Bipolarland, Texas part 14

 

12

A fat black man in a striped t-shirt is running around pounding on doors. “Get up; time for brukfast! Time for brukfast, everyone! Brukfast in the day area!”

I sit down at one of the tables. Then the set of locked doors I came in by opens. In comes a man pushing a tall cart with trays or something on it. I line up to get my breakfast. Take the cover off my steam-covered plastic tray. Sit down again, at the end of the tables so that I’m not sitting between two best friends… it would be embarrassing if someone asked me to move.

Man, they give nothing at all for breakfast! Two strips of bacon, a single waffle, a small scoop of scrambled eggs made from powder. The milk is meant for our cereal but I drink it because I love milk. I don’t drink the orange juice, which is actually meant to be drunk, because I find orange juice nasty. Maybe if I make some friends in here—or even if I don’t—I can trade it for something else.

So here are all the patients.

Shaniqua sits down next to me. “Hey… we share a room.”

“Hey,” I say back, smiling back at her.

I was once told that I was a mess. I wonder if anyone will want to approach me because I’m a mess… bad hair, bad complexion, bad height, bad weight. I look down at myself when I think others might not be looking and try to make it look casual. What am I wearing? I’m wearing my short, short shorts, which look more like underwear, and I was a hypocrite when I thought the counselor was fat and shouldn’t be wearing a tank top-- or rather, I admired her for having the nerve to, but I still feel bad for thinking that way-- because I’m wearing a tank top too and my rolls of fat are also coming out of it! Though not like ten rolls of fat like her. But still. And why the caked-on makeup and the huge dangly earrings? If I was just wearing the tank top and the shorts it would have looked like I was wearing my pajamas or something. But the earrings— big Pepto-pink plastic earrings that match the color of my shorts and dangle down to my shoulders— and— I rub my face with the back of my hand— oh my God, the makeup— makes me look like a bloody whore… at least I’m not wearing my hooker costume, which I only ever wore trick-or-treating with Jakub and Jules when we were out of food on Halloween night.

I wonder where the shower is. I wonder where the bathroom is. I wonder where and when I can shower and change… or at least change. Then I remember I don’t have my stuff any more.

Just make the best of it. Calm the fuck down. If they see you happy and aware they won’t hurt you. None of them will. They feel your pain. They’re in the mental hospital too. They’ve been there. We all have our foibles. They’ve been there. Even if they’re not there now, they’ve been there. There, and worse. You’re bipolar; some of them are schizophrenic. They've had worse embarrassing moments than you. So just calm your flirty-looking ass down and stop pulling on your shorts or they’ll fall off.

Then the guy in the striped shirt starts shouting about group in the day area and wildly gesticulating at a bunch of couches and a TV, so I assume the group will be taking place there. He drags a chair to the front facing the couches.

There are twenty-five patients, including me. I just counted them! We sit sandwiched together on the couches while the striped-shirt guy sits on the chair. I look all around. Other people, staff, are sitting at the tables to our left and right, or on chairs they pulled up behind us. Many patients are groaning about being dragged out of bed. One guy is sleeping sitting up. One girl sits there quietly with tears running down her face. Another pregnant Spanish immigrant who could easily have made an excuse that she had no money and just looked like shit, but didn’t, sits there in her pretty clothes that hide her big blob well, while I, not even pregnant, sit here looking like… this… fat falling out of my shirt despite my best attempts to cover it up.

Oh, the horrors of being on a psych ward and seeing all the other psych patients dressed attractively except you. Even the ones wearing donated clothes (and I can tell who they are) accessorized their clothes to make an interesting outfit, or they’re lucky enough to even be wearing donated clothes that match and cover up their fat if they’re fat.

A couple of patients get up and go back to bed. A few go to the bathroom. The staff try to call them back but they’re not coming back and the show must go on.

And so the chubby black guy in the shirt with the white, black, yellow and purple stripes opens his mouth and speaks.

“Hello, ladies an gennelmen; for those who are new, welcome to the HCPC. My name is Frank Cabral and I’m one of the techs here today. I work the day shift.” He points out the other techs, the nurses, the medical students. “Today, as usual, I’d like y’all to give your name, how you feel on a scale of one to ten, and your goal for the day. Now I been hearin’ a lot of the same goal lately… ‘My goal is to go home.’ But what about makin’ use of your time while you’re still in here? So I don’t just wanna hear ‘My goal is to get out of the hospital!’ So— my name is Frank Cabral, I’m at a nine, and my goal for today is to help each and every one of you accomplish your goals!”

“My name is Chantal Friday. I’m at an eight and my goal for today is to get rid of all my hallucinations before I go home! I’ve already gotten rid of the one with Oscar the Grouch screaming at me because I’m too messy for him, because I’m such a slob and the exterminators had to come to my apartment!”

“So, Miss Chantal, who called the exterminators? Was it you?”

“Yes, it was me. Oscar said I’d better, or I was coming here. But you know what they exterminators did? They called the mental health people and they sent me here anyways!”

“But you’re at an eight, because you know you need to be here.”

“Yes.”

Next it’s the scholarly professorly guy.

“My name is Pierre Head… Professor Pierre Head… people call me Haldol Head or Haldol Hands because they always shake, but I don’t like that name… just call me Professor. I’ve been schizophrenic for fourteen years now—”

“So on a scale of—“

“I’m at a four… they took away my house and everything I had… what little left I had of my house after it burned to the ground… all my papers… caught on fire… all my findings… gone…”

“You must be very frustrated that all your work is gone. Ladies and gennelmen, I’ve heard this story a lot from people, so back up your work, and back up... keep your living and working spaces clean and neat! Now, Mr… Professor Head, what’s your goal for today?”

“My goal is to write my missing papers over again. It took me five years to write them, but I know I need to write them again. I have it all in my head. It won’t take long if I have the paper. So would you mind finding some paper for me, and a pencil? That’s all I need. I promise I won’t harm anyone with it; I’ll just sit at that table over there writing my papers. I—”

“So, Mr. Professor Head, your goal for today is to start writing what got destroyed. It’s a good goal, though I don’t know if you can write all that in one day even if you had it memorized. Now, what about other goals? Why did your house catch on fire? Was all them papers a fire hazard? Maybe another good goal would be to get some folders or binders for them all.” The Professor nods. He’s still holding his book in his hand, actually. What’s in the book?

“My name is Kamal Pinkerton, and I’m at a ten, and my goal for the day is to get rid of my side effects from the Thorazine.”

“That’s a good goal, Mr. Kamal! So Mr. Pinkerton’s feelin’ good today; he’s at a ten!”

Thorazine gives you every side effect there is. How can Kamal sit there so quietly and calmly with that smile on his face?

“I’m Riley Fontaine, and I’m at a five, and my goal is to eradicate my PTSD as soon as possible so that I can get back to work. I was a firefighter on 9/11 and went into the Trade Cenner, and I had PTSD too, but I was holding it back. Then I went on another rescue mission as another kind of rescue worker. I thought moving from New York to Louisiana would cure my PTSD, and I changed careers but remained a rescue worker. But then along came Hurricane Katrina and I saw all kinds of heinous things—”

I look at the guy. He’s obviously just after attention.

I know Frank knows too, but Frank covers for him, saying “Everyone, Mr. Riley’s at a five, so would you please give him some of your support if you have any to spare.” Some people applaud for Riley.

“Now, Mr. Riley, did I hear your goal for today?”

“My goal for the day is to inspire people with my experiences and show them how to be a man!”

“But you have PTSD,” Shaniqua pipes up.

Riley shuts up. Too bad. I would have wanted to hear more; he would have entertained me.

“I’m Tiella Aguecheek, and my goal for the day is to speak out against what goes down on this unit and others like it, every day. Today I would like to tell y’all about—”

“And so Miss Tiella, how do you feel on a scale of one to ten?”

“I’m at a three, because this place is so poorly—”

“We can talk about that later with the other staff and the rights committee if you want, but right now—”

And so we continue. The Muslim lady from the NPC, Ayishah Abdulahad, is at a zero and (and because) her goal is to get her head scarf back. When she came in here, they made her take it off because she could hang herself with it, and why is she here? Because someone else outside who assaulted her tried to take her head scarf off her and she got so traumatized she signed herself into the NPC thinking it would help her deal with the trauma. I look at Ayishah. She’s wearing a blanket over her head like one of those one-piece Muslim outfits that include a hood for the head.

I don’t hear the others’ goals. I’m too sleepy. I want to go back to bed. My mania last night seems to have completely drained me.

Suddenly my brother Ira is in front of me again, telling me I’m not paying attention, that I’m a slacker, that I need to try harder to prove I’m smart or else my parents will think I’m dumb.

“Anne-Marie?”

I wake up.

“Now, ladies and gennelmen, we try not to sleep in group,” Frank says, and we all laugh nervously. “And we try to come to group. Anne-Marie is new here and she came, and that’s a start.”

They’re all looking at me; it’s my turn.

“I’m Anne-Marie Kornek, I’m at a four, and I want to get rid of my depression. Like, the depression part of my bipolar disorder. That’s why I’m here.”

“So the first step for you is to get treatment. Good for you. Talk to your doctor about the right treatment. This goes for all of you.”

“My name is Shaniqua Boring, but I’m not boring, of course, but I still— my goal is still to be more interesting. More outgoing. You ever met a shy black person yet? I bet you never.” She grins.

“Now we should be careful not to be prejudiced. And on a scale of—?”

“I’m at a ten!”

“Good for Shaniqua; she’s at a ten!”

Then there’s more, and it’s boring. I learn that the girl named Anastassiades’s first name is Anisha.

Now, Frank says, we have the recreation therapy group. During the group, the nurses call us up one by one to take our pills. I look at mine; it’s still Sinequan. I shudder as I remember the doctor looking disgusted last night about me not being on a mood stabilizer. I pray for something that won’t make me depressed. I’ve never been on a mood stabilizer or anticonvulsant before. Maybe I should ask someone who has.