Get These Off Me!
Finding yourself in a mental hospital makes you think your life has ended, you have it the worst. That is, until you look around and meet other patients. Then maybe you’ll feel better about yourself with a hint of guilt.
I had a mental breakdown after escaping an abusive relationship with my boyfriend, sorry, now it’s ex-boyfriend, the doctors and nurses make sure I remember it correctly. After overdosing on painkillers, I ended up as an inpatient for an undefined time. Thinking that I might spend this hell knows how long time productively, I gave in to the medication and let the doctors try to fix me. Not that I was broken, they said. Yeah, then why am I even here?
Anyway, I took my meds, I went to group therapy, I did everything required of me. Despite my best efforts at the moment, it seemed like I’m not getting better, what’s more, as time went by, I felt myself reaching new layers of hell.
One day I was feeling especially blue when I went to my group session right after breakfast. I couldn’t eat a bite, even though today’s meal was pancakes with maple syrup; my throat just seemed extremely tight. Our mentor of course, pointed it out right away, bringing all attention to me. Great. It’s not enough that I’m a wreck, everyone had to see how much of a wreck I am; I hope they felt better about themselves. Somehow, I dodged all her questions and she let it slide in a few minutes.
I’m sure everyone has worse days, waking up just like that, like on that day you’re expecting the four horsemen of the apocalypse to knock on your door and unleash hell upon Earth. We all handle it differently; as for me, I incline to turn silent and suffer in peace. Others just scream. I sometimes hear them on the corridor or in the courtyard during free-time. I don’t mind it, if it helps them, let them be. However, that day as I was wondering how many shitty days one can endure during a period of lifetime, I thought I’ve seen every coping mechanism, every worse state, every ugly outbreak of every mad mind; that day I learned I was wrong.
Fred told everyone how he was feeling oh, so much better, he was ready to go home and stop taking his meds. So, this week he was fine; it happened to him about every other week, when he would tell everyone how his place is somewhere else, anywhere but a mental asylum, then the next week he would get into a bottomless slump, not talking to anyone. Angela scoffed to his words, but this just brought attention to her, and now she had to share; she wasn’t happy about that. She said she was as fine as ever, still not understanding why they were keeping her here, when clearly, she had no problems at all, she can eat whenever she wants, she just doesn’t want to. A back-and-forth broke out between Fred and Angie, that had to be broken up by our mentor in a minute, urging them to consider each other’s feelings more.
Next, Aisha was talking about her progress about dealing with her twin’s death. Poor woman, she and her twin sister has been by each other’s side since conception, and a few months ago police officers shot Sheila while she went grocery shopping. Aisha let her go alone, and ever since that day she’s been self-destructive, blaming herself, saying she should’ve gone with her, like always. But she hadn’t felt well, so she stayed at home. Damn, I get her, I’d feel awful too. But now she says she feels better. I hope it’s not just the meds talking. Aisha showed a faint smile, but instantly froze along with everyone in the group.
Inhuman screams came from the room next door, and soon it was followed by staff shouting to each other, for patients to go to their rooms. The whole cacophony seemed to get louder, making me shiver as realization hit: they were getting closer and closer.
The mentor jumped up and ran to the door, looking outside through the small window on it. A few of us followed her, and I hate to admit it, but my morbid curiosity got the better of me: I found myself standing at the door too, looking at the small crowd on the corridor.
Nurses and doctors in white formed a circle around someone, trying to calm and overpower them. The person in the middle shrieked, punched and kicked, putting up a fight that needed seven opponents to make it fair.
Then we saw red. More yelling, red tainting the white uniforms, screams and cries that haunt me still. Our mentor was just as confused as we were frightened, but she held herself together just enough to appear only slightly disturbed and she made sure we don’t go outside and remain calm.
She was just about to turn to us and lead us back to our seats when I got a glimpse of the person bleeding, and the shouting formed the words ’Get these off me!’ It was… The person was clawing at their chest, tearing their breasts off their own body with bare hands; even the short nails dig into the skin and flesh like blades, creating gashes and oh, so much blood. The screaming continued but my vision blurred. I was escorted back to my seat and the next thing I noticed is a nurse coming into the room after who knows how much time went by in a haze, her uniform stained with browning smears, whispering to the mentor and then leaving.
She weighted her options for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and explained. She said that in her opinion it’s better if she informs us rather than leaving us to our imagination and gossips.
The patient on the corridor is a trans man, driven mad by society and his own family. He wasn’t allowed transition, because his parents believed that he’s mentally ill. What we witnessed was one of his worse moments.
