All day, staring at the ceiling, making friends with shadows on my wall...

Ricky lay on his cot in the clean, cold hospital room. The only other thing in his starch white prison was a small radio in the wall, so the nurses could monitor him at all times. This made him a little nervous- Ricky was uncomfortable with people watching him, especially if he couldn't see them.

All night, hearing voices telling me that I should get some sleep because tomorrow might be good for something

Ricky heard the voice on the radio crackle faintly, "Ricky, dear, we're coming to give you your treatment now." In a few minutes the nurse would come to the room with a neat little syringe. He would hold his arm out, and with a swift poke, in goes the needle, down with the plunger, and 15 mL of his "treatment" would slide through his veins. Successfully, it would cause him to fall into a quiet sleep, meant to bring down his so- called "hostile and anti-social nature."As the nurse left, Ricky became drowsy. His head lolled back, sinking into his pillow, which, like the rest of the room, smelled of bleach. He skimmed the surface of a bottomless sleep.

Hold on, feeling like I'm headed for a break down, and I don't know why...

Every once in a while, the sedative didn't work as strong as it should have. Perhaps it was diluted a little too much, but whatever the reason, on those few occasions, Ricky's sleep wasn't the peaceful event it was intended to be. He would dream. This was one of those times.

I'm not crazy; I'm just a little unwell. I know, that right now you can't tell, but

Stay a while and maybe then you'll see a different side of me

Ricky murmured in sleep, his words indistinguishable, and rolled on his side.

I'm not crazy; I'm just a little impaired. I know that right now you don't care, but

Soon enough you're gonna' think of me, and how I used to be

A candy striper walking past Ricky's room heard the small moan and creak of the cot as he turned and twisted in his sleep. She stopped for a moment and shook her head. She knew him- he had gone to her school, and she wished she had gotten to know him better before he...went off the deep end. She had even, at one point, thought she liked him. Always laughing and joking- she thought his paranoia was an act. Even when he got into fights- which became more and more frequent- he still had a carefree attitude. Imagine her surprise when he showed up at her hospital to be treated for "mental disturbances." She might have helped him through, and even make a friend in the process, but intimate contact between patients and volunteers was discouraged. The most she could do was make sure his meds were correct. But it sounded like the girl on duty tonight didn't have quite the steady hand she did. The girl sighed, and walked on. Ricky dreamt on.

Me, talking to myself in public, dodging glances on the train...

Three months prior, riding the train or bus, Ricky would occasionally talk to himself. Even walking home from school, or bike riding, he liked to fill the silence. He didn't feel alone, and it was good to get his emotions out verbally, instead of physically. Thoughts trapped in his head were like bees failing to get out. But sometimes he forgot where he was. People stared, and his untamable hair didn't help the situation in the slightest.

And I know, I know they've all been talking 'bout me. I can hear them whisper, and

it makes me think there must be something wrong with me...

Kids at school brought it up, teasingly. He laughed it off. For three months, he laughed it off. He stopped talking to himself, and nearly stopped talking all together for a while. It was killing him; he was a talkative person! That was when the fights began. He had to let go somehow. They started over nothing, and Ricky felt better afterwards- until the social worker got her grubby hands involved. He told her what she wanted to hear- "Yeah, I hate them, my family stinks, no one listens, blah, blah, blah." None of it was true. His family was fine, and he didn't hate them. But she would sit there and ask backwards questions until she got an answer out of him that satisfied her mimeographed checklist. Some of it was true though. He had a little voice-the one that talked out loud- in the back of his (supposedly crazy) mind that said, "Maybe I am crazy. Maybe they're right. Are they watching at me? Laughing with me, or at me? Do I really look that strange?" It was a little creepy.

Out of all the hours thinking somehow I've lost my mind...

...Maybe I am crazy...

I'm not crazy; I'm just a little unwell. I know, that right now you can't tell, but

Stay a while and maybe then you'll see a different side of me

They laughed. Let them laugh. He didn't care.
But he did.
There was one girl he saw...math class, was it? Or English? His dream made the details so fuzzy...but he knew one thing. She wasn't laughing. Not at him.
More...with him. At them. Like she knew he wasn't crazy. Just...unwell.
He cared about what she thought. If she trusted him...
...Maybe he was crazy...

I'm not crazy; I'm just a little impaired. I know that right now you don't care, but

Soon enough you're gonna' think of me, and how I used to be

She was a candy striper at his hospital. He saw her now and again. He caught her looking at him sometimes. Not in a bad way. It was sort of a comfort. She was like a pacifier for his mind. Someone cared. He hoped she remembered him from before he was caught fighting.
Fighting...his dream slipped to the last fight before he ended up in this hellhole...
It was loud and painful. There was dust in his lungs; he was screaming things he had kept bottled up for months. It wasn't fair! The kid got special treatment from teachers and students, they always took that boys side! His fuse had burnt out. He pushed, they punched, kicked, hit, rolling in the dirt, scraping the pavement, and then fire burning around them, all the while Ricky screaming his lungs raw- in his dream, and out loud...

I've been talking in my sleep...

"Stop, please!"
"You don't know what's in my head!"
"Don't judge me!"
"No more syringes!"
And possible the best of all-
"You smug jar of mayonnaise!"

Pretty soon they'll come to get me...

Ricky woke with a scream. Nurses were running down the hall, armed with sedatives. Acting on impulse, Ricky jumped out of bed and tore down the hallway. He had to get out of here! What were they doing to him?! He nearly knocked over a girl in the hall, but he didn't look back.

Yeah, they're taking me away...

Two male nurses stepped in front of him and knocked him down. Still hazy from the drugs and reality of the dream, he stopped struggling. Another nurse injected another sedative into his arm. As the room grew hazy, Ricky saw the nurse talking to another, saying, "This one needs special treatment..." The candy striper he had almost knocked down kneeled beside him, took his hand, and squeezed gently.
"Hold on."
Ricky tried to nod, but then he blacked out.

I'm not crazy; I'm just a little unwell. I know, that right now you can't tell, but

Stay a while and maybe then you'll see a different side of me

A week later, Ricky was sitting on a bus. His destination- Camp Greenlake. His special treatment- fresh air, sunshine, exercise, diligence, and companionship.
Perfect.They passed a bump in the road, and Ricky thought he saw a man with an...onion cart?
No. It was gone now. Put it behind him. The broken drug-addled mind was left behind at the hospital.

I'm not crazy; I'm just a little impaired. I know that right now you don't care, but

Soon enough you're gonna' think of me, and how I used to be

He would serve his remaining eleven months at Camp Greenlake, instead of the psychiatric ward. He hoped it would do some good. Putting the vision of the onion man behind him (because that's all it was- a vision from the heat), he tried to envision what his camp would look like. He hoped it would be better than what he had left.

I'm just a little unwell

And maybe when he got home, there would be a certain candy striper waiting for him.