Bipolarland, Texas part 18

 16

I’m sitting at the lunch table with Lucille, Tiella, Shaniqua, Francesca, Chantal, Anisha and Ayishah. Lunch is nasty pork. Ayishah is sobbing.

“Why don’t you request Muslim meals?” Anisha asks. “I’m sure they’d give it to you.”

“They gave me the vegetarian diet,” Chantal says. “So why can’t they give you the Muslim diet, with no pork or anything?”

“I’m not allowed to question my superiors. It’s part of my religion,” Ayishah sobs. “And I’m not supposed to be talking to you either.”

“You’re not allowed to talk to people outside your religion?” Anisha says.

“Exactly,” Tiella says, “so shut up.”

Ayishah has told us about about her situation. We tried to tell her that her husband is abusive and that you can be Muslim and still have a happy equal partnership like others some of the other girls here know, being allowed to work and go to school and socialize and be equal. But that was days ago.

And then-- as in, right now, days later-- a miracle happens. I can see it coming on, just by looking at her face.

“I’M FUCKING TIRED OF THIS!” She gets up, runs around the table, then jumps up onto a chair and then onto the table. “I WANT A DIVORCE! I WANT FUCKIN DIVORCE! FROM MY HUSBAND, FROM HIS RELIGION!”

Anisha and Tiella grin at each other.

“CAN’T EAT ANYTHING! CAN’T WEAR ANYTHING! CAN’T GO ANYWHERE WITHOUT HUSBAND’S CONSENT! CAN’T DO ANYTHING!”

As if that’s not enough to impress, she then throws her hijab (which she got back this morning) onto the table, where it settles on my tray in my food. Some guy at the guys’ end of the unit whistles, and then we girls (and the guys) all break out in applause, while the staff shout “Everyone to your rooms! Everyone go in your rooms and close the doors; this is confidential!”

“My ass. She’s yelling it so it’s confidential?” Anisha mutters.

I say, “She’s yelling so everyone will know.”

Shaniqua and I slowly meander back to our room. But by then she’s shut up anyway.

“Special teams. Two. Delta. Special teams. Two. Delta.” Of course. But it won’t matter anyway.

I look back into the dayroom as I cross the threshold into my room. She’s standing on the table kicking around trays, stepping in and out of people’s pork and pasta salad and peaches-and-pears-in-syrup, grinning from ear to ear and yelling “I’M FREEEEE!”

I know how it feels to wish you’re free and then realize that you are. I remember the day I left my parents’ house. My mother was sitting (or rather, half sitting and half lying) in the doorway with her hand outstretched, wailing as though her life was over. Some people opened their doors to see what was going on. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. If I had stayed, I would have probably killed myself, or her, or Uncle Matt if he came over. Or they would have literally killed me. Uncle Matt might have tried again! Leaving was the best for everyone.

I had told my mom plenty times that if she wanted the stimulation of a large family, she should invite more people over. She knows how. She used to invite them over and tell them how bad I was. But they kept not coming back, because they had real problems, like cancer and rent and sons shooting smack and daughters who were actually prostitutes. So she always had to make new friends. But she knows how. So I told her to do that and left.

It’s pork again, and Ayishah sits there with her hijab off, exposing her bare head and long, long hair. She’s also vomiting into her tray, and instead of saying “EEEEW!” and edging away and being mean like in elementary and even high school, all the girls are comforting her and trying to help her.

She tried the pork. Tiella says nobody suggested she try it; she just did it on her own steam.

“I can’t breathe,” Kurt Von Croyd says.

“Tell us your name.”

“I can’t breathe.” He’s shaking. Looks like a panic attack. He’s all red too. Wow; look at him blush.

“First tell us your name and then we’ll get into that.”

“I have the—”

“I know you have a lot of anxiety today, but try to tell us your name, how you feel on a scale of one to ten and your goal for today.”

“I— can’t— move.” He’s so stiff! He falls over, onto the floor. I grab his hand to pull him up, but he’s already on the floor. His hand is as hot as a freakin’ oven. His other hand is clutching his side. He starts gasping for air. What is wrong with him? Not a panic attack. Something else.

“I’ve got the— neuroleptic malignant syndrome!” Then his head falls to one side as much as his stiff neck will allow, and his eyes glaze over.

Suddenly, Professor Pierre Head jumps up and goes to Kurt and starts feeling his neck, looking him up and down, then he gently pokes Kurt’s eye. Nobody says a word. “Pierre, get away, please,” Frank says as he kneels on the floor to pinch his neck. The staff all either come here to examine Kurt or go to the desk to call the doctor and the special teams. No time to shout “Go to your rooms, everyone!”

Kurt is dying!

“Riley, do something!” Shaniqua says. “You’re a rescue worker!” She knows damn well Riley won’t and can’t do anything and that he wasn’t really a rescue worker; she’s just trying to embarrass him as revenge for his lies. Sure enough, Riley runs into the nearest bedroom, which isn’t his, and slams the door.

The special teams barge in, look around and run over to the crowd in the couches-and-TV area. The patients are looking at Kurt and gossiping: “Shit! Dilated pupils!”

"Yeah! Look; fuck! His eyes are dead. He’s dead!”

“Oooooverdoooose!”

“Get out of here!” a special-teamer says to everyone.

“Damn!”

“I can’t feel a pulse! Start CPR.”

“You press this way, not that way! You’ll break his ribs this way!”

“You do it then.”

“Jeez— fuckin hell; didn’t they teach you anything?”

Then something is wheeled out of nowhere… a cart. With a defibrillator and other medical stuff on it. To my absolute shock, they grab the defibrillator paddles.

I stand up on my toes; over Shaniqua’s head I can see them pushing up his shirt and, oh my God, they’re gonna do it.

I can hear the zap. It doesn’t sound like what I expected it to sound like at all.

“Nothing.”

“Say something. Talk to him!”

“Helloooo!”

“Hi! Who are you? What’s your name?”

“Kurt!” shouts someone who isn’t Kurt.

“Kurt Von Croyd!” another stranger shouts.

“That his name?”

“Kurt! Do you realize that you are laying dead on the floor!” someone says in an official, authoritative voice. Followed by two more shocks. Followed by silence.

And then, “He’s dead!”

"He's better off dead," Shaniqua says, shaking her head. "He’s in the Houston—I mean, the Harris County Guardianship Program. He has this evil guardian never lets him do anything. Locks him in the house. You know what Kurt told me th'other day? He told me he came here on purpose to socialize. He was stuck in the house all day. He couldn't!"

I remember the cop telling me about all these unlawful guardianships and conservatorships. I also remember someone else, somewhere else, at some time, for whatever reason, telling me Kurt had a guardian and that the guardian was abusive.

Then we just look at each other, not knowing what to say, Shaniqua sitting on the floor leaning against her bed and me sitting hunched over on the edge of my bed, looking down at her. We have nothing to say, but we do.

Then we're finally able to say it. It comes in the form of bawling and sniffing and creating lots of snot and not caring.

Then a tech opens our door and tells us to come out into the day area for a “debriefing” about the “incident.”

Frank can't seem to keep still. He's pacing. Also, the Special Teams people are there with their hands on their walkie-talkies and God-knows-what-else in their belts. All the nurses, the techs. And ALL the patients have finally gotten out of bed! Nothing like a little excitement and stimulation, huh? Too bad someone had to die for you guys to get it.

I don't know how to act. My social anxiety is coming back. Suddenly, I want to go back to my room. But I can't. I realize what I really want to do is stand up to see the people who are standing at the front of the unit. Frank. The techs. The nurses. The Special Team. Three doctors and three students. Most of the patients are in front of me, sitting on or at the tables or standing or sitting on the floor nearby.

"First I want to tell you that if any of you need a PRN, you may ask for it at any time during this discussion or later," the tech that forced me to hang up when I was talking to the rights committee says. She looks a bit tipsy, like she might have taken some pills herself. I wouldn't put it past her. She's probably a psych patient too... she is, after all, nuts.

Three people use this excuse to get up and go to the nurse to ask for pills. Then they sit back down with their pills and their water.

Frank opens his mouth, and I know that it will be another monologue. "Now I'm sure we all in this room agree that it's just as important for us to talk about what's going on as it is for y'all patients to," he says. "And I also wanna say that we don't always know when you ain't feelin so good. The young gennelman that died today woulda probly lived had he come to us earlier and said 'You know, Frank, I need the doctor RIGHT NOW. Doctor, I think I have Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome.' What is going on with another patient affects you patients too. As the chaplain, Gordy Greene, says, 'we are all not only responsible for ourselves, but we are all responsible for each other as a community.'"

This just brings back more pain. I should have ratted out Uncle Matt after he stabbed me. I don't mean directly to the police, but to others who could have helped (and called the cops for me because I’m a coward). It would have been better for all of us.

"Them doctors ain't psychics," Frank says, the unique flair in his voice becoming more pronounced. "Ladies an gennelmen, you need to know the signs of your illness returning. Or side effects. Or other illnesses. Kurt Von Croyd waited, and it cost him his life."

I suddenly remember how I forgot the important issues I had. Issues that were more important than shopping sprees and yes, even picking up the homeless. If my mental health had come first, I could have avoided this hospitalization. I could have done the other stuff AFTER. I'm just lucky I have good friends who helped get my head fixed, helped me help myself and others by going to court and getting Dr. Pod impeached. "I get it," someone says, and I realize it's me.

But do I? I should put my mental health first, yes. But before helping others? My mental health depends on whether I can help others or not. “First they came for the Jews, then the communists, then the trade unionists, then the Catholics, then others, I did nothing, then they came for me and there was nobody left to defend me” and all that.

Since I'm still in here involuntarily, Lillian is still my lawyer. Which means that I can continue to help people and have a lawyer to back me up in case they try to do something to me because I'm helping people, or to stop me from helping people.

And Kurt did try to get the staff's attention. Maybe his problem came on suddenly. And there the staff were, thinking he was just anxious, until he collapsed.

I talk to the blond-mop boy, the older lady with the short hair, and the girl named Teresa whom people think is retarded again at supper time. Tiella is with us too.

“Aren't you scared?” I say to both Teresa and the older lady.

“Yes,” Teresa said.

“How could I not be?” the older lady says.

“You need to get out of here, go to a place that's different!” I whisper urgently.

“Makes no difference,” the older lady says in a normal, non-whispering voice. “It'll just be out of the frying pan and into the fire. I'll be in a worse situation.”

“So you think this is as good as it gets?”

“Yes.” She shrugs.

“So you're just going to let them kill you?” Okay, now I'm starting to sound antagonizing. I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it that way.

“Well, it's not like they're chasing me with a gun.”

“Okay, I get it. It's the laws, not someone chasing you where you can go into hiding. It's the health laws. I get it. You can't hide if you get sick.”

“Exactly.”

“But it's not even the laws,” I remind both myself and her. “It's the doctors. They're doing something illegal.”

“I don't know if it's illegal. Anyway, I'm going to bed.” She gets up with her tray of barely-touched food and leaves. I would have asked for her chocolate cake, but she's already gone, and this is too serious a conversation to interrupt with “Hey, you're not gonna eat that? Can I have it?”

But maybe she really wants help but just doesn't want to think about disturbing stuff right now.

I stare after her as she puts her tray on the rack and goes into her room. The blond mop boy and Teresa look at me. They look sympathetic, like they feel my embarrassment and my pain.

“Dr. Randolph yelled at me,” the blond-mop boy says, smiling his mischievous lopsided smile. He likes stirring shit. He continues: “He said I have Borderline Personality Disorder.”

“Why?” I'm asking that a lot lately.

“Because I'm manipulative.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Why did he think or say that?” I'm getting tired of acting like a journalist. Why can't they all just revolt already, or at least leave and find another doctor? Maybe they deserve what they're getting.

But no. If I thought that way, then that would mean everyone deserves their problems, and that I shouldn't enlighten someone ignorant so that they can have a better life.

“He isn't letting me see my boyfriend,” Teresa says. “He said I can't see him here.”

“What do you mean?”

“He isn't letting him visit.”

“But he doesn't have any say in who visits who! Does he?” My panic is rising. Could Dr. Randolph ban his patients from seeing their lawyers too? Could he say, “It's not therapeutic for this person to see their lawyer or their family or their friends because it would upset them”? Could he actually prevent a person from defending the fact that they were committed for no good reason in the first place? Could he actually prevent us from making things right with our families and friends, which could cure our mental illnesses, because oh, after all, thinking about our families and friends upsets us? Could he put us in isolation because talking to each other upsets us, when really we're talking to each other for comfort because it's HIM that's upsetting us? Could he keep us in isolation because we're saying we want out of isolation and to see others, because after all, we're thinking of others still and “it's upsetting us”? Why would he do this? Simple! Because the more people he has under his thumb, the more money the government gives him. Okay, so I'm getting ahead of myself. But still. I've heard of shit like that happening.

I can't explain all that right now; it's too much. I'd lose my train of thought just in the time it takes to explain it. I need to write it down.

“I just realized something. I have to write it down,” I say. I run to my room and bring back a page from Shaniqua's journal and my pepper-spray pen. I start writing, dictating it to myself as I do so so that Tiella, Teresa and the blond boy don't think I'm writing something else and lose interest and go away.

I think the three of them will think I'm paranoid, but if they do, they don't say so.

“Sarah, can you do me a favor?”

I got this idea I’m about to tell her as soon as I got the idea to call my friends and tell them the depressing news about the other patients here.

“Do you have-- can you bring me more pens?” I whisper.

“Sure,” Sarah says. “If they let you have them. How many should I bring? As many as I can? I know how much you like to write.”

So they're coming today; that's good.

They come. “Where are my pens?” I ask.

“They confiscated them downstairs, at the metal detector,” Geoffrey says. “But we have something better to make up for it.”

They're empty-handed. Geoffrey suddenly takes two rings off his fingers that I never noticed before. “They have pepper spray in them,” he whispers. “You press the little lever on the side of the ring’s stone and it sprays.”

Sarah looks around, then gives me two more, and I quickly put the rings on my fingers like I'd always been wearing them. Four. That's enough for me, the older lady, Teresa, and Blond Mop Boy. Tiella will have to do with whatever is left in my pepper spray pen; she's in the least danger of all of us who are in danger. I'm in danger because I'm the organizer. But we're still going to try to get her out of here.

I tell Geoffrey and Sarah my plan.