I wipe the goop from my eyes, open my curtains and make my way down for breakfast in my oversized homer slippers. I have two phones neither of them have battery. I used the last of the juice to text my best friend last night. I’m sure I left him a message letting him know where I am using a cryptic clue involving Gary Barlow. It doesn’t make sense now. Nothing makes sense.
Everybody looks fucked with blurry baggy eyes. I am one of them, the walking dead. We trade stories on who actually got sleep last night, and exchange tips with the insomniacs. We have all been living in “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” and the “Basket Case” Greenday video for days now. I have been “mental” before, but never hospitalised.
I start to eat breakfast . . . I am staring into space again. How long have I just been gazing at nothing. I shovel some more cereal into my mouth and chew mechanically. Another day of ping pong, guitar, doctors and cards lay ahead of me . . . I am staring again. Everybody has their own game. The pool junkies and the poker sharks. The bowl is empty now. I never just stop and sit when eating a meal. I’m obsessed with multitasking, and never wasting a moment. I usually have my computer on, facebooking while watching a movie. I think my sitting still has something to do with the cocktail of pills the nurse brings over at each meal.
I look over to Raj. He is stuffing his pockets full of butter again. It tuck me three days to work out he is a patient and not really “Dr Gupta” his alter ego. I should have known when he was lay down on the floor in the shape of a swastika making moooo-ing sounds. I figured he was a physiotherapist as he gave me lurpak head massage. I drew the line at taking my pants off, and opted for my cow print PJ’s rolled up. The nurses summoned me to the real Doctor half way through my oily head rub. Raj is harmless (unless you live in Telford, that’s where he was arrested).
Everybody looks fucked with blurry baggy eyes. I am one of them, the walking dead. We trade stories on who actually got sleep last night, and exchange tips with the insomniacs. We have all been living in “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” and the “Basket Case” Greenday video for days now. I have been “mental” before, but never hospitalised.
I start to eat breakfast . . . I am staring into space again. How long have I just been gazing at nothing. I shovel some more cereal into my mouth and chew mechanically. Another day of ping pong, guitar, doctors and cards lay ahead of me . . . I am staring again. Everybody has their own game. The pool junkies and the poker sharks. The bowl is empty now. I never just stop and sit when eating a meal. I’m obsessed with multitasking, and never wasting a moment. I usually have my computer on, facebooking while watching a movie. I think my sitting still has something to do with the cocktail of pills the nurse brings over at each meal.
I look over to Raj. He is stuffing his pockets full of butter again. It tuck me three days to work out he is a patient and not really “Dr Gupta” his alter ego. I should have known when he was lay down on the floor in the shape of a swastika making moooo-ing sounds. I figured he was a physiotherapist as he gave me lurpak head massage. I drew the line at taking my pants off, and opted for my cow print PJ’s rolled up. The nurses summoned me to the real Doctor half way through my oily head rub. Raj is harmless (unless you live in Telford, that’s where he was arrested).
"I never just stop and sit when eating a meal. I usually have my computer on, facebooking while watching a movie. I think it has something to do with the cocktail of pills the nurse brings over at each meal."
Jeremy Kyle is on the TV. I try to drown it out by reading a newspaper, maybe the news of the world has clues as to why I am here. I’m sure “they” are biding their time before hitting me with the bombshell. Did I single-handedly figure out the phone scandal, piss off a drug dealer or kill somebody. I’m in to fragile a state to know the truth. They will tell me soon enough.
My parents turn up for visiting hour to spend time with their OCD induced psychotic son. They have brought Todd in to visit as well. Todd is a potato I drew a face on the weekend before I was carted in here. The clues where there. I shoot a look at Hailey the head nurse, “I don’t talk to him honest, it was just a bit of fun”
“Why not? He’s cute, if I had a potato like that, I’d talk to him”
Sometimes I think the professionals are deliberately fucking with me keeping me in this state. They go through my room and hide all my shit. Not my razors though, I have to ask for them.
It’s like fresher’s week for the mentally ill. Rather than “where are you from?”, “what course are you studying?” People ask the same four questions; “what are you in for?”, “are you allowed out?”, “did you sleep last night?”, “do you want a cup of tea”. If you answer yes to number two, they slip you a tenner and ask you to buy fags.
Sometimes I think the professionals are deliberately fucking with me keeping me in this state. They go through my room and hide all my shit. Not my razor though, that I have to ask for.
My energy peaks and troughs throughout the day, and gently hums along keeping me awake when it’s time for bed. Four days it’s been since I last rebooted. Together we channel our energy in to creative vents. I get overly hyped smashing a grand serve at ping pong, fury burning through my eyes, picturing all the people I hate and want to shit on their lawns. I agree it’s for the best I am in here.
Jack plods over. Jacks my favourite. He has higher functioning autism and reminds me of a friend on the outside. He is so clever on certain subjects. He specialises in shapes and we discuss how the honey comb is evolutionary the most perfect structure. I could talk to him all day. I do talk to him all day. It’s one of the most stimulating conversations I have ever had and lasts for days. The walls keeping us locked up melt away as we discuss psychological papers we have read and his issue of New Scientist.
The serving hatch opens again; we shuffle to the door with our plastic spoons. Time to refuel for another day of nothing.
I grab some crayons to pass the time. Raj demands I roll him another fag and draw him a portrait. He gets angry when I sketch a fag in his mouth. There is always a fag in his mouth, but this 56 year old doesn’t want his parents knowing he smokes. Jack draws faces on robots. He doesn’t understand facial expressions. The secrets to the universe are caged in this kids head but he can’t fathom a smile.
The serving hatch opens again; we shuffle to the door with our plastic spoons. Time to refuel for another day of nothing.
RSS Feed
