Hospital II

Part One Hospital I: Monday Morning

Monday Evening

Crying.
Lipton tea in a Styrofoam cup.
Texting and calling. Who else do I, should I, tell?
Facebook on my crummy cell phone internet.
Forcing down my lunch: yogurt, carrots, apple.
Therapeutic maze toy.
Falling asleep.
His mixed tape. “Cause if it's coming for you / Then it's coming for me / But I will be there / 'Cause we'll need each other in the dark”
Waiting.

Four hours in a quiet room. This strange mix of waiting room and doctor’s office. Couch, lamp, magazines, blood pressure monitor. Waiting at the behavioral health clinic because of your current state, if you leave the building we’d be forced to call the police waiting. Calm but absent. Maybe this isn’t my real life.

Time                    slows                                        down.

Until my aunt arrives. And then I am forced to think about the hospital.

Thinking.
Overlake. Bellevue.
Texting him to remain calm.
My flatmate’s concerned/okay-what-can-I-do-to-help voice.
Crossing the floating bridge.
What about rent, classes, professors, presentations, my room is a mess, so many things to do.
Eating a veggie burger in the Burger King parking lot, talking with my aunt.
Jokes about the police coming to find us.
Waiting.

This is my hospital room. That is the door that separates the behavioral ward from the rest of the hospital. These are the nurses. This is the common area. This is the juice in the refrigerator. I hear voices having a political debate in the dining area.

This is the skin check where we look at your scars. This is what you’re not allowed to keep in your room. This is how you order breakfast. This is your schedule for the day.

This is not my real life.

This is my hospital bed. "The sheets were clean, tight stretched in a broad white band from side to side. Narrower and narrower would her bed be." This is me, alone. The hospital pillow has a pungent hygienic smell and I cannot fall asleep. This is a hotel bed. You are traveling in another country. Create stories in my head—use my imagination to induce slumber. The steady breathing of another person sleeping in the room. Remember what it feels like to curl up with someone you love.

This is me, alone.

When the nurse comes in with my meds give me Prozac well I suppose that's what you eat, I am crying.

“Feeling a little sad tonight are we?”

No, it’s just raining on my face.

I nod, sniffling a little.

“Well let us know if you want any sleeping medication.”

Is this my real life?