I had a private room. Except every hour when the stranger opened the door. The flashlight shone toward my sleeping frame, looking for signs of life. I refused the sleeping pill offered by the nurse with the rolling cart. I had perfected my art of sleeping. I used it and it protected me. No thank you nurse Ratched, please offer mine to the manic man.
The first few nights I journaled. Inside the loneliness I bedded. I grew accustomed to the wait and built my temporary routine. No sense complaining myself into a straight jacket. The doctor wouldn't see me until Monday morning. Why the fuck didn't you tell me this before I signed my name? I could've slept in my own bed over the weekend.
He visited me every day. After work. With the kids once. His mom took a greyhound from Chicago to support him and the children. She had the pleasure of seeing me in all my glory several times, why not peer through the locked cage as well? This animal is quarantined. Only the cuckoo birds are allowed to fly in her airspace. Enter at your own risk.
Passing time in a locked psych unit takes imagination and the last of the unburnt brain cells. I dug mine up from my mind's closet and prepared to make something out of nothing. Groups were mandatory, or so I thought. Maybe my efforts will encourage one of them to call in the doc early. Maybe they'll stop whispering about the temper tantrum I had that first night...after I learned that I had replaced my normally grey weekend at home with this blackened bracket of bullshit. You got yourself into this crazy mess, you get yourself out!
The hospital chaplain they requested for me was young. She spoke soothingly and read from the Bible. She left me her number and permission to call again. God and I spoke daily. Unfortunately, he had no pull on the psychiatrist's schedule either. More Jeopardy and circled seating was in my future.
People watching was my new favorite hobby that weekend. Especially when the cutter showed off her handiwork and the psychotic held private conversations with herself, out loud. I heard the letters ECT as they wheeled a woman away. She never spoke, before or after her shock treatments. I wondered how the electricity felt coursing through her brain. Did it hurt? Were they going to offer me a ride on the gurney?
The smokers were allowed to step into a locked courtyard off the milieu. Craziest of all, they chose to stand in the November wind. One sunny day I stepped into the natural air too, and heard their stories. The older gent wearing the greenbay packers coat hadn't slept for weeks. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He was inside the throes of his manic state. How could you go without sleeping? My favorite pastime and my safest time of the day...essential to my sanity and an obstacle to his. The other young dude was avoiding jail or drug rehab or both. Co-occurring was his label. Addiction to substance accompanied by depression of some sort. The lady with multiple razor scars lining her limbs was a frequent flier. She appeared happy to be back and played the role of cruise director. Any questions? Ask the regular. My favorite was the young lady with the box of crayons. She allowed me to share in the catharsis of coloring books and crayola scents, and I realized how easily simplicity fit into my fractured mind.
I ate their food and followed their rules. I wrote and prayed and shared in group. For three long days and nights I lived in someone else's dream. I abandoned my family. I chose to commit. I wanted help desperately and my resources were depleted. Therapy and a starter dose of prozac wasn't cutting it, there had to be another way out. My life depended on it. And so did theirs.
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