Group that night. It was kinda cool. There was a giant whiteboard on the wall, and it was decided that we were all going to work together to create a painting. It would be created in a slightly weird way. First we had to decide what kind of painting it would be. We decided on a scene in nature, presumably because none of us were allowed outside at any time. We then thought of things you might see in nature, and the woman who led this session would write them down on this giant sheet of paper she spread out on the floor. She wrote them as randomly as possible. Each of us would take turns walking around on that sheet of paper while someone else played music. When the music stops, whatever we’re standing on is what we would have to draw.
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| Honestly, I never watched this one. It belongs to the generation that came up just after me. |
We went counterclockwise, so I was second to last. I desperately wanted “campfire,” and I clenched my teeth any time anyone stepped on it. By the time it was my turn the picture was becoming clearer. Kind of. I forgot who it was that drew a picture of a house from Spongebob, but I remember it was Frank Gallagher who wound up with leaves. So he took a brown marker and scribbled across the bottom of the picture. Why brown? “The leaves are dead.” Fair enough.
Then I got on the sheet and started walking around. I wanted it to seem reasonable when I got the campfire, so I ranged wide but never far. When the music stopped, I had just stepped forward onto the campfire, but my other foot was still on something else. I forgot what. There was a bit of back and forth about which one should count. It wasn’t an argument. Those are forbidden on the psych ward. It was kind of like when gamers (D&D, CoC, White Wolf gamers, not game controller, grown man screaming obscenities and racial slurs into a mic at a ten year old kind of gamers) trying to figure out what rule applies to a situation or if there even is a rule. They decided that since I’d just stepped on “campfire,” then I would draw a campfire.
I grabbed first the black marker to draw a bunch of circles for the stones placed around the fire. This puzzled a lot of my fellow patients. I don’t think many of them had actually gone camping before. Or their idea might have been closer to being homeless, which is kinda-sorta camping. Then I took the brown marker and drew the logs and kindling. Red, orange and yellow went into the fire. I stepped back, proud of myself. I got an ovation.
The next guy finished our picture, and we all discussed what had been illustrated and why and how it made us feel, etc. The usual group thing. Then back to reading, writing and not getting much sleep.
The next day I spoke with a lot of social workers asking me the same questions. But after breakfast I started feeling off. I don’t know what it was at the time, but by the next day, I would know full well what it was.
My neighbor across the hallway felt pretty manic that morning. He screamed about how he needed a wheelchair because his feet were all fucked up. He needed it so he could go get his meds. He couldn’t get around without one. And the whole time he was jumping up and down on his supposedly fucked up feet. I suspect he might have been looking for attention. I suspect that further, he wanted to see how far he could push the nurses and social workers.
Not very far, it turned out. Clifton Collins, Jr., was back on duty, and as soon as my neighbor saw him, he shut his mouth and went back into his room. The depressive part of his illness instantly took over, and we didn’t see much of him that day.
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| Oh no! It's the return of this fuckin' guy! |
I went to get my meds before breakfast for a change. Only the silent woman stood in front of me in the line. The one who I don’t think knew where she was or maybe not even who she was. And fuck me, Jerry was in the pharmacy today, and he was his usual charming self. The woman held the cup of pills in one hand and a cup of water in the other. She did nothing with either one.
“You have to take your pills,” Jerry said.
No response.
“Take. Your. Pills.” His voice rose with each word.
Nothing.
“Goddammit,” he muttered. He pointed at one cup. “Put these in your mouth.” His tone rising still.
Nothing.
“PUT THE PILLS IN YOUR MOUTH!” he yelled.
She looked down, and she did.
“NOW SWALLOW THEM WITH THE WATER!”
She looked down again, and once more she followed instructions.
Jerry stared at her. “Open your mouth.”
She didn’t.
“I SAID OPEN YOUR MOUTH!”
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| Low profile, Bruni! |
Oh man. I had to keep reminding myself about the low profile I intended to keep. When I was a kid, my dad had a phrase. He only ever enforced it twice, and both times I deserved it. He used to say, “You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’.” Jerry was doing just that. Low profile, Bruni. Low profile.
She opened her mouth, and Jerry shined a mini flashlight in her mouth. “You’re supposed to swallow your pills!” He angrily turned and filled another cup with water. He shoved it into her hands. “Swallow the pills!”
She drank from the cup.
“Open your mouth.”
She did.
The mini flashlight came out again. Jerry peered into her mouth. He still seemed skeptical. “Lift your tongue.” I wasn’t close enough to see if she did, but I had a pretty good idea she didn’t, due to Jerry saying this: “LIFT YOUR TONGUE!” He peered further. Only then was he satisfied. The flashlight went back in his pocket. “All right, you can go.”
She left. I wanted to have a few words with Jerry, but I kept quiet. When I got my pills, he looked at me like he was daring me to say something. I just took my meds and got out.
Later, and by now I’d finished the book about the Bondurants and moved on to Jesse James and Robert Ford, a social worker came into my room and told me I had a call. Weird. I thought maybe it would be Grandma. Even weirder, I didn’t have to go all the way down to the nurses station. They hooked a phone to the wall just outside the half-station that I never saw anyone in until that moment. They transferred the call, and I picked it up. It was my insurance company.
Now, I’d been out of work since the beginning of the year, and I couldn’t afford insurance. Considering how many times I’d been in the hospital, the administrators, realizing they wouldn’t see a dime from me, signed me up for Medicaid and didn’t tell me. I found out when I got the card in the mail. Yet somehow, for some reason, the psych ward couldn’t figure out what insurance I had. They knew it was BCBS, but they didn’t know which plan. They figured me for PPO, which would not get me a free ride to pick up my car at the ER. But Medicaid is what I had, and it did allow for the free ride. The rep from BCBS called to advise me that they were working with the psych ward on this mix up and assured me that upon my release, which might be sooner than I thought, I would get that free ride.
Sooner than I thought? This was Wednesday. According to the rules, I was due for release on Monday. Now, the five day doesn’t mean you have to stay the five days. If you’re cleared sooner, you could get out sooner. Suddenly I thought I might get out the next day, and I felt a bit of hope.
At lunch I didn’t feel hungry, but I ate anyway. And that feeling of being off got bigger. I suddenly feared I knew what was wrong with me. I hoped not, but I knew deep down that it was the return of my stomach problems. I tried to put it out of my head, but I felt bad. I skipped group and rested in bed instead. I tried to close my eyes and nap, but I had no such luck. And worse, more social workers had questions for me. I didn’t feel up to it, but I did my best to muscle through it without betraying how awful I felt.
Dinner came along, and I really didn’t want to eat. I decided to hide out in my room. And then Clifton Collins, Jr., came along. “Hey John. It’s dinner time. Come on.”
“No thank you,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”
“You gotta eat.”
That’s a phrase that angers me. No, I don’t. First of all, if you eat when you’re not hungry, you’ll feel sick. Also, that’s how you become a fat dude. I only eat when I’m hungry (and sometimes when I’m drunk). But there is more to my anger on this phrase. I’ll get to that later.
I followed him to the common room and got my tray. I ate, but I didn’t feel very good about it. I skipped group again. I tried to read, but I couldn’t. I tried to write, if only for journal entries, but I had nothing. I just went back to bed and closed my eyes, trying to ignore the storm building up in my guts.
The doctor came in this time. The shrink, that is. Later I learned he was one of three people qualified to actually work in this place. The other was the nurse who took my blood way back when. The third was Clifton Collins, Jr.
For the first time, he didn’t have questions for me. This time he had good news and good news only. “I’ve decided to discharge you tomorrow.”
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| FREEDOM! |
YES!
He didn’t know when, but he thought it would be in the afternoon. I looked forward to it. But I also knew my guts were churning. I had to keep this information to myself if at all possible. Because I knew soon I would be puking my guts out over and over again, and they might not let me go if they found out.
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| To be concluded, actually. |
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