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.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #389: TALES FROM THE PSYCH WARD 2

Now imagine him without that smile.

Ever watch Parks and Recs? There is an overweight middle-aged character on the show named Jerry. He’s the nicest, easiest-going person on the show. You could probably shit on his head, and he’d take it in stride. And this doctor looked exactly like him. So much so that when I got home, I went to IMDB to see what the actor was doing now. I was relieved to learn that this was absolutely not the same person as the actor. Because this guy was a fucking tool. 

He released a sigh of annoyance when he sat at the table across from me. Keep in mind, I had my Covid mask on from the moment I entered the ER. This guy also wore a mask, but this so-called doctor’s nose poked out the top, and he never pulled it up. I would later learn that he was not a doctor, but here’s the thing. He called himself a doctor, as did the rest of the staff. That’s a problem with psych wards and rehabs, but I’m not going to go into it here. Suffice it to say, these places have almost zero government oversight. 

“All right,” he said. He glanced at his clipboard, then looked up at me over it. “John Bruni.” He pronounced it right. Most say Brun-eye. It’s Brew-nee. “What drugs do you take?” 

I mentioned both of my ‘Beetus meds, then my hypertension med, my cholesterol med. “And alcohol,” I said. 

He slapped the clipboard down. “Bullshit. Tell me the truth.” 

“I did. Those are the only drugs I take.” At the time it was true. It had been a while since I’d been in the hospital, so the morphine was long gone from my system. They hadn’t given me Vicodin since my foot broke. That was it. 

“You gotta stop lying to me if you want to get better,” Jerry said. 

“I’m not lying,” I said. 

“You are so full of shit,” he said. “We found benzos in your blood.” 

Now I knew he was a liar. I hadn’t had one of those in three years. A friend gave me half a Xanax in her attempt to get me to stop drinking. Obviously it didn’t work. “I haven’t taken any benzos,” I said. 

He sighed again. “Fine. Be that way.” And then he started asking me the milligrams of my regular meds. Holy fuck. Who actually pays attention to that shit? I barely remembered the names of the drugs. I only knew my metformin mg because I was told it was the highest a human can tolerate, which is 1000 mg. The rest of it? I had no clue. 

“I need to know this information,” he said. “Stop playing games with me.” 

“I honestly don’t know. It’s on the bottles, I’m sure, but those are back home. But you can check with Elmhurst. They have that all on file.” 

“I don’t want to talk to them. I want to talk to you.” 

I shrugged. “I don’t have that information.” 

Another sigh. He then asked me about every sickness and every inoculation I have ever gotten in my life. At 42, that is a metric shit ton of information that has long been forgotten. I could tell he was aggravated with me, but so far trying to get information that I don’t have out of me had been unfruitful for him. He moved on. “Weight?” 

“Last I checked, 210.” These days I fluctuate between 210 and 220, and not in a healthy way. 

“Height?” 

“Six-one.” 

“Bullshit. You are not six-one.” 

“Sir, I assure you I am six-one.” 

He slapped the clipboard down again. “On the scale. Right now.” He pointed to the medical scale. 

My shoes were already gone, so I stood barefoot as he adjusted the black bar to the top of my head. The scale read six-one (plus an extra half-inch). He glared at me, but he didn’t say a word about it. “Why the fuck are you still wearing that?” Pointing to the gown I’d been given at the ER. 

“The ER gave it to me,” I said. 

“You’re supposed to have our clothes on. Didn’t the last guy give you your clothes?” 

“No.” 

He had me remove the gown. At that moment he saw one of my scars. He pointed at it. “The clipboard says you have no scars.” 

“I have a lot. See?” I started pointing to more. 

“That fuckin’ kid. He’s new. I’m gonna chew him out.” 

“There’s one more thing,” I said. I pointed down to my bare right foot, the one missing the big toe.

“Son of a bitch.” He scribbled on the clipboard like a maniac and threw some clothes at me. There were two half-shirts. I was to wear one around my back and the other around my front. I also got paper slippers, sort of like the kind that crime scene cleanup crews wear. They would later be replaced by non-slip socks. 

“All right,” he said. “We’re done here.” 

Thank fuck. 

“Follow me.” 

I followed him out the door and by the nurse station. There was a long hall, and he brought me all the way to the end. There was only one room beyond mine, and then there was a caged window. He brought me into my room, and the first thing I saw was that there were two beds. Holy shit, was it possible that I’d get a roomie? I hoped not. It’s bad enough dealing with my own shit in this hellhole. Dealing with someone else’s was not my idea of fun. 

“Pick your bed. That’ll be your side of the room. And here.” He shoved a folder into my hand. “Read that. Those are the rules. Do it now.” He then turned to head for the door. As soon as he was out, he turned back. “Don’t ever close this door all the way.” 

“Okay.” 

He left, and I weighed the pros and cons of each bed. If I picked the one by the door, there was a corner so no one would be able to see me sleeping. But I kind of wanted to pick the one by the window even though I couldn’t see through all the steel protection. I picked that one. 

There were two desks connected to each other by a short bookcase. I sat on my side and opened up the folder. I read the rules, and they were pretty strict. The one about never closing the door seemed obvious to me, but it was stated several times. It also said that I didn’t have to attend group therapy, but if I did I would be more likely to get out. There were three sessions a day, just as there were three meals a day. In the morning you had to take your meds. In the evening you had to take your meds. If you wanted a phone call, you had to let a nurse know well in advance. There was only one time period when you could use the phone. Otherwise, they didn’t even have the phones on the wall. No visitors allowed. And then followed a list of items I could not possess, and it was pretty lengthy. I didn’t read the whole thing. It struck me as a common sense kind of thing. One of the items, for example, was a firearm. Oddly enough, hardcover books were forbidden, too. I guess you could use one as a weapon. I’d rather just read it. 

The book that started me down my Vidal rabbit hole.

Speaking of books, the previous resident left his books behind. I thought about my books being held captive by the powers that be. Softcovers, all three. If you’re curious, one was Covenant by John Everson. I also had The Wettest County in the World, which is a true story and the basis of the movie Lawless (written by a descendant of the family involved!). The last was The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. I loved the movie, and I thought it was about time to read the book. 

I don’t remember most of the books on that shelf. There were maybe eight of them? One of them was a hardcover. On the off chance that someone thought it was mine, I pushed it to the back of the shelf, behind the spare pillow. Of them all, I only recognized one author’s name. I decided that I would read this one book while I waited for my own books to be returned to me. Little did I know that it would change the course of my life. 

I brought my signed copy with me. Everson lives close to me and I see him at cons often.

It was Empire by Gore Vidal. I knew Vidal primarily as the screenwriter of one of my favorite movies, Caligula. I kind of doubted he was responsible for the pornography in the film, but now that I’ve read more of him I can hear his voice come through, especially when Tiberius attempts to poison Caligula. Other than that, I’d read a few of his essays while pretending to work at the library. I’d never read a novel of his before. That changed very quickly. This one sucked me in immediately, especially with a pair of misanthropes named John Hay and Henry Adams. The former I knew little of, just what I learned in elementary school. I’ve studied him a lot more since, and he’s one of my favorite historical figures. The latter I’d never heard of, but I surmised that his ancestors included John Adams and John Quincy Adams. There was also the granddaughter of Charles Schuyler, the main character from book one. This one was the fourth. I learned in this one that Charlie was the bastard son of Aaron Burr, which annoyed me when I read the first book, Burr. Charlie doesn’t find out about his lineage until the very last sentence of that book. 

Uh, spoiler alert. 

And then there’s William Randolph Hearst, the early 20th Century version of Donald Trump. I’m not going to publish this, but on the off chance I do, I highly recommend Vidal’s Narratives of the Empire. 

Great book. READ IT.

A nurse came in and checked on me. She was shocked to see me reading a book. I got the feeling that this didn’t happen often in this place. It was more or less confirmed when I met the other residents. “But what I’d really like are my own books,” I said. “They’re among my belongings.” 

Another great book. I can't recommend it highly enough.

“Hardcover?” she asked. 

I assured her that one was a paperback book, and the other two were softcover. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

Not much later, she returned with my own books. I put them on hold as I continued with Vidal.

TO BE CONTINUED! Next time we'll meet a few of my fellow psych ward patients.

Dammit. I wish I'd thought of this last night. It would be perfect to use this when indicating that the story will continue tomorrow night. 'Cause Looney Tunes. Get it?

*sigh* That's all, folks.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #388: TALES FROM THE PSYCH WARD 1

Not this many stairs, but still.

I stood at the top of the stairs, barely aware of what brought me to this particular moment in my life. All I knew was rage. Not sorrow. Not depression. Pure fucking rage. The impetus is something I can’t really talk about. That involves someone else’s mental problems, and that’s not something I can discuss like this. I have no plans on publishing this, but you never know. Besides, I might have died, and you might be reading this, and you shouldn’t be privy to that information. Suffice it to say that another person’s lunacy infuriated me so much that I threatened to drink myself to death. I didn’t realize at the time that I only had an inch at the bottom of a bottle, and that would not be enough to do the job. I went out in search of booze, but it was late, and no one was open. So I decided I’d have to kill myself in some other way. Any way, really. This person’s mental issues were so invasive that I needed to leave this existence to get away from them. 

That’s something not a lot of people like to talk about. Crazy is contagious. It doesn’t necessarily breed its own brand of crazy, but I very much understand the concept of mass hysteria. Put one crazy person in a room with several relatively sane people, and most of them will be fucking nuts by the end of the day. 

I thought about cutting my wrists in the bathtub, but that would be a very scary way to be found by a family member. Besides, I didn’t know if my life insurance would pay off on suicide. So I had to make it look like an accident. Hence the stairs. I fully intended to throw myself down the stairs so hard that my skull would break, and I’d finally be free. No one can really bother you when you’re dead, right? So I pushed myself from the top of the stairs. 

You know how people who survive throwing themselves from the Golden Gate Bridge say that the second they let go, they regretted it? As I pitched forward, I regretted it. My survival instinct kicked in, and I grabbed the railing. I still went down the stairs, but it didn’t hurt all that much. My palm burned a little from holding onto the railing. But as I sat at the bottom of the stairs, I realized just how crazy I was. To top it all off, I have a bad left foot. The doctors wanted to amputate just under my knee, but my foot healed just well enough for me to keep it. If I hadn’t caught myself, I could have hurt my foot even worse. Imagine how stupid I would feel if I wrecked the foot even worse. 

I knew there was something wrong with me. I had to do something about it. I discussed the matter with a friend on Skype, and I finally decided to take myself to the ER as a suicide risk. Holy fuck, I wish I’d never done that. All things considered, it was a mistake. Because when I sat at the foot of the stairs, I realized how wrong I’d been to even consider ending my life. I was no longer a risk. But I thought it would be best to report to the ER anyway. 

Whoops. 

I went to the ER. I’ve been there so many times in my recent life, mostly for kidney failure, bacterial infections (one of which came from a bug bite on my stomach from sleeping in a trailer for the night), pancreatitis, gastroenteritis and other horrible maladies including a bunch of mystery illnesses. I answered all their questions before they could ask them. They triaged me, and it must have been a slow night because they got me a room immediately. 

The last time I’d been here was because of a massive pain in my stomach and a pukey disposition. There are only two things that can help me when I’m like that: Zofran and morphine. The ER doctor didn’t want to give it to me. I told her I was working on quitting drinking, and I wasn’t even lying at the time. I was tired of being ill all the time. My bathroom smells like vomit almost permanently. So she made me promise, and then she got me Zofran and morphine. 

As I settled into my ER room, that same doctor saw me. “Mr. Bruni! I thought we had an agreement.” 

“We do,” I said. “I’m here for something else this time.” 

“And that is?” She said this with an air that suggested that I was about to lie to her. 

“I tried to commit suicide,” I said. 

She immediately became much more understanding after that. The nurse took my blood and urine, just out of habit, I suppose. In the meantime they left me on my own for a while. I started getting bored. I’d brought three books with me, and I asked them if I could have them. “We can’t at this time, Mr. Bruni,” a nurse said. “We have you on suicide watch.” 

“I’m not going to do it,” I said. “I changed my mind when I was at the bottom of the stairs. I’m in this life for the long haul.” 

“Regardless, we can’t get your books.” 

Another nurse said, “We have some books kicking around here. I’ll see if I can find one for you.” 

He brought me a softcover book (because hardcover books, as I would soon learn, could be considered weapons). If memory serves, it was a Barbara Kingsolver book. I don’t remember the title. Not my cup of tea, but it was better than nothing. I started slogging my way through it. It was OK. Nothing special. 

It was about six in the morning, so they brought me something to eat and some coffee. I don’t like coffee, but it was the only caffeine I was likely to get for a while, so I drank it. It was bad enough being here because of the suicide attempt. I didn’t want to deal with caffeine withdrawals, too. Those headaches, I knew from experience, could cut through morphine. 

They moved me to another part of the ER, and they put me in a room where a nurse could watch me at all times. Suicide watch sucks, man. I don’t recommend being on the receiving end, ever. I got a bit sleepy and dozed on and off for a bit. And then the hospital shrink visited me. I’d seen him before. Several times. He usually preached to me a lot about quitting booze. Whenever I see him, I’m usually half out of it, anyway, but this time I was able to pay attention to the whole thing. 

“What if you’d had a gun?” he asked. “That would have been tragic.” 

“I don’t like guns,” I said. “That would have never happened.” 

Side note: never argue with a hospital shrink. They will take what-ifs and could-have-beens just as seriously as absolutes. I wonder what he would have thought if confronted with my college philosophy professor who hated the word “potential.” He would hold his empty hand out, palm up. “Right now I am potentially holding a sandwich,” he said. 

Yeah, the hospital shrink wouldn’t have dug that.

 He then gave the floor to the ER shrink. “We have to keep you under observation for a while,” she said. That sounded reasonable. I’d had extended stays in the hospital before. “So we’re going to give you a choice, Mr. Bruni. We have an ambulance standing by to take you to a psychiatric hospital, where they can look after you for a few days.” 

That did not sound good at all. 

“You have two choices,” she continued. “The first is, you voluntarily commit yourself to that hospital. There are perks that come with this choice. You are a lot more free than most others will be. You will also get to request a five-day, which is when you request for the administration to discharge you. They then have five days to decide if there is a reason to hold onto you. If no reason can be found, then you will be released. Now, the five days don’t count weekends or holidays, just so you know.” 

Well, isn’t that fucking swell? 

“The other choice is involuntary. I really don’t recommend this path. That’s when judges get involved, and you have very little say in the matter.” 

“I’m going with voluntary,” I said. No thought went into that one. Picking involuntary would have felt too much like drawing to an inside straight, which my old Pappy said I should never do. 

"As my old pappy used to say, never cry over spilled milk. It could have been whiskey."

“That’s good news,” the ER shrink said. “I’ll notify the paramedics, and they’ll be with you shortly. Just sign these papers first.” 

I wound up signing about twenty sheets of paper, all spelling out in great detail this very simple decision. About an hour later, the paramedics arrived and wheeled me to their ambulance. One of them saw that I’d been at the hospital for twelve hours. “Holy shit. What did you do that they needed you for twelve hours?” 

I shrugged. “I have no idea. But I assure you I’ll never do it again. Whatever it is.” 

He laughed. They drove me down Roosevelt Rd. and pulled into the [NAME REDACTED] Hospital parking lot. They wheeled me in and passed the security checkpoints. Only then did I realize that this was going to be more of a prison than a psych ward. Holy fuck, how fast can I put in my five-day? 

And then there is the portrait. Every psych ward and rehab has one of these. It’s a painting of whoever started this business venture. Usually, it’s a man wearing a priest’s collar. In this case it was a woman in a nun’s wimple. Ah fuck. I should have known. 

The paramedics took me to an office and helped me off the gurney. I thanked them for their help, and they wished me good luck. There a middle aged woman walked me into the office. She introduced herself as the admissions person. She wanted to ask a few questions, which I answered. She then handed me a folded piece of . . . something. I didn’t know what it was at first. 

“I’ll leave you alone so you can change into this.” 

I unfolded it, and it turned out to be a pair of paper pants. Yes, paper pants. Now I’m a big boy. Tall and wide. I hoped these were one-size-fits-all. They were just close enough. They rode up high on my ankles a bit, and they were tight at the waist and crotch, but they did the job. I would wear many pairs of these things over the course of my stay. Each of them split down the crotch, and they were only available in the morning. So if I was in group, I’d have to be very careful about how I sat down. Because there was this one time I saw another patient staring at the split. She laughed at my lightning fast reflexes in almost falling out of the chair while trying to cross my legs. 

Oh yeah. They don’t separate the genders. I thought that was weird, but what the hell? 

The admissions lady didn’t come back right away, so I wandered around, looking at the paintings on the wall. They didn’t impress me much except for one. It was a depiction of a forest in autumn. About twenty bare trees reached to the top of the frame backlit by a pale moon. You could see where the trees met the verdant ground, but they didn’t stop there. They dug deep toward the bottom of the frame like roots. I thought that I could very easily turn the painting upside down, and no one would notice. But it drew me in. 

She came back while I was looking at the painting, but she didn’t mention it. “Follow me.” 

She brought me to a rickety elevator. It was so bad that I actually felt nervous getting into it. I’m not one to fear elevators, but I felt a sense of danger getting into this one. You know how the worst elevators in the world are attached to parking garages? This one was ten times worse. 

She must have sensed my unease. “It’s under construction.” 

Okaaaaaaaaay. 

The elevator trembled and creaked and snapped its way up to the second floor, and I got my first glimpse of the nurse station and some of the people I’d be spending my time with. But I didn’t have time to observe much because she pushed me toward this room. 

“Wait here. Someone will be with you shortly.” 

She indicated a chair at a table, so I sat down. The paper pants stretched across my wide flat ass, and it bunched up in the crotch so badly I had to adjust myself. I then looked about the room. I think it was supposed to be meant for one-on-one doctor-patient meetings. Shrink central. One odd thing I noticed was that there was a map of the United States on the wall . . . but it wasn’t made out of borders or colors or anything. Each state was defined by the letters of its own name. Except Rhode Island. They had to settle for the tiniest RI I’ve ever seen. 

And then a young man walked into the room with . . . I’m not sure what it’s called. But we’ve all seen it. Well, those of us who go to doctors have, anyway. Every nurse wheels it in when they have you take a seat in the doctor’s office. This guy introduced himself as he took my temperature, my heart rate and my blood pressure with his wheelie thing. To pass the time, he asked questions. One was: “Where are you from?” 

“Elmhurst,” I said. 

“Really? I went to school there. Elmhurst College.” 

“Oh yeah? Me, too. Class of 2000.” 

He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I just graduated. I don’t know if you heard it, but they’re calling themselves Elmhurst University now.” 

Whoo-boy.

“I’d heard that.” In fact, the university had sent me countless emails letting me know. And I’ve seen street signs around town showing very clearly where the word “college” had been replaced with “university.” It was almost laughable. 

After he took my vitals, he asked me to take my clothes off. I thought it was a reasonable request, so I just started getting naked. He felt weird about it, though. Maybe it was his first day. I don’t know. But he needed to explain himself. 

"Do you like gladiator movies?"

“I just need to check you over for injuries.” 

“Understood.” I was almost completely naked before he finished the sentence.

 “Please spread your legs and hold your arms out to the side.” 

I did so. It made me feel like the time I took my car in to a body shop due to an accident. (It was me versus a high curb. No one got hurt except the car. I, uh, well, you know when you get a sneeze that turns into a double sneeze by surprise? That’s what happened to me, and I twisted the wheel into the curb by mistake.) When you do this, a guy goes around your car and marks off even the slightest scratch that clearly wasn’t part of the accident. This is so they can say with certainty, upon return of your vehicle, that it came in with that scratch. So I figure it was the same philosophy. 

His glance was a lot more cursory than these guys. “Cool. No scars.” 

He wrote this quickly, and before I could retort, as I have a lot of scars, he left the room. I understand missing some, like the ones on my knuckles from the time I punched a dude who hit his girlfriend, made by his freshly broken teeth. They’re small, though. And I have a huge scar under the hair on my head, but my hair is thick, and he couldn’t have seen it. There is a huge scar on my left forearm, though. It’s clear as day. There are a bunch of little scars on my left hand, but there is one big one on the wrist. Not from a suicide attempt, if that’s what you’re thinking (and considering this account so far, I wouldn’t blame you). I put my hand through a glass door once. My first stepmother was on the other side, pretending to be the Incredible Hulk and she was going to get me, so I pushed my hand against the glass door to keep her back. Whoops. 

"My body is a roadmap of pain."

And those are not my only scars. I have a lot more. We’d be here all day if I continued. And then there is the fact that I am missing a fucking toe on my right foot. This guy had to be in a hurry or very embarrassed to find himself looking at a naked middle-aged man to miss that one. 

I got dressed and sat back down, waiting. And then the next guy came in. The doctor. And wow. This fuckin’ guy . . .

TO BE CONTINUED!

Yeah, this is the actual Spader quote. In my defense I was high last night, all right?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #387: TALES FROM THE PSYCH WARD PROLOGUE

 

I remember when I first got out of the psych ward I told people the only fiction that came close to the reality was One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and the only reason it fell short was because there weren't enough crazy people in it. I stand by that to this day.

I fucked up last weekend. I like to say that I'm never embarrassed like Spader on The Office, but what happened a week ago I felt red in the face about. I found myself, much to my shame, lying to a friend about it, pretending it didn't happen. That's unfor-fucking-givable. I regret it. That's why I don't delete posts on social media (unless it makes friends fight each other, in which case I will shut that shit down, no exceptions). I said these things. While I might not stand by them anymore, I said them. To delete them would also be unfor-fucking-givable.

But tomorrow I start to serialize my psych ward journal. It was written more or less in the moment. There are a few tweaks you'll notice that I added after. Ordinarily this goes against the principle of Goodnight, Fuckers. I write these things just before I go to sleep in an attempt to exorcise my mind of thoughts that would keep me awake. But GF is also my journal. I used to journal every night. I fell off when my alcoholism got to be too much, but then I started writing these things, and I realized that this substituted journaling. So yeah. What you're about to read tomorrow is a journal of the lowest point in my life.

Which is actually very embarrassing. I show my ass a lot in this thing, and it's not pleasant for me. But in rereading this I remembered how shitty my time on the psych ward was and how I never want to go back. And maybe, just maybe, what I post will help someone.

Remember when AHS Asylum started airing? I mentioned something on social media about how my biggest fear was being sent to a psych ward against my own will. Well, my fear came true, sorta. And you'll get to read all about it.

So yeah. Brace yourself. The next few days is me opening my veins and bleeding all over this blog.

Figuratively. For fuck's sake, don't tell anyone I said that. Jesus.

"I'm never embarrassed."

Negan is my hero.