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Inpatient Impressions

Drew Marshall

    Upon completing the paperwork, I had to surrender my belt, forcing me to constantly hold up my pants, with my left hand. Shoelaces, were also requested. Without laces, sneakers don’t stay on your feet. Sweat socks, were next on the list. They were replaced by something paper-thin, which barely reached my ankles.
    Once the staff had determined, I was somewhat articulate, not seriously disturbed or violent, (at that moment) they agreed with me, that the situation was degrading.
    Standing guard are strategically placed, video cameras. They warn of any wrongdoing. The inhabitants hidden here, in this unsafe harbor, are a menace to propriety. The madhouse mirrors are blinding, and can only see what’s in front of them, not beyond.
    The light switch was not inside the room. It was on the wall, in the hallway, next to the door. A speck of light came through a small window. It is darker, than I would imagine hell to be. My fellow inmate, slept. That is, I thought, he was sleeping. When I switched the light on, he suddenly sprang out of his comatose state, screaming; “SHUT THAT LIGHT. I’M TRYING TO SLEEP!”
    I have been in a year long, suicidal depression. The only reason I’m still walking this earth, was due to my fourteen-year-old shepherd-lab. Brando, is being boarded at my vet, in a cage, that is too small for him.
    I must wait until their clocks told the administrators; it was time for the morning meal. I am my age in fears, several months, before the mid-century mark. We are the results of our evasions.
    I found myself looking down the breakfast table, at all these fatalities. Could I become another of these shredded souls, warehoused, hidden away, in an, eternal limbo? Would I become part of the population, doomed, to pace forgotten hallways, in a wounded sanctuary for malcontents?
    I accepted the fact that my life was over. I murdered my faith. Now, I must pay for my fate. It is no surprise, I now reside, at my current transient home, the debtors prison of the mind.
    A few hours earlier, I had been strapped down on a gurney, surrounded by strangers. I had never felt so useless, or helpless in my entire life.
    The doctor assigned to my case, remained expressionless and remote, throughout our interview. I was not confident, that I had been left in good hands.
    You appear to want to suck my mind, but it’s absolutely dry. No cells or original thoughts, left. If those are the results you’re after, I am ahead of you in that department. I am the poet’s fist. I don’t need facts or statistics.
    I continued having difficulty, focusing on the moment. I observed the denizens of this outcast outpost, in our demented desert. They are my fellow refugees from reality. I hold onto a shredding veneer, of awareness. I am void of all alibis, seeking shelter, under the trees of pity.
    I overheard pieces of conversations. Several in this group were not strangers to the ward. They knew the routines inside and out. One young man was very generous in sharing his word salad, to everyone within earshot. He stated, in a calm tone, before he started weeping, “Snow buries fire over heaven.”
    Everyone was expected to attend all scheduled meetings and activities. You must be aware of your surroundings, and participate in the groups. This would show the doctors, that you were ready to be discharged, when the time came.
    While waiting for the start of the awareness group, I observed these escapees from sanity, while trying to ignore them, at the same time. There were about two dozen of us, ethnically mixed, including several females.
    The matronly woman kept emphasizing the need to report any changes in thoughts or feelings, which may result in inappropriate behavior, for themselves or others. We must always comply with the doctors instructions. Always maintain all medication regimens, keep all clinical appointments. Despite the fact, that she must have given this speech a thousand times, she seemed very warm and concerned for our well-being.
    Sitting next to me was a younger, intense, bearded man. He exuded a menacing, burned-out, charisma. He seemed like an angry, homeless, person, who was dragged here, kicking and screaming all the way. His hostility was palpable.
    Here I was, on the oblivion borderline, surrounded by ravaged minds. These stunted mortals, comprised, the armies of the forgotten. They marched, in this shut-ins; jamboree, down Exile Road. Were they abandoned by law, or by love? Here, time has no memory.
    At the termination of the meeting, this doomed, derelict, jumped from his seat, shouting;” YOU ARE WASTING MY TIME. YOU ARE KEEPING ME FROM MY ADDICTIONS!” The social worker reprimanded him, about shouting. He began cursing, under his breath.
    As I got up, my eyes caught his. They were an incandescent, blue. He glared at me and I froze. This forsaken traveler had a laser like stare, which seared through me. I was smothered with his rage.
    We were then instructed, to fold the chairs, and put them up, against the walls. It was now time for “social interaction”. For the next sixty minutes, we existed, aimlessly, for the allotted time, in the assigned, space.
    Tonight’s activity was Bingo. Some seemed to find this exciting, most were indifferent, others, oblivious. I found myself at the end a long table. The conductor of tonight’s group activity, sat to my immediate right.
    During our third game, a balding, senior, sitting no more than three feet in front of me, jumped up. He pointed his finger at me. “HE WON! HE WON BINGO! HE’S NOT TELLING ANYONE. HE’S CHEATING!” He repeated his belief, several times.
    I tried to regain my composure, while looking at the bingo card. I turned towards the staff member. She handed me a small, plastic, child’s toy. I put my hand out and offered it, to this disturbed mind, encased, in a human body. With lightning speed, he grabbed it from my hand. A happy child with his candy, he sat back down. Thank you was not in his vocabulary. That ended this evening’s bingo session, and my first full day, at this resort, hideaway.
    These unfortunates were definitely dancing on an underground porch. Their brains banished, to the back stairs, of their thoughts. The disease bids, high here, and rarely, loses.
    I was only sure about one thing. From the moment I landed on this foreign soil, I wanted to escape. Suicide was no longer part, of my waking thoughts.

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