I haven't been home in almost eighteen hours. I got the night shift last night after I worked all day on four hours of sleep and now I'm working another day and I still haven't gone home. I got to leave for fifteen minutes to go and get some coffee. I got five cups and an energy drink, which I'm sure must be bad for me, but I honestly don't care at this point. It hurts to exist. My eyelids feel like bricks over my eyes and it's agony to look at anything or move or breathe or just be alive.
I must smell awful. Like coffee and old cigarettes. Oh. That's the other thing about my caffeine overdose run that can't possibly be healthy: The fact that I chain smoked an entire pack of Marlboro 100's. I mean, give me some credit here, I hadn't had a smoke since yesterday. Or something. I don't even know when but it was way, way too long ago. And a pack is probably less than I would've smoked if I hadn't been working, which is good. Right? I'm cutting down. It's good for my health. It's good for my wallet. And if it's good for my health it's like good for my wallet times a billion on crack.
That's Spencer-speak for good.
Mmmm. Coffee.
I love iced coffee. I drink it all year round. Which isn't really that weird in California, I suppose. But I drank it all year round when I lived in Ohio, too. I drank it in the dead of winter while I was in Chicago and while I was in New York and when I was in Vancouver. Granted, I was in Vancouver in July, but still. I was in New York in February. I walked out of the hotel I was staying in in the middle of a blizzard and bought a cup of iced coffee at a Dean & Deluca near Rockafeller center and I drank it as I walked back to my hotel.
I'm really, really messed up. I know. Please don't remind me.
I just like my coffee cold, okay? It makes my tongue feel all weird and numb and hairy if I drink hot coffee. Or any hot drink, actually.
When I was a little kid, I'd go to this coffee shop in my town with my mom in the middle of winter, and every now and then she'd talk me into ordering a cup of hot chocolate. I'd always make her buy me a cup of milk as well, because otherwise I'd get thirsty while I was drinking my hot chocolate.
Weird. I know. It made sense at the time.
I wonder how my mom and dad are. I wonder how Ohio is.
I really should stop thinking. I'm going to make myself miserable.
This is what I do. I just don't think about the past and I don't think about what could have been and I don't think about home or my family or anything that's happened, really, before or after the whole gay thing because I know I'll just make myself sad over something I can't change. It's not worth it. It's just not. Just keep moving forward. It's all you can do in live, really. Crying over getting kicked out for being a fag won't change it. It won't make it better. It'll just drive me crazy.
So I'm supposed to be running a group at nine. Which is in like, three minutes. Why they have me doing a group, I have no idea. I'm just supposed to be a nurse. But hey, I'm the gay nurse who used to be a cutter and has all these weird fun mental disorders and takes an assortment of happy pills every morning and night, so maybe it's because they think I can relate to these kids or something.
Well they're right. It's still weird though. I don't want to relate to a bunch of thirteen-to-seventeen year olds. That's just.. no. Well, no, that came out wrong. It's just. I don't know. I want to relate to other twenty-somethings. I don't want to sit with a room of eighth graders and freshmen and tell them my life story and try to tell them that everything is going to be okay if they just try or whatever, because it isn't. And I know that, if it was me, anyway listening to somebody talk about how they used to be miserable and just like them, and now they're working in a mental hospital, I probably would've been even more depressed.
Yeah. I just don't like the whole therapist thing. I don't do therapy. I don't do making people feel better. I think we've been over this. That's why I'm not a therapist. I shouldn't be running a group. I'm terrible with people. I make people feel even worse than they already do, and considering my line of work, that's saying something.
Whatever. It's just a stupid group. I never had a group that made a difference to me. It's not a big deal. So what if I screw up? I'm the lesbian college girl nurse, it's not like they're going to make fun of me for that long. And, for god's sake, they're high school kids in a mental hospital, why should I care what they think of me?
It's nine.
I really don't want to do this.
Too bad.
I'm sighing and running my fingers through my hair and I'm pulling myself up from my wonderfully comfortable plastic chair (puke) and I'm dragging myself and my stupid clipboard and my stupid pen and my stupid energy drink over to the group room.
Somebody please shoot me. Please.
I don't really mean that. Getting shot would probably hurt.
Christ. I'm such a pussy. And, what the hell. Wow self. I was about to say "Somebody please shoot me," again. I think I have like memory loss or something. I'm really not that bright. At all. Except I actually am. Supposedly. That's what my grades would tell you, anyway. But what do grades mean, really?
I'm crazy. I should just stop. Right now.
I'm sitting in another plastic chair, this time in the group room and it's the only room besides a couple of the bedrooms that actually has light and you can see outside from. It's nice. I need some sunlight. I'm starting to feel like a zombie. Oh wait. Vampire. I meant to say vampire.
Girls like vampires.
There's a couple of kids walking in and sitting down around me. There's a table in front of us and we're sitting around it and there's nothing on it except my can of Monster and my clipboard and mine this and mine that.
I feel bad now.
Ashley's sitting next to me. I barely even noticed her walking in the door, but now here she is. Sitting next to me.
She smells like apples.
God, she's gorgeous.
Okay. Spencer. Stop. You're really creepy. It doesn't matter that you'll never ever ever ever act on what you just thought, it's still creepy as hell.
See? Thinking never helps anything. It makes everything so much more complicated and it drives you insane and it makes you start talking to yourself in your head in the third person. When you start talking and/or thinking in third person, you know something is very, very wrong.
"So, I guess this is everybody?" I'm asking nervously. I have no idea what to do. There's only four of us, and this feels. I don't know. I'm going to screw up or something and they're all going to notice and they're going to laugh or they're going to take advantage of how fucking insecure I am. Or I'm going to say something wrong and they're going to take it to heart and I'm going to fuck up.
What the hell. They're kids. I shouldn't care. They're kids and it's a group.
They all shrug and grunt at me. I guess so.
"Uhm. Okay. I've kind of never really done this before," I'm admitting, laughing a bit. One of the girls sitting three chairs away on my right smiles a bit. Ashley twirls her hair around her finger and leans back in her chair, balancing it on two legs like she did the other day at breakfast. "Well.. I dunno. Hi. I'm Spencer,"
"Joe," The guy sitting farthest away from me says. He's got long blonde hair and bangs that're long enough that they're covering his eyes. He's got stitches in his left wrist.
"Katie," The girl I don't know says. The one who smiled. She's got jet black hair and a lip ring.
"Ashley," She's staring at the ceiling, and she's still got her hair around her fingers and she still smells like apples.
"So.. How old are you guys, anyway?" Ashley looks at me and I look back. She smiles, and I smile back. It's weird. It's like we already know each other, just because I was the one who did her interview and everything. Well, I mean, I guess we do. In a weird way. I'm trying to tell her that it's for the other two. It's like we're two friends and we're stuck in a room with a couple of people we don't know and we're trying to make them feel welcome or something.
Except it's a group. In a mental hospital. And I'm a nurse. And she's a patient. And. And I'm driving myself crazy. It's a group and she's a patient and she's cute but I'm definitely not and she definitely isn't thinking anything that I'm thinking and I'm so, so creepy.
They go around again. Joe's sixteen. Katie's fourteen. I already know Ashley's seventeen.
I look down at my clipboard and wonder again what I'm supposed to do. I glance at their names.
They all have bipolar. So do I.
What the hell. I thought this was supposed to be confidential or something. Whatever.
"Okay, I honestly really have no idea what I'm supposed to do. And I'm a nurse, and this isn't really even my job. At all. So.. do you guys wanna do art therapy? Or just chill out or something?"
There's no way I'm going to run an actual group with a bunch of kids who're screwed up the same way that I am. Just no.
"I just had an art therapy group yesterday," Joe's whining, picking absently at a zit on his chin. Ew. Shut up kid. I would've killed to have art therapy two days in a row when I was in the hospital.
"Okay. I guess. I dunno. Let's just talk then. About.. I dunno. Life. Anything," I'm saying, leaning back in my chair the same way Ashley is without even realizing.
Hey. I'm barely done being a teenager myself. I'm not going to act like a boring blah blah blah stiff old creature all the time. Preferably, none of the time.
I'm really professional, I know. Hold the applause.
"How can you stand working in a place like this?" Katie's asking, looking up at me. She's picking at her fingers and she's got chipped bright orange nail polish at the ends of her nails. Either she doesn't even bother repainting them or she's been in here for a few weeks.
For a second, I sit here and I don't say a thing, and she's probably wondering if I'm going to answer or I'm going to do that obnoxious thing where I just pretend that she never said anything.
"I have no idea," I reply honestly.
"Then why do you do it?"
"I need the money,"
Okay. So now apparently this is "interview Spencer" time instead. Joy to the world. Happy happy joy joy happy happy joy joy.
Fuck me with a stick.
"So what'd you guys do to end up here, anyway?" Joe asks, still picking at the zit on his chin. I need to remember to never ever do that again if that's what it looks like. Honestly. Ick.
"Some chick found me smoking a joint in the school bathroom," Katie says eagerly. What the hell. I kind of want to laugh. She's like two. Well, no not really. I did plenty worse when I was fourteen. But still. She's trying to fit in or something. Which is kinda funny. In school and anywhere in normal society, really, you try to act as normal as possible and fit in and just hope nobody looks twice. In here, you have to be totally fucked up or else you don't have anything to talk about with anybody.
The other two make sympathetic noises. Oh boy. How exciting.
"I'm.. well. Yeah," Joe mumbles, indicating the stitches on his wrist. Well he's a bit more normal. He's not flaunting it or anything. I kind of feel bad for him now.
"What about you new girl?" Katie asks, looking over at Ashley.
"She's not really that new anymore, she's been here for three days," Joe tells her, pulling the hood on his sweatshirt over his head.
"Exactly. She's new. I've been here for a month and a half on Tuesday," Katie says.
"I.. uhm. Just stuff, I guess. I dunno. Everything," Ashley mumbles nervously. She isn't leaning back in her chair anymore--she's up against the table and she's leaning on her arms, chewing her finger. Yeah, her actual finger, not her fingernail or anything.
If it wasn't for the fact that she's a kid and I'm a nurse at the hospital she's in and everything, I'd hug her. I feel so bad.
--
I'm working the night shift. Again. I'm glad I didn't have too much of a social life to begin with, because if I did, it would've died by now. I went home for the afternoon after the "group" I ran, and I took a shower and chain smoked and drank a ton of coffee and loved every second of it, and then I had to go right back. Well, not really right back. I slept. I masturbated. I watched some tv.
Then I had to go back.
I'm going to go absolutely fucking crazy (as opposed to partially crazy like I am now.)
On the bright side, my paycheck is probably starting to look pretty nice.
Right?
It's two in the morning and I'm sitting sprawled across two plastic chairs in the living room, some lesbian novel held inches above my face. Getting paid to read about lesbians having sex isn't really that bad, now that I think about it.
"Spencer?"
Her voice startles me. Startles me to the point that I jump and drop my book on my face. My 400 page, hardcover book. Jesus christ, it's two in the morning. What the hell is she doing out of bed?
"Sorry.." I can hear her mumbling.
"It's fine," I say, pulling my book off my face. "You need a sleeping pill or something Ashley?" I hate how this place's answer to everything under the sun is medication. If the kids can't sleep after half an hour of laying in bed they can ask for pills and we give them to them. Medication this, medication that. Of course, this is coming from a girl who's on meds for god knows how many disorders, but still.
She doesn't say anything, so I turn and look at her and realize that she's shaking her head.
"What's wrong then?"
"I just need somebody to talk to," I hear her voice crack and shake just the tiniest little bit. My eyes travel down to her hands and they're shaking and I know exactly how she feels.
I'm not a therapist. But I know what she's going through. And I'm a human being. What human being can say no to somebody who needs them?
"C'mere," I'm saying, tapping the chair next to the one I'm resting my feet on.
She sits down, and then she looks unsure of herself and stares at the ground and starts tugging at the sleeves on her sweatshirt.
"Hey, don't worry. It's not like this is rounds or anything. I'm not gonna say you need to stay longer if you're not okay or tell anybody if you don't want me to.. This isn't my job or anything, alright? I'm just a person and you're just a person. Say whatever," I say quickly. And it's true. I'm not obligated to tell anybody anything she says to me.
"I fucking hate it here," She says simply, pulling her knees up to her chest. My image of that strong girl I saw when she first came here is completely gone. She isn't strong. She's some poor teenage girl who's absolutely miserable and falling apart and I know because that used to be me. She's me when I was seventeen years old.
She sits. She waits. I wait. There's a clock in the nurse's station and I can hear it ticking.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Watch us waste away.
"I know that I'm not okay. Anybody who looks at me can see that, but what the hell is locking me up going to do to help me?"
"Honestly, I don't know. Nothing. Nobody's going to help you unless you let them," I sound like a therapist. I hate therapists. I hate the shit they try to feed you. I feel so bad for the people swallow it.
She looks at me and then laughs.
"You people don't want to help me. You want to make me miserable,"
It feels like that. It really, really does.
"So that's what they told me at the last hospital. They told me they wanted to help me and I should feel safe and all this bullshit and then this fucking.." She trails off and she's got this look on her face like she didn't mean to say that. Like she's said too much and now she's scared of me and I know something I'm not supposed to know.
"Really. I'm not a therapist. This isn't my job. I won't say anything,"
"He fucking raped me," She says simply.
I want to ask who. But I don't. I don't really think that that's the kind of thing that you ask somebody.
"And they've got me on all these medications and shit, right? I'm a fucking druggie and they put me in a place to make me better and they give me drugs? And I mean, I guess I want to get better. Yeah. Yeah, I wanna get better, y'know? But how the fuck am I supposed to? I've been trying for fucking years. Why the hell would this be any different? You say you want to help me but you don't care about me. None of you people give a fucking shit about me or how I feel, you just put me in this fucking room and wake me up in the morning and feed me shitty food and.."
She stops talking, and she just sits there and bites her lip and she isn't shaking anymore. She's just pulling her knees closer to her chest and she's got her arms wrapped around her legs and her hair's in her face.
She pulls herself up and she's standing, looking unsure of herself for a moment, and then she takes a step forward and she's hugging me and I can feel her trembling again while she cries.
And then she's turning and taking a step back towards the hallway her room's in and she whispers a soft, "Thank you," as she goes.
