Stand Tall My Sweet Dandelion Girl

by Jimenez, Javier

  Eventually, I was also spending my time in the open break room that I saw on my first day here where all the staff members were. I joined in and played with some puzzle pieces and was soon approached by a staff member.

  She asked me how my day was, how I have been doing here, and if I liked my stay here so far. I informed her that everything has been good for me and that I was still getting the hang of the place.

  I later met with a counselor here at Aster. He applied more psychological assistance, unlike the counselor that I had back at Golden Heights who actually seemed to give me more problems than actually help me.

  Soon after, I met with the Aster psychiatrist and was placed on antipsychotic medications. He instructed me to take Perphenazine every twelve hours and told me that since I was new here, that he wanted to see me drink my medications. So twice a day, I would come and take the medicine in his office.

  He explained to me that some patients would skip their medication. Because of this, he had to make sure that I was taking my antipsychotics.

  Regarding the treatment, he advised me that he would put me on Perphenazine for a few weeks to see how I reacted to it and if it would be effective in treating my schizophrenia, and that he would also need to see if I would need a stronger dose of the medications or not.

  After a few days of meeting with him to take my medicine, I told him that I no longer heard voices or saw any fires. From my past reports, he knew about my hallucinations.

  As I continued my treatment with the drug, side effects started arising from the Perphenazine. They were very small and didn’t occur to often, but I would suddenly get blurred vision and a sore throat. It wasn’t until I got a fever that I told my psychiatrist about it. He told me that a good amount of antipsychotics are known for their side effects and prescribed me a lesser dosage of Perphenazine. I still had to take it twice a day, but the potency of the drug was a bit weaker. Eventually, my blurry vision occurred less and less and my sore throat seemed to disappear as well.

  Everything was going well. An entire month had gone by and I had been on my medications for nearly three and a half weeks. I behaved well and managed to have all of the privileges that patients could gain on good behavior. The staff members treated me nicely and were very easy to approach. I had access to psychologists and psychiatrists at all times. My symptoms seemed to have almost disappeared with the drugs. Everything was going good for me, I couldn’t complain much

  It was nearing the end of February when Debra herself came to my small room. She knocked on the door and I opened it.

  “Sam, you have a visitor,” she said to me.

  She led me to the first floor of the building and we stopped at a room that I had never seen before. “This is the Visitors’ Room,” she said to me.

  Debra turned the knob and held the door for me to go in.

  I took a few steps and the door shut. I turned around and Debra was gone. I took another step and froze as my eyes spotted her. She was dressed so nicely. She had a short, curly haircut and wore a blouse decorated with pink roses. She also wore a dark auburn blazer and dark colored pants.

  She stood up and walked over to me, and gave me a tight hug.

  “Sam,” she muffled.

  I hugged back as to eradicate the disbelief that I felt. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged tighter and tighter, making sure that she was all there.

  “G-Grandma,” I muffled back.

  If I were to describe the feeling, I would say that it felt like coming home after a long journey.

  It felt like home.

  Chapter 45

  My grandmother and I both had a long, and much needed, conversation about what had happened. I asked her to explain what was going on.

  “After I called the police,” she began, "paramedics soon arrived and hauled you away. You were covered in blood, Sam.

  The paramedics took you to the nearest hospital because you were unconscious and no one knew if you were going to be okay. After that, no one was allowed in your bedroom. They ran a full investigation. They photographed your room as well as the bloodstains on your carpet and all your school supplies that had been thrown on the ground. They documented everything that served of use to the scene.

  I didn’t know what had happened, I thought that you were being attacked, but no one else was in your room, Sam. The police asked me several questions, like what you had been doing the last time I saw you, and where I was at the time, and what I was doing when I heard things crashing in your room.

  I told the officer that you had been working on a college application. And how I was sleeping when all of a sudden, I woke up to your screaming. I tried to open your door, but it was locked and you had the only key, so I couldn’t get in. I kept knocking harder and harder, then pounding on the door when I heard things being knocked over,” my grandma notified me. She paused and held eye contact, almost as if she wanted me to say something assuring.

  I hesitated. By now, she must have known about the fire creatures. “So I’m guessing the police department told you about what had happened?” I asked her.

  “Not at first. If you remember, there was a parole officer who escorted me out of your hospital room at Chickadee. Well, he had received a phone call from the police department telling him that there were signs of a struggle and therefor, the possibility of someone assaulting you was opened up. That is when the parole officer came in and pulled me out, advising me that I should no longer see you until everything gets cleared up. He said this under the premise that anyone could have been the aggressor, including me.

  After that, it took about a month to finally get an explanation of what was really going on. They read a report to me, about how burned beasts were crawling out of your room and grabbing you. No one really knew what was going on until this woman, named Dr. Sanchez, came back with another report of the incident.

  Dr. Sanchez talked to a doctor from the hospital where you were staying, and after nearly two months of not hearing anything from you, Dr. Sanchez gave me a call and explained to me that you,” she paused, as if she didn’t want to trigger anything that had not been triggered before already. Trying not to hurt my feelings, reminding me that I’m broken, that I’m mentally disturbed, that I’m sick, that I’m not okay. I felt an undirected frustration rising, but I quickly subdued it, knowing that my grandma had nothing to do with my anger. None of this was her fault; how could it be?

  “That I had schizophrenia?” I responded.

  “Yeah,” she seemed to whisper.

  There was a long, penetrating silence that continued in the Visitors’ Room.

  “Grandma, why didn’t you come to visit again?” I asked her, feeling hurt and dejected.

  “The police department advised, or I should say, warned me to not communicate or visit you anymore until the case was cleared up. And so, I couldn’t come visit you until the whole thing was over.

  No one knew what had happened to you. It wasn’t until the end of January that the investigation concluded. Dr. Sanchez found support that the injuries were self-provoked as a result of a psychotic episode. The case was finally concluded, and I was given permission to see you today, Sam,”

  I found myself tearing up, and so did my grandmother. I held her, and I said to her with a smile, “Thank you, grandma, for pulling through all of this,”

  “We always have to try our best, Sam. No matter how scary it gets, always try your best.”

  From then on, my grandma petitioned that I be relocated to another hospital closer to home, back in Greenwood. Within the next two days, I was moved to the hospital where I am currently situated in right now—the recovery hospital, known as the Recovery Center for Schizophrenics. And after tedious paperwork, she was able to reclaim guardianship of me.

  With everything that had happened, I was happy that she came back for me.

  Part 5

  Chapter 46

  After reminiscing about the time period where Maribel became an anchor for me, and eliciting every
memory in between, from my first psychotic episode up to my very last week at the Aster Psychiatric Hospital, I finally placed Maribel’s letter down.

  I thought to myself, Sam Azalea, 18 years old, admitted to the Recovery Center for Schizophrenics on February 22nd, and the day after tomorrow will be September 23rd. That will be my last opportunity that I have for seeing Maribel, and I am, determined to see her.

  The rest of the day flew by very quickly. I made my way to the dining room and had lunch. When lunch was over, some of the patients retreated back to their rooms or lounged about in the Commons Area to play board games or read, or just to chitchat. Other patients went out to the stone patio to pass by the time, to enjoy what autumn has to offer.

  Soon enough, we all had dinner. I spent it alone again, but loneliness never bothered me here. Afterwards, everyone started getting ready for nighttime. Patients and hospital assistants helped pick up the Commons Area; no one lingered out on the stone patio, and everyone soon retreated into their rooms.

  I brushed my teeth and changed into my pajamas. I made my way to my thin bed, laid down, and pulled the thin sheets over me. The hallway lights grew dim and in a matter of seconds, everything was silent.

  Everything seemed to slow down and the breeze outside the window that never opens, seemed to whistle. Leaves must have been taking off and flying away, and it seemed to only remind me of autumn.

  The only bright source of light was the moonlight that broke in through the window and scattered all over my room. I exhaled and relaxed myself.

  I turned over to face the empty bed on the other side of the room.

  The breezed picked up outside, and the hospital seemed to grow as silent as ever, and I felt as if I was caught in between.

  The empty bed, with no sheets, covers, or pillows, just stood there.

  I closed my eyes and attempted to fall asleep. As I blocked out the muffled breeze outside, everything seemed to grow still. Everything was dark and I lost track of where I was, but I was still conscious. It seemed as if there was no life in the room, but I was still awake. After a period of time, I looked over at my clock. It was 10:50 P.M.

  Twenty minutes had gone by.

  I opened my eyes, only to be greeted by the empty bed again.

  I stared at it, till finally, the woman who used to sleep in it intruded my thoughts.

  I try not to think about her, but often, when I can’t sleep, she crosses my mind from time to time.

  Her name was Pandora.

  Chapter 47

  Patients come and go from the Center. There are patients who stay here for only six months and others who have stayed here for the recommended two years. Some patients have more severe or constant symptoms and relapses, despite the medications, so they end up staying a third year and sometimes a fourth year. However, patients who go on a fifth year are transferred out to a different hospital.

  Patients who stay here at the hospital for their fifth year are relocated to a different hospital, because a fifth year means that there are very little signs of improvement. The hospitals that they are transferred to are similar to the Aster Psychiatric Institute. The goal that the Center has for us is recovery itself, but after the fourth year, patients are relocated to a different mental facility where most of them will be under hospitalization for a much longer period of time, decades, or simply permanently.

  Alternatively, if the Center concludes that the patient’s symptoms are much more extreme, patients may be relocated to a different hospital at any given point—a hospital that has the professionals and facilities to deal with anything.

  The Center is a bit more limited. Since it’s a facility for recovering and rehabilitation, we don’t have the equipment to deal with just anything. For example, the Center does not own beds for the ‘insane,’ like the ones in the movies, where a patient is strapped from head to toe so that they don’t hurt anyone or themselves, which in my opinion, it seems a bit inhuman to strap someone to a bed like that. Not even prisoners are tied to beds for hours on ends.

  Furthermore, the Center does not carry large doses of anesthesia. The majority of the drugs here are antipsychotics. However, the Aster Psychiatric Institute does have all of those resources, and much more. There was an overabundance of equipment, drugs, and services at Aster to deal with pretty much any mental disorder, especially since most of the patients were there for the long run.

  Pandora, or Pan as some of the patients called her, was here much longer than I was. She was in her second year of treatment here, and was my roommate when I arrived. We rarely talked, but in the few times that we did, she explained to me that she was in her late 40’s and that she was not from California, or the United States as a matter of fact. Pan was somewhere from the Middle East and immigrated here in her teens.

  She had explained to me once, that when she came here, she was processed by a facility for legal residency of some sort, and her name was spelled slightly different, but the facilities changed her name to Pandora. And from then on, she went by Pandora here in the United States and worked in a family business, and “the rest was history,” as she often said.

  We rarely had any conversations and she would often sleep before I would. When we were not in the bedroom, we would often go our separate ways. I would go of and spend my time alone, and she would simply disappear. I rarely saw her as a day progressed. The only times we were in the same area would be either in the dining room or when we would be sleeping.

  For a while, we were in the same sessions for group therapy, and when she had to talk about herself, Pandora explained that she had a lot of trouble living on her own, but here at the Center, she would say, “everything is not as bad anymore,” with a content expression. Outside of these routines, we shared few commonalities and limited interactions.

  This continued for a total of three months, up until May. That’s when she was involuntarily relocated.

  Chapter 48

  There was a time period when Pandora began to act stranger than usual. I would wake up in the mornings and find her bed covers on the ground and her pillows stuffed into her drawers. She lied still on top of her thin mattress without moving and looked completely frustrated.

  Sometimes I would ask her what was wrong, but she often refused to answer me, or she would just become even more frustrated.

  Other times, when I would be in the Commons, I would spot her outside, walking across the stone patio and onto the small area of grass before reaching the Center’s fence. She would sit cross-legged without moving, and then after a few minutes, she would have these fits and begin to rip the grass around her, and she repeated this for an hour a day. She would just get so frustrated and it scared me to even talk to her about it.

  It wasn’t until late one night, around 2 A.M.; I woke up to unusual sounds coming from the small bathroom in our room. I searched around the room and noticed that the bathroom lights were on. The lights emitted a glare just outside of the bathroom. I looked over at Pandora’s bed and discovered that it was empty.

  At first, I assumed that she was simply occupying the bathroom, but then I heard an odd smudging—almost squeaking—sound coming from her direction. I sat up on my bed, making sure not to produce any noises. The smudging continued and was followed by splashing sounds.

  “Dirty demons,” Pandora murmured. “Evil, evil.”

  I immediately felt concerned. I heard more splashing and smudging.

  I stood up, attempting to make minimal sounds. Quietly tiptoeing, I began making my way towards the bathroom from where the light emanated from.

  “Eaa-ghhh,” Pandora groaned unnaturally. I kept getting closer to the bathroom’s threshold. With each step I made, my concern only grew and I became more and more hesitant to find out what was going on in that bathroom—why I woke up to strange smudging and murmuring noises in the middle of the night.

  I slowly poked my head to see what was going on without trying to draw any attention to myself.

  Confusion flooded my ha
lf-awake mind when I saw what Pandora was doing.

  “They there,” she murmured to herself, oblivious to my presence. “In there,” she groaned, as her hands smudged soap on a mirror repeatedly. Pandora’s hands were covered in foam and her hair was wet. She looked completely chaotic. Her hands kept going back and forth against the bathroom’s mirror, adding hand soap and transforming it into foam. “The spirits go in there!” she shouted, although I had a hard time comprehending what she shouted at first.

  The large glass mirror was completely covered in soap and foam, but something was unusual about the color of the foam. Instead of being white foam, as most hand soaps seemed to produce, it was pink foam. I kept staring at her, trying to make sense of it as she kept wiping back and forth. I then watched her slap the mirror in frustration. Pandora groaned angrily at the mirror, saying “dirty devils,”

  That’s when I noticed that sections of the mirror were broken and cracked. And then I felt a shrill of terror run through my spine. Broken pieces of glass were scattered across the bathroom’s floor. I instantly realized why the foam was pink; she must have sliced her hand. And as I watched her right hand continue to go back and forth on the mirror, I spotted the ruby-red cut that ran all the way from her thumb to her wrist, bleeding down her elbow and dripping onto the floor.