Six months have passed since my incident on the ferry. My
shirt still has a hole in it, but the more I think about it, the more I believe
that the hole has always been in my shirt.
I place the blame of this self-doubt squarely on my
therapist.
Who also placed me in an institution…
After I was adamant that someone is trying to kill me.
The pills they have me on mess with my head and my bowel
movements. Some are for depression, and some are for neuro-chemical
rebalancing. I am in a small room with an uncomfortable bed, too soft a pillow
and scratchy blankets. I am not trusted with writing implements, plastic water
cups, or even to take a shower in private. My room is also equipped with my own
personal webcam, straight to the nurses’ station. I try to entertain them
occasionally with one-line out bursts of Shakespeare.
As revenge for this hostile environment, I don’t shower.
I’m not sure how they expect someone to get healthy in this
type of environment. If you aren’t mentally deranged coming into the third
floor psyche, you will be going out. If you get out, that is.
On a plus side, I have had three episodes. One with a dog
running in a road and me, as a boy, running into the road to save the dog from
getting hit by a texting teenage driver. The boy’s leg was run over, but the
dog was ok.
The second episode was a suicide jumper on Deception Pass
Bridge in the middle of the night. The teenage boy, perhaps thirteen, was a
runaway after his twin brother was hit by a car. Getting hit by cars seemed to
be a theme. In it, I “self-talked” him off the bridge and hitch-hiked his way
home. He was picked up by a police officer, and the episode ended.
The last episode was the night before last. Dinner was being
served by a dad, or father figure, to two kids. I was one of the kids. A girl
this time. The dad had put a turkey casserole on the table but had forgotten
utensils. He asked his kids to wait, but a brother, older, stuck his fingers
into the casserole and took a big bite. He swallowed quickly, and the food got
lodged in his throat. I, as the younger sister, performed the Heimlich maneuver,
sending the turkey and spit across the dining room onto the other wall.
On all three occasion, the “episode of neurotic and
schizophrenic behavior” was countered with a quick shot of sedation, followed
up with new pills.
[][][]
I am having a one on one discussion with my therapist, and
my mind has trailed off again to the ferry ride, to my first episodes as a
child, eating cereal in my parent’s kitchen. Ten years ago, this all started,
and I thought it ended.
I know someone is trying to kill me, and that these episodes
are real. I am helping people (or dogs in some cases) live their lives, saving
them one episode at time.
“Are you listening to me Mr. Bargrey?” The therapist is
trying to get my attention again. I snap my attention to her. “Do you still
believe that someone is trying to kill you? Do you believe that these dreamlike
episodes you are having are real?”
I pause and smile.
“I think the drugs are working, and these therapy sessions
have really helped,” I say.
“You have had three episodes in the time you have been here.
And your charts say that you are refusing to shower or socialize with the other
patients. Re-entering society calls for at least some formality of hygiene and etiquette.
Your behavior doesn’t show that you really believe what you are saying.”
I look at the door, and the closed camera, and smile.
“Have you ever spent time, a considerable amount of time, in
this place?” I ask.
“No, I can’t say that I have,” she replies.
“I would love for you to stay here, for as long as I have,
without a means of artistic expression,
crayon or pencil, no media, no stimuli
whatsoever save for the white colored walls and the acoustic ceiling panels,
counting every crevice and dot over and over and over again, while nurses,
women and men, watch you relieve your bowels, and wash yourself to ensure that
you don’t commit suicide via swirly in the toilet, or hanging by shower curtain,
while listening to Joanna, the next room over, who swears that there are cats
under her bead ever hour of the night… and tell me… honest to God in Heaven
tell me! that you wouldn’t go a little insane.”
She pauses and jots some notes down on my chart and then
puts it down. She folds her hands and
leans closer to me.
“Mr. Bargrey, do you honestly believe your life is in mortal
danger? That these episodes you are having are real.”
“I do not believe my life is danger, or that the episodes I
have are real. But I would love some to keep me from dealing with this place.”
She picks up my chart and makes a few more notations.
“I will have you discharged in the morning Mr. Bargrey,” she
smiles. “Try not to let the cats keep you up all night.”
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