Speaking isn’t the easiest thing to do when you’d rather be dead at the bottom of the deepest ocean. Because let’s face it, when its come down to the point where your therapist has to drive you to the hospital against your own will because you were too honest during a session, the last thing you want to do is open your mouth to answer any doctor’s questions ever again. But the damage had been done, and I had just spent a night in the ER, getting my vitals checked every hour on the hour, and bombarded with questions about my current state of mind.
I was a fool to think that was it—that I’d paid my dues and was free to go home after that long, sleepless, night; because next thing I knew, I was put in a wheel chair and wheeled up to North6—the psychiatric ward. My life flashed before my eyes the moment those doors unlocked and opened, and the only thing my lame mind was able to muster up in that moment was the image of Brittany Murphy hoarding chickens under her bed in the film Girl, Interrupted (1999). But once I lifted my head enough to really see what I was about to face, I saw doors, many doors, that only made me fear what was behind them even more.
I was finally allowed out of the unnecessary wheelchair and walked the few steps it took to get to the first room on the left, which I later found out was used as the classroom and visitors room at dinner time. That’s where I was introduced to a lady that asked all the hard questions. She looked like Barbra Jean from the sitcom Reba (2001-2007), and had a nub for a hand. I didn’t think much of her until she started asking if I had pooped every morning I entered the classroom.
I didn’t see any of the other patients until I was seated on a couch outside the examination room. A girl who walked funny, and I later found out had developed involuntary movement problems after taking anti-depressants. She was taken to the psych floor after telling a nurse she wanted to kill herself while on the medical floor, but she was lying… she just wanted attention, or so she told me.
Once in the examination room I was on my own— my parents were told to leave and I was told to strip down to nothing. The Barbra Jean look-a-like was in the room when another employee on the floor examined me, and when she saw me unclothed she remarked at how my hip bones protruded out from my skin because I was “too thin”. And then again remarked about how thin I was when they made me squat (part of some protocol) and my bones cracked loudly. The examiner’s name was Jessica. She always looked irritated, and when Barbra Jean asked about the scars on my body she looked at one she had on her forearm and glided a finger over it, which makes me believe she may have done it once herself.
Once the traumatizing pat down was over and I was allowed to put my clothes back on, the suitcase my parents had prepared for me was next, and anything with laces, string, or sharp edges was removed and placed in a locker. The remainder of my essentials was taken to my room, where I met Gaby. She had a pretty face, and very long legs. At 15 she was nearly a head taller than me, but had arrived only a short time before me. Her admittance was more of a misunderstanding than anything else: she had texted her boyfriend in a moment of stress and anxiety that she wanted to die, he then texted her best friend, who turned her in to her mom and ended up in the hospital soon after. Her dad’s a doctor in the hospital, and her mother’s overprotective instincts got her stuck there for 3 days.
We had arrived just after breakfast, and a little late to go to school, so we sat in silence in the main room where a kind blond nurse tried to get us to play a SpongeBob memory game, which became impossible to finish with missing pieces. She asked me why I didn’t want to eat my food during my first meal there, and when I refused to put any of it in my mouth she asked one of the head nurses what to do and that was the first time I was introduced to Boost—the supplementary milk that made up for my lost meals. She watched me while I had to choke down the whole carton.
One girl noticed the pained look on my face as I cried my way through the milk, and tried to make friendly conversation. Her name was Amanda, and she quickly became comfortable enough to ask me for my unused Spork at dinner. And when she later told me about the school pencil she stole from the school room I knew exactly what she was up to, but it was more of an act; she was a confused 12 yr old in the 7th grade. She followed me around a lot, and tried to mimic everything I did… I don’t know why though, I’m most certainly not the best role model, especially considering where we were.
Then I met the male nurse who looked like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. You’d think people working in a psychiatric ward would be kind and understanding, but this guy was an ass most of the time. Not only did he read my chart without authorization, but he then proceeded to laugh at me, saying that my “problems” were stupid and my attempt at suicide wouldn’t have worked. And they meant to tell me this place was supposed to be a “safe-zone”, where I could say anything without judgment. Yeah, okay…
After that encounter I really didn’t plan on sharing anything with anyone, until group therapy came around and Gary, the head of group therapy, stared at me until I said something that made me cry. He taught me how to play poker my last day on the floor… right before I was pulled aside by my in-hospital therapist (a big tall and heavy man who looked like a Billy.. but his name had something to do with berries) and was told they were moving me up to the medical floor because I had lost too much weight and they were preparing to feed me through a tube.
But before that rude awakening came, I got the chance to meet a few other interesting characters. Alli, for instance, a boy who I’m sure has autism; and though I don’t remember his real name, he repeatedly said he was changing it to Alli. He’s Jewish, and professed his hatred towards Arabs any chance he got. He was sure nobody liked him, but maybe it was just because he was so blunt and mean to everyone.
Allen, at least I think that was his name, was very strange. I think he was my age, 17, but he refused to tell anyone how old he was, why he was there, or anything really about himself, but he LOVED to give his opinion on how lame he thought everyone else’s problems were. He also drew horns and pitch forks on elves when coloring in school (Christmas was only a few days away and the teacher thought the activity would make us happy about possibly spending the holidays in the loony). He was also obsessed with Gaby, followed her everywhere and asked for her number over and over while in school. I pretty sure he thinks he’s going to be the next Albert Einstein.
And just when I thought that was the weirdest it could get, along came Leah, a 13 year old sex enthusiast who said her fulfillment in life was to have her insides “filled”, if you know what I mean. She laughed during group therapy, which got her kicked out of sessions often; and took an interest to having babies and animals slaughtered for laughs. She snuck into my room one night and took a sh*t in our bathroom, which has no doors… but in a moment of seriousness (while she hid in our room), she revealed that her parents always fought, so she got used to sneaking out and doing things she shouldn’t whenever they started fighting… I think that might be the source of her problems.
Perhaps the most memorable member was Mohamed. This 11 year old grew a quick attachment to me, but maybe for all the wrong reasons. He claimed he “f*cked his first b*tch when he was 9”, and never let the chance of sitting next to me and kissing my hand pass him by. He was odd, but funny and relieving all at once. He never really told me why he was there, but when he asked me why I was there (again and again), I could never muster up the courage to say the truth. I’d just say “depression” because that’s what almost everyone was in for, but he knew that wasn’t it.
See, we all had our own issues to deal with during our stay in North6, some a bit odder than others, but we all came out of there with a new perspective on life, even if our issues hadn’t been totally fixed. They say not to create attachments in these places, but when we’re all surrounded by each other’s deepest, darkest, troubles, it’s hard not to connect. And now every time someone says “stranger things have happened”, I can’t help but giggle to myself and think, “yes, yes they have”.
Story by Juliana Fernandes
Photograph by Jenny Kocsis
Post-Modern Style 