Stand Tall My Sweet Dandelion Girl

by Jimenez, Javier

  The treatment has helped me a lot, but I can’t guarantee that I will be able to fend for myself in the city. But how in the world would I ever meet Maribel again? I don’t have her email address; I don’t have her phone number. She’s not coming back to southern California. And when would I ever go up to Fresno? Can’t I just let her go? Like everyone else? I let go of so many people from school, so many close friends that I grew up with. Why is Maribel different? I don’t even know if I want to go into the city anymore. The city fascinates me, but its danger lurks at every slum. Things aren’t safe for me. Will I be able to fend off the dangers? I don’t know. Is this worth it? Maribel would be so ashamed of me. This isn’t heroic. This isn’t like the movies, where I am able to impress Maribel by adding a final goodbye that solidifies our friendship.

  Was it the time we shared? The stories she told? Her family situation that I knew about? Was it because she was going to be successful? I thought about it, and she was the only college student that I had talked to since I left Golden Heights. And she’s the only one I know that is going to a university now. Where I soon hoped to go.

  I realized that she was the last friend I made. And even went as far as becoming a best friend of mine.

  The people at the Center here, I don’t know. They are different. I become well acquainted with the employees here, but I don’t know if I can call them friends. And then the other patients here, everything stays minimal. I guess they are friends. But really, the last person who was my age that I had opened up to was Maribel. She was my last good friend before the series of antidepressants and psychiatric institutionalization. I think this is my justification to go see her.

  I finished eating. We weren’t allowed to take food to our rooms, so I tucked the banana under my pants’ waistband when no one was looking. I stood up and submitted my plate, cup, and utensils to the cooks. I thanked them again for breakfast. I made my way up to my room without any problem. Although I don’t take a mental note of it very often, there is always at least one nurse overseeing everyone in the dining room. However, I went unnoticed and arrived in my bedroom safely with my banana.

  I pulled the yellow fruit out of my clothing and placed in into my drawstring backpack. I figured that I would get hungry during my escape.

  Then I realized if I were going to go through with this, I would have to choose a time, and place to make my move. A moment where I could make a run for it without being noticed.

  We have lunch around 2 P.M. and dinner around 8 P.M. Since it’s autumn, the sun goes down around 6 P.M. I thought about leaving after dinner, but that would be too late. I thought about working my escape plan around lunch, but the broad daylight would give me away. So the best case for me, was as soon as the sun went down, I would make a run for it.

  Chapter 63

  The day kept progressing with no development. There weren’t any activities scheduled today, which was either a bad thing, or good thing for me. If I attempted to escape while everyone assembled in a conference room, then I could make a run for it when no one would be around. Alternatively, if it was an activity where they had a role call or where nurses came looking for us, then my chances of getting out could have been hindered. I was solely relying on the darkness of whatever 6 P.M. had to offer me and nothing else.

  I spent the rest of the morning in the bookshelf area. I sat on the beanbags and flipped through books.

  Eventually, it was lunchtime. We ate sandwiches and I managed to sneak a pear into my room. The Center’s uniform had no pockets, which made sneaking the fruit that much harder.

  Now, the real action begins.

  It’s 2:30 P.M. now, which meant that if I wanted to leave at 6 P.M. I would have 3 hours and 30 minutes to do it.

  I revisited the bottom drawer of my cabinet. I pulled out my drawstring backpack and placed my pear inside it. I double-checked what I had inside so far: a banana, a pear, 23 dollars and a few coins, a metal water bottle. I wouldn’t be able to afford a taxi so I would have to plan my trip via bus. I thought to myself, what other things could I bring?

  I looked at my outfit and it occurred to me that I ran the risk of standing out with a monochromatic, scrub-like uniform.

  To avoid standing out, I would have to wear normal people clothes. I searched through my clothing drawers and dug up an old outfit that my grandma had also brought for me. I continued going through my articles of clothing till I pulled out a pair of super skinny khaki pants. I persisted with my excavation and found a buttoned up shirt. The button up shirt was cream colored and was decorated with small, black polka dots. Lastly, I found an old, charcoal-black coat with a hoodie. The coat wasn’t too long; it was just about the length of my arms.

  Now was the hard part. I have to figure out a way to wear my uniform in the Center, but quickly switch out into my normal outfit when I approach the city. I figured the fastest way I could achieve this was by wearing my city outfit underneath my hospital outfit.

  I set everything aside so when 6 P.M. approached, I would be able to easily come back and wear the city outfit underneath. I would also have my backpack set aside, ready to go.

  It was 3 P.M. when I finished getting my belongings assorted.

  I went downstairs to spend sometime in the Commons Area. I went to my usual hangout, the book section. I went through several of the photography books until I grew tired. The literature section here wasn’t as exciting. The novels here were very short, and most were short stories. The novels were often harmless because I guess the managers of the Center thought that trivial or intense literature was too much for us. But I wouldn’t blame them.

  An hour had gone by and I was going through a book about art. There was a section about different artists of the 1960’s, and I read about Andy Warhol’s art and how he played with colors.

  I kept checking the time on a nearby clock that was adjusted onto a wall. Near the clock was one of the Center’s nightingale paintings. The clock read 4 P.M.

  Periodically, I kept checking the outside patio. Only a few patients were there and a nurse went out there occasionally.

  I stood up and began making my way to my room to pass some of the time. Staring too long at the patio had begun to give me anxieties about escaping. As I walked, I came across Fidel. He was walking towards another area of the Commons and was unobservant of me. I couldn’t help but come up to him and ask him about Zoan.

  I intercept Fidel, then greet him with, “Hey,”

  “Hey, Sam,” he responded.

  I had forgotten that I ran the risk of exposing my plans if I conversed with anyone. I began doubting myself and wished that I hadn’t initiated a conversation.

  “Do you know how Zoan is doing?” I ask him.

  “He’s doing better,” Fidel assured me, “Zoan eventually let Jeffrey come in that night,”

  “Jeffery?” I ask, not entirely sure if Fidel was referring to Zoan’s roommate.

  “Yeah, the blonde. Jeffery had to sleep somewhere, so you know, Zoan eventually had to let him in. But yeah, things seem to be better.”

  I wanted to ask Fidel if he knew anything regarding Zoan’s dad, but I felt as if I would be intruding on Zoan’s personal life, so I refrained myself. After all, I can’t say that Zoan and I are good friends or anything. We haven’t ever had a full conversation.

  “That’s good to hear,” I reply.

  For some reason, I can’t help but feel that something is different about Fidel. He didn’t seem very ecstatic, but who could be? We heard a grown man’s world implode the other night.

  “Are you shaken up about it?” I ask him.

  “I don’t know,” he replies with a lack of assurance.

  I am not sure if I could give him any advice about any of this, and I’m no work of wonder either. I’m not the greatest person to come for counseling.

  There was a moment of silence. We were both standing in the middle of the Commons area. I wish we were sitting, but we simply stood here for half a minute in complete silence. I di
dn’t know what to say.

  “I don’t know either,” I responded. “I feel like things are always connected in some ways. There are so many complexities to life. And we have to ignore the complexities that we don’t want, and accept the complexities that we do want. Because nothing in the world comes easily. A lot of things in the world won’t make sense. It must be why it’s always foggy here, I guess.”

  He didn’t say anything. He had a look on his face that made me doubt whether he heard anything I said, or if anything I said was heard too loudly.

  I looked at him, but his daze fell to the floor. He seemed consumed by a thought maybe? I observed him. He didn’t seem to weigh much, and he looked so young. No. He is young. Poor kid. Seventeen and institutionalized for psychiatric care.

  “Fidel?” I try to get his attention.

  “Fidel?” I ask him again and a bit louder.

  He was a bit surprised and seemed to dash his eyes around the room till he found me again.

  “Yeah,” he finally replied.

  I had something on my mind that I wanted to ask him for a while now. He wasn’t like me, or Pandora, or Ingrid. He just got here and had minimal problems dealing with his disorder. I couldn’t help but wonder why he was even here at the Center to begin with.

  I built up courage and finally asked him, “What type of schizophrenia were you diagnosed with?”

  Over the past few days, I have had my doubts about him. He seemed to display little-to-no positive or negative symptoms of schizophrenia.

  He braced himself, he seemed as if he wasn’t sure whether telling me was a good idea.

  “If you don’t want to share, I understand,” I tell him.

  He looked away and bit his lips.

  There was another prolonged silence, and I began to feel awkward, and that asking was a mistake. I was about to dart off in embarrassment until he made eye contact with me.

  “I have paranoid schizophrenia,” he answered.

  Chapter 64

  “I don’t like talking about it with other patients here. I really only feel comfortable talking to Dr. Alvarez, and the psychologists and counselors here.”

  I felt guilty for some reason. As if I had treaded onto his personal life.

  “I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia too,” I inform him. “I’ve have been using antipsychotics for the past seven or eight months now.” There was another moment of silence and I wasn’t so sure what to say to him. “If you want, we don’t have to talk about this, Fidel,” I say to him.

  “No. It’s fine, Sam. Things haven’t always been all sunshine, you know? It’s always a decline in mental health that brings us here, Sam,”

  “Yeah. I know what you mean,” I respond as I remembered my own decline and my struggles with my own schizophrenia at the Chickadee hospital.

  “I rarely have visual hallucinations,” Fidel added, “sometimes, I see white spots blurs floating, but that’s about it. Otherwise, my entire positive symptoms consist of auditory hallucinations and delusions. My voices don’t come and go. They are always with me, Sam. They talk so much that they subdue my own voice. I haven’t been the same as the boy I was two years ago. The antipsychotics don’t get rid of the voices, they only help me ignore them.”

  No. I began telling myself. This was just like Zoan. When he spoke about his own decline. No. This can’t happen to a fifteen year-old. It’s not fair.

  I don’t know what I expected. It hit me suddenly. I was losing my sense of rationality. Why would I ask him about his disorder? What was I expecting? Have I not learned anything from living this crap? It’s not magical. Why would I put myself through this?

  “On school days,” Fidel continued, “I would tell my mom that I would be headed off to school, but in reality, I would walk around my street with my backpack full of materials. And I did that for weeks. I kept deleting the messages the school would leave in our voice mail. And you know why I wouldn’t go to school? Because I had the inexplicable feeling that the kids there were going to stone me. I believed that they carried stones in their pockets or backpacks to throw at me. I was scared of being alone. I was scared that once a teacher looked away, I was going to get attacked. They were out to get me. So instead, I walked around the block a few times until my parents left the house. Then I would come back home and hide in my room. I would lock myself in my room and hide under my bed. I would hide from the world. Because I was scared that people were going to find me and beat me with stones.

  Later on, I began disconnecting all my electronics because I felt like the government was after me. That they were coming for me. That they were tracking me. Spying on me. That they were looking at me. When I would use my computer, I was always scared that my computer’s camera would turn on by itself and record me. And they spied on me because I wouldn’t go to school. And I would disconnect my house phones because if the phones rang, something bad would happen. I don’t know what exactly. But I felt like something really bad was going to happen. I didn’t trust anyone from school, and I wouldn’t go. They were out to get me. And so were my electronics. They were tracking my every move.”

  Fidel paused. This was a lot to take in. Stoning? Government spying on him?

  “Then I started hearing the voices. Voices that I had never heard before began to speak to me out of nowhere. All the time. I would shout at the voices, but they never left. My throat would go sore, and all I could do is lie there and try to deal with it as best as I could. But I never told my parents. And I didn’t tell them that I was skipping school. Because if they found out, I feared that my parents were going to take me to the government where they would do tests on me.

  The voices would mix themselves with my thoughts and I wouldn’t be able to focus. When I would sleep at night, they would tell me that I was going to suffocate while I slept. They told me that someone was outside my window. They told me that my dog ran away. I have never owned a dog, Sam. They kept telling me that the color purple was out on the streets looking for me. They told me that I had to hide. And that the school kids were coming to stone me. And that doctors wanted my head. They told me that on every Sunday, Death would knock on my door. Sometimes, the voices encouraged me to be scared of the kids at my school and the voices told me that the government was watching me, as well as several other things.

  Do you know how terrifying it was to be sitting in a room on a Sunday morning, watching your bedroom door, expecting for Death to knock on it. I would start screaming when my mom and dad came into my room on Sundays. I did whatever I could to not let them touch me. And eventually, I was dragged off by mental ward workers. I swore, that day, I thought they were going to kill me.”

  Chapter 65

  I felt anxiety grow inside me. My mentality grew more and more perturbed and my sanity was growing precarious. What was this feeling? I couldn’t describe the feeling easily, but then I realized what it was. I felt insecure, but why?

  Was it because the same thing could have happened to me? Was it because I have had similar experiences? Was it because I was staring back at my own paranoid schizophrenia? I don’t understand why I am so vexed. I would normally sympathize with Fidel, but what he told me seemed to have shaken me. Was it a lack of character? My courage? Or was it that I was discovering a new weakness?

  All of this made me un-assured about my escape.

  “Sorry, Fidel. I have to go.”

  I take off speed walking until I reach my room. I go inside and drop my face onto my bed. And for a second, I think that I don’t want to escape anymore. I don’t know if I had the strength to escape.

  I looked at my clock. It was now 4:30 P.M.

  I looked again at Maribel’s letter. Then I remembered that my grandma had also left a note. I looked in the envelope and pulled it out.

  I read it over again. “…You have my number, so please call me more, dear…”

  I wasn’t entirely sure if I would want to call her at a moment like this, so I refrain myself. However, I had an abundanc
e of time, and I eventually warmed myself to the idea. I decided that I would call her, but I would have to avoid telling her anything about what I had planned for later tonight.

  I made my way to the front desk and asked Nurse Jackie if I could use an operating phone. She gave me permission and redirected me to a phone line next to the visitors’ room. Of course, these calls were recorded, but it was okay. I was only going to make a quick and inconspicuous phone call.

  I punched in her phone number. The telephone made a repeating beeping sound. Till finally, my grandma finally picked up.

  “Hello, grandma?” I ask.

  “Sam. Finally you call me. It’s been a few weeks hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, grandma,” I respond. “How are things at home?”

  “Good, good. Things are a bit tight with money, but everything is fine, dear,”

  My grandmother had gotten a second job to co-pay for the rest of the expenses here. The Greenwood’s Mental Hospital for Recovering Schizophrenics is a community health care center for inpatient schizophrenics. Of course, there are also a variety of outpatient schizophrenics that come here for treatment and services alike. That’s why we have a front desk, where outpatients and their family come to see professionals. The Aster Psychiatric Institute was a certified mental hospital for the mentally disordered. Greenwood’s Mental Hospital for Recovering Schizophrenics on the other hand, has several tools and skills that a mental hospital would have, but it does not have all of them. Which is why we aren’t a full mental hospital, but rather, a ‘community mental health center.’ We function similarly to a hospital, but we don’t carry extremely expensive equipment or services here. Otherwise, many of the patients wouldn’t be able to afford any of the care here at all.

  Additionally, when an inpatient finishes their treatment, they come back to see the counselors and psychiatrists here as an outpatient to receive check ups and medications. All of this is not too expensive, not like an actual hospital.