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. 

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“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.