Thursday, January 19, 2017

The nightmare is fully realized and coincides precisely with reality.

The psychiatric hospital.   The pod is accessed by double doors.  A short hallway from the double doors leads to a common area and the central nurse station.  On that hallway to the right is  a room and on the left is a door to somewhere.   Major events, well, sort of major events would happen in that room and behind that door.  From the common area and nurses station another hallway heads off in the opposing direction of the entrance hallway.  On the left side of that hallway are class rooms on the other side are rooms for the occupants of which I was one.
In the common area is, of course, a TV which, of course is on. . . all the time.   There are the things one would expect in this room things used to pass the time, the TV of course, a shelf with board games and jigsaw puzzles, institutional chairs and couches.  The predominant colors of the room are pastel orange, yellow, and avocado green.  In one of the walls there is a little cubby with a phone, a land line phone.  That morning, anytime someone was not using it, I was.  Once again, all to no avail.  I started giving up after lunch.
I think I actually remember wondering what she was telling the kids.  I think I was wondering just, “What was she doing?  Please just get me the fuck out of here” was mostly what was going through my head.  I still wasn’t quite accepting of my situation yet.
Like I said, I signed up for classes.   I am thinking they might have to do with anger management.  I would eventually learn that one does not manage anger.   In my case when anger was present it reigned supreme.  I had yet to learn this though and it wouldn’t happen here.  I think some of the classes dealt with the “12 steps.”  Most people seemed to go to the classes as something to do, something to pass the time.  Me I went to the classes because I wanted to show them that I wanted to learn – learn how to not be there.  Just a heads up here but there is no class or number of classes or any type of education or knowledge that could have ever prevented from doing what I did.
Being the introvert that I am I really didn’t interact with any of the other patients/inmates.   I don’t think anybody there was really having a good time.  I remember there were a number of people that were severely depressed.  The following is from the category, “I thought they stopped doing that in the 1930’s” These people were so depressed that they underwent Electoconvulsive shock therapy also known as EST or EcST.  Look it up.  It’s real.  They stick something in your mouth to prevent you from swallowing your tongue and then they shock the living shit out of you.  I am sure there is more to it but I will just leave it at that.  These people seemed very very flat to me.  Almost no animation and no emotion and talked in a monotone.  But what the hell they weren’t depressed.  One guy swore by it.  I think he may have been in there for his ninth time?   The guy said something to the effect of, “Fuck the 12 steps, EcST is the way to go.”  It actually made me think that it might be for me too.  That thought evaporated fairly quickly though.
The 12 steps were talked about a lot both in the classes and in general conversation.  This is where I learned the 12 steps were actually only six at first and they came from a group that called themselves the Oxford Group.  I didn’t believe a word that guy said.
So I spent all of Tuesday and all of Wednesday there taking the classes and thinking, “I just need to get the fuck out of here.”  By Wednesday morning the obsession with wanting to call my wife to get me out of here had passed.  I knew it wasn’t going to happen.  What had taken it’s place was resolve.   It was probably on Wednesday that I found out I would be talking to a psychiatrist on Thursday, Thanksgiving day 2005.  I also found out my wife would be coming to visit me Thursday as well.

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