So
here’s the deal.  Approximately 3 weeks
ago, I started feeling extremely depressed.
My grandmother had just passed a few weeks prior to that, and I’ll
admit, like a teenager with little to no coping schools, (which is essentially,
what I am at this point in my life),
I took to cutting.  They threatened me
with the hospital.  I bullshitted my way
out of it.  I left the doctor’s office
feeling smug.....

            Another
week passed.  My mother and I got into a
heated argument.  She made a comment that
maybe I should look into Section 8 housing, because she could easily rent my
room out for $700 a month.  Furious, I
decided to go to the park with my Chihuahua, Jade Marie, and take some
pictures.....

            When
I got home, her and my brother where heading out, and she wouldn’t tell me
where.  I stormed into the kitchen,
grabbed my week’s supply of pills out of the holder, and shoved them into my
hand.  I held then in my fist, and
threatened to take them.  She called
911.  Shortly after, Mr. Po-lice man
showed up and even shorter after that, I found myself in the ER.....

            Once
at the ER, I basically acted like a bitch.
I figured, “Hey, they want to treat me like a crazy bitch, I’m going to
act like one!”, and that’s exactly what I did, including chucking broccoli at
the ceiling, and then when that got old, I started throwing it at the crucifixes.....

            While
there, I also decided to call Rob, this guy I had been seeing for about 3
months.  I explained to him where I was,
and why.  He was rather unsympathetic,
and seemed disgusted, which made me really, really wish I hadn’t told him, or
told him I was there for another reason entirely.   He
ended our conversation quickly, and I had a bad feeling about it.....

            After
hours of screaming my head off at the emergency room, I finally got the medical clearance to go to APS, (Acute Psychiatric
Services) to be screened by a psychiatrist.
The ambulance came around 6am.  I
waved to the staff at the ER, and bid them goodbye with a loud “Later, Idiots!”
(A reference to a fairly obscure cartoon about an alcoholic, suicidal crow). ....

            Upon
arriving at APS, I was sweet as anything to the clinicians, and after being
given some cookies, a grilled cheese sandwich, and some very much needed sleep,
I was send home finally.  This was Sunday
morning.....

            Sunday,
all I did was sleep, and recover from Saturday’s fiasco, and Monday was pretty
much the same thing.  (Screaming one’s
head off all night is more draining then one would think).  By Tuesday, I began to wonder why I hadn’t
heard from Rob.  Not a phone call, not an
email, not an IM, nothing.  He hadn’t
even responded to any of my IM’s.  Then
Tuesday night, I got an email from his brother, basically saying that he had
picked up some “scary” girl in the city, and they’d been holed up in his room
since Sunday night.  (Rob’s MySpace page
later confirmed his brother’s entire story).....

            Used,
pissed, exploited, devastated, crushed.
None of these are good enough to describe house I was feeling.  Everything I did for this asshole!  All the time I spent driving out to Long
Island to see him, all the money I spent out there ON him, all of the jewelry I
sold…for peanuts, gone…all gone.....

            By
Thursday night, I’d had it.  I just that at
this point, the world was just fucking mocking me.  What more could it do or take from me?  It took my grandmother, it took what little
faith in God I had left, and I thought I had this great guy, but that turned
out to be a punch in the fucking jaw.....

            After
all this, I basically felt like standing in a field screaming, “Just fucking
TAKE me, Jesus! What more is LEFT for you to take FROM me, just fucking KILL me
already! STOP toying with me!”  I’m
REALLY not trying to have a pity
party, but you could probably feed a family of 6 on Saint Patty’s Day with the
corned beef like over salted wound upon my flesh.....

            However,
I digress.   So after all of these
proverbial lighten bolts being aimed directly at my fucking head, I gave up.  It was either grab that fistful of pills, or
sign myself into the hospital.  I chose
to sign myself in.....

            Friday
morning, my mother drove me to the all too familiar APS, where I was quickly
checked in, and escorted upstairs.    Upstairs to start the beginning of the rest
of my life.....

            The
days go by both fast and slow in a drug induced haze in a psyche ward.  I very much liken it to being it in a fishbowl.  The place is brimming with under stimulated
goldfish.  Every so often, they tap the
sides of our glass, give us a little stimulation, and momentarily make us stop
bumping into each other.  3 times a day,
they drop some flakes in, and feed us.
Then there’s smoke breaks.  Smoke
breaks are when they actually turn on the bubbles, and the little treasure
chest opens up.....

For the most part, however, we were a
school of stupid, under stimulated goldfish.
....

            Our
days were, for the most part, filled with groups.  We had a few types of groups, I loathed all
of them.  Useless, grade school, “I will
learn to love myself, because I’m perfect just the way God made me!” type
bullshit.  The first group of the day was
“Goal setting”, where we would go around the room, and say what our goal was
for the day.   I wanted so badly to
scream, “I’M STUCK IN A FUCKING CRACKER JACK BOX!? WHAT IN THE HAPPY FUCK IS MY
FUCKING GOAL SUPPOSED TO BE, OTHER THEN SCORE SOME FUCKING ADAVAN, TAKE A
SHOWER, AND SLEEP AWAY THE MONATANY OF THIS PLACE???”  However, instead, I would put down either, “sleep”
or things like “take over the world, conquer a new civilization, and scratch me
arse”.  Oh GOD, I hated the goal settling
groups.  ....

            We
also had Nursing Education Groups.  Nursing
education was another one of my most loathed groups.  Essentially, what is consisted of was a 20
year old Video put out by Lilly, Pfizer, or Glaxzo Smith Klein, (yeah, the drug
companies).  The nurses would subject us
to this horrid, 45 minute, 20 year old, infomercial baby sitter, while they hid
in the nursing station, and ate their lunches, and laughed at us from behind
the glass wall.  (Once again, stupid,
under stimunlated goldfish).....

            Weekend
groups where always lots and lots of fun.
(Insert sarcastic retarded laughing here.  Feel free to clap your hands like said retard if you’d like
too).  They would be nice, and let us “sleep
in”, and whole extra hour later until
7:30, wow wee! Then, the rest of the day, we’d have more of those stupid “goal”
setting groups.  Really, I reiterate, how
many bloody goals can ONE HAVE in a place like that?  I mean what? Find a NEW bloody wall to stare
at blankly, and not get eyestrain?....

            At
night, we’d have recreational group.
Recreation would be…..drum roll please….Karefuckingoeke.  Seriously!
Karaoke! In a mental ward.  I don’t
know what kinds of drugs the recreation staff were smoking or snorting, or
shooting when they decided that Karaoke would be a GOOD idea in a nuthouse, but
hell, I’m willing to trade in my NA chips for some of that shit!  I’ll put it to you this way, It’s painful
enough to hear a group of drunken frat boys belt out 80’s Bon Jovi every
summer, now imagine a 55 year old, morbidly Obese manwoman, in a miniskirt,
hair in ratty pigtails, drenched in knock of Chanel, braless boobs bouncing off
her knees warbling out Celion Dion.
Yeah, thought so.  Hoodies are a
wonderful thing.  I lived in mine,
pulling the hood tight around my head, trying to drown out whatever of the
horrible noises I could.....

            Entertainment
was limited in our little aquarium.
Meals came to us, if you were “good”, you got to leave the unit for a
smoke break.  Four breaks, 15 minutes
long.  Most of us  sucked down
our cigarettes like ravenous beasts, smoking 3 cigarettes at a clip in our 15
minute allotment.  Sure, the nicotine
made us sick, but we had to “stockpile” it.
Who knew when we were going to get our next smoke.  The nurses may forget to take us down, it
could rain, we could say the wrong thing, and they could take away our next
break.  Who knew.  We weren’t taking ANY chances.....

            I
chose to sleep in between breaks and smoke breaks.  It helped pass the time.  Made the day go by A LOT quicker.  Of course I didn’t become one of those freaks
who stopped showering.  I DID shower
every day.....

            Personal
hygiene is something I battled with there.
Others seem to have forgotten that a daily shower that a daily changing
of clothing is essential, and filled their personal space bubbles with stink venom!....

            The
first night there, when I took a shower, I realized I left my trusty foam flip
flops at home, so my thoughts of “dorming it” where thwarmped.  I decided instead to MacGyver a bathmat a
towel.....

            Gingerly
I opened the doorway to the bathroom, afraid of what I would find, but still optimistic.  I turned the light on.  “You got to be fucking kidding me” I signed out
loud to the surrounding horrors of filth.
The bathroom smelled strongly of piss and bleach.   How that’s even possible evades me.  Nasty, moldy towels where piled on the
floor.  There where stray pubes left on
the sides of the tub, pee and fecal matter swimming in the pee splattered
toilet, and apparently, the Anti-Suicide Velcro shower curtain got lazy, and
decided that life was only half worth living, as it only half hanged it’s self
from the ceiling.  The nurses summoned a
cleaning lady to clean up the filth, and I decided that it MUST be better
now.  So with my little Mcgyver’d shower
mat, I stepped in, thinking, “Ok, not so bad, not so bad, doing good, just kind
of hurry up here, nothing too traumatic”.....

            It
had to happen then.  Right after not only I had my false sense
of security, but also after I was thoughly soaped up with my patchouli body
wash.  My Anti-Suicide Shower curtain
decided it REALLY liked the smell of hippie, I guess, and it STUCK to me, assaulting
me with all of its unsightly loony bin germs!
For the first few seconds, I just stood there, mouth open, with a
curtain stuck to me, then I started crying, and then screaming, and  got it off me.  Then I turned the water on as hot as it would
get, and started scrubbing.  They don’t MAKE
water hot enough for that.  ....

            When
I tried to brush my teeth, the sink wouldn’t drain, and the nasty water almost
touched my toothbrush.  Between the
water, not being able to shave, and being assaulted by a shower curtain COATED
with soap scum and god only knows what else, I’ll promptly being making an
appointment to get tested for every blood borne and airborne pathogen I can
think of.....

            Thus
ends my tales of the nut house.  Really,
it’s NOT as interesting as the movies make it out to be, and I don’t recommend anyone
go, unless they really are depressed, or really are thinking of offing themselves.  Being stripped on your freedom, and being
stripped of your rights, and being treated like nothing better than an under
stimulated feeder fish sucks.  It’s
dehumanizing, horrible, mind fucking, and after only 12 days of being in there, I rather find myself
looking over my shoulder, and cringing.

            It’s
been almost 12 hours since I’ve been released from that wretched place.  With every experience, one MUST take with
them a lesson, otherwise, they really are just existing.  They are not
living.  The lessons I have
learned in the hospital have been several.
I am by no means “cured”, and my shit is still scattered in a million
places over Kentucky and New Jersey, and my soul still searches somewhere over
this plan of being, and the one my grandmother now lives in, however that being
said, I physically dwell in new Jersey.
I have a mother and brother who love me.
Why I never saw that fact before, or why I chose to ignore it is beyond my comprehension, and perhaps that
piece in and of its self is one of the missing pieces I need to search out, and
find.  My grandmother’s passing was far
beyond my control, but given my emotional frailties, my reactions where “normal”,
and I don’t beat myself up for the societal perceived falter.  I will grieve her death at my own pace, and I
will NOT let anyone tell me how fast or how slow I should move, it’s my heart,
and it’s my decision.

                Admittedly, the thing that
really sent me flying off the deep end was Rob.
However, without  that, I would
not have gotten out of a bad situation, and I would have not have agreed
to be hospitalized.  I needed this.  I needed this swift kick in the ass to make
me appreciate what I have, and make me face me emotions instead of hiding from
them, or covering them up with weed.   
So, thanks.  No, really, Thanks,
Asshole.  For once in your life, you’ve
actually done something good for someone else.
Kudos. ....