After a brief hiatus, I am back and ready to finish things! I only have about four chapters left. *tears* I blame my hiatus on RENT and fanfics... On a personal note, I'm basing Arthur's treatment in this chapter on my own experiences in an American mental institution and what I've relearned from research.
****THEREFORE, THIS MAY BE TRIGGERING IF YOU HAVE EVER HAD THOUGHTS ABOUT ED OR SELF HARM. OR, IT MAY HELP. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK, I SUPPOSE. Igirisu-kun isn't going to be hiding his stuff anymore. Making this M for that reason.*****
For context, in England, they're having an issue with not having enough "beds". That's pretty much saying they don't have enough space for people who need mental help and therefore are sending them off to Glasgow, Scotland, for treatment. There's an article from 2016 about it.
João is the fan name given to Portugal, and Lien for Vietnam.
And, thank you for the reviews, favorites, and follows! 3
Seven - Manly
It took nearly three weeks for the doctors to decide I was not on the brink of death, and now I was being shipped off to a different country for my "recovery". Alright, it's Scotland, so I'm at least not leaving the island, just England. But try to tell my poor mother that. She was just as bad the second time around.
I wasn't sure how long they would hold me captive. Last time I was committed, I was there for five months, but I met girls that were kept for as long as a year. But, if I'm here for a year, I won't be able to meet Francis. I don't want to meet him, but it wouldn't be fair to him to be the only person who doesn't get to meet his pen pal. I would simply feel bad if I disappointed him.
The rooms themselves weren't terrible. My room was a sizable bedroom with two white beds with green sheets. Next to the door were two wooden shelving units, and on the adjacent wall was a bathroom with a curtain in place of a door. It was at that moment where I knew I had lost not only all my privacy, but also my humanity.
I was put into a room with a pleasant individual named João. He told me he was there for depression. He was very welcoming, even attempting to give me advice until I informed him that I've been here before. We talked about the prison. For example lost our hard-sole shoes to accommodate for the homicidal. We didn't have doors to our bathrooms because of people like me. (He didn't say this, of course, but that's what he meant.) We even couldn't have sharp pencils, specifically to avoid cases such as one boy he met that tore apart his arm with the sharpened utensil.
My first morning was torture, almost more so than when I was fourteen. The first thing they made me do was stand on a scale in a private room, never letting me see the number. It was particularly infuriating, as I was accustomed to reading the numbers twice a day.
I quickly realized I was the only male in my special group, and that if I was to survive my time here, I would have to befriend the girls. Perhaps the most inviting was a young, lanky blonde, no older than thirteen, named Lilli. She opened up to me immediately, explaining that her Swiss brother brought her here for anorexia a week prior.
I told her I was there for bulimia and self mutilation, as the doctors explained to me, though it was very difficult to verbalize, even to accept. I didn't feel like I was bulimic. I felt like I was dieting, but was forced to parrot whatever the doctors told me, lest I get sent to solitary confinement. Again. She then asked me if I had been committed before. I didn't lie.
There were two other sweet girls; one was another blonde, but she looked to be at a healthy weight, a Belgian girl named Emma. She was also bulimic, and had been there for five months already. The other was a Seychellen brunette that was also at a proportionally healthy weight named Michelle. She was there for purging, and had been in treatment for almost eight months. She was evidently the mother of the group.
There was one girl there that very standoffish, with long blonde hair and bangs, named Natalya. She didn't tell me right away what she was there for - getting her name without her ignoring me was difficult enough as it is.
My first snack in months came to me in the form of a granola bar and a glass of water. They didn't need to tell me that my snack is likely to increase as I spend more time here. I already knew the drill, though it didn't ease the anxiety attack I had. The Asian lady, Lien, smiled at me supportively. I sighed, inhaling the entire granola bar and downing the water. Having realized the repercussions of what I've done, I broke down crying. Lien rubbed my back gently. I slowly regained composure. I was escorted out of the private room, and I rejoined the other girls. Michelle was next.
Since it was my first day, I only had to eat a bowl of cereal with milk, a cup of scrambled eggs, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of water. I knew they wouldn't let me use the restroom following dinner by myself, so I was hesitant at first. Well, if I could use the restroom, anyway. I knew they wanted me to gain weight, and while I've had near-death experiences, I wasn't quite sure how willingly I would go against my routine. It was starting to work. I was starting to lose… Yet, there I was. Because it worked. It failed. I failed. Now I have to suffer the consequences of my failure.
I sat there, staring at my full plate, completely unable to move. Michelle looked over at me sympathetically and said, "You can do this." The other girls looked at me kindly and attempted to encourage me.
Michelle was wrong. I hadn't eaten a "normal" meal in months, to be honest. The food- hot, with a pungent smell of permanent calories- mocked me. It reminded me that my resolve was weak. I was weak. I picked up the fork and hovered it over the eggs. The smell, tempting and trying, almost overpowered the sickening smell of weight gain. I dropped the fork and looked helplessly at Lien, who gave me a sympathetic smile. She walked over to me, and whispered, "If you can't eat, we have another alternative. Though, it may be less pleasant."
"What would that be?" I asked innocently.
"Essentially, a feeding tube that goes from your nose to your stomach." She looked at me, waiting for my answer.
I weighed my options: Gain weight willingly or unwillingly. I broke eye contact with her to look at my plate.
I drank the glass of water, and, embarrassed, told her I preferred the alternative. She empathetically smiled and escorted me out of the intimate eating room and into a room with a chair and many tubes and containers full of liquids. I felt a pit in my nearly-empty stomach; I should have bucked up and ate the eggs.
After an agonizing (yet highly praised) dinner, I was brought into another private room. I assumed I would be telling my story for the thirteenth time that day. But instead, it was a plump, red-haired lady that held my books and folders. My heart sank at the reminder of school work. I had little over three weeks of homework that I had previously neglected.
Francis. My heart broke at the reminder that I had shunned him.
"I have a pen pal," I spoke before they got the chance to say anything. "I haven't had the chance to reply to him. He must be worried sick."
"Luckily for you," the lady handed me my books and a somewhat dull pencil. "We've got ourselves a printer that can send a copy of your letters directly to his school. You write it, and we will scan it for you to get to him. There's a piece of paper."
The man spoke up, " I'll stay here with you, should you need any help." Helping was code for monitoring.
"Thank you." I sat down and wrote my first letter to him in forever.
3rd of November, 2017
Hello, France. I'm not sure if you've been briefed on my current situation, though I don't know how you possibly could have been. But don't worry, I'm not dead yet. I simply moved, temporarily, after this son of a bitch punched me in the face. Currently, I'm in Scotland. Don't ask why, frog. I won't tell you why. It's a personal matter.
Anyway, I've been absent for so long because I've been in the hospital. No, it's not an excuse because I simply do not like you. Don't get me wrong, I still don't like you. But I that wanker got me good enough to hospitalize me.
But now, in Scotland, I don't have access to the internet. Thank god for technology, otherwise this letter would have otherwise taken a month to get to you. Then you'd really be worried.
I've forgotten what your last letter said. Regardless, understand this: if you insult my handwriting, I'll be forced to demonstrate worse penmanship. That's handwriting, in case you didn't know.
I have questions for you to answers, should you fail to be injured as well. How often does it occur to you that your country is full of rude, insolent wankers? And how does it feel to know that most people would prefer to starve over eating your "food". Snails? Really? Also, have you ever noticed that your country's flag is a half-arsed attempt to avoid a copyright infringement claim from Russia?
Take care, frog.
