sophia Miller' (it was Sophia right?). The guard opens it and I walk in. A woman, no more than 35, sits at her desk. She is buxom, blonde, and tall. But I see an air of haughtiness in her that I'll know she'll hold back because of my loss.
The thought of that confuses me. Of all people to fake their emotions to patients, it has to be doctors?
"Patrick." She smiles at me. "Please sit."
I sit and stare.
"I know you don't think you should be here, but it's for the best. We want you to be safe."
"From who?"
She paused, not sure how to answer.
"From yourself." She said finally.
I'll never understand that. Protect me from myself? No matter what you do, I'm still here with me damnit. No drug no ambient thought or philosophy will or could change that. Pah.
"Whoever did this to your family wanted to get a rise out of you. Nothing was stolen. Everything was intact. I'm so sorry for you loss. I'm here if you want to talk."
I nodded, only doing this to shut her up and agreeing with myself that this is perpetual bullshit.
This is why I can't stand psychiatrists.