Bipolarland, Texas part 13

 11

I’m in the seclusion room.

There’s nothing in it but a mattress, air, and me. It’s the size of two bedroom closets, or two stalls in a public restroom.

Something on my thigh hurts like a bee sting. I pull up my shorts. It looks like a puncture wound. For the first time ever, I thank God I’m fat, or I’d have gotten it in the butt cheek like Jules (who is skinny) when he was in the HCPC and decided he wanted to be free and ran out of the unit.

The door is locked. I call for someone: “HEY HEY HEY HEY!”. Someone comes. Marla. She asks how I’m feeling. I say I feel confused about why I am in the seclusion room, and I therefore obviously feel forgetful. She asks about my mood. It’s… angry. She says I yelled too much and that’s why I was put in there. She gives me pills for the anger.

Then she says I’m going to the HCPC.

Not the HCPC!!!

They’re going to rape me.

They’re going to get me into drugs and crime.

They’re going to beat me up.

They’re going to stab me with a pen or a fork.

They’re going to kill me.

I’m sitting at a round table on a different unit, downstairs. Behind a high desk stands a big bald black guy watching all of us. There are about twenty of us, all waiting to be transferred. Some people are laying down on mats in the rooms that circle the area with the tables, rooms that used to be offices. Others sit at the tables watching TV or talking or eating paper-bag lunches. One lady is standing on a table trying to recite the Patient’s Bill of Rights over the cacophony: the phone ringing, staff and patients talking, two girls having a shouting match. I don’t know any of these people, by the way. They were never up on 2 North. They all just came in.

“What are you in for?” a smiling young man says, sitting down next to me.

“Just being bipolar,” I answer back.

“Are you high or low? Because you should be high all the time. The Lord is coming. Lord Jesus is coming and coming soon. Actually, the Lord Jesus is already here. But he hasn’t begun his action yet, because he’s not ready. That’s why I’m here instead of outside performing miracles. I need to convert the world to Christianity first, so that they’ll have the faith to believe in the miracles. Otherwise they won’t happen.”

“Cool.” Hmmm, this is actually interesting.

“What’s your name?” the annoyance asks. “My name is Shequille Lord.

Now I want you to guess who I really am.”

Considering his last name, it’s a no-brainer. “God?”

“I am the Lord Jesus Christ,” he says, “come back to save the world, filthy Houston in particular, from eternal damnation. I am using the mental institutions and jails and rehabs as my starting points, as Jesus Christ always sits with the sinners first and eats with them.” He’s starting to talk really fast.

He’s sitting and eating with me. “Am I the worst sinner in the room, or did you just like me?”

“Tiella Aguecheek! Francesca Arsenault! Shaniqua Boring! Riley Fontaine! Chantal Friday! Pierre Head! Anne-Marie Kornek! Lucille Lucerne! Kamal Pinkerton! Ana Maria Spinoza!”

Did they just call my name?

“Listen up, everyone! Those who are being transferred to West Stoakes come with me! I’m going to drive you there!”

Even though I’m not going to West Stoakes (Oaks?), I pay attention. It’s a guy in scrubs, wearing a name tag and carrying a clipboard. He rattles off five more names and they all go with him. Then a nurse (I think she’s a nurse) rattles off four names that were already called, to go with her voluntarily to the HCPC in her van, with one other nurse. Tiella Aguecheek, Shaniqua Boring, Riley Fontaine, Kamal Pinkerton.

They didn’t call my name.

Does that mean I’m not voluntary any more?

“So that means,” the big black guy shouts, “that the police are going to come and take the rest of you to the HCPC: Arsenault, Fri—Chantal Friday, Pierre Head, Anne-Marie Kornek, Lucille Lucerne, Ana Maria Spinoza!”

Ana Maria was on 2 North with me, though we never exchanged one word. But I still feel relief. I’m not alone after all!

As if on cue, Ana Maria comes out of the restroom. So I’m not alone. She was just in the restroom; that’s why I didn’t see her.

I offer her a smile. She isn’t paying attention. But she probably isn’t a snob. She’s probably not even paying attention. She’s probably thinking about her many kids and her husband with his fake ID card and his $3 an hour job mowing lawns. She’s probably already stressing about saving up for her three-year-old daughter’s quinceañera when she’s fifteen.

She suddenly looks like she sees something, then runs across the room and hugs another girl, a half-black, half-white girl. “Tiella!” she says.

“Ana!” Tiella says. “You’re in HOUSTON! When did you get out of Dallas! I haven’t seen you since like 2000!” So they know each other. Somehow, this makes me feel more alone. They go over to a table, sit down and start babbling excitedly with a lot of “remember when”s from their time in Dallas together in the late ‘90s.

And then there are police officers. Three of them. They motion for us to follow them. We, the six patients they called, follow them down a hallway and then another hallway, then outside into a parking lot. They start arguing about who will sit where in the two police cars. They curse their boss for not letting them use the police van. The arrogant-looking one never lets go of the canister of whatever-it-is on his belt. Ana Maria, the illegal immigrant, looks like she’s going to shit bricks. I sit down between her and a scholarly old man with glasses and an unkempt beard, wearing a green cardigan over a white flannel shirt and gray dress slacks, carrying a leather-bound book. What is it. A Bible? A dictionary? The Patient’s Bill of Rights?

Speaking of the Bill of Rights, the lady who was standing on the table reciting them is now reciting them to the police, while one of the other two girls, still standing outside, looks at the third, pointing, shouting “WHY DID YOU LOCK THE KEYS IN THE CAR AGAIN?! THIS TIME YOU’RE GETTING THEM OUT YOURSELF!” They’re the two girls that were fighting inside. The cops pounce on them and handcuff them and shove them into the other vehicle, shoving the first girl in after.

We’re sitting in a waiting room. It’s empty except for the six of us patients, the three cops, and the receptionist. The receptionist stands on a chair and clears her throat. Standing on the floor would have sufficed.

“All six of you are in here involuntarily, under a court order. Meaning, it’s not my fault. So don’t take it out on me. I’m just the receptionist. Take it up with your doctor, your lawyer and the judge and the police, and whoever else might have put you in here. Now, none of you have to do this since you’re involuntary, but I’d like to ask a few questions.” She glances over at us: at the two girls still handcuffed and being held by the arm by the police, at the girl still reciting the Bill of Rights amidst the other cop’s “Just shut up and listen, man, this has to do with your rights!” to the scholarly guy to me to Ana Maria. She looks at Ana Maria. “Are you alright? You seem very anxious. Would you like to go first and get it over with?”

Ana Maria goes even whiter, perhaps because her fake identity hasn’t quite been established here yet.

“You don’t have to. It’s optional. How about you?” she says suddenly, looking at me.

“Okay.” Let’s get this over with.

So I sit in the booth with her and she gently grabs my left hand and fastens a white plastic tag around my wrist. It has purple type on it… it says my name, my date of birth, some stuff I don’t understand and that my doctor is Dr. Maria Podemskaya. A Russian. She gives me a booklet. “You can read this later when you get a chance,” she says. It says on it: PATIENT GUIDE. I have to sign a paper saying I got the book. First I check it for missing pages. She asks if I’ve been in the military. I say no. Do I have insurance? No. Do I feel like killing myself? No. Do I see things that aren’t there? No. Do I hear voices? No. Why am I here? Because my doctor thought it would be good for me, but it’s turning out to be a disaster. Do I have any stuff? My stuff! I never thought of that. I ask if they brought it for me, because my hands are empty except for my patient guide. She says she’ll ask. Where is my stuff? She says two nurses will come to get me. I go back and sit in the waiting area and then the professorly, scholarly guy goes to be questioned, and a guy comes with a camera and takes a head shot of me. The three noisy girls are gone. He takes a head shot of Ana Maria next, with her fingernails in her mouth and all. Then there are two big black ladies, asking for me, telling me to follow them. We go down a hallway and through a set of locked doors and into an elevator. “We’re going to 2D,” the one in the cashmere sweater and dress slacks says.

“It’s a unit in this hospital,” the one in the scrubs says, after looking at me and deciding I’m too crazy to know what they mean. Then there’s another hallway, and a set of locked doors, a passage, another set of locked doors, and then a big room! This is so exciting! It’s, like, so secure! But why is the room so dark and empty? Except for a girl sitting on the floor in the little passage off the big room. It’s that diamond-studded girl from the NPC, holding a shoehorn. Sticking it under her glittery bracelets. Trying to get them off her arm, it seems. On the floor next to her is a pile of three of the twelve or so bracelets that she’s already gotten off. She smiles at me.

“Hi! You’re from the NPC! Remember me?” Hey, why did I shout that?

There’s a big high desk. They tell me to sit on a chair against the wall. There’s something on the wall. A bill of psych patients’ rights! That’s important. I start to read. A man comes, an Arab man in a purple scrub suit. He tells me to sit down because he needs to take my blood pressure. Oh, I see. I sit down. He says my blood pressure is high. Am I nervous? Yes, nervous and excited! “Calm down a little if you can, okay? The other patients are trying to sleep.” Oh, I see. I was making noise? Sorry. I didn’t think I was even talking. He also takes my temperature with a thing in my mouth like the old days rather than a thing they stick in your ear like at the doctor’s office. That’s normal.

Then they want to search me.

“WHAT?”

“Shhhhhhh!”

“Are you going to, you know, um—uh—”

“We’re just going to see if you have any marks on you to see if you’re harming yourself in any way.”

Why is she talking so damn SLOOOOOWLYYYY??? It’s so irritating!

“Do you have any weapons on you?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you have any drugs on you? All medications and other drugs have to be handed in and put behind the desk.”

“Nope!”

“Did you take anything?”

“Nope! Oh—I mean, they gave me an injection! And some pills!”

“Well, listen here; what’s your name? Listen here; we might have to give you another injection if you don’t slow down—”

I’m slowing down. Why am I getting so slow suddenly? Like molasses. Yet they’re saying I’m “hopping manic”.

Then I have to strip! “Are you going inside me?” I ask.

“Good; she’s slowing down.”

“Are you going to stick your head inside—I mean, are you going to stick your hand inside me?”

“What? Oh, no, we just do a visual search.”

Thank you, Jesus!

Then I’m naked. They write down what I look like. They take note of the scar on my throat from Uncle Matt’s knife. I tell them about when Uncle Matt stabbed me because he'd been drinking too much and thought I was George Bush. And my mom let him, even though she supposedly liked George Bush… she just hated me.

Now the staff are laughing! It isn’t funny!

Then I get to put on my clothes again and they take me into another room, a room with a long table. There’s a doctor in a white coat, a man in a black scrub suit, and one of the nurses that brought me up here, the one in the light brown cashmere sweater.

They ask if I know where I am. Yes, I do. At the Harris County Psychiatric Center in Houston, Texas. Do I know who the president is? Don’t remind me! Stop reminding me of Uncle Matt! I also know what county I’m in. Harris! Duh!

They ask me if I have a family history of mental illness. I notice the nurse looking at my throat when the doc asks that. She has her hand over her mouth. She’s suppressing laughter!

I tell them again about Uncle Matt. There! Is that enough? But no; I also have to tell them about my mom, my dad, my brother Ira, and no, they don’t have any diagnoses! They wouldn’t go to a shrink if you paid them.

“So you’re not— are you suicidal?” the doctor asks.

“Nope… not even homicidal.” I’m still thinking about Uncle Matt. Making me talk about him, making me think about him, they’re going to make me homicidal! He got off because he was drunk. Just had to go to rehab and was there for six months. He left the center squeaky clean, then went out drinking to celebrate.

Then— any other hospitalizations? Just the one at the NPC where I was transferred here. Bipolar type I and III diagnoses. Been on Celexa, on Sinequan now. Any manic episodes? Do I have to tell my life story? Any depressive episodes? Again, do I have to tell my life story?

“You have never been on any mood stabilizers? No lithium? No anticonvulsants?” The doctor looks disgusted.

That concludes our interview. Now it’s into another room, with just a fat woman in a tank top with her rolls of fat coming out, working on a computer. She asks why I’m here. I forget the real reason why and tell her about Uncle Matt. But then I remember… it was my parents, my brother, the yelling, the seclusion room… so I had been in the NPC? Yes, I had, and I just say I was in a severe mixed state when I went in. She asks if I want them to call anyone if I end up in the seclusion room here. I give her Jakub’s cell phone number. I would very much like a visit from my boyfriend when I’m having a bad day, rather than just a visit from a nurse with another syringe.

Am I hungry? You bet I am, but no slop, please.

Then they serve me the most decent meal I have had since coming to the NPC… a ham and cheese sandwich and some milk and some more cheese and a little bag of Cheetos and an orange.

Okay, I’ll give you a freakin' sample. If I can. But the NPC could have told you I’m not pregnant or on illegal drugs.

And they show me my room. It looks like it used to be an office, like the rooms at the NPC. They give me a pile of stuff. It’s not my stuff, it’s theirs. I put it down on my bed. It’s a white knit blanket, two sheets, a plastic pillow, a pillowcase, a black plastic comb, a bottle of special mental hospital antiperspirant in a transparent bottle, a tiny little pouch of shampoo that will last for one day, a towel, a facecloth, even a little (transparent) bottle of hand lotion. For whatever reason, though, they didn’t seem to decide that the toothpaste needed to be in a transparent tube. It’s solid white. The toothbrush is short and bendy.

I put the bedding on the bed; I put the toiletries in one of the three drawers under the bed; I lay down and look around, my patient guide on my chest. There’s another girl in this room, one that looks familiar, fast asleep.

I read my patient guide and go to sleep.

“Good morning… I need to take your blood pressure…”

A dwarf with an afro is in my room, leaning over the other bed. The girl who looks familiar sits up slowly, half yawning and half moaning. I remember now; she’s one of the girls from the lower ward at the NPC. A black girl. The nurse is also black and looks like her but is much shorter. I like the fact that she has an afro instead of a wig or weave, or extensions. She’s comfortable in her own skin. She doesn’t use fake hair to try to pretend to be white. She loves herself and her fellow black girls who are patients here, including the ones I’ve met and liked so far. I mean, if someone likes wearing weaves for other reasons than feeling they need to to pretend to be white, then I support and encourage that though.

She’s smiling. “Did you sleep good tonight? Your roommate just came in, eh? Last night. Did she wake you up? This is Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie, this is Shaniqua. Shaniqua my neice.”

She’s the niece of the nurse? Is that allowed? Hmmm… maybe if I make friends with Shaniqua I can ask the nurse to let me out and then I can escape. Then again, if Shaniqua turns out to be my enemy in here then this nurse could give me living hell, hypothetically.

“Hi,” I say shyly. I’m going down again.

Then she checks my blood pressure, and temperature, all that. “Good; it’s almost normal now,” she says. “So we probably won’t have to put you on anxiety medication. Now breakfast is about to be served, out in the day area, so I suggest you both get ready and it will probably be here in ten minutes.”

Someone is singing outside my door, singing “The Sign” by Ace of Bace only instead of the real lyrics, they’re singing “I saw your mom… she opened up her legs, I gave her one… it was outstanding; we did it there on the landing.”

“Fuck; I feel like I’m on an adolescent unit,” Shaniqua mutters.

Since my door is near (practically behind) the desk, I can also hear staff gossiping about a patient eating his own shit.

My first day in the Harris County Psychiatric Center.