So I've been stuck in this white walled, completely boring place for two weeks now. I'm in a room that is completely empty, except for a bed. I don't do anything all day except go to see my psychiatrist and psychologist, and neurologist, and booblahbeehogist. I wait every day for a visit from family like they told me I would get, but none have come. I wonder why my parents don't even bother to see the place they sent me to.
Now I lay in my bed, counting (for the third time) the dots on the grey ceiling. I already know that there are 986,593 of them. But I'll count again. It's the only thing I can do.
My counting is interrupted at number 274 when my psychiatrist walks in. Knocking? Nope.
"Jude, it's time for our session." She says cheerfully as if it's something to be happy about.
I sigh and push myself out of my bed.
She leads me into the room labeled "Psychiatric Office", which is a lot more colorful than mine is. The walls are still white, but there are navy blue beanbags in one corner, and a comfortable looking light pink couch in another. I simply sit on the carpeted (what the hell? I don't get carpet.) floor, and cross my legs attentively.
"Jude, you can take a seat on the beanbags or the couch." She says. I don't reply and study the extremely vibrant painting on her wall. I can't tell what it is. It's more like just blobs and splatters of red, pink, orange, purple, blue, and green paint. I immediately think it's hideous.
"Why don't you want to sit on the couch or beanbag. You haven't sat in them since we started the sessions. What's wrong with them?" This is her opening topic. She has a new one each day. How do you feel about family matters? What's the thing that makes you feel the way you do? Do you have a favorite color?
I'm guessing she doesn't know about you. And how you're the reason I'm supposedly going insane. Nobody knows you're the reason, so she doesn't either. I'm the mystery in crazy-town.
"I don't like how you have colored stuff and I don't." I say to her. She looks confused.
"Why don't you like white?" She asks me, as if it's some shocking revelation that all patients would like a bit of color in their lives.
"It's extremely boring. I'm an artist, in case you didn't know that. I've been in the music industry for three years. Creative people, like myself, tend to not like white very much." I tell her.
She nods her head. So she knows I've been a famous musician for a while. I'm guessing I'm all over the tabloids right now about how I'm in a nuthouse.
"I'm sorry, Jude. But due to the regulations here, we can't change anything in your room. It needs to remain as it is until you show improvement, and you haven't shown any so far. If you would just tell me why you're so depressed and unhappy, maybe we could change the color in your room to blue." She says.
I don't reply. This bitch thinks she can dig into my personal life like an old friend. She isn't a friend.
"Would you like something blue in your room? How does blue make you feel?" She asks me. I'm getting annoyed now.
"Jude? Can you answer me? Why don't you like to talk a lot about what happened? We need to know why you're feeling the way you do in order to help you. Do you want to be helped?" God damn so many questions. Why can't she lay off for a minute?
"I really think you should share with me how you're feeling right now." She persists in her attempt to make me spill the truth.
"I feel like strangling you, you fucking whore." I say simply, looking her dead in the eye.
She looks surprised for a moment, but then shakes her head.
"What makes you feel that I'm a whore? Why are you so mad at me?" She asks me. I've had enough. Enough of these fucking questions, and enough of these people constantly trying to get into my brain.
I get up forcefully and she moves back in her seat a little bit. But I don't walk toward her, I walk toward the door. I fling open the door, and to my room, the only way I can go without security guards plummeting me.
"FUCK YOU!" I scream so loudly I'm sure China can hear me. I go into my room and scream it again. It's satisfying in a way.
"FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!" I yell it over and over again until my throat is hoarse and two men in suits come into my room.
"JUDE! CALM DOWN!" They have to yell over my screaming, trying to swallow out my sound with theirs. I flop down on my bed and do what they tell me to. I just lay there, tired from the screaming, but loving it all the same.
And now I realize why I've felt even more depressed here then I did when I was at home. Being in this room has given me nothing to do but think about why you left, and why you still haven't come home.