Dear Journal thing they gave to me,
I don’t belong here.
That’s the only thought going through my head. I guess I’m just in shock, there’s so much happening around me, it must be overloading my system. I’m not crazy. I don’t know why my parents said it was okay to lock me up in here. Institutionalized. If that doesn’t make you feel like reality’s lost touch with you, I don’t know what will.
All the other people here are here for a reason. There’s Blueblood, who’s been talking to a wall since I arrived, pleasantly conversing with thin air. Or take Fleur, the girl who has so far very loudly insisted that her meds are all wrong, and has done nothing but try to back that up with proof. I don’t belong here, with these people.
I’ve got a roommate. Her name is Pulsar Burst. She hasn’t said much, just a cheery “hello” and a little meek wave. I wonder what she’s here for. I mean, I don’t know why I’m here. The lady at the front desk, the nurse, Fleur; they’ve all asked, but I don’t have an answer. But maybe if Pulsar knows why she’s here, maybe I’ll get an idea about what’s going on with me.
Oh, she says she’s here for depression. Said it all cheery, too. I hope that means she’ll get out soon. She seems too sweet to not be free.
Free, where they don’t check up on you every 15 minutes. Where people can live however they wish, and they don’t take all your clothes and shoelaces and jacket strings away. They took my phone and keys and everything that I had, put me in scrubs and gave me non-slip socks to wear. They won’t give me my purse back, because apparently I could hurt myself with it. The bed is itchy, the pillows are flat, and there’s practically no mattress. I hate this place.
Why am I even here? I’m completely normal. I don’t belong here one bit. I wish that someone would give me a hug. But not Pulsar. She says she needs her personal space, and to please not touch her. Alright, fine with me. Everyone has quirks, so you do you, Pulsar. She’s perfectly normal otherwise. Really, she belongs here about as little as me, she’s the sweetest girl I’ve ever met. I’m glad I got stuck with a nice roommate.
It’s dinnertime, apparently. I’ll write more later.
-Sour Sweet
Dear Journal-thing,
The food here sucks. I didn’t know you could burn mashed potatoes, but they managed to. And - get this - there was a hair in my probably-canned green beans! I’d throw it all away and not eat if they didn’t mark down how much I got and how much I ate. I want to get out of here, more than anything, so I’ll eat. I’ll play their dumb games.
They made us give them our plastic silverware. They count them, can you believe it? It’s not like I’m so desperate that I’m gonna shiv someone with a plastic spoon. I mean, how nuts do they think we are? The pencils they lend us would make better shivs, anyways. We have to check them out.
I hope they don’t read this. What if they judge how sane I am by this dumb composition book journal? What if they see that I’m comparing this to a prison? I mean, it feels like one. No good clothes, crappy food, locked up and watched. All that’s missing is a reminder not to drop the soap.
Pulsar didn’t eat today. She said to go on without her. They’d bring her food later anyways. I felt kinda bad for her. Maybe she has some sort of anxiety that doesn’t let her eat in front of others? I wish I could help her somehow.
And she’s been nothing but helpful. Yesterday she told me the ins and outs of this place, and how to get out. Everyone, except for Fleur, wants to get out. We just want the chance to become normal again, you know? No one would ever feel sane in here. Not when they treat you like this.
Pulsar says she’s glad that I’m journaling. She says it helps get you out faster, if you play along. Sure, I’ll journal, I’ll talk in the group discussions about my feelings, I’ll do yoga, whatever. Just let me out, please.
I just want to get out of this freaking nut house, before I go insane.
-Sour Sweet
Dear Journal-thing,
I’m sick of seeing you on the cubby next to my desk, but there’s nothing else to do here. They took away my hardback books, so now I’ve got to wait for someone to get me a paperback from home. It’s stupid! I mean, why would I stab someone with a book? And what do they think I’m gonna do, eat it and choke to death? Or maybe they think I’m going to hide something in the book, like a shiv. I’m gonna shiv someone. Wait. Forget I wrote that, they’ll probably read it and have a hissy fit.
They’ve been adjusting my medication. I don’t know what’s in these tiny pills they’re giving me, but it’s not helping any. Zoloft. Zyprexa. I can barely spell them, let alone say them. I asked a nurse what they’re for, but she won’t tell me.
Blueblood is getting out today. He’s so far told us that he fully intends to continue selling drugs once he gets out, to make ends meet for his daughter. When I told him that it probably wasn’t smart to say that out loud here, he laughed and said there was nothing the nurses could do about it. He cited some government thing. I hope he’s right about it. As much as I disapprove of drugs, I hope he gets better somehow.
Pulsar and I stayed up late last night, talking about video games and books and whatever we could think of that was normal to us. It felt like a messed-up sort of slumber party, us hiding underneath scratchy hospital blankets. We could pretend that it’s just us in the room, until the nurse came in to check on us. Pulsar ignored the nurses, and after a while I did too. It started to become easy to forget for a while that we are trapped here. I don’t know if that’s a good thing.
I don’t belong here. I just… don’t. Maybe no one does. Maybe… maybe that’s the point. A lot of these people… they’re just people. They come and go, and this nuthouse still stays. Maybe we’re all just trying to convince ourselves we don’t deserve this. I don’t know. I just know that my blanket isn’t warm enough, no matter how much I huddle into it.
-Sour Sweet.
Dear Journal-thing,
Fleur almost fought someone at lunch today. He was all in her face, and she yelled at him and it almost came to blows. I didn’t know what to do, there was nowhere to hide. She screamed that he wasn’t treating her fairly, and that he gave her flashbacks from when her brother raped her. I don’t mean to be dismissive, because that sucks, but you can’t just blame that on other people, right? We’re all trying to get by in here.
Oh boy, I can tell how our behavior is changing, too. We stop talking when a nurse enters the room sometimes, or switch topics. Anything that’s safe and normal is okay to speak about while supervised. It’s like an understanding has passed between us all. Be only the sanest part of you while watched. We’re as normal as we can be, in here.
I read about this study once, where a bunch of psychology professors got admitted to a mental hospital by pretending to hear voices. Once they got in there, they proceeded to act normally, but their actions were interpreted as insane and they stayed there longer while doctors tried to see why their schizophrenic traits were in remission. I wonder if that’s still true today. I’d believe it, I really would.
I told Pulsar about this, and she laughed. She said she’s been in here a while, for a suicide attempt. I wanted to hug her when she told me, but no, personal space thing. I’ll respect that. I mean, I want privacy too, and I can’t get that. Maybe that’s all that she can grab onto. She’s given me all this great advice, but I’ve never seen her leave the room. I hope she still isn’t suicidal. She’s kept me sane and made me feel a little more human.
The topic of the day was Anger Management. I felt it was stupid, since I don’t have a problem with that, but I bet that Fleur could use a few lessons in that. She stayed pretty sullen and quiet during the “group discussion” that we all had to join in on.
They gave us waffles for breakfast, did I mention? They were obviously frozen, but I was so hungry, I didn’t care. The meds made me hungry, I suppose. I’m certainly not burning that many calories while sitting around!
I colored in a picture of a snail today. It was childish, I know, but the nurses were watching and I didn’t want to be the one in the group that refused to participate. Whatever I do, I can’t be considered “noncompliant,” I just can’t! That’ll keep me in here longer, and that’s the last thing I want. It’s kind of ironic. Once I get out of here I plan on trying to help myself get better, but while I’m stuck here I’m mostly focused on survival.
It helps, writing in you. It’s like I’m acknowledging what’s really happening. Maybe that’s how I’ll get better. I’ll buy a nicer notebook and journal my problems away! No offense, journal-thing, but you’re kind of crap. I had to etch my name into your cheap-ass composition book cover.
They won’t give me a pen, but they’ll give me a pencil. That still amuses me. I mean, they’re more afraid of me eating the ink than they are of me stabbing myself with a pencil. That’s just ridiculous! So, I’m gonna shiv someone with my hardback book, and then I’ll poison them with cheap ink drained from a $2 pen. Yes. Brilliant escape plan.
It’s weird walking past Blueblood's room. They erased his name, and now it’s just his roommate’s name on the whiteboard underneath the room and ward number. It’s kind of sad. I wonder when someone else will replace him.
The coffee tastes like they brewed dirt. I need it, they wake me up so early. It sucks. They won’t let me have an alarm clock (or anything that I can strangle myself with- heck, I had to check out a shower head!) so I’m woken up by a nurse slamming the door open and turning on the lights. Everything is “optional” here, even meals and wake-up time, but if I don’t go, I’m noncompliant. No way. I’ll get up super early and cry into my dirt coffee before I get that label.
-Sour Sweet
Dear Journal-thing,
None of this feels real, it really doesn’t. One one hand, I got woken up at about 1am (no clock in my room, so I have no idea, it just felt that late) when a nurse banged open the door and gave me some clean clothes. Apparently they were late with my laundry. Wow. How long are people here, where doing laundry for them is a regular occurance? My clothes smell weird now. I miss my fabric softener.
On the other hand, the cameras stare at me with their unblinking eye. I’m watched wherever I go, and even at night the doors must stay cracked open so they can keep an eye on me. There’s no door to the bathroom, just a curtain that keeps falling off its pegs. Do they judge me for not taking more showers? I don’t know.
I wish I could bring myself to be more hygienic. It just sucks to have to ask for and return the little travel-sized toothbrush. I’ll shiv someone with the dinky thing. Yeah, sure. They give me toothpaste too, in one of those little cups you put ketchup in. I have to return it so they can throw it away. What do they think I’ll do? Inhale it?
The coffee still sucks.
After daily discussion today (today’s topic: honesty. In other words, how to be honest with yourself, and why you should totally come back here if you need to!), I asked the nurse what she wrote on her clipboard. She said she took notes on what everyone said, and whether they participated. So I guess Pulsar was right about that. They really are watching.
The weirdest thing happened today. I was walking into my room to change my socks, and I looked at the door. My name was there, but Pulsar’s wasn’t. Someone probably rubbed it off, or rubbed against it. I know we line up to march to lunch in our sock feet around here, and her name-spot is lower than mine, so it’s possible that someone just leaned against it. I’ll ask a nurse later to rewrite her name. Who knows, maybe I’ve been misspelling it?
On another note, the meds seem to be working. I feel happier today than I have in a while! I hope that’s the meds. I hope it’s not me accepting that I’m here. I don't want to accept it. I want to go home, and hopefully I will once they see my improvement!
-Sour Sweet
Dear Journal-thing.
Something odd is going on. When I asked a nurse if she’d write Pulsar’s name on the whiteboard, she just gave me an odd look and wrote something down on her sheet. Then she asked me to describe Pulsar. Don’t they know what she looks like? She said that they bring her food everyday. We even complain about the same things. It’s nice to know that someone else shares my misery.
The nurse is talking with the psychiatrist now. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I did wrong. Is there something wrong with Pulsar? Am I not supposed to talk about my roommate? I should ask her. She’s been pretty nice so far. I’m sure she’ll tell me what’s up.
Huh, she hasn’t moved since I asked her. She looks like she’s crying, but she isn’t making a sound. I wonder if she’s okay. Should I hug her? Should I pretend that I don’t see her sobbing, hunched up in a little ball? I know she said that she needed her personal space, but isn’t it polite to see if she’s okay? I’ll hold her hand, or pat her shoulder. I bet she’ll appreciate it.
no no no NO NO
I can’t touch her. I can’t feel her. What’s going on? Is one of those drugs causing me to hallucinate? I asked her if she’s real and she started screaming at me. No words, just a scream, a long, drawn-out shriek with no pauses for breath. Make it stop make it stop make it stop!
I’m writing as fast as I can. This doesn’t make sense. Was I just imagining her? That can’t be right, this can’t be real, why isn’t Pulsar real? Have I been hallucinating other people? Indigo, Sugarcoat, Sunny… back at school, were they real, or did I make them up?
Oh god. Her face is melting, twisting around her jaw. Her mouth is opening wider and wider. I can’t… i’m going to be sick… she’s twisting, and still screaming, and now I’m screaming too, I think. Is that my voice, mingling with hers, or am I hearing things?
I don’t belong here. I have to get out of here, but I can’t move, and she’s reaching out to grab me. Oh god what do I do, I’m trapped, I’ll never leave, I can’t leave my bed but then I’ll be noncompliant. I have to get out of here. She’s crying, and her tears are mixing in with her skin and face and I think I’m crying too and I hear a nurse opening the door but I can’t see her I can’t look away.
Maybe she’s here to take me out and get me away from Pulsar?
I really hope so.
I don’t belong here!