Day Three: A Psych Ward 8; an Outside World 5

In the middle of the night, I get a new roommate - Tori. Before she settles into bed, she asks the BHA for a fruit cup and some water. I have a feeling she has been here before. Tori is a great roommate - no snoring, no moving around, no farting. I would travel the world with her. 

After breakfast we watch a Martin Lawrence movie on full blast and Brian is drawing a portrait of Calvin that captures the ever-present look of worry on his face, his thick eyebrows, and the creases on his forehead. My head is swimming in exhaustion and the familiar tug of my uterus signals worse cramps are coming. I haven’t taken my birth control in two days and my body is protesting.

A BHA comes up to me and without looking up from her tablet, asks “What are your goals for today?”

I burst out in loud, spontaneous laughter. “Is that a real question?” I wasn’t aware that BHAs were allowed to start conversations with us, let alone about the “goals” we’re supposed to have in a place that doesn’t allow us to read, write, work out, or drink coffee. 

Nick, Melissa, and Taylor giggle at my outburst. DJ hoots and claps his hands.

I leave the dayroom, incensed and dying for chapstick. Stella told me yesterday that you can “put in an order” for chapstick at the nurses desk, and now I am the proud owner of that shitty black and beige Chapstick with my very own barcode and name on it. The Chapstick has to stay at the Nurse’s station, so I walk back there every hour to re-apply.

When I return to the dayroom DJ is standing on a chair looking out the top third of the window. He mumbles to himself, “They’re gonna keep me in this bitch forever.”  

A counselor enters the dayroom. She asks everyone to gather at a table to start today’s therapy activity: writing and discussing SMART Goals. As a woman who’s worked in corporate media and advertising for the past 10 years, I nearly gag when I hear the term. BUT the silver lining is we get to use markers for this activity! I steal a green one and hide it in my pocket while the counselor's back is turned. Nick sees my stealthy move and gives me a thumbs up. 

My fellow inmates read their goals out loud: “Stop getting high,” “Make better decisions,” “Be more confident.”  

 Pat leans over to me and says, “Sorry if this sounds weird, but you’re gorgeous. Your husband is very lucky.”

“Thanks,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. I’m a psych ward 8 and an outside world 5. I’m sure my husband does not feel very lucky right now. 

I call Victor after therapy and explain that the people here don’t have any clothes and he needs to bring any t-shirts, sweatshirts, and socks that he can spare. 

“Brian has literally been wearing the same scrubs for two days, so has Nick. Basically everyone is wearing oversized scrubs and it’s so cold in here - all the nurses are in jackets and hoodies and we’re just huddling together in the dayroom for warmth,” I tell him breathlessly. 

“OK, I’ll get clothes together. Do you want any books?”

I tell him to bring the new one I ordered, Engineered Conflict, and a Louise Erdrich book. I like to balance fiction and non-fiction when I can. 

At lunch, I carry Nick’s tray to our table because his hands shake and it’s difficult (even for someone with steady hands) to balance the pyramid of juice, fruit cup, chips, cup of water, napkin, and spork. 

After lunch it’s visiting hours and I am nervous to see my parents. My hands and armpits are wet. I don’t want them to see me like this. I meet with Victor first and he gets on my case about my recklessness with pills. His voice is shaky and dry, and his fingers are tightly interlaced and are turning red. He always tries to stay calm and collected but the veneer is cracking. 

Victor leaves and my parents enter next. My mom walks into the cafeteria apprehensively. Dad is treating this like a typical weekend meet-up. I hug both of them and my mom says I stink. I ask Dad if he was able to find a good parking spot. My mom gasps when I show her my beacon and explain that a BHA has to scan you every 5 minutes, even at night. She asks, “How can you sleep at night?”  I told her I don’t. She gasps again. She asks if I feel like they can cure me here. I said this place isn’t about curing or treatment; it’s about making sure the patients don’t harm themselves or others. She squints her eyes behind her dark glasses, “Then why are you here?” 

“Because I wanted to kill myself.” 

She gasps again. We’re in pearl-clutching territory now. I thought she knew and that Victor had told her, but I realize that this may be the most earth-shattering conversation she will ever have. My dad lowers his head and fixes his gaze on his hands, neatly folded in his lap. I can see my mom’s eyes faintly behind her dark glasses. She doesn’t want to look at me either. 

Despite the awkward meeting with my family, I am relieved to have gotten a change of clothing for myself and two books, and extra shirts from Victor that I distribute to DJ, Nick, and Brian.

Before dinner, DJ wears the shirt I gave him (a pink and beige shirt with animated muay thai figures on it) and loses an arm wrestling contest to Nurse Nicole. We all clap and cheer, and he resolves to do more push-ups each day to prepare for a rematch. But he’s laughing and doesn’t really seem to mind - he’s impressed with Nicole, who’s about a foot taller than him and 50 lbs heavier. 

A new kid enters the dayroom, Jon, and starts chatting with our group. He’s got a bleach blonde mohawk with his natural dark, textured hair on the sides; large bifocal glasses; small goatee. He’s a ball of energy and dad jokes and is trying hard to fit in.

We gather to eat beef mostaccioli out of our styrofoam to-go boxes. Taylor asks if any of us invest in crypto. 

“We may be mentally ill but we’re not stupid,” Melissa replies, rolling her eyes. 

“Apparently Bhad Babie is in jail for, like, crypto fraud I heard, but it was accidental somehow?” says Taylor. 

“Guess you won’t be catchin’ her outside,” says Calvin. 

DJ tells everyone that this feels like he just got home from work and is chilling, eating dinner with the family. 

Nick is emotional after dinner and I hold his hand as he cries and repeats, “I miss my mom. I miss my friends. I miss my home. I miss my dog.” We walk up and down the hallway together for about an hour. We chat about music, his drag persona, my experience working with American Idol. Melissa and DJ join us, and we share our favorite true crime podcasts, our favorite beers, how much we miss our vape pens.  

“It’s like we’re walking back from the bars together,” observes DJ, smiling.

After our walk, we go back to the dayroom and watch The Waterboy, and we hear Bailey yelling down the hallway. Thirty minutes later she sits next to me in the dayroom and I ask her what’s going on. “This place sucks,” she says. “I’ve been here since December 20th. My parents don’t believe I have a mental illness - they just think I’m acting out and that I’m bad on purpose. They kicked me out.” 

I say, “Your parents are assholes.”

“And they’re assholes here, too,” she says. “There’s nothing to do, no one helps you, they get your meds wrong, and then get pissed at you when you crash out.” 

“It’s a cruel and inhumane place,” I say. I’m not sure what’s going to happen to anyone here, but I tell her that she’ll find another living situation soon, a better one, with nice shampoo, cozy blankets, and no booty juice.

A few hours later as I wait in line for meds I hear yelling, again, coming from Bailey’s room. Bailey is cussing. “Fuck you - no I won’t! No! No needles!” Four nurses enter her room and close the door. Dull thuds on the wall. Now she’s wailing. “Don’t touch me you fucking bitch. Stop it! STOP IT! FUCK YOU!” A guttural scream like a wounded animal trying to escape a trap. “Stop moving, just stop moving,” a nurse’s voice arches over the din. More banging on the wall and the door. Bailey is fighting for her life. I crumble to the floor and bawl. 

At this point Jon, who also gathered in the hallway to hear Bailey’s cries, starts jumping in place and freezes mid-leap, stopping in a Super Mario pose. He starts humming the unmistakable theme song and marching in place. “Just trying to lighten the mood,” he says. Jon tells me later that he has autism. He won’t get the care that he needs here.

A BHA tells me to go to my room so I won’t have to hear Bailey’s screams.  I curl up in a ball near my bed and sob. Tori asks, “Are they giving her the shots? They had to do that to me last time I was here.” I can still hear Bailey’s screams in my room, so I go to the dayroom where the sound doesn’t travel and is muffled by another Adam Sandler movie. I kneel at Taylor and Nick’s feet. Taylor hugs me and Nick holds my hand until I stop crying. 

Later I see Bailey at the nurses station asking for a cough drop, her mouth agape, eyes unfocused, wet spots around the collar of her shirt. 

I take a shower before bed and see that I’ve gotten my period for the first time in five years, because no one has located my belongings which contain my birth control. I ask a nurse for a tampon and she explains that the hospital only carries pads. I wonder how I would hang myself with a tampon string.

They give me hydroxizine, seroquel, and benadryl and I still can’t sleep. The nurse said she would check with the doctor to see if I could get trazodone. I take it and pace the hallways for another few hours. Passing by Melissa and Taylor’s room, I can see that it’s snowing. I stand in their doorway watching the snowflakes float in little loops and curls against the yellow halo of streetlights. 

I can’t get comfortable in bed because my left leg aches, a throbbing pain from my heel to my knee, likely from walking on the hard floor for three days with no shoes. I rise from bed and pace the hallways again until about 4am. As I pace a night nurse stops me and asks, “Why can’t you sleep? Are you worried about something?”