GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #396: FALLING APART

It might as well be like that.

 

So yeah. I'm falling apart, and all the king's horses and men couldn't put me back together again. And why the fuck would you let the horses have their shot?! Also . . .

GASP!

This could go a long way toward explaining why I lose my shit every once in a while. Let's see . . . you all know I only have four toes on my right foot, and my left foot broke and didn't heal right, so now I get around with a brace and, on bad days, a cane. What you didn't know, because I've told no one, is that I had another toe problem. I woke up one day with black all around the toe next to my stump. The last time that happened, I lost a toe. I figured I'd be down to a grand total of 8, and it fucked me up. It took me a while, but I discovered that it wasn't actually dried blood. I'd been wearing a black sock, and the fuzz on the inside stuck to that toe for some reason. That was a crisis averted, but don't forget the hole in my left foot that was very, very real. It's mostly healed. It's a dry pad on a bump where the hole was, so it's not going to lead to an amputated foot.

Yet.

I really miss walking. I used to walk all the time. 2 miles a night most times. Sometimes I'd squeeze in an extra mile. I liked doing that. Now I can't even walk around the block without being in sheer agony.

Just before I turned 43 this year, my joints all revolted against me. My knees, my ankles, my elbows and shoulders. My wrists. Or, rather, wrist. I'm down to one good limb. My left arm is still going strong, and I can only attribute it to rigorous masturbation. It's kept lefty in shape. The rest of my body is in constant pain. Sometimes it hurts to stand up. Sometimes it hurts to sit down. Hell, it just hurts, all right? My neverending tennis elbow probably isn't helping matters. It should have healed months ago.

Many of you don't know that the week before last I was in the hospital again. I could have sworn that it was my pancreatitis acting up again. It turns out that it was behaving like it should. My kidneys, on the other hand, were failing me. I was told that if this continues, I wouldn't last the year. I need potassium, so I've been gobbling supplements, and it seems to be helping. What didn't help was the bacterial infection in my stomach, and this one was actually contagious. It's been known to kill people, even. It's on the ropes now. I have one more day of antibiotics, and it's done.

My liver? Still killin' like a champ. Zero liver problems. One would think that it would have jumped ship by now, considering all the whiskey I've shoved through it. Still performing like a pro.

My dentist thinks that in a couple of years I'll start losing my lower front teeth. They don't look all that hot, anyway, but still, that would suck. So far the only ones I've lost are molars, which I was able to replace discreetly. Replacing front teeth will be a fucking pain in the ass.

My eyes. One of them has been losing vision for the last few weeks. I figured it was the 'Beetus rearing its ugly head and started preparing for a life of being blind. My eye doctor dilated my eyes, and much to my surprise (and his), all the minor indications of diabetic retinopathy I'd had before were gone! I just had a giant floater in my right eye. They could repair it with years of surgery, but let's not fucking think about that. I'm stuck with the floater for the rest of my life.

My mental health: not good. There are a lot of things I have to deal with, especially the prospect of possibly being homeless soon. And then there's the biggest problem, which I can't talk about here because it involves someone else's mental illness. Like I said in my psych ward serial, crazy is contagious. I know from experience.

Oh yeah, the front of my car fell off because . . . who really knows? I hit a pothole, and that was that. It's still in the shop. I was told by my insurance company that they might not cover it, although thankfully that's not the case. I'm just stuck without my car for who knows how long? I'm hoping I can get it Friday, but that's not set in stone. It's not even set in an Etch-a-Sketch.

This has dragged on for too long. Who really wants to read this depressing shit? It's not even the complete list. I could probably go on for another hour or so. Fuck it. I'm going to bed. Hopefully when I wake up I'll be 21 again. In shape without a single health problem. That would be nice.

But yeah, this is more likely.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #395: HAPPY FUCKIN' ACCIDENTS

To be fair, I've been known to do this as an adult, too.

 

I've never been much of a Bob Ross fan, not even as a kid. I was never very sedate as a child. My interests were death, destruction, overwhelming violence and lots of blood and guts. This has always been true of me for as long as I can remember. So having my mom plunk me down in front of PBS to watch Bob Ross was not going to be a surefire way to make me a fan.

But I always I respected what he did. He might not have been my speed, but he was trying to help people do something artistic with their lives. In this world, that's pretty important.

Fast forward to maybe a year ago. I'm staying over at a friend's trailer. I'm sleeping in her living room on a makeshift bed, but I naturally wake up early. She doesn't. She loves sleeping more than the guy I cunningly call "Cris Zim." I'm bored, so after I play with her cat for a while--and the cat gets tired of my games--I explore the living room. I find a stack of magazines, and many of them are art magazines aimed at people who want to paint. I flip through them and actually learn a thing or two. There's a lot of good work in these pages.

And then I turn to the back of the issue. It's an advertisement for Bob Ross products. You know, brushes and paints and easels and so on, all bearing his grinning face.

What utter fucking horseshit! I thought he was one of the good guys! What the fuck is this capitalistic garbage? Cashing in on a name that everyone trusts? It's a betrayal of everything I thought Bob Ross stood for.

And then I had to remind myself, wait a minute. He's been dead for a while, right? How long? Jesus, he's been gone for decades. Maybe this wasn't his doing. Maybe someone hijacked his name. Maybe someone was so shameless they would take a good man's name and use it to sell shit in a disgusting and ugly business venture.

I decided that was the case and moved on with my life.

Fast forward again to the new Netflix Bob Ross documentary. My eyes were dilated, so I couldn't read. My vision was slightly blurred at TV level, so I decided to watch something I probably wouldn't be very invested in, but something that wouldn't flat out bore me. I put this movie on, and I'm happy and disgusted at the same time.

Happy because no, Bob Ross didn't cash in. Disgusted because, shit, someone betrayed him and stole his fucking name. All in the name of money. Those shameless fucks.

It's times like these when Harlan Ellison trademarking his name doesn't seem quite so silly.

I'm shocked by how these betrayers and suckfish treated a dying man, and how they truly fucked him over posthumously. I feel bad for Bob Ross and his son and all of his friends, especially those too terrified to be in the documentary out of fear of being sued by the Judas family. They put so many knives in Bob Ross's back that even Julius Caesar is relieved that he didn't get stabbed that many times.

I'm very angry in a very non-Bob Ross way, so I should probably cool it down a bit. I heard a story about him, that when he quit the military he decided he never wanted to scream at anyone ever again. So he didn't. I don't know if that's true, but that's a pretty good approach to life.

Yeah, Bob Ross has won me over a bit. It was actually very nice watching him in action again. Very calming. Very positive. I don't get that high-on-life feeling, but I could almost understand it watching some of this documentary.

Bob Ross was one of the good guys. And like with all good guys, horrible people took advantage. I know it might be tempting to buy Bob Ross products, but DON'T. Don't line these scumbags' pockets. If you really want a Bob Ross thing, do what Bob Ross would have done. Make it yourself. A painting. An illustration. A blanket. A t-shirt. A sculpture. Just for yourself.

Because you know these pieces of shit will sue you otherwise. Hell, they might do it, anyway.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #394: TALES FROM THE PSYCH WARD 7

After a while, when everyone was supposed to be asleep or trying, I went to the nurses station and requested Zofran, which I had a prescription for. They told me the pharmacy was closed, and when it was closed it was closed. End of discussion. But they would call the doctor and see what they could do. 

About an hour later a nurse came by and said the doctor said it was OK for her to give me Tums. She gave me four of them. I took the first and hoped to fuck that would be good enough to keep my insides where they belonged. 

In no time I went through the rest, and while it offered a slight respite my wretched guts turned on me. My mouth went dry no matter how much water I drank. I felt it at the back of my throat. It would happen very soon. I asked for permission to use the bathroom, which I was granted. 

An exaggeration, but not by much.

I held it back as long as I could to give the nurse time to walk back to the station. And then I puked as quietly as I could into the toilet. Which is very hard, by the way. When I puke, there is no mistaking it. I am a loud motherfucker. But I tried and succeeded. 

That night I got no sleep because I spent it puking my guts out over and over again. I tried to make the intervals between puke sessions as long as possible so they might think I had diarrhea instead of what was really going on. But it kept going, and I skipped breakfast the next day. No one bothered me about it. 

The puking continued through the morning until I finally became exhausted. My guts hurt like hell, but the sickness passed. The pain remained, like a goblin constantly jabbing me with a dagger. So I still might puke again, but probably not. 

It was then that it dawned on me why I constantly went through this shit. It was because the fucking ER doctors lied to me. Or they were stupid and lazy and didn’t know what they were saying. Probably the latter now that I think on it. It was that moment that I realized that ER doctors rely on Occam’s Razor waaaaaaaaaaay too much. The sickness and pain I experience puzzles them at first. As soon as I say I drink more than the average bear, they have this AHA! moment. Of course it’s the alcohol. Alcohol’s bad for you, right? Obviously that’s why you’re sick. 

As it turns out, they were fucking wrong. It wasn’t the alcohol. By this point I’d gone without alcohol for quite a while, and the Librium and Ativan helped get through the withdrawals. I probably could have gotten alcohol if I really needed it. Not everyone who works in these places is scrupulous. I used to bring a friend to her methadone clinic, where she would buy Xanax from the lady who cleans the bathrooms. I could probably have found that equivalent here. But I didn’t. So what caused me to experience this sickness that doctors always blame on my alcoholism? 

Honestly, I fuckin' hate this movie, but I didn't want to post an actual erection here. For now.

Let’s take a look at what happens whenever I get really fucking sick like this. Three things were universal up until this moment. The other two happened, though. The first sign is an overwhelming sense of horniness. When I’m at home I’ll crank it several times a day, and the porn hole I go down gets deeper and deeper. On the psych ward, I got horny, but I didn’t spank it. At least the gowns were big enough to cover any unseemly bulges. But how could getting a boner make me sick? 

Yes, I'm a card-carrying member.

The second sign, the one that was no longer universal, is drunkenness. I will be so fucking lit that I’d wake up drunk off my ass, and all day will be a fog, even if I take some hair of the dog, which would ordinarily clear things right the fuck up. But I was on the psych ward and not drunk. Otherwise, in the ER it seemed very reasonable that it was the booze. But now I knew different. 

Yeah, Thinner hasn't aged well, but it's still decent.

The fault lies with the third sign: lack of hunger. Usually, the last thing I ate tastes better than it ever has any right to be. And then I’m not hungry. It lasts a while, and I feel off. I feel queasy. And then some well-intentioned person says to me, “You gotta eat.” And because I hadn’t figured it out yet, whenever someone said that to me, I did. And I got sick because of it. It was the motherfucking food that did this to me. Every time I ate something when I wasn’t hungry. Every time someone told me, “You gotta eat.” It all leads up to a puking frenzy and lots of abdominal pain. 

The morning passed, and no one had an update on my release. I was deathly afraid that someone had heard me puking over and over again and decided to report it. They probably wanted to hold onto me due to this illness. I still felt rough and pukey, but I was also tired. My sides ached from puking so much. 

Only in my finest dreams . . .

Then, out of the blue, Jerry stopped by my room. “Your ride’s here.” 

Apparently it had been there for a half an hour, and no one thought it was important to tell anyone on my floor. There was a shit-ton I had to do in order to get discharged, and no one explained anything to me. 

Well. Jerry explained it to me. Too late and with his usual angry tone. I had paperwork to rush through. Then they gave me my clothes back. Not the rest of my stuff. Not yet. I wasn’t free yet and thus could not be trusted with my stuff. 

Jerry, as he gave me my clothes, said, “You’ve already stripped your bed down, right?” 

Uh, what? No one told me to do that. 

“You have to hurry! Your ride isn’t gonna wait for you forever!” 

Frantically I went back to my room and before I removed a stitch of clothing I yanked everything I could off that bed. Only then did I close the door to save anyone from accidentally seeing me naked and therefore disgusting them. I had just enough time to get out of the psych ward outfit—the paper pants were split at the crotch, just like all the other pairs I’d worn there, because I’m too tall and these are made for short people—before the door opened, and a nurse stood there. I paused in my naked glory, and then I turned face forward, covering nothing. It had the desired effect. 

Like that, but with more cock.

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry.” He closed the door again. 

I got dressed and rolled all that shit up and went to the end of the corridor, where laundry was supposed to go, and I dropped it in the bin. I went back to my room and took the only things I wanted to take with me: the ER blanket (because I didn’t have a blanket at home), the composition notebook (which had Becoming Human folded into it) and Empire by Gore Vidal. Well, and the books I came in with, obviously. 

By the time I presented myself at the nurses’ station, my ride had been waiting for nearly fifty minutes. “He’s probably gone by now,” Jerry said. The way he said it implied that I was somehow to blame. I thought briefly about punching that fat fuck in the face. Wouldn’t that be fucked up? I hit him at the 11th hour and wind up getting stuck here for longer? Low profile. To the very end. 

This is the last time. Probably.

Jerry escorted me down. The elevator was finished and looking much better. He took me through the lobby and to the front door. We saw my cab was starting to turn around in the parking lot. 

“Hey!” Jerry yelled. He waved his hands. “Hey! You!” 

The cabbie looked at us but decided Jerry was talking to someone else and started to pull away. 

“STOP! YOU! YEAH YOU! I’M TALKING TO YOU! PULL OVER!” 

I couldn’t wait to get Jerry out of my life. I didn’t know it, but my teeth were clenched hard enough to grind. I made myself stop. 

The cabbie got the idea and pulled over to pick me up. Jerry practically shoved me into the back seat and then gave me my bag of stuff. He then shoved a bunch of paperwork into my hand and slammed the door. He turned around and went back inside. What, no goodbye? 

Could have been his twin.

The cabbie looked like an older Omar Sharif. See? I’m not even on the psych ward, and someone is reminding me of someone else. I told him to take me to Elmhurst’s ER. 

He said, “First you must sign this.” He handed me a clipboard with a paper on it. It was to confirm that he did, indeed, pick me up and take me where I needed to go, and that I was not to be charged anything. 

I signed it and handed it back. Only then did we begin our journey down Roosevelt Road. He cursed a lot under his breath. “You know, I could have gotten a couple of other customers in the time it took for you to get down here.” 

“I’m sorry, man,” I said. “They didn’t tell me you were here, and by the time they did, they had a bunch of stuff for me to do before they could let me go.” 

He reasonably accepted my explanation, but he wasn’t happy about it. He cursed out the people who didn’t tell me for most of the rest of the trip. Finally we crossed into Elmhurst and we pulled into the ER parking lot. I directed him to where my car was parked, and I apologized for the hassle of the whole thing. He waved a dismissive hand. I got my shit and got out of the cab. He drove away as I approached my own car, taking the first real free steps I’d taken in what felt like forever. 

I unlocked my car and sat down. It was hot as fuck in there, and I immediately cranked the AC, but goddammit it felt great to be free. Even the sickness and pain in my guts had receded. I felt hungry, which is the first and only sign that I’m going to be OK. 

I would soon sleep in my own bed. I no longer needed to ask for permission to use the bathroom. Oh, I forgot to mention. The showers in those bathrooms blew. There are two immovable nozzles, one above my head, and one at dick level. There is no way to adjust the temperature. It’s cold at first, but then it becomes hotter than the fucking sun. I learned to take very, very short showers. I would finally get to shower in my own bathroom soon. 

And I could eat whatever the fuck I wanted to. Which I planned to do post-bloody-haste. 

A few months later a friend told me that I needed to go to a 90-day rehab or I was going to die. I looked back at my time on the psych ward, and I promised that I would never allow myself to be put in such a situation ever again. The loss of freedom isn’t worth it, especially if most of the people looking after me have no real training. I still think about what would have happened if I hadn’t played by the rules. Would I still be there? 

I fucking well hope not.

Sorry. Force of habit. This is the end. Really.

Keeping a low profile is actually a pretty good way of getting through life. Try it.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #393: TALES FROM THE PSYCH WARD 6

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. 

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. 

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!” 

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.” 

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.

To be concluded, actually.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #392: TALES FROM THE PSYCH WARD 5

Once again sleep evaded me for the most part. But I woke up for breakfast. I was groggy as all hell, but I forced myself to get my tray. On the way, one of the other patients was flipping out at the nurse station. “I need you to let me out of here!” he screamed. “My baby momma has to go to work, and no one’s gonna watch my kids! I have to be there!” He went on in the same vein for a while, and then he started punching the wall over and over. 

Clifton Collins, Jr., came by to talk the guy down. For a moment it looked like he’d have to use force this time. The patient must have known what would come next, so he walked away, muttering under his breath. 

For the first time I made it to the first group session of the morning. It turned out to be more of a briefing than therapy. Clifton Collins, Jr., led the session and named those who were going home that day. Then there would be a couple more coming in. He said that we still had enough beds so that we wouldn’t have to share rooms at this time. And then he had us fill out a worksheet. I learned that this was part of every morning session. It was a lot like the one I’d filled out with the social worker the day before. A lot of people struggled with theirs, but I knew what they wanted to hear. Even better, the stuff they wanted to hear? I actually believed in it. I told the truth. I handed my paper in and went back to my room. 

I've always dug this image from Natural Born Killers.

Not too long after that a social worker came to my room and told me to go down to the nurses’ station. I asked her why. She said we were under a tornado warning, and that was the sturdiest part of the building. Now that she mentioned it, I’d heard a storm outside. Lots of wind and rain. Not much thunder, but every once in a while I caught a flash of lightning. 

I followed her down, and everyone else was already there. Most were standing, but a few were sitting on the floor. As I have a bad left foot, I followed their example and sat, leaning my back to the wall. The others constantly questioned the nurses. Here are the common ones. “Will I still get to make my call?” Because this was during phone hours. “Are we still getting lunch?” I couldn’t help but notice that no one asked about afternoon group. “When is this going to be over?” As if the nurses were gods. 

All the while the storm got louder and louder. Even though we were very deep into the building, the sound penetrated to us. We could hear rain striking the building above us even though there were two floors above us. There were no windows here, so we didn’t get to see lightning, but the thunder was nearly deafening. But it let up, and when the nurses got the OK they let us go about our business. 

Later, at lunch, we ate we watched the news. It turned out that we actually did have a tornado touch down close to us. It touched down in Elmhurst, where I live. They’d changed phone time due to the storm, and it was a bit late for me to make my request, but when I told them that the tornado touched down in my town and that I wanted to see if my family was OK, they let me use the phone. When they put the phones on the wall, we all stood in line and waited for our names to be called. When I got my turn, I called home. Busy signal. Fuck. 

The song in question.

I thought about it the rest of the day. I barely paid attention to anything, not even the books I was reading, and it’s hard to distract me from reading. When it came time for evening group, I barely paid attention. But the major points stayed with me. The woman who ran it started out by admitting her own alcoholism and described things like waking up in ditches with her panties around her ankles. Waking up on various floors. The usual alcoholic stories. A lot of heads nodded in the room with understanding. She knew most were here because they were addicts and not because they were crazy. But she had her mental illness lesson ready. We listened to a Matchbox 20 song about Rob Thomas and his mental illnesses. We talked about what each lyric meant. I had other things on my mind, and I didn’t really identify with anything in the song. A lot of it depended on someone being paranoid and thinking that everyone is looking at him and judging him or were laughing at him. I never suffered from that. For the most part I don’t care what others think about me because they’re strangers. So what? But I do care what my friends think of me because they do matter. 

Anyway, we got through this, and I went back to my room. A nurse then asked for me to follow her to the nurse station. I apparently had a phone call. There was one on the wall, and I waited for them to transfer the call over. It was Grandma. Everything was OK. The neighborhood was trashed, but there was no serious damage and no loss of life. That eased my anxiety a bit. We talked for a little while longer, and then she let me go. After that I was able to read my books again. 

And then I tried to sleep again with the usual result. 

The next morning started with one of the patients getting too riled up. Clifton Collins, Jr., had the day off, so someone else had to deal with this guy. Someone with considerably less patience. 

Thankfully not this guy.

I don’t know what the fuck this patient was going on about, but he was jumping around and kicking and punching walls and screaming and cursing in a constant stream. He was a bundle of energy, but in all of that I heard him talking about how this place sucked and he had to get out. I get you, man. But this isn’t the way. Low profile, Ritchie. Keep quiet, don’t be violent, smile your way through the shit sandwich and did I say low profile? 

Sorry, but I warned you.

This guy made so much sound I figured they were going to use a cattle prod on him. The security guy made a cursory attempt to talk him down, but I could tell he did it just because the rules required it. Finally, after listening to them yell at each other for a while, two more guards came and grabbed the dude. They subdued him and strapped him to a vertical gurney. They all but put the Hannibal Lecter mask on him. I don’t know if they also sedated him, but he was quiet as they rolled him away. I later learned that they don’t sedate anyone invasively, and I didn’t think he would voluntarily swallow a pill. 

Hello, Clarice.

Anyway, good morning. 

After breakfast and group, a social worker took me aside into a room that is usually locked. It’s a smaller version of the common room, but it had another TV and I thought I saw some boardgames under it. We sat down and went through the usual. I think she was looking for any tendencies I might share with the other patients that might make me a problem. I think she also wanted to gauge where I currently stood on killing myself. She seemed satisfied with my attitude. 

Since it was Monday, I decided to request my five day so I could get away from this rotten place. I think what really pushed me toward this was when I overheard another dick waving contest about who had the cooler bullet scars. I requested the paperwork, and the nurses presented me with a clipboard and a golf pencil. It was quick. I more or less had to check off boxes and then sign at the bottom. 

One nurse said to the other, the one who gave me the clipboard, “I’ll take it.” 

I picked up the clipboard to politely hand it to the requesting nurse. She said, “Put down that clipboard now!” 

It startled me and confused me. But I put the clipboard down, and the other nurse took it. It turned out that two weeks before I arrived a patient took a clipboard and beat someone’s head in with the hard corners. Yikes. 

And then they said that my five-day begins tomorrow. Shit, if I’d known that I would have requested it on Sunday, if they would have allowed that. Now that I think on it, maybe they wouldn’t have. Their weird rules make no sense, really. But I’ll play by them if it meant that I got my ass out of there. 

So I read and wrote until lunch, and then we had group. Thinking back, I only remember the morning and evening groups. This one after lunch, though, I remember pretty well. We were given these worksheets which were supposed to help us with coming up with goals and methods to reach them. I have never had a problem with that. I know exactly what I want in the world, and I know how I’m likely to get there. Sometimes I’m wrong about that second half, but I usually have something else in place to help. 

We were all done, and we were doing the part where, if so desired, the patients could share what they’d written. I volunteered, and a lot of my goals involved writing, and it came up again that I was a published author. 

Spotted Horse cann . . . ah, you know the rest.

A few others shared, and while one was talking, another patient burst into the room and shouted, “FUCK!” This was the guy who got shot six times and did twenty-seven years in prison. He went directly to Joker and said, “These motherfucking lawyers. I fuckin’ swear. I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do with this guy.” 

The woman leading the session told him that we were in the middle of group. He apologized and sat with Joker. The session continued for maybe a minute before this guy said, “You won’t believe what my fucking lawyer told me. He said that I can’t get out of here because no other place will take me!” 

He was chided again, and he remained quiet through the rest of the session. The very second the session was over, he turned to Joker and continued on his rant about being stuck here. I felt for him, I really did. You do almost three decades in prison for a crime where you didn’t even kill someone, that you actually got shot six times over, and you’re still not done paying your debt to society? That’s crazy to me. Personally, I think getting shot six times and surviving is enough punishment, but to put on a good show, give him ten behind bars with possibility of parole after five. If he behaves, get him out sooner. Not to a fucking psych ward, but out on the streets where he can have a chance of a life. But I’m not in charge, so fuck it. Imagine that, after all he went through, he can’t be released from this psych ward because no other psych ward would take him. Sure, he had anger problems, but who the fuck doesn’t? 

Yeah, these fucking pieces of shit.

As I’m writing this, white supremacists are charging the US Capitol with guns, and they’re tearing the place apart. Two have been shot so far, one of them dead. Those are angry motherfuckers. And everyone opposing them, including me, are angry as all fuck. This is an angry world. 

Rant over. For now. 

The rest of the day was business as usual. Some crazy shit that I’d just be repeating again. Dinner and group (this one not so interesting). Reading, writing, lack of sleep. 

Remember the guy who had to be subdued? I’m fairly certain he’s bipolar. It turns out that he had the room across the hall from mine. The next morning he was in the depressive side of his illness. He wouldn’t talk to anyone. I can’t tell you how many social workers came by to talk to him. Once, on the way to the water fountain, I glanced into his room. All I could see was his afro above the blankets. They sent a shrink to talk to him, and he got nothing. 

After that the shrink came into my room and wanted to talk. He received my request for a five day, and he wanted to talk about it. I told him what I told everyone so far. I didn’t think I belonged there. My suicide attempt had been stupid, and I’d never try it again. So on and so forth. He took notes and said he’d get back to me. 

Between breakfast and lunch one of the patients took me aside. He’d been in both group sessions in which me being a published author came up. He told me that he had a great idea for a book, but he didn’t know how to write it. He assured me that he knew how to write and write well, maybe even better than me because he was able to write his own defense in court and get placed here instead of in prison. So he wanted me to write his book and get it published under very specific needs for the physical book itself. He assured me that I’d get a ton of money out of this, that he would share it all down the middle. A lot of the things he wanted the book to be like, physically, I’m pretty sure only the Big Two could do. There were no options for them at Amazon or Lulu. As for the book itself, I’m not going to say much about it. It’s actually a very good idea. I had never heard anyone else come up with this. I’m writing this for myself and not for publication, but on the off chance someone else reads this, I’m going to not mention what the idea is. 

No shit. He really said that.

This guy told me before he was here he was in charge of the biggest carwash/detailing company in Chicago, that his customers were A-list celebrities. He said that if he had his phone, he could show me their contact info. He named Michael Jordan among them. I don’t know if any of that is true. I’ve heard similar claims before, but if it was, indeed, true, I hope things worked out for him. 

As lunch came closer, we went on lockdown. No alarm or anything went off. Our half of the corridor was suddenly locked, and there was a guard there to make sure no one entered or left. I didn’t care all that much, but as the clock inched closer to noon, lunch became a major concern for the others. They got no answers to their questions. So they bullshitted for a while about what might be going on. To this day, I have no idea what that was about. I figured another patient on the psych ward became a problem that had to be dealt with. If so, it was probably a big deal considering they didn’t lock us down when they dealt with the other guy they had to strap to the Lecter gurney. 

Eventually they unlocked the doors, and lunch was late. Naturally, everyone complained. I guess you had to find your camaraderie where you could on the psych ward. The day was spent, more or less, reading and writing between meals and group and several social workers that continued to interview me regarding my five day. These guys did nothing half-assed. They went full to double ass.

. . . on Monday.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #391: TALES FROM THE PSYCH WARD 4

Get used to this one. I'll be using it a lot.

This time the common room was full of more people. I stuck to myself. If George Clooney had told me to keep a low profile, I would have done the opposite of Quentin Tarantino in that flick. I would have kept a low fucking profile. 

When I was done they sent me to get my meds. After that they wanted me to see a nurse in the room where Jerry “interviewed” me. She said she needed to take blood. She asked for my hand. I can take getting poked. I’m diabetic, so often I have to poke myself. I’m also used to IVs. What I can’t stand, though, is when nurses put needles into veins on my hands. It hurts a bit more, and when the needle is finally gone I’ll feel it for weeks afterward. 

So she took my blood, and another nurse said she needed to test my blood sugar. Since I was already bleeding from my hand, she stuck the testing strip there. While this was happening, a big dude walked in talking about how he didn’t want to have any more of his blood taken because he’d already had it done earlier in the day. The nurses said that they’d wanted me, not him. 

Spotted Horse cannot be killed by a bullet.

And then he launched into his story. This was yet another indication that I really didn’t belong here. When he was a kid he and a few friends tried to commit an armed robbery. Lots of shots were fired, a lot of them at this guy. He then told us that he’d been shot six times. Twice in his leg, twice in his arm, twice in his torso. And even though no one died in the commission of the crime he was sentenced to thirty years in prison. He got out after twenty-seven years but was put in this place instead of out on the street, which pissed him off to no end. 

It really was kinda like this.

How many people do you know who have been shot? For me, up to that point, that number was zero. Over the course of my stay at the psych ward I discovered that almost every one of my fellow patients had been shot. They would sometimes compare gunshot scars, and they’d be laughing their asses off about it. It’s fucking mind boggling for me. 

Next up they made an announcement that it was time for group. I, having gotten very little sleep, was not in the mood. I wanted to be the perfect patient so I could get out of there as soon as possible. I’d intended to attend every group session they offered. But I couldn’t stop yawning. I politely declined, explained why and went back to my room. To bed. Trying to catch up on my sleep. I dozed slightly, but I failed at anything resembling restive. 

The next thing I knew it was lunch. By the way, if you’re reading this then you know might not know my feelings on fruits and vegetables. I stay away from them as often as possible. But they were served, and as such had to be eaten. It disgusted me, but I did it. Low profile, Richie. 

See? I told you.

Don’t tell anyone, but the pears weren’t too bad. And I kind of liked the watermelon cubes. I wished they would serve apples or corn, the stuff I knew I could tolerate. 

I still didn’t feel up to a group session, so I went back to my room and tried to read. I was alternating between John Hay and the Bondurant family. Soon dinner was announced, so I ate. I finally felt ready for group. The main reason? It was therapy through creating art. The idea was, we would select one of a group of magazine clippings. We would then get a big sheet of paper, and we would have to complete the clipping with what we thought the rest of it should look like. We had pencils and markers at our disposal. 

I found the clipping I wanted right away. It was of a hand holding up half of a portrait. While others hemmed and hawed over what they wanted, I was already halfway done. I didn’t know why I was doing it at the time, but I knew what I wanted to do. The other half of the portrait is actually a monstrous face. The arm attached to the hand was normal, but the other arm was a tentacle. The figure had clawed feet. But that couldn’t be the whole thing. I only used half the page that way. So I did more. I created a fireplace with multicolored flames rising up. I drew a podium with a book open on it. I put odd symbols on the book. Almost out of page now, I drew a door with a barred window. Beyond the window I showed a fragment of a blazing sun. Only then did I know why I did it. I called it “Becoming Human.” 

The lady who ran this session then asked if any of us wanted to share what they’d done. That’s where I started truly learning about the others. The skinny kid had actually finished his picture with rap lyrics, which he recited. Apparently, also like my brother, he was in a band. He was here because he saw things that weren’t there. Not ghosts. Not even the bugs of withdrawal. Usually just lights. No, no acid or shrooms involved. 

The guy who always joked about everything? He went into great detail about how he lost everything he’d ever had. I knew then that humor was the last weapon he had left in his arsenal. 

The giant dude who looked like a boxer? He was, indeed, a boxer. He told us that his fists were literally considered lethal weapons by the government. And he used his fists often, not always in the ring. He beat the shit out of one guy at a bar and was arrested for that. He beat the shit out of his own Harley-Davidson to the point where it wouldn’t run anymore. (His insurance company covered it, too!) 

Ragnar had created a fence. Nothing more, but the symbolism is clear enough to me. Frank Gallagher just drew a bunch of squiggles. I don’t think he wanted to be there. The rest were reluctant to share. 

And then it came around to my turn. I told them that this was essentially my journey of transformation. When I was a kid, I’d been abused severely, and I felt less than human for most of my youth as a result. It made me mean and angry with the world, and it made me feel robbed of a proper childhood. Why couldn’t I have the Leave It To Beaver lifestyle? Hell, I would have settled for Dennis the Fucking Menace at that point. Never mind Happy Days. But I had to change. I realized that I couldn’t go through life blaming everything on my abuser and those who allowed him to do that to me. I had to find a way to look on the bright side of life. (It’s funny. I didn’t see Life of Brian until after I made this life decision, but when I did see it, I recognized myself right there.) How does one come back from being a horrendous piece of shit loser? A magic spell? Finding the Triforce? Becoming a Jedi? How? 

You find examples. You look for role models. No one is the perfect role model. It’s important to note that. But you take the good things you witness. Separate them from the bad things. Combine who you really want to be into a portrait. Hold it up to your face. Work your ass off to become that portrait. It’s not easy, but it is doable. Every once in a while the wicked past will rear its ugly face and bite your ballbag. It’s a setback, but it’s not a killer. Pick yourself up. Dust yourself off. Make yourself better. 

I haven't read this yet, but I have it.

Everyone stared at me, much like how when Silent Bob says something, everyone tunes in. Then they all started talking at the same time, and the Joker said he wanted to ask a question. I said sure. 

“What does that book say?” he asked. No joke. It was a legitimate question. 

“I really don’t know,” I said. “It’s just something that popped into my head. All I know is it’s a transformation spell.” 

Others had questions, but there were more statements. Compliments on my artistic ability (which I don’t agree with, but I think they meant imagination instead). Someone wanted to know where I came up with this, and he wasn’t satisfied that it just popped into my head. I told him I was a published author. That seemed to explain everything to everyone. 

Group was over, and I was held back. One of the social workers had a questionnaire for me to fill out. It was more of an oral test, like where my mind was right now, how I was managing my emotions, things like that. I went back to my room and read for a while. At that point another social worker stopped by and saw me reading. He saw my other books, too. “It’s unusual to see patients reading,” he said. 

“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t read,” I told him. 

For more info about "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail 666," buy this book!

“So I heard you’re a writer.” Word on the psych ward travels fast. I suddenly realized that other people were talking about me. That idea always kind of weirds me out. I don’t care what they’re saying, positive or negative, but I try to figure out why they’re saying anything. Even when writing books I try to keep a low profile. (With some notable exceptions when I’m actually a character in it, like “Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail 666” and the one I wrote about my own place being haunted, which will not see print until almost everyone involved is dead.) I feel that a reader shouldn’t feel like they’re reading a book when, logically speaking, they actually are. If they suddenly realize that it was actually written by someone, that’s when the story falls apart. I know that makes absolutely no sense. It’s one of those things you just have to feel. Like the movie TENET. The protagonist, when confronted with the idea of guns unfiring bullets and stuff like that, is told not to think about it. He just needed to feel it. 

This is a fun movie.

“I think I can get you a notebook,” he said. “Would you want that?” 

I must have lit up like the Bat Signal. “I would love that.” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

When he came back, he did so with a composition notebook and two golf pencils with big pink stubby erasers on top. I thanked him profusely and immediately started writing. At first I worked on some of the stories I worked on at home, taking up where I thought I left off. In between those projects I started a journal of my time on the psych ward.

I'm not ashamed in the slightest for using this one over and over again.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #390: TALES FROM THE PSYCH WARD 3

I heard the chatter of my fellow mental patients. I later learned that almost all of them were there for drugs, so I suppose the psych ward was more of a rehab. Very few of us had non-drug related problems. While I’m an alcoholic, and I have experimented with drugs from speed to weed to heroin. I’m not addicted to those. I walked away from heroin with zero problems. But I wasn’t here because of alcohol. I learned that many of us had attempted suicide, so I wasn’t alone on that one. But I was the only one who was there specifically for attempted suicide. The others had tried it at various stages of their lives. 

Maybe now is a good place to describe my companions. There was this one skinny dude who reminded me of a taller version of one of my brothers. He was in for schizophrenia. I forgot which strain, but he . . . I’ll talk about him in a moment. We’re about to have an incident with him, and it will be better to describe that soon. 

I miss Vikings

There was this guy who looked a lot like Ragnar Lothbrok on the show, Vikings, except he looked exceptionally methed out. He talked a bit, but the most noise he made was bouncing a ball like he was the Cooler King in The Great Escape. He would walk up and down the hall, bouncing that ball over and over again. I could always tell when he was approaching my end of the corridor. 

When the fuck is Netflix going to stream the final season?!

There was another guy who looked like Frank Gallagher on the US version of Shameless . . . except he looked exceptionally methed out. See the pattern forming? 

We had a trans patient who kept to herself more or less and looked nervous when someone walked past her. 

There was also a woman who I’m fairly certain was traumatized. She never talked, and she had difficulty understanding where she was and what she was doing. It’ll take me a while, but I’ll get to her by the end of this. She had an incident with Jerry, and it was not a good one. 

This guy didn't *look* like Dave Barry, though.

There was this one guy who seemed normal until he opened his mouth. Everything he said was a joke. I’ve only ever met one other person who did that, and that was Dave Barry. Except Barry isn’t hiding anger and misery with his jokes, not like this guy. 

Another guy was a bear of a man who looked like he’d been in a lot of fights. And there was only one patient who took the initiative to talk to me. I tried to keep a low profile because I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. She got through my shield and was actually very pleasant to talk to. I still have no idea why she was there. (She was the one who laughed at my split pants.) 

If you haven't seen the movie Extract, fucking see it.

On the other side were the nurses and social workers. The one I got along with most was a dude who looked like Clifton Collins, Jr. (Just about everyone reminded me of someone else here.) He was part social worker and part guard. You’re going to meet him in a moment. 

Okay, so the skinny kid. He was admitted the same day I was. He didn’t handle the reality of it very well, and I don’t blame him. I think he was put there involuntarily, but I don’t know for sure. As I sat reading, I saw him pass by my door wrapped up in his blanket. These things are ridiculously thin and not very helpful, which was why I kept my blanket from the ER. Anyway, I went back to the book.

Seconds later I heard a frustrated scream. The skinny kid yelled, “I don’t belong here! Please! I need to go home!” He cried now, big honking tears. “I want to go home! Please! I don’t belong here! I don’t!” He kept saying the same things over and over again and weeping. I peeked out at him to see that he’d curled up in a fetal position by the window at the end of the hall. 

No one bet cigarettes on this guy, thankfully.

I turned back and sat down with my book. I couldn’t read it in that moment though. I kept thinking of that one scene from The Shawshank Redemption. You know the one. All the inmates took bets on which of the fresh fish would break first. And sure enough one of them breaks. And William Sadler gleefully shouts, “It’s fat ass by a nose!” And then the fresh fish in question gets beaten so badly by the guards that he dies in the infirmary. I couldn’t help but think the skinny kid was lucky that this place didn’t have Clancy Brown as captain of the guard. 

This went on for a while, and then I heard the familiar bouncing ball coming closer. As it neared my door it stopped. I saw Ragnar pass by, and he said, “Dude, you okay? You need help?” 

All the skinny kid could do was cry. 

“Do you need me to get a doctor or something?” Ragnar asked. 

More crying. Ragnar retreated, and shortly thereafter Clifton Collins, Jr., showed up and tried to talk the kid back to reality. It shockingly worked. The next thing I knew I saw him leading the skinny kid away, presumably back to his room. I know this is a very inappropriate thought, but I couldn’t help but think, So this is what Andy Dufresne felt like his first night in Shawshank. 

Later Clifton Collins, Jr., came back, this time for me. “John, you eat dinner?” 

No I hadn’t. 

“In the morning we give everyone the choice of what they want for dinner,” he said. “Since you weren’t here at the time we made up a tray for you.” 

I followed him down the hall where he handed me my tray and said I could eat in the common room. By that point everyone else had eaten, and the room was empty. I picked one of the smaller tables and ate. I don’t remember what it was, but I recalled it was better than I thought it would be. I finished and went back to my room to continue reading. 

Later Clifton Collins, Jr., came back. “Did you take your meds, John?” 

No, I hadn’t. 

“The pharmacy closes down in fifteen minutes. You’d better go get them now.” 

So I did. I remembered asking Jerry for something to help me sleep, since I have insomnia. He actually pulled through for me, and the nurse had a sleeping pill for me. I went back to my room to read until it kicked in. It did so about midnight. By now I was alternating between books, and I finished Everson’s Covenant. I set the book aside, closed my door as much as the rules allowed, turned out the lights and went to my bed. The mattress was hard and unforgiving, but it was better than what I had at home. The springs on my own bed have mostly collapsed, and it’s lumpy as all hell. 

I dropped off to sleep. And woke up at three in the morning. Wide awake. What the fuck? 

I got some water from the fountain and asked if I could use the bathroom. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, you have to ask permission to use the bathroom. While there are several bathrooms, they are all locked. When you had to go, you had to ask a nurse to open the door. They’d knock on the door first to make sure no one was in there, and then they’d unlock it and usher me in. In that moment I wished that I was at the hospital in Elmhurst instead. Not only was there no risk of getting a roommate, we each had private bathrooms. 

I went back to my room and tried to sleep. I couldn’t do it. Then, just as the window started to glow slightly—my indication that dawn was arriving soon—I fell asleep. 

They jarred me awake an hour later. “Time for breakfast.”

That's right. I have no shame. Get used to this one.