Day Six: Powdered Eggs
Before I get out of bed, I hear an announcement coming from the hallway. It’s Micheal singing, “Breakfast! Breakfast! Irene, it’s time for BREEAAAAKKKFAAAAASSSTTT” in a booming, operatic voice.
DJ left last night, so I take a seat next to Peaches, who tells me he’s being released this morning.
Peaches came here because his son was shot and killed over a week ago, and he relapsed back into drinking. Peaches looks me in the eye and says, “Irene, you need to take care of yourself. You’re a good person, and you’re looking out for the younger folk, but you gotta focus on your own heart and mind.” Then he gives me his green composition notebook. “I see your writing on the backs of those coloring book sheets all the time, so you should have this.” I say Thank You and try to hold back tears as I poke at my powdered eggs. DJ told me that he used to eat powdered eggs in prison all the time. They’re cooked by dumping the powder into a bunch of boiling water, resulting in a preternaturally smooth, yogurt- like texture.
“You gonna eat your sausage,?” Peaches asks.
I give him the rest of my breakfast.
Instead of eating, Trinity is pacing the halls at great speed, pink composition book in hand, reciting what sounds like song lyrics with a chorus that goes “Start a riot, start a riot, start a riot.”
I go back to my room and write in my new notebook until 11am when I call Victor. I tell him about yesterday’s SAO (“sexually acting out”) incident with the nurses, and he asks what all the noise is in the background. Trinity is singing at the top of her lungs and Kennon is laughing at her and repeatedly hurling his 6-foot frame on the floor. A nurse shouts over Trinity and directs Kennon to get up and go to the dayroom.
“What is happening over there?,” Victor asks.
“Just the usual, nothing super interesting,” I reply. “I’ll see you at visiting hours later today.”
As Victor and I chat in the cafeteria, I see that Kayla takes a seat across from her father a few tables away from us. She’s agitated, explaining that this place isn’t making her better. “Obviously, like duh!” she sighs. Her dad is a tall, broad shouldered African dude with the belly of a middle aged man who’s satisfied with his position in life. She says she’s sick of the rampant racism and homophobia - it’s the reason why she’s in this place. She cries out of frustration. I later learn that she’s a finance major and was hearing voices coming from her walls before she came here. She wants to finish her degree but isn’t sure if she can do that while at Montrose.
After visiting hours I try to nap but a door keeps randomly slamming shut somewhere down the hallway. It’s a loud, fast pop that sends a tremble through my body.
Unable to sleep, I keep time by watching a rectangle of sunlight gliding across the bare wall. The late afternoon shadows stretch and fall. I wonder if Nick has talked to Pierre yet.
I call my family in the afternoon and my mom asks why I’m so tormented. My parents are concerned for me but don’t know why I’m like this. I have such a nice life - many people would envy my life. I have my parents, Victor, my dog Murray, all my friends, my condo. But none of those external things can change my brain chemistry. That’s an uphill battle.
We watch another Martin Lawrence movie. After dinner I stand in line at the Nurses Station to get my meds and Nurse Julia motions me away for a quick meeting. She always asks the same questions: Are you sleeping? Are you eating? Are you taking your meds? Do you want to harm yourself? Do you want to harm others? These conversations always last about 10 minutes. That’s all the time it takes to care for a patient at Montrose.
At night, the relentless dryness makes it difficult to sleep. I have learned that showering at night only makes my skin feel tight and dry, so I skip it. The soap, shampoo, and deodorant doesn’t work anyway, so what’s the point? My nostrils remain stuffed with bloody snot. I break off some of my Chapstick and smear it inside my nose. I eventually fall asleep breathing through my mouth.
