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    • Fiction 11.1: Chloe Bachert
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    • Fiction 11.1: Pauline Shen
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September 14, 2015 | Occasus | Issue 5 | Fiction

In(sane)

Admission


Be Careful When You Jump

I’m sorry

I’m sorry to everyone

My parents, my friends,

To the people who will have to see

The mess,

More so, to the people who will clean it up.

But mostly,

I’m sorry to the people in the car that careens towards me.

You don’t understand, I must.

Despite all those worthless apologies, I must finish this.

It will all be done,

One step and I won’t ever hurt anyone

Anymore.

 

NO

nonononono

They weren’t supposed to swerve

I’ve failed.

And now there are people

Running at me

And they’re probably angry.

Now I’m not dead and

People hate me.

You’re so freaking stupid,

Can’t get anything right

Now the paramedics are here

You’re such a failure

Emergency Rooms Suck


Why are you here today? For the

FIFTH TIME

I’m empty, already dead--

don’t wanna be alive

Okay, we’re going to get you sorted out

Let me just talk to…

Someone else

 

Doctor number 3? 4?

We’re ultimately going to

give you the responsibility:

do you want to stay here,

or go home?

 

To the wall,

‘I don’t want that,’

(Fucked up, worthless,

Lifeless thing)

‘responsibility’.

 

Okay, we’ll admit you.
…wait,

what?
And Now We Wait

I stare…

                                                                                The white walls,

                            White cupboards

Brain like a buzzzzzzzz

The beep,                                                                  beep,                                                                             beep

                                                                                                                                                     And a baby’s cry.

No please, don’t cry,                          

                       it hurts                                  so much

Who’s in more pain?

Baby or me?

                                                                                                                                                                Surely me.

Don’t be so self-absorbed, stupid                                           stupid, stupid, stupid…

But I hurt so much and

                                    Not enough

                                                                                                                                                       …never enough.

You alright

in here?

I could get you another

blanket?

Nice nurse,

Nice hurts.

Again, white walls around

                                                                                        My brain and in

My brain, white, all white,

                                        All walls

And nothing,                                                                                                                                    nothing at all

 

                                                                                                                                        matters.

 

Die, die, DIE

Shhhhh….

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                             White walls,

                                                                                                                                                                  Don’t cry.

 

 

 

 

Hi, Rory, I’m here

to take you to the

unit.

In-Patient

Goodbye Freedom (you were terrible anyways)

How nice, right in front

of the doors of the unit

is the lounge, they call it,

and lots of eyes

staring at the thing

that just walked through

the door.

 

To the right is the dining room,

a voice appears in the fog

and the mechanical doors

shut.

 

Over here is the nursing station.

If you need anything,

go up to the glass

where the holes are

and someone will help you.

There are child and youth counselors,

CYC’s,

and nurses. We’re here most of the time.

 

The nurses look like cameras

behind the glass,

always watching.

My socks slide on the floor

slowly behind the nurse.

Flowers and words on the wall,

blue. The stark white

drowns it out.

This is your room.

Blank, perfectly made bed.

 

…do you understand?

My head tips up,

down.

Alright, I’ll need you to sign here…

and here.

I’ll let you get some rest now.

I get under the covers

of the perfectly made bed.

My eyes stare at the nothingness wall

until they don’t, and I’m asleep.



You’re the Doctor


We’re going to ask you some questions.
We just want to figure out what’s going on.
Are you okay with that?

                                                                                        The tissue-box on
                                                                                        the table is my refuge,
                                                                                        my silent partner

Rory?

                                                                                        Not a question, then.
                                                                                        I tell the ground, my old friend.
                                                                                        Up the shoulders go.

We’ll take that as a yes.
What’s the longest you’ve felt depressed?

                                                                                        How depressed? Drop dead
                                                                                        or drag yourself around, not
                                                                                        clinical yet? Shrug.

Was it ever more than two weeks?

                                                                                        Why the fuck does it
                                                                                        matter? Have you ever spent
                                                                                        a week in hell? Nod.

Do you ever experience periods of time
when you feel really high?

                                                                                        ‘No’. I am not a
                                                                                        dance around, crash to the ground,
                                                                                        my sister off meds.

How has your sleep been lately?

                                                                                        Sleep at ten, wake up
                                                                                        at one, two, two thirty, three.
                                                                                        scary dreams…  ‘Not Great?’

Has your appetite changed lately?

                                                                                        Questions, questions. Why
                                                                                        so many questions? All I
                                                                                        want is answers. ‘No’.

What do you want to get out of your stay here?

                                                                                        To not dine with the
                                                                                        devil or befriend razor
                                                                                        blades. ‘…want to be safe’.

Thanks for answering all our questions.
Is there anything you’d like to add?

                                                                                        Why me? Why do I
                                                                                        have to live with a monster
                                                                                        inside my head? ‘Nope’.
 
Mommy Dearest, I’m Freaking Out

I sit on my bed

head down,

my hands in my lap,

safe in

sleeves that hide medals

of honour,

and marks that speak boldly

of shame.

 

They sit in the chairs

I don’t look up

to see their faces,

their fear, or the

disappointment on

their shoulders, black

cat making my eyes

itch, my throat close.

 

Mom takes the silence,

Tears it

Apart. Could you tell

us why

you did it? Confu

sion drags

itself slowly through

fog. Was                                                                                                         

n’t … I don’t get it.

Wasn’t  depression

enough?

 

We can’t help you,

IknowIknow

If we don’t know

What’s wrong, she says,

doing that thing

again, knocking

on the glass that

is my compo

sure. I’m all leak

y inside. They

can never

help me.

 

Are you

being bullied?

My dad

says. My brain

laughs but                                                       

my face does

n’t know

what laughter

is. Lips bare

ly make

it back from

the under

world just to

say

‘No.’

 

Talktous,we’re

Sowor

ried

And then

Theirfacesaremyfaces

I did this

They’llhatemeand

All we want

Whatiftheydie

is for you to be

Becauseofme

Better. Can’t…

Catchadisease

Help…

Hereorhavea

…we care

Caraccidentontheway

Homethey’remy

…want you to be fine.

FacesMYFACES

my fault.                                    

 

I turn my back to them

breathe myself out               

and will my body                a


                                                                                w
 

                                                                                                                          a
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     y

Anything is a Weapon (If You Think Hard Enough)

It’s almost like…

prison, maybe.

Patients take their trays

and sit down around the table.

CYC’s and nurses,

they sit at the table, too,

to talk and eat

or watch the kids on constant care.

 

For real, though,

they’re here to make sure

that no one steals a knife, a plate--

anything sharp or breakable really--

or sticks their little fingers

right deep down into the heat

of the toaster.

 

It’s as if they know

that for every object I see

the first thing I think is

how can I hurt myself with that?

The forks? Looking pretty good.

And my fingers?

So useful, they itch to dig

into the skin on my arm

I need

to hurt. I need

Blood. I--

Rory,

I’m going to have to ask you to stop.

You have coping tools.

Use them.

 

The stress ball?

A poor replacement for flesh.

You Can Try and Try, but You Don’t Succeed

You have to try.

                                                                                                                                                           ‘but I’ve tried

                                                                                                                             for the last 4 years I’ve tried,

                                                                                                                                                   and it never stops’

That’s not true,

you’ve gotten better before.

                                                                                                                                                  ‘It just comes back

                                                                                                                                                                          again

                                                                                                                                                                    It always

                                                                                                                                                             Comes back’

Some people get to the point

where they never

have another major depressive episode

in their life.

                                                                                                                                                         ‘Some people.

                                                                                                                                                                     Not me’

Why not you?

                                                                                                                                                                          ‘Heh.

                                                                                                                                    Because I’ve always had it.

                                                                                                                                                                     Because

                                                                                                                                             It always comes back’

 

With treatment it could be you.

                                                                                                                   ‘You think I haven’t tried that?

                                                                                                                         I’ve been in therapy for 4 years

                                                                                                                                                       It doesn’t work’

Maybe you need to try different treatments.

 

Can you tell me why you’re crying?

                                                                                                                                                                    ‘Because

                                                                                                                                                                  You don’t

                                                                                                                                                            You don’t get

                                                                                                                                                                                It.

                                                                                                                                                                                  I

                                                                                                                                                                                …

                                                                                                                                                   I don’t want to try

                                                                                                                                                                  Anymore’

That’s why we’re here:

To support you

Until you do
Who’s Treating Whom?

I tried to kill myself

Swallowed a bunch of pills.

Her name is Helen,

Or something.

I only came here to watch cartoons.

Also,

Because they won’t let me

stay in my room.

Activation,* they say.

Thank you, Helen-or-something.

Now I must think

Why is she so happy?

Why can she*

Talk and laugh and walk around like she’s a fucking ballerina?

Why

Can she

Bitch about wanting to go home when I have nightmares about leaving,

When I would die?

Cue the self-degrading thoughts--

Labels,** they call them.
_____________________________________________________________________
*Activation is the therapeutic process in which depressive patients are encouraged to always be engaged in an activity, rather than staying isolated and immobile -- both of which are behaviours that only serve to worsen depression.

** A form of distortion in thinking in which one assigns oneself a label in a situation, and thinks of his or herself in terms of this label, rather than in terms of the specifics of the of the situation.                                                                
_____________________________________________________________________
You’re such a stupid self-absorbed little shit,

You should be happy other people are getting well.

This is why

You deserve to die.

Stop, please,

Shhhhh.

 

They talk and laugh,

Sit in the corner and

Tell their secrets

Almost-whispers, ghosts of

Cruel moms, absent dads,

And plans the nurses should never know of.

 

You guys can’t be that close together, says

A mobilized CYC, no longer silent observer

Outside our bubble

Break up that little group in the corner, please.

I flinch from the chairs petulantly pushed along the floor

Go a little more inward, hiding from the

spark in the voice that says,

She’s such a bitch.

Helen-or-something again,

Forming her little band of

Lunatic lackeys

Staging a verbal rebellion

Hey! No touching, unit rule.

Why? We’re all okay with it,

We’re friends.

Helen-or-something again

Her followers might be mute.

No. Touching. And you’re not supposed

to make friends on the unit,

You’re not each other’s therapists.

I find that calming somehow.

 


Breathing is Actually Kind of Important

Curled up in a ball,

lungs not doing that thing

that they’re supposed to do.

Tears claw their way up,

through the throat to the eyes

where they demand to be released.

A little bit wanting to die.

Yup, sounds about right.

 A CYC appears.

Could you tell me what’s wrong?

                                                                                                                    Sure, I thought I was getting better

                                                                                                        but now I’m not and I always end up here

                                                                                                                          and I can’t stay but I can’t leave

                                                                                                                         and I just can’t do this anymore.

Another sob, more hyperventilating.

Rory, stop crying. Concentrate on your breathing.

                                                                                                                                           Okay, innnn, outttttttt

                                                                                                                                                          In, out, in, out

                                                                                                                                                                   No, stop.

                                                                                                                                                       Innnnn outttttt,

                                                                                                                                                              That’s good.

What wrong?

‘I can’t

Do this’.

What can’t you do?

‘Any

Thing.

Life’.

I don’t know what that means.

‘I just….’

                                                                                                                                                       Innnnn, outtttt.

‘I can’t do school and

I can’t do people

I just

can’t.

It’s not

gonna

work.’

Slow your breathing.

Maybe you need to make a plan,

Figure out the steps you’re going to take

To get out of here.

‘It won’t

Work.’

How can you know if you haven’t done it?

                                                                                                                                                                                …

                                                                                                                                                                    Breathe.

                                                                                                                                                                         Okay.

Get up.

Come out of your room

and we’ll figure this out.

                                                                                                                                                                          Okay

                                                                                                                                                                        In, out

                                                                                                                                                 You’re going to try.

Discharge

They Can’t Wait to Get Rid of You

            How are you feeling today?

‘… ‘m okay’.

            You’ve come a long way,

            We’re proud of you.

‘…thanks?’

            How do you feel

            About leaving?           

‘Incredibly anxious 

But also, a little bit--

a minuscule-- 

excited?

And

I think I’ll be okay.


 

Fun Facts Aren’t Always Happy

It’s overwhelming,

stepping outside

of the hospital.

 

The world wraps itself around me,

ants to a stray crumb,

but offers too much

freedom.

There’s a universe around me,

and I’m just a wandering piece of debris.

 

And all the things,

the sharps, the cars,

they’re all there.

They shriek,

USE ME,

in all the wrong ways.

 

I hate the part of my brain

that loves the attention,

wants the pain.

You don’t need that,

you’re okay,

it seems that will be

my mantra today.

 

Cars pull up,

people emerge,

doors shut,

buses rush by.

I feel like they’re

attacking me.

I don’t know

if I can do this.

 

A white van drives towards me.

            Fun fact: it doesn’t take high speeds

            For a car to kill you; even a car going

            Slowly can cause internal bleeding

            And brain damage.

 

                                                Courtesy of

                                                                The part of my brain that I hate.

I step up to the curb,

                                                                                                                                       Jump in front of the car.

The car is almost in front of me.

                                                                                                                                  C’mon, this is your chance.

I have a choice.


 

The car stops,

And I open the door.

PATRICIA ARHINSON is a first year student at Western. She has an interest in mental health, and wishes to pursue a career in psychology.

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