Clandestine Confessions

The nurse would show me my room.
The bathroom door to the left immediately upon entering.
My bed – just a mattress on a raised wooden platform – pushed along the wall in the corner.
The stain matching the wooden desk (turned makeshift closet) and chair beside it.
Identical furniture in the opposite corner – pajamas laying on the unmade bed, signifying the presence of another occupying this space with me.
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Sparse memories I would have of this space – the two times over the course of the three weeks I would meet with Dr. Levine.
Squeezing me into ten minutes of his day.
Me trepidatiously on the bed, feet curled up close to my chest.
Him cross legged in the chair he dragged away from the desk closer to the door, clipboard on his lap.
The sun shining through the window making the bracelet all the more prominent.
My eyes gravitating back to the symbols – still determined to decipher what it said.
“How are you?”
“Are you eating?”
“Why are you not eating?”
“Have you seen your family?”
Onto the physical examination.
“Breathe deep…follow my light…lay down…let me know if anything hurts…get up.”
Scribbled a few notes in my chart.
“I am putting in an order for them to increase your medication.”
And then off he would go.
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The 4AM wakeup calls to put lidocaine patches on the crook of my elbow.
Now stuck in the same position for the next couple of hours before they would come in to draw blood.
Unable to fall back asleep as my mind began pacing in preparation for the day ahead.
I told them I was okay to not be numbed – the pain was nothing to me.
I have done this a thousand times without.
They refused.
And so this routine continued every morning.
How insomnia and I were introduced – still acquaintances today…
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The nurse coming in to “tuck” me into bed.
Asking me questions about my day.
Acting as if she did not spend the last few hours emotionally tearing me apart through accusations and cruelty.
Rubbing my feet and back without permission to touch me – surprise coming over her face as I flinched with her touch.
Reading to me a booklet on emotional regulation and “good” behavior.
Reminding me once again how much harm I was doing to others by not eating to get attention – utterly oblivious to the reason this disorder existed within me.
The ignorance of this nurse the second greatest detriment to me during this time.
I immediately put on my headphones as she exited the room.
Attempting to escape the pain the safest way I could.
And yet, I would still silently cry myself to sleep – muffling the sobs in the rough white blanket as to not wake my roommate.
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The tour continued of the rest of the ward.
The gathering room – where we would spend most of our time confined.
Prohibited from being anywhere alone outside of bedtime – but even then, we were being watched on the cameras.
Booth style seating all along one wall and then halfway on the adjacent – a built in table and seating halting the continuation.
The turquoise vinyl “cushions” I can still feel on my skin.
Their unwelcoming sound a continual trigger – still to this day opting for a chair over booths at restaurants.
The place a possessor of Saturday movie nights (if earned), group therapy, visiting hours, recreation time, and the most agony filled conversations I would hear in my lifetime.
The stories of children begging to be saved, to be seen, for someone to help stop their minds from tormenting them to death…literally.
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The classroom down the hall.
Where we would spend a couple hours two days out of the week.
Watching “educational” movies – “The Lorax” somehow making the list – while doing math worksheets and answering riddles.
“Is there a fourth of July in England?”
“A butcher is 5’10”. What does he weigh?”
“What fills up a room but never takes up any space?”
“What has lots of teeth, but cannot bite?”
Upon correctly answering all, the teacher leaned down at my desk and whispered, “why are you here?”
Heavy emphasis on the last word – drawing out the e’s.
Stressing that he was not wanting me to answer with a diagnosis but the true story of how a brain like mine tangled itself so tightly in this web of self destruction.
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The courtyard where we would sometimes do team building exercises (weather permitting).
One might think this would be ultimate mayhem – putting girls and boys of all different age ranges and emotional stability in one setting together to solve problems.
But in all honesty, I have worked in more chaotic settings…
It was the only time most of us laughed.
Bonding over the lunacy of what was being asked of us – tasks completely irrelevant to helping us cope in the real world.
These insane activities gifting us with the privilege of peace as we were forced out of the prison of our minds in order to end the spectacle as soon as possible.
Many times my uncle offered us assistance – whispering the solution on the sidelines as he watched us all suffer through the problem solving.
Occasionally my favorite day nurse, the one who I would name a Build A Bear after right after my discharge, would let me eat my snack at the picnic table in this same area.
Her empathy my saving grace.
I clung to her kindness tightly – my glimmer of light in an ever-darkening world.
I still have the card she gave me the day I left with her phone number on it.
“If ever you just need someone to listen…”
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And then there was the dining area.
Never would a place fight so hard to define me as this room would…