The second meaning to residual schizophrenia is very similar to the residual phase of a schizophrenic. It is the classification of schizophrenia becoming less severe. Residual schizophrenia states that the individual may still suffer from symptoms such as hallucinations, delusions, or idiosyncratic behaviors, but the symptoms may be far less severe. That being said, medical treatment is still necessary for patients, regardless of whether or not their symptoms are no longer severe.
To point out, I would like to state that residual schizophrenia is not a result from medications. It simply is the random occurrence of a schizophrenic’s brain structure and chemical balances changing, resulting in a decrease in the severity, or rates, of symptoms.
Many patients can return to their functioning lives with medicine, while other patients continue to suffer from extreme symptoms, regardless of which medicine they might take. The thing about disorders, or any disabilities, is that there is only so much that we can do. We don’t have the power to control it, but physicians try their best to treat it. This disorder is for life.
“Well, thank you for sharing, Zoan. We appreciate it,” Mr. Jenkins said to him, with his smile rejuvenated.
“Thank you, Zoan,” was murmured among the group again. We greeted and thanked whoever would speak, as it was customary, and Mr. Jenkins wanted us to support each other.
The murmuring was subsiding and Zoan, still rather emotionally bland, tried to smile back. Suddenly, the young boy from earlier raised his hand in Zoan’s direction—which if I were to guess, was going to ask him something.
“Excuse me,” the young boy said to Zoan.
“Yes?” Zoan responded.
“I was,” he said timidly and hesitantly. Gulping down the knot in his throat for a half of a second, and continued. “I was wondering. That poem.” The boy’s voice was a little rough and even slightly shaky. “That you were talking about earlier,” he attempted to elaborate. “The one that you delivered at San Francisco.”
Mr. Jenkins watched the two of them talk, similar to the way that a parent might let their child meet a new friend on the playground, watching them become independent and grow. He had no intention of interrupting them.
Zoan responded with a “Yes, what about it?”
“I was wondering if you could talk more about it?” The young boy asked, making his question sound like a request.
Zoan, sounding sincere, in the way an older person might talk to a younger, learning, individual, said “Well, I don’t remember it very well, but if you want, I can recite what I do remember.” Zoan’s eyes shifted from the young boy to Mr. Jenkins. “Is that okay?” he asked Mr. Jenkins and the boy.
Mr. Jenkins gave a nod and said, “Sure, but for the young man who asked the question, please share out your name,” he said with a slightly, stressed smile.
My hunch was that Mr. Jenkins was getting a bit distracted. I looked up at the clock hanging from the wall, and noticed that over twenty minutes had passed already and that our session was about to end soon.
“My name is Fidel Beagen,” the young boy said.
Zoan nodded. I exhaled. The young boy listened attentively. The rest of the group sat calmly. The clock’s hand spun slowly. Mr. Jenkins waited patiently.
“This original poem is called ‘Empty Nights and Somber Busses,’” Zoan finally said. Powerfully, too.
The atmosphere of the room suddenly changed. In the mixture of his indifferent character, the tone of a performer flourished through his voice, one that showed that he had been performing for various years. It was like when you hear a friend sing for the first time and they sing in a completely and unexpected new voice. It was apparent that Zoan had gone through a sudden transformation.
The young boy looked attentively at him, and so did the rest of the group. Ingrid’s hand shook a little, so she placed it on her lap, anchoring her calmer hand on top of it.
Zoan tugged on his shirt and looked down for a second—half clearing his throat, half formulating his thought.
Then, he began.
“I remember, when I was younger,
I was sitting on a stage, surrounded by forty other musicians,
And hundreds of audience members,
And for some reason,
Amidst the multiple spotlights and infinite attention,
I experienced an unfamiliar sorrow.
The blackened and concealed faces in the audience
Made me feel disconsolate,
Knowing that not one of them was there for me,
And how I played music for strangers that night.
And I remember
How I had to leave early afterwards to catch a bus,
Because there was no one there to worry about how I would get home,
But I didn’t mind.
I remember departing from that concert,
Leaving the lively performers
And the charmed, darkened figures.
And how I couldn’t find myself,
Not with all the spotlights on the stage,
Or within all the shadows that I played for.
I couldn’t find myself.
I remember finally reaching my bus stop,
The lavender sky only grew darker and darker,
Winds emerged and subsided, continuously
The sky aged into a darkened violet,
And was lit by golden spheres that emanated from traveling vehicles.
And somehow,
I wondered whether the bus would notice me when it arrived,
Whether or not the golden streaks of light would find me,
After the spotlights and audiences had failed.
Somehow,
Hoping that the unfamiliar driver and its occupants would offer me solace
In the ever-growing, cold and murky world.
I remember the stretched, glass-covered vehicle finally arriving,
I climbed into its interior, only to find people that looked like dolls.
Dolls playing dress-up,
Finding a middle-aged mother,
Along with her children, a baby carrier seat, and groceries from some errand.
Finding a battered man in tattered construction clothes,
Stained with paint splatters.
A woman with her hair tied into a ponytail,
Neatly dressed in a nursing outfit and white sneakers,
And an elderly, overweight man,
Who clutched onto a cane,
And then there was me, to complete the doll collection,
A young man,
In black and white dress clothing,
And it was strange.
How we all somehow managed to look like dolls,
In someone’s playhouse.
The bus made an abrupt acceleration,
Which only reminded me that time waits for no one.
And so I found my way to the back of the bus,
And I sat, and turned my head to all of the windows,
Only to realize that the entire world was black outside,
And that the only visible scene was the interior of the bus.
And I can’t help but think about the stage,
And all its brilliant spotlights,
And all its concealed spectators.
And how the bus was no different.
And how I was still incapable of finding myself.
I remember engines grumbling and breaks screeching,
And how I slowly voyaged in a stygian night,
The inside so vividly bright,
And the outside so pitch dark
And I couldn’t make sense of anything,
Whether it be luminous or caliginous,
The empty and Cimmerian nights,
Along with the drifting golden orbs only displaced me further
And I lose myself in these somber busses,
Traveling through the indistinct streets of whatever city that I may be in.”
Chapter 16
My jaw dropped and my face r
emained immobile.
I had so many thoughts running through my mind. I couldn’t pinpoint how I felt; I felt a mixture of emotions. I was both shocked and amazed.
That, everything about that, was incredible, marvelous, and magnificent. I was in complete astonishment; I would have never expected him to be able to recite a poem so well. It was well written and the way he spoke it—he had me on the edge of my seat by the end.
Zoan’s bland, emotionless expression was brought to life with his poem. He painted himself with the colors he described. With his language, Zoan shifted himself through lights and darks. He was able to color the room in shades of violets and lavenders, he animated gold, and for a second, I felt as if I were on that bus too with Zoan, surrounded by dolls, and how I could have shared his indifference.
He painted and animated this room, and I felt like I was in a city for a moment. It was beautiful.
I looked around, but not everyone shared my enthusiasm for him. Half of the patients were lost or disinterested. Some tried to show contentment by smiling, the same way that they smiled for everyone else after they finished talking. Very few shared my amazement, only a handful from the mass was able to appreciate Zoan’s beauty.
I became agitated that only a few experienced what I felt. We witnessed an artist in the making, and yet, almost everyone had trouble following what he was saying. Zoan gave himself a deeper personality through his poem, and only a few of us were able to grasp what he had expressed. And suddenly, I felt upset. I felt angered and disappointed. Angered that not everyone fully comprehended his beauty, but above all, I felt disappointed, because it only reminded me that we were in a mental hospital, and how we were all ill, and mentally disordered. And how despite his elegant use of language, more than half of the group would never fully appreciate his poem.
My disappointment only grew and I only felt grief.
I felt companionless in this experience, until my eyes met with those of Fidel and Mr. Jenkins.
Fidel was on the edge of his seat, his jaw dropped the same way that mine did, but he had this amazing smile—a smile that must have only flourished from gratitude and admiration. He was overjoyed from watching Zoan. It must have made his day, and I felt a little bit relieved.
I looked over at Mr. Jenkins; he was nodding in both amazement and astonishment. His eyebrow was raised slightly and his lips were stretched into a side grin. He was entranced in wonder and contentment—amazed.
“Zoan, that was spectacular!” Mr. Jenkins said. His tone was no longer a sugarcoated optimism, but instead, was an honest compliment.
Zoan chuckled, half blushing. “Yeah, this was my career, so I have to be somewhat good at it,” said Zoan, still laughing a bit.
“Well, I definitely hope that you continue to pursue poetry. If the rest of your poems are this good, I am sure that you will find success if you ever decide to publish them,” said Mr. Jenkins.
Zoan simply smiled and blushed a bit.
“Zoan,” said the young boy, Fidel. “You’re-“ he stuttered for a second, “You’re really good!”
Fidel still had his bright smile.
“No problem,” Zoan said. “I love performing poetry.”
“Can everyone please give a hand to Zoan,” Mr. Jenkins said optimistically to the group. There was a greater amount of clapping and even a cheer or two for Zoan.
I guess the group really did find something to appreciate in his poem.
“Sam,” someone said amidst the clapping. I was a bit startled.
“Sam,” I heard again. I looked over and spotted Mr. Jenkins.
“Sam, come on. Don’t forget to clap for your companions.”
I sat there, frozen, not knowing what to say. Then I realized that I wasn’t participating much, and additionally, I hadn’t been clapping or thanking anyone.
Mr. Jenkins clapped for Zoan and looked at me and darted his eyes back to Zoan, then me again. It must have been his way of nudging me to support my fellow patients.
My hands arose from my lap, and I found myself clapping for Zoan. But in all honesty, I would have made sure to clap for Zoan, whether or not Mr. Jenkins had reminded me. That poem deserved its recognition; it’s not easy to recite anything, not in our conditions. I, much like the young boy, was in a state of awe and admiration.
The clapping continued for a few more seconds until it subsided.
“Well,” Mr. Jenkins said. “We are about to run out of time, but let’s thank Ingrid and Zoan again; they were both great.”
Ingrid and Zoan both tried to smile; Ingrid with her shaky posture and Zoan with his struggle to convey his emotions through facial expressions, but they were smiles nonetheless, and beautiful ones.
Chapter 17
“Today is Sunday, so that means that I will see all of you again on Thursday,” Mr. Jenkins said to the group. “Today’s group therapy went well. We will try and get through more people next time as well.”
The patients began standing up, telling Mr. Jenkins, “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins,” as they headed towards the door, knowing that the next group was going to come in soon.
Usually, during our group therapy sessions, three or more people get to introduce themselves, but today’s session took a little longer. It takes a week or two to make a complete cycle of introductions. Additionally, Mr. Jenkins also tries to split the meeting so we also have enough time to talk about any questions we have or about anything we would like to talk about, but the schedule has been a bit tight lately. Our meetings used to be forty minutes long, but they cut them down to half for some reason.
Mr. Jenkins doesn’t like the amount of time we currently have, so from my understanding, he is trying to change the schedule back to forty minutes again through the assistant manager of the hospital.
Everyone was shuffling out the door. I was about to stand up and follow until I noticed that my Cordones were untied. I proceeded to lean down and tie them.
“Zoan,” Mr. Jenkins shouted, as Zoan was about to leave.
Zoan turned, and saw that Mr. Jenkins was looking for him. The tall, tattooed twenty-three-year old made his way back to Jenkin’s.
“Hey, Zoan,” Mr. Jenkins said. “You said that Dr. Alvarez said that you could leave by the end of this month earlier, right?”
“Oh,” Zoan responded, “yeah, she said that I could probably be out in about two weeks. I am really happy about that.”
I couldn’t read their facial expressions, because I was tying my shoe, but they continued talking.
“That’s great. I’m happy for you.” Mr. Jenkins informed him. “Hey, I also wanted to ask, your appearance looks a little different. Did you happen to go to the city sometime this month?”
“Yeah,” Zoan assured him. “My birthday was last week, so my dad came and talked to Jackie and convinced her to let me out for a day. We both went to the city. I got a haircut and hair products, and I also got some new clothes and shoes, but I’m still wearing the hospital uniform until I get out.”
“Oh okay,” Mr. Jenkins said, placing what I imagined to be his clipboard on his desk. “Yeah, I just found it odd, that they let you out of the hospital,” Mr. Jenkins stated. “But if it was your birthday, then I’m sure Jackie would have understood.”
“Yup. It was the only time I went out of the hospital in the entire year, but my dad told them that I would be safe and I was approved to leave” Zoan said.
At that point, I had finished tying my shoes and I was exiting through the door. Mr. Jenkins congratulated Zoan on turning twenty-three, and expressed how proud he was to see that Zoan had been showing sights of improvement regarding his schizophrenia.
I crossed the threshold and found myself back in the small hallway. Everyone was gone, back to either the Commons, patio space outside, or their rooms.
I wasn’t sure if we were going to have any more activities today, and since I was so close to the front office, I decided to walk over there to ask.
There at the front desk, sat Nurse Jack
y. She had some paperwork on her desk and she was typing out an e-mail and clicking on the mouse occasionally.
“Hello Nurse Jackie,” I greeted her.
“Good afternoon, Sam Azalea,” She said in a very peppy, but gentle tone.
“Nurse Jackie, I came to ask you if we were going to have any more activities for today?”
“Give me a second. I will check.”
I stood there patiently. I looked over at a clock that hung in the room and noticed that it was almost half past noon.
“No, not for today. Today was just the group session,” Nurse Jackie explained to me. “However, tomorrow you guys will be having art lessons after lunch.”
“Oh, okay; good to know. Thanks, Nurse Jackie”
“No problem, Sam. See ya later,” she said.
I began heading to the patio to pass some of my time, when I heard an, “Oh wait, Sam!” as a quick rummaging of papers produced swishes and swooshes from Nurse Jackie’s desk. “Sam,” she said, “your grandmother dropped off a letter last night while you were having dinner. She couldn’t stay, but she did say that you might want to read this letter.”
I was completely baffled and bewildered. What would cause my grandmother to bring me a letter?
Here at the hospital, there are strict rules regarding communications with the outside. Visiting hours must be abided by, which is why I found it was odd that my mother visited me at 6 AM today. The business hours here at the hospital are from 10 A.M. to 6 P.M. Visiting hours are considered to be anywhere from 12 P.M. to 2 P.M.
Additionally, getting out of the hospital on our own is a completely different problem. A counselor here explained to me once, that our hospital, the Mental Hospital for Recovering Schizophrenics, was considered a ‘community mental health care center.’ So it’s not entirely built as a hospital, but it does accept inpatients, which is why I’m here. The fact that it’s a community mental health care center made it much more affordable for inpatients. The Center accepts a variety of different health insurances, and since being an inpatient here is not too expensive, our guardians can help copay for our treatment. However, with all this said, the counselor told me that we are considered as inpatients until our treatment is over and that inpatient rules do apply for us. Meaning that we shouldn’t leave at any point during our treatment. The rare case in which we could leave is when there is some sort of emergency and if we are assessed to be adequately stable. Otherwise, it is almost impossible to get out of here, either alone or with the aid of a friend or family member. Which if I were to guess, was why Mr. Jenkins was interested in how Zoan got out of the hospital to visit the city for a day. Zoan is, however, nearly done with his treatment and he also had a father looking after him, plus it was also his birthday. He and his father must have pled a very strong case to be able to take him out.
Stand Tall My Sweet Dandelion Girl Page 8