Maybe I haven’t been as subtle as I thought I was being with the whole “thinking about death” thing. It did get me locked up here. I wish I could get it out of my head, but sometimes I can’t. I think about dying every single morning when I wake up. Life is shit. I’m fat. I’m depressed. My own parents don’t know what to do with me. I can’t even sit in a classroom and hate physics tests like a normal person. I am a huge waste of life and space, and I’m tired of being alive and having to deal with it. No, I have never actually attempted suicide because I don’t want to make anyone else feel bad (although it would serve my parents right for putting me in here). However, if I were to die quickly and painlessly right here, right now, I wouldn’t complain at all. In fact, it would free me from ever having to complain again. Do you ever feel that way?
LATER
Holy mother of crap. The creepiest thing just happened. I was writing away when this team of men—all wearing T-shirts tucked into their elastic-waist pants—came busting out of the elevator. They looked all urgent, and I kept hearing the name “Harold.” (That name has always icked me out because it was in two creepy stories I love—one where there’s this ghost boy with red hair named Harold, who steals a little girl, and a Scary Story about a scarecrow named Harold that comes to life and gallops all over a roof with a stretched-out human skin. Hearing the name should have been a clue that something sinister was about to happen.) I couldn’t quite catch what was going on, but I gathered that there was some guy named Harold in the Quiet Room, which is the room next door to my bed, and that the T-shirt tuckers were going to try and move him to another floor.
Nurse Man #1: Be careful, Harold’s big and dangerous.
Nurse Man #2: I heard that he bit some guy’s face.
Nurse Man #1: Yeah, man, that was Johnson. He transferred to Joliet Prison. Said he felt safer there.
OK, I’m totally making that dialog up. But they did say he bit someone and that he’s crazy wild. So there I was in a bed next to Hannibal Lecter’s room, and one of the check-in ladies told me to get up. She took me down a mystery hallway and put me into a beautiful square room filled with natural light. There was an older woman with a kind face and a boy with sandy brown hair who was maybe eight in the room with me.
“What am I doing here?” I asked them.
“This is the children’s ward,” the lady said. “They asked us if we would keep you here while they deal with something. You can go back to the adolescent ward when they’re done.” So that confirmed that everyone in my area was definitely a teenager.
The little boy worked on a jigsaw puzzle of a peaceful farm. “Where are the other kids?” I asked him, being that I assumed a “children’s ward” would be stocked with children.
“I’m the only one here right now,” he said, and I noticed huge, dark circles under his eyes when he looked up at me.
“Where’d everyone else go?” Because I assumed they were on a field trip or getting strip-searched or something.
“No one else has checked in for several weeks,” the woman said, and as she fiddled with the kid’s puzzle I pondered the fact that he was the only kid in the children’s ward. All day and night he’s alone, trying to fix whatever other people think is wrong with him so he can get out of the hospital and try to go back to being a normal kid. That rots.
Meanwhile, down the hall in the adolescent ward, I heard the crashing of metal trays and people yelling things like “Grab him!” and “Watch out!” I peeked my head around the corner and saw a burly giant, kind of how I pictured Lenny from Of Mice and Men would look if he were black, thrashing about and tossing the T-shirt tuckers off him as if he were some mutant bad guy that only a superhero could destroy. I had to stop watching when I noticed a man creeping toward Harold with a syringe. I’m guessing it was to knock him out, but I wasn’t about to watch anyone being force-shot. I busied myself with the farm puzzle. Soon things got quiet. When they finally told me I could go back to my bed in the hallway (joy!), I heard some of the check-in ladies comparing notes:
“Oh, man, I think I got some blood on my sleeve.”
“That’s just chocolate.”
“You know I’m allergic to chocolate.”
“And you know that ain’t Harold’s blood.” They laughed, so I think they were kidding.
This place is supposed to make me feel better?
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Here I am, back at the connect-o desk. They tried to feed me earlier with a cliché pile of mushy hospital food in a segregated plastic tray, but I didn’t eat. I couldn’t eat. Never in my life have I skipped a meal, but being trapped here has magically disintegrated my will to chow down. Who knows? Maybe I can start the new Mental Hospital Diet. “Lose your sanity and twenty pounds!” That’s the weird thing: I’m supposed to be here to get better, right? So I can go to class and not be depressed, right? But so far no one has even offered to introduce themselves to me. Soon after the Harold incident I started crying again uncontrollably.
“Please let me call my parents!” I yelled and pleaded with the check-in lady. “They made a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here! There’s nothing wrong with me! I need to go home!” It was kind of embarrassing. I don’t think I have ever full-on yelled at someone other than my sister before, but I felt so desperate and I hadn’t gotten in trouble yet so I thought I’d go for it. It was like the lady was immune to being screamed at. She ignored me for about ten minutes, and then said that my doctor would be here on Monday and he would let me know what’s going on. “If you’re good,” she said, “we can try to get him on the phone so you can get off of PSI II and into your own room.” If I’m good? Does that mean they think I’m bad? I’ve never been bad a day in my life. Are they pissed that I needed to spend so much time in the bathroom? That I raised my hand? Maybe it was the yelling. Shit. I hope I didn’t screw up getting my own room. What if I have to sleep in the hall forever?
In more promising hallway news, there is a rather hot boy sitting at a desk down the hall who keeps giving me evil looks.
LATER
I can’t believe I have been here less than twenty-four hours. This is so pointless, and I feel gross because I’m sitting in the middle of a hallway with paper-thin pajamas on, and I’m not wearing a bra. In real life, I wouldn’t dare leave the house with my C cups flopping all over the place, but I would also never sit at a desk in the middle of a hallway in pajamas. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t normally wear a bra under my pajamas (unlike Carrie on Sex and the City. Is she that fashion-conscious that she has to look stylishly trashy in bed when no one can even see her?). My only motivation to put my bra on is the kind-of-hot-but-kind-of-not guy sitting down the hall. He, too, has the black circles under his eyes (and Ramones-y pale skin). As he has been writing on his desk this whole time (the desk, mind you, not paper on the desk), I know he is left-handed (always a turn-on). He has short, dark hair that in these last few hours he has managed to twist into tiny wanna-be dreadlocks (white guys with dreads—always a turnoff). Anytime I look at him he curls his lip and blows out through his mouth in that “yeah, right” way I’m so used to seeing from the opposite sex. Maybe he’d change his mind if I put my bra on.
Desk Lady told me that she talked to my “doctor” and that he’ll come in tomorrow to see if I’m ready for PSI I. Remember at summer camp when we were little and we had to take swim tests, and each time we passed we moved up to a more advanced fish name? As if a tuna swims better than a chub. I feel excited like that, like tomorrow I’m going to show them that I, too, can do the breaststroke! But instead of a nice certificate and Free Swim privileges, I’ll just get to stop sleeping on a bed in a hallway. And hopefully they’ll give me my bra back (and then I can really do the breaststroke! Ha! Get it?). But still no blankey …
P.S. If anyone asks, say I’m sick.
Day 3
Day 3 Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!
Ah, Tracy, this is the life. I have my own room (door still open), my own bed (foam mattress, so
I don’t break it open and pull out the springs in order to harm myself or others), and a view of the city (through a thick escape-proof screen). My doctor was an asshole when I met with him this morning, and will here on out be referred to as “Dr. Asshole.” (In print only. I don’t want him to put me back on PSI II.) He looked alarmingly similar to the psychiatrist on The Simpsons—short, round glasses, and a bald yarmulke on the top of his head. He wore a brown suit today, the kind where the fabric looks all knotty and could use one of those electric lint-ball removers (I have always wanted one of those). He has a little office here with his comfy chair and a nasty, sunken couch for the patients to lie on. The first thing I did when he closed the office door was start crying and begging him to let me call my parents. “Shut up, and stop being such a baby,” he reprimanded. Is it legal for him to talk to me like that? I told him I haven’t eaten anything since I got here. “Isn’t that a sign that I’m not adjusting and should be sent home?” I prodded. His response was, “You could stand to lose a few pounds, couldn’t you?” What a dick!
Dr. A-Bomb flipped through what I assumed to be my chart and said, “I see you recently started on Lexapro. How’s that going for you?”
I wanted to say that it obviously wasn’t going so well, seeing as I was recently admitted to a mental hospital. Instead I said, “I don’t know. I don’t feel any different.”
“It usually takes several weeks for the meds to kick in.” Then he surprised me with, “Do you still want to kill yourself?”
I never really want to kill myself; I just want to die some kind of quick, painless death to put me out of my misery. “No,” was my answer.
“Fine,” he told me, all blasé. “You’re on PSI I now. Go sit in your room.”
“Can I have my bra back?” I asked him, seeing as I’d already hit rock bottom on the humiliation ladder, what with my weepy outburst and my unsolicited weight loss counseling.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Even though he was kind of a turd sticker, I liked that he didn’t feed me any flaky analytical bullshit. He still gets the Asshole name, though.
At least I have my own room now. It’s actually the room right next door to the Quiet Room and my old hallway bed. There’s a second bed in here, so I may have a roommate at some point. A lady at the check-in desk said that there are only two other girls on the floor right now (they refer to the adolescent ward as “the floor.” I’m really getting hip to the lingo). The next girl that arrives will be mine—my roommate, that is. But I was here first, so it’s my turf.
A room description: The room has two desks and two nightstands. There’s a scary brown closet near the window that has lots and lots of shelves. I pray I won’t be here long enough to have the need to fill any of them.
As of now, they still won’t let me have any of the things I packed from home. A short list of crap I brought but cannot have:
That good-luck frog pin you gave me when you went on that cruise to the Bahamas and made out with that metalhead guy whose last name sounded like a cough syrup brand
Two Ramones T-shirts
One Green Day T-shirt, pre-sellout
Earplugs for sleeping
My trusty blankey (also for sleeping)
An 8 × 10 glossy picture of Dee Dee Ramone rockin’ out
Various mismatching clothes that I grabbed last minute
My iPod—God, I wish I could just plug myself into my headphones, close my eyes, and forget where I am completely
Back to the room description: The walls are covered with a sticky, slightly padded substance in soothing pastel pinks and blues so I won’t want to kill myself. Remember when we learned about that black bridge in sociology class? People kept jumping off of it, so they painted it powder blue. I bet the only reason that brought the suicide numbers down is the humiliating thought of having someone say, “Steve killed himself by jumping off a powder blue bridge.” They’re thinking the walls will lull me into a calmed state?
My room is connected to the other girls’ room by a bathroom. One door to the bathroom is on my side, the other on theirs. There’s no lock on the door, so we’re supposed to knock before we go in. I’m guessing it’s so no one gets locked in and tries to drown themselves in the toilet. How is anyone supposed to poop when someone might just bust in during the process? This place is going to make me so constipated.
EVENING
Joy! I’ve been so “good” that they’re going to let me join in on the Sunday night movie! “You can go to the Sunday night movie in the Day Room.” That’s what the desk lady said. Am I supposed to know what that means? Should I stick my two fingers out while I watch it? Apparently, every Sunday night they show a movie, and the “Day Room” is a room where all the kids go to watch it. I’ll let you know how that goes—actual socializing with other loony kids! And, good news, I got my bra back, so I can attend the screening in style. Stay tuned …
LATER
Well, my evening was less than dramatic. We watched the first (or is it fourth?) Star Wars. I sat in the back of the room, in a chair behind everyone else (so no one even got to see my bra-supported breasts). The Day Room was long, with a twenty-inch TV against one wall about eighty miles away from where I was sitting. The chairs in the room were booger green and vomit brown faux leather that made highly embarrassing fart noises when anyone sat, moved, or got off of them. There were maybe fifteen kids watching the flick (I have always vowed to use the word “flick” more), but by the time I strutted my stuff on the red carpet (actually paisley and pukey) the room was dark and I couldn’t see their faces. We were given Dixie cups filled with popcorn, and I ate some. Does that count as eating? Or can I still claim that I haven’t eaten here? It really only amounted to six kernels of popcorn anyway.
The night crew woman with the shiny eyes, whom I will now call “Sparkle” (even though it makes her sound like a My Little Pony) shuffled me back to my room. She told me to get excited because tomorrow I will get a shower and will go to my first Community meeting. I have no idea what that means, but it sounds awfully cult-ish. I’ll let you know how it goes. They’re turning out the lights now. Good night.
EXTRA! EXTRA! BREAKING LATE-NIGHT NEWS!
I got my blankey! Sparkle brought it in! I feel like jumping up and doing a celebratory Snoopy dance! Oh, trusty blankey. You are my true friend.
Day 4
Monday, Day 4
MORNING
I totally did not sleep last night. I could hear every single inane conversation the night crew was having AGAIN. So much for having walls. Plus, all night my mind was racing racing racing about every little lame thing: Would being here stop me from getting into college? Do I even want to go to college? Do my teachers know where I am? Are they going to think I’m a total psycho when I get back to school? Will I ever go back to school? Will I be here until I’m fifty, in the same pajamas and bra? At least I can go to the bathroom by myself.
LUNCHTIME
I was actually busy all morning. First I had a shower. At about 6:30 a.m., a desk lady escorted me and the two other girls to the shower room. I had envisioned a big room with shower heads popping out of the walls and having to shower as fast as possible while armed guards marched back and forth. It wasn’t nearly that bad; we at least had our own private shower stalls. We only got ten minutes from the time we stepped out of our bedrooms to the second we stepped back in. I had to wash my hair really fast, which almost makes me wish that my hair wasn’t so long. I got a quick glimpse of the other girls as I squished my clothes on. One was a grungy white girl with hair that looked like a bowl, and the other was a petite black girl who I thought looked nice until she flipped me the bird. Nobody said anything during the whole shower experience, but I couldn’t tell if that was because they didn’t want to waste any of their precious ten minutes on chatting or if we weren’t allowed to talk because of some rule. Or maybe they were just bitches. When I got back to my room there was a fresh hospital PJ ensemble waiting for me. It’s amazing h
ow something can be blue and yet absolutely colorless. I wonder when I’ll get my clothes back.
After I changed (which didn’t even feel like changing, since I was just putting on pajamas again), I lay down on top of my bedspread. That’s what I always like to do at home. I reserve going under the sheets only for sleeping; that way, they stay cold and fresh. I hope that doesn’t sound crazy. I have this fear that people are reading my mail, looking for signs of lunacy.
Kind of strange, but I haven’t had a bad panic attack since the phantom poo incident two days ago. I feel more dazed than panicked, and no one’s really paying much attention to me. As long as I’m left alone in my room, there’s not much fear of pooping or farting. God, I sound gross. Of course those aren’t my only fears, but if no one’s around to hear (or smell!) then it’s one thing less to worry about. Not going to school takes a mega worry away, but now I’m scared about having a freakout during “Community.” I wish I knew how long it will last. Sometimes that makes me feel better, knowing there’s an end in sight.
Get Well Soon Page 2