The Visit

The world is fuzzy, you think have been here before, or maybe this isn’t the first time you’ve woken up, there’s beeping, voices in the distance, hushed you don’t think you are allowed to know what they are saying. You don’t care.

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Your family comes in and out, but you had never planned on seeing them again, it is a hit to your heart every time. You can barely look at them. The concern is sweet but unproductive.

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You realize that you are in a gown, someone must have taken your clothes off. That sucks. People ask you questions you don’t know the answer to.

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You try to sit up, but give up fairly quickly as there are soft hand cuffs on either side of you, you are angry, no matter how soft they are they still rub at the burn on your arm, the chains attaching them to the bed are not soft. You think about the burn on your arm, and glance at it, the bandage that you had neatly tied the night before was soiled and ragged. How did that happen? You can’t remember. There are newer raw unbandaged wounds as well, you remember those, vaguely they were yours too, the most effective distraction and destruction method.

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People still ask you questions you don’t know the answer to.

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You think that one of them looks not so great, and part of your hand is numb, you wonder if that will be forever. It will be. You wonder why the chains without attention to your wounds. You know you won’t die today, so you’d rather not be in pain, you can’t guarantee you’ll still be around next week, but for now, you don’t want the physical pain on top of the psychological pain.

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They notice you are in the world again, they hand you a black drink, you look at it, waiting for instruction, you think they want you to drink it, why else would it be in a cup. You can’t really make out what they’re saying, you just want to go back to sleep. You drink the black drink, it’s sweet and burnt, the word charcoal comes to mind. That means they found you, that means you’re going downstairs. You know somewhere deep down that you were trying to avoid this part, but you are too hazy to even put up a little fight. You don’t have any fight left. You go back to sleep.

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You are being unceremoniously moved, they won’t even let you walk yet, though the continued gaps in your memory tell whatever logical part of your brain that’s left that it’s probably for the best. You don’t fight what they say to do, you don’t talk at all. You might never talk again. They mistake listlessness as cooperation anyway, and all you have to do is get out.

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You are in a room now, people come in and ask you questions that you will never know the answer to, they might as well be speaking in tongues, at one point an young woman, probably a patient, comes into your room and takes a pair of your pants out of your drawer. You don’t move, if she’s stealing them she needs them more than you do. You see her wearing them the next day, at least they fit her.

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Maybe you’ll make a phone call today, maybe you won’t.

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You are prodded awake before dawn by a woman who calls you by a name that has never been yours, she wonders if she could just hold you for a bit. You scream. You are already the youngest in an adult ward. You have already been stripped of identity, you do not care what brought this woman here, you are not safe with her, and your name has not and will never be Erin. You do not sleep for a minute the rest of your time there.

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One day, though the days are all a blur so you are still not sure which, you wander in to the dining area, the decals on the walls used to be flowers, maybe to brighten the place up a bit. Now they are tattered and half torn down, this weird irony, this liminal space gives you the first smile you’ve had in weeks. Something about the bleakness makes you happy. You’ve never reacted to things like a normal person, maybe if you survive this storm it will be good for your work. You shut that thought down fast. Survival wasn’t in your plan.

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You go back to your room, there is a man there, he tells you he is a doctor. He is wearing the coat, and other doctors have come in and out. You also know that compliance means you get to leave, so you do as he says. He says to take your top off so he could do an exam. He is not a doctor. You learn later that the door should have never been closed. You file it away in things you will deal with later, if there is still going to be a later. You haven’t decided yet.

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It has been at least three days, you look under the bandages that haven’t been changed or looked at by anyone but you, you think, well that can’t be good. Your whole arm hurts now, it is swollen and red, you don’t tell the nurses, you don’t think they would do anything if you did. You do drag yourself to listen to a cheerful man do renditions of children’s songs on his guitar, all you can think is the only windows you’ve seen have bars on them, and you appear to be more under ground than above it. You think what kind of person would subject already fragile adults to “Old McDonald” and “Down by the Seashore”. You wonder how many suicidal people he’s just pushed over the edge with that much energy.

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You think, we are like feral animals right now, approach us with soft words and no sudden movements, and definitely not children’s songs.

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You pace up and down the hallway, there is a sign that says 100 laps is one mile. You could walk past the nurses station two hundred times and you would still not be the mile away that you’re actually walking towards. They will not let you outside, even just to breathe the non stale air but there will be chair yoga in twenty minutes.

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Soon you are able to put on a good enough face that they let you go. You think it probably has more to do with bed availability than any healing on your part. You are grateful to have your life in your own hands, even if they are untrustworthy ones.

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Before you leave, people ask you questions that you don’t know the answers to, but you know the ones they want to hear.

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You step out into the blinding light, you are not well, but you will never be going back there again.