Today is the 5th anniversary of the day I was hospitalized. I’m stronger than I ever give myself credit for. But I also acknowledge when it is necessary to ask for and accept help. I thank her every year but @dianewah literally saved my life. She came to my apartment and took me to my doctor and then to the hospital. I wouldn’t be here if not for her. I wouldn’t be anywhere if I didn’t allow people to care for me. A few people have asked me what I was hospitalized for 5 years ago. I always say, “I was hospitalized for depression.” I’ve written about it. in that great and wonderful way that poets tend to speak of things in flowery abstraction. http://bit.ly/4raKEQ

I never really told anyone the whole story. I barely like to think about it myself. I was diagnosed with bipolar II disorder 5 years ago. http://bit.ly/2RICqM You can go there to get facts about the disorder. I just want to talk about my own experiences. My entire life, I was a little off. My report cards read like, “Bassey is a good student but she talks too much…Bassey’s a great student but she can’t sit still.” My favorite was the note from my 3rd grade teacher, “Bassey has a bubbly personality. I wish it would bubble only at recess.” I was a handful as a kid. I had too much energy and no place to put it. I lost myself in books because they settled me down. Gave me focus. Otherwise, I was all worry and anxiety and panic attacks and frustration and thoughts racing and inexplicable sadness and can’t sit still. I was just too much.

Fast foward to 2009 and I’m pretty much that same kid. Still just a little bit off. I just found a way to make it seem charming. To wrap myself in cloak called “artist” and make it work. 5 years ago, I was on tour with Def Poetry Jam. I’d spent most of my life finding routines and rituals that helped me stay calm. Being on tour, threw my game off. I was in a different hotel, in a different city way too often. I did what I could. But I struggled. I spent most of the time, lying on hotel room floors, waiting for morning. I rarely if ever slept. I rarely if ever ate. Waiting for morning. Waiting for night. Waiting for the next day. Waiting for something to kill me. I was just a shell. Nobody knew what I was going through but our stage manager, Alice. She came to my hotel room one day and asked me if I was ok. I wanted to say yes. I always said yes. I knew how to turn it on but my eyes were cold and dark and empty. She asked me again and I nodded. The words caught in my throat. She asked me a third time and I broke. Told her of the hours spent on floors crying. Wishing this thing would kill me. Told her about how difficult food was. How I was so sad all the time but didn’t understand why.  She said, “This isn’t ok. You can’t be like this.” and I nodded, not trusting my own voice. But I swore I was ok. So I tried extra hard to be bubbly and alive at rehearsal. I tried to laugh and smile with the cast. I think I even went to the clubs with the cast that night. I was trying. I can will myself out of this like i’ve done countless times. I’ve read about “normal” people. I would emulate them. Laugh at the same jokes. Try not to laugh too loud. Try to keep from talking too fast. Maybe have a drink or 4. I did this as much as I could until 2 cities later, I was exhausted again. Lying on a hotel floor again. Willing morning to come again. Danese, our wardrobe lady, pulled me aside one day and said, “I keep having to take your clothes in. Are you eating?” I said, “Yes.” The truth was, i was ordering fruit from room service. eating only the grapes and pitcher of ice. My jeans could slide off and on without unbuttoning or unzipping. I was a walking shell.

The cast was invited to New Zealand in January. It wasn’t a mandatory trip so I decided to stay back. I needed to get my strength up. I wanted to use that week to feel better. sleep. eat. I spent that entire week on the couch in my apartment in Flatbush, staring at the wall. Waiting. For what, I have no idea. I was supposed to rejoin the tour in Chicago. I remember the night before my flight. I went to Union Square to get out of the house. I was getting on my roommate’s nerves. She seemed disgusted that I existed. I’m sure she didn’t but that’s how I felt. Disgusting. I spent most of the time sitting in Union Square park in the cold; just watching people. Trying to figure out how they got normal. Trying to see if I could too.

I remember standing at the corner of 14th & Park waiting for traffic. I remember feeling like, if I step in front of this taxi… I couldn’t even finish the thought. It scared me too much. I turned around and got on the train. Went home. Cried in my bed until morning. Next day, I was in The Chi. Sitting in another hotel room. My castmates had stories of NZ and the fun they had. I made up what I did. It was getting more and more difficult to fake it. Alice knew. And she checked in every night. She knew something was wrong. So did I. One night, it was too much. I was always able to keep it together until I got back to the hotel. But one night, I couldn’t stop crying. It started in the hotel, followed me down the hall and across the street to the theatre. It stayed in my dressing room and watched me put my make-up on. I couldn’t stop crying. It was 45 min til curtain and I couldn’t stop. I did everything I could. I tried to dance and sing. Make promises. Prayed. Anything. It wouldn’t stop. When Danese came in with my show clothes, I was folded underneath the sink in my dressing room. I was trembling and sobbing. I could barely breathe. I will never forget how terrified she looked. I told her to go get Alice. When Alice came, she crawled under the sink, held me. Told me her own story and battle. How she lost her mom to “this”. She said, “you’re not ok. You can’t kill yourself like this.” She stayed underneath that sink with me until the trembling lessened and the sobbing slowed to just streaming tears. I couldn’t speak. I just cried. She told her assistant that I wasn’t going on. She took me back to the hotel. She said, “you have to go home. If you stay here, it will kill you.” My brain said, ‘They don’t want you here. They don’t want you anywhere.” It’s what happens in the BP mind. it twists things. Makes you feel like nobody wants you anywhere.

They sent me home the next morning, Alice called and gave me the numbers to doctors. She said if I didn’t call. They’d call me. She said if I didn’t call, I wouldn’t make it. She made me promise to call. I passed out on the plane to JFK from Midway. The next day, I called. But I wanted them to tell me I was normal. So I smiled. I looked nice. Said all the right things. The 1st doc said I was fine. only needed to sleep and eat. the 2nd said you’re normal only havea fear of failure. (Duh). The 3rd, Dr. Tiago had a kind but stern face. I sat in front of her and said, “I’m going to lie to you. tell you i’m ok. so you say ok. i’m too tired. i need help.” and then I crumbled. She offered me tissue. asked the right questions. immediately she said, “You have to see someone for medication. You’re in crisis.” I was scared but she called Dr. Goodman. he saw me immediately. he read me the symptoms. It had a name.bipolar II disorder. I was scared and relieved at the same time. It had a name but it was a mental illness. How the fuck was i supposed to be normal now?

The next few months were a struggle. I had no insurance so I was paying out of pocket. I made money on the tour so then it was ok. I went through every combination of meds. And every side effect known to man. The meds were hard on my body but when they worked, they were great. They just always stopped working. It took 9 mnths for the meds to kick in. By then, the money was dwindling. I was getting discouraged. So many pills. So often. They always stopped working. My docs explained it would take some time to get on the right cocktail. I was tired. I was broke. I wasn’t asked back on the tour. Stan said it was just too high an insurance risk. They were worried that I would break again. They wanted me to feel better. I felt labeled and angry. So I stopped taking the meds. Just stopped. I kept the ambien but didn’t refill anything else. Still went to therapy but only took what i could afford. As the days went on, I started feeling sad. Just sad. It was OK. I was a zombie again. But I felt like I could manage. It took a few more ambiens to get to sleep but that was ok. Sleep was good. My life felt like it was just crumbling. Losing the tour was the last straw. What’s the point of getting well if nobody believes you? If nobody trusts it?

My roommate was annoyed with me so I spent a lot of time wandering around Manhattan and BK. My moods were huge and oppressive, so I didn’t blame her for not understanding. I ran into @dianewah one night. She took me to dinner. I sat there and cried the whole time then left. I got home exhausted. I took an ambien. waited. no sleep. I took another. waited. nothing. I took another. and then another. I woke up on the floor of my bedroom. Achingly disappointed. I was scared. I wanted to die. @dianewah had been calling but my phone wasn’t charged. I heard a pounding on the door. I thought it was the landlady. I don’t really remember what happened next. I know that Diane was on the phone with Dr. Tiago and called a cab to take me to the Upper East Side. Dr. Tiago spoke to me for a little bit. Then called Dr. Goodman. Dr. Goodman called me and said, “You have to got to the hospital. You’re in extreme crisis.” I didn’t want to go but I didn’t know what else to do. Everyone looked so scared. I was tired of people looking at me like I was about to break. I was just tired. I was hoping I could sleep there.

Why am I bringing this all up now? I’m not sure if anyone cares. I’ve just been typing the last hour not checking @replies. It’s important for me to remember. I’ve been acting out the last month (year) saying and doing things without thinking. Afraid, sad, lashing out, begging for forgiveness, trying to sleep, fighting to stay awake, thoughts racing, hurting people, taking it back, acting impulsively, irrationally, feeling paranoid, talking myself down and then doing it all again.

I’m a handful. Period. Very difficult to know or love. This isn’t esteem talking, it’s the truth. And I forget why sometimes. because I like to forget it. Pretend it’s not real. People take it wrong. I hate the stigma. I hate the way people treat me when they find out. I hate that they don’t know what it really means. That it doesn’t mean I’m “crazy”. It only means that my brain works differently. Only means that I have to try harder to get over small hurdles. Only means that I’m too much for most people to handle day to day so I stay away. Stop talking so I don’t talk too much. Stop calling so I don’t call too much. I need to establish boundaries and barriers so I’m not too offensive. And people take it wrong. Think I’m shutting them out. Think I’m closing them or stuck up. Or insensitive. or selfish. And yes. And yes. And yes. But also, my brain doesn’t work the right way sometimes. I’m doing the best I can some days. Sometimes it’s fine. Sometimes it’s easy. Sometimes I’m “normal”.

I hate the way people act like it’s the worst thing you could possibly be. When they just don’t get it. They don’t get how difficult it is. How sometimes you just have to praise the fact that you were awake today, that you left the bed. That you “tweeted”. It’s a small victory.
It’s necessary. I try to stay positive. I try to say and do all the right things but when I fall short, the blow is too big.  It’s like the whole world is crashing down around you. So the small things that “other” people can deal with become insurmountable and anything you can’t deal with become a sign of failure. It’s difficult to break things into pieces. The bipolar minds sees everything at the same time; you can’t take it all in. You try to fix it and the more you try, the worse it gets because you’re so frantic and spastic and impulsive. But leaving it alone is not an option because your brain says, “FIX IT” and that’s all you can hear. All you can hear is that you’re not trying hard enough. You’re not doing enough. You’re not good enough. You have to fix it. And you can’t sleep until you fix it. And then you fail.And you crash and the sadness is so thick it swallows your head, calls you a failure. So you sink even further and you pray for hypomania to drag you out. But you know the high isn’t good either. It’s this revolving door. It makes you selfish. All you think about is you and your hurt and your pain and how to get out of your head. So people leave you. They don’t understand and you don’t have the words or the patience to teach them. They don’t get it. But it hurts like the first time every single time it happens. They don’t understand tell you to pray. Say you’re not trying hard enough. Tell you that it’s all in your head. Like that means it’s not real. Or say, “At least you’re alive.” like that’s a consolation prize for this throbbing thing in the center of your everything.

You just want someone to hug you and hold you and crawl under the sink and say, I want you to be ok. I’ll be here until it happens. I try to be that person for other people. Hoping that it will be returned. Grateful when it is. Terrified and heartbroken when it’s not. 

It’s a journey. I have a kid who I don’t want to see or feel this ever. So I try to stay joy for him. Try to let my brain settle for him. But sometimes it’s too much. 2 weeks ago, it was too much. Today, it’s too much. Tomorrow, I hope it’ll ease a bit. I need to try harder. I’m always trying though. I dont’ want to fall back and sink into it. I just want to be ok. So I try. Every day. You think I tweet too much? You think I talk too much? Imagine what my brain is doing. Imagine the alternative; siting here with the noise in my head. I need to move the words around and out. And i hurt people in the process. And I apologize. And then I do it again. And I apologize. And I know that it’s no longer a good excuse. Especially, if they don’t what the struggle is like. I’ve been learning to lean. And I’m grateful for those who lean back. I know it’s bigger than I can handle alone. So I try.

Anyway, I’m going to stop here. Thank you for reading if you read. Sorry if you unfollowed. Love someone & mean it. Sometimes it’s not easy.

I was hospitalized for depression in 2004. I wrote this while I was there. When I speak about the stigmas and the hurt those stigmas cause, I’m speaking from personal experience. But y’all knew that.

Love someone and mean it,

B.

The Emergency Room: The First Night

It smells like what I imagine death would. Stale. Thin. Like the air has forgotten how to move. This is the place that steals fighting spirits. That scares me more than what brought me here. I wish I could stop crying. There must be something here that makes everyone who has passed through give up a part of themselves. It would be easy to succumb to the mind numbing white walls and obstinately shiny linoleum floors. Yes, this place smelled like death and hopelessness and ammonia. And I have been here for four hours.

I wish I could just stop crying. The security guard reads from a textbook and seems to hear neither my sobs nor my, “Excuse me, sir?” When he finally thinks paying attention is worth it, he turns around. I wish he would have remained with his back to me because everything I ask for is denied and dismissed with, “Sorry. I ain’t make the rules.”.

I hope he fails his exam.

Diane is in the waiting room. I feel guilty for making her wait. I feel guilty that she had to bring me here in the first place. Always feel it when people are concern. I’ve been told that guilt is normal. It probably is, I just know that I am not. The waiting room is just on the other side of the door. I don’t know what Diane is doing but every once in awhile I can hear her voice echo from the hall. “Can I just see her?” I’m hoping she will get through but the security guard rejects her requests as well.

I sit at the edge of a thin mattress waiting for someone, anyone to come in. I’m in this room alone. I can hear a soft moaning from somewhere down the hall. This scares me even more and I want to block it out. But I was instructed to leave the door open; outside, is a steady parade of nurses and doctors. None of them know my name. They huddle outside the door and talk to each other like I don’t exist. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be hearing this.

“So why is that one here? ”

“Accidental overdose.”

“And in the room next to it?”

““Severe abdominal pain…“

“And that room?”

“Severe depression and potential suicidality.” I’m digesting the word suicidality, adding it to the list of words in my head right before “adumbration” and right after “euthenics”. I’m playing with these words, saying them over and over. Allowing them to roll around on my tongue. I do this whenever I hear a new word. It’s the only normal thing I’ve done since I got here. My game is interrupted when I hear “Room 1” and “28 years old” and “underweight”. I’m not sure if they are talking about me. “Underweight?. They can’t be talking about me. I haven’t gotten that small… Have I?” When a few of them glance in my direction, I am suddenly ashamed and fold my arms across my chest. They all remain huddled around the door. I shouldn’t be here.

It will be another 2 hours before someone actually enters. She is the attending nurse, she tells me, she has only come to take my vitals. I don’t know what that means and am not sure if I want them taken. I had nothing but these paper scrubs. When they are wet, they stick to your skin like shame. I discovered that the first hour I was here. At least there is no more crying. I don’t really feel anything now; just a slight swimming in my head. I wonder what people will say. Diane said later that I was in shock. All I know is that I am so tired. I don’t realize that the woman has already taken my temperature and blood pressure. She grabs my wrists and notices how thin they are. I pull my shirt up before she sees the way my collar bones struggle from my skin. The shirt tag reads XL so it quickly falls off my shoulder again. The nurse asks if she can take my blood.

“Only if you buy it dinner first.” I say, quietly.

It is my first joke in 3 days. I want to keep what little spark I have left. The nurse ignores my stab at humor; I fall silent again. She struggles to slide a needle into my skin. I can tell she is new by the way she turns and taps the inside of my elbow searching for a “good vein”. I don’t know what the difference is. Maybe I could have helped. She finds one that looks like it behaves and slides the needle in again. No blood comes. She removes the needle again and attempts to find another vein and another and another. They are all empty. I wonder if I’m already dead.

I bite my lip but can do nothing to stop the tears. The nurse ignores all of this she is still stabbing and searching. I am only trying to keep breathing. She, finally, finds an open vein and the blood seems to pour out of my body like it has been waiting for its freedom. She gives a self satisfied smile. I watch the red race through the tube and fill the vial. I’m not sure I will have anything left. I start to ask her something but she is done with me; instructs me to hold a square of gauze and then tapes it to my elbow. This will stop the bleeding. I close my eyes and wipe my face with the back of my hand. So much for not crying. I swallow and ask “What should I do now?” but she was gone before looked up. I press the gauze and tape hard. Something about the pain makes me feel alive. I’m alone again.

And still no one has asked me my name.

Day One: The First Night/Early Morning

It is maybe three in the morning. I have finally been admitted. I have nothing but the shameful blue scrubs and my fear. I’m in a wheel chair on a floor that will be my home for the next few days. Next few days… No one will tell me when I get to leave. The nurse who wheeled me up, said, “You haven’t even been here yet. How would we know when you get to go?” I couldn’t answer that, I just stared at the hospital bracelet around my apparently too thin wrist. “Ikpi, Bassey admitted for depression”. I have been reduced to a condition. I don’t want to be here. I’ve never been a patient in a hospital. As a matter of fact, I’ve only been to the hospital to welcome newborn babies and see my mother at work. She is a nurse that would smile.

I am alone again. The bed is small and uncomfortable. I am grateful for my own room but the quiet is uncomfortable. There is no television. No radio. There is only the sound of my heart pumping much too fast. I start to panic. I am afraid that I will be trapped here; will be lost here just a part of the system. I wonder if Diane has reached my family. I need someone. I’m afraid to cry. I don’t want them to wonder about me.

I lay flat on my back, with a thin, scratchy blanket over me. It is so cold here but I refuse to change into the regulation white, cloth scrubs. I don’t want to feel like I belong here. I close my eyes and try not to think of the number of bodies that have been in this bed; the number of people who have pulled this same blanket around them. I can’t think of these things or I will never rest. Sleep is as impossible as privacy.

I’ve been here for two hours. The door to my room is a constant metronome of opening and closing. I’ve already learned how to time it. Can figure out who and why before they step in the room. The ones checking beds fiddle with the knob before they enter. There is one jedi sweep of their flashlights and then they are gone again. The nurses arrive quieter and quicker. They are in the room and by your side before you notice that you are no longer alone. These nurses are a bit better; they take your temperature and blood pressure. Some ask how I am and look like they would listen. Others ask and turn their heads before the words come. I’ve decided not to say anything to any of them. I don’t want them to know. Besides, I know that it is all in the charts they carry. I have been here for 4 hours. Everyone who enters the room reminds me that it is a weekend. “Our usual doctors are out. You will soon meet the weekend team.” They are all saying that no one can help me yet. So I just nod, I am afraid to speak. I’m waiting for my family to arrive. I am waiting for my friends. I am waiting for someone who will speak for me. My voice has betrayed me too often. I need someone here with a spark of empathy. I need someone who will care. These people do not; they can’t. To them, I’m just another patient. Just another faceless body on a conveyor belt of afflictions.

Day One: Morning

I’ve watched morning arrive. I can’t sleep here. This silence is anything but peaceful. It sounds like the walls hold muffled screams. Like there is something waiting just under the surface. I lay awake waiting for the explosion. I can hear the other patients outside of my door they seem to enjoy this place. Can’t they feel the quiet. It is not soothing or peaceful. It creaks and groans and smells like the end of you. I refuse to sleep here. I am not like them.

Day One: Afternoon

I have not moved from my bed. Nurses have come and ask that I eat or talk but I shake my head. I want only to lay here until I’m told I can leave or die, whichever comes first. The nurses deliver messages from my doctors, they say simply, “Bassey, you have to try.” In my head, I answer, at least I’m not dead. I’m not sure if this is better.

I daydream. Stare off into space and think of places I’d rather be. I, sometimes, hold conversations with myself. I’ve done this for as long as I can remember. It helps me organize the rapid tumble of words in my head. And provides an internal monologue that keeps me from losing my mind here. In the middle of a sigh and nod of agreement, a doctor enters. I am once again shy. I don’t know if he’s seen this. I hope he doesn’t think that that is the problem. I can’t stay here too much longer. He wants to take my blood pressure again. The nurses have commented on how high it’s been. They wonder out loud if something is wrong. There is: I’m scared. He studies my chart and asks me if I have a history of heart problems in my family. I nod and say, “Yes, but only the broken kind.” He doesn’t look up but throws a low, tired laugh in my direction. The nurses don’t smile. But I imagine that he is 16 hours on an 18 hour shift; that he has been yelled at and threatened in the last hour alone. “At least this one makes jokes.” He will think. He will tell the others how I’m different. He will tell them that I have a spark. He will say that there is nothing wrong and let me go. I’m so lost in my fantasy that I am startled when he turns quickly to face me. “Tell me what brought you in today.” I want to say “a cab”; something else to encourage a laugh or a smile. He looks up waiting for an answer. I don’t know what to say. I’ve been here for hours and no one has asked me anything that wasn’t clinical, that is if they ask me anything at all. I swallow, hold my breath and exhale “I don’t feel good.” My voice betrays me and breaks into sobs. It had been 45 minutes since I last cried. I was going for a record: one full hour. I didn’t want them to see this. I didn’t want them to know that this is what happens. The doctor sits patiently waiting for the sobs to shorten. I’m sure he has been here before. I don’t know how, but I can see him resisting the urge to hold and comfort. This only makes me cry harder. I am shaking and weeping and tired and ashamed and scared and alone. I’m angry with myself, I cracked for this one the others think I will crack for them too. He pats my knee and offers me a Kleenex. It is all that he can do. His job calls for distance. I will only be a medical chart after he reaches for the door. He and I are the same. I take the Kleenex; refuse to get attached.

He asks me again, what brings me here. I swallow and shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know.”

It is all that I can do.

Day One: Evening

My family and friends have come and gone. I thought that I needed to see them to feel better. But it only made the fear and loneliness even bigger. The look of fear on their faces terrified me. Their forced platitudes and words of encouragement frightened me even more. My father wanted to know what happened so he can fix it. My mother wanted to speak to everyone on staff. I wanted to tell them that it is all a big mistake, that they will release me as soon as they realize. My sister doesn’t understand and it is her that I want to understand more than anyone else. I want her to be able to explain it to my parents. I want her not to feel shame. My real voice is locked somewhere. But she can’t figure it out herself. I don’t like to worry people. I didn’t want to trouble them with concern so I smiled as often as I could; laughed when it was called for. I avoided questions that I couldn’t answer. Deflected questions to answers that I didn’t want to know. “I’m going home on Tuesday. No matter what.”, I tell them. My mother begs me to stay until they can help me; until they can figure out what to do. So I will never have to come back here.” I nod. I don’t tell them how frightened I am. I don’t tell them how much I don’t want to know. But nod, “Say, yes, mum.” until she is satisfied. It’s worth it when I leaned into her and put my head on her shoulder. She kissed my forehead and held my hand. I’d almost forgotten how much I need that. I want to tell her that the nurses don’t smile but I’m not sure she’ll understand. She is a nurse that smiles.

They stayed until visiting hours were over. I needed them longer than that. They told me they’d be back I wasn’t sure if I believed them. This place leaves me terrified. I don’t tell them that. The nurses tell them that I don’t eat. They tell them that I don’t talk. My father wants to know why. My mother demands that I do.”They won’t let you leave unless you follow the rules.” My friends understand and when they come, one comes with pens and a pad. The others food and magazines. I can write again. I wonder what I have to say about all of this. I wonder how much I’ll share. I leave the pen alone for a few hours. I read the magazines like I’m in them. As always, the food is more difficult.

Things that create pictures and record sound are not allowed. My cellphone does both so they took it when I checked in. Maro smuggled my Sidekick and charger in for me. She knew that I needed it. It is my only link to the things that make sense to me. I’m careful with it. When the nurses come, I hide it under my blanket or pillow. I’m not sure if the Sidekick itself is allowed, but it is all I have and will not risk them taking it away. The charger is trickier, I keep it stuffed into the toe of my shoe. Sometimes, I put a dirty sock on top so that even when it’s picked up, you still can’t see what’s inside. The sock is filthy. The nurses cut their eyes at me and wrinkle their noses. I don’t care if they think I’m dirty. At least I have the only thing that I need. This is the only rule I will break.

I want out of here too badly.

Day Two: Morning

Still no regular doctors. It’s the weekend, you know? I mouth the words with everyone that says them. I hope they don’t notice. It will be another reason to keep me here. I make a mental note, from now onwards, I will only get sick during the week.

Today, will be the first day there are huge spaces between crying. Today is the first day, I ask a question. The nurse is shocked but doesn’t have the answer. She tells me that she will “ask the weekend doctor”. We finish the sentence together. I tell her not to bother. She doesn’t want to let go of the fact that I’m speaking. She asks me if I want to come into the lounge or get something to eat. Maybe I’d like to meet some of the other patients. I shake my head. I’m fine.

“You’re going to get bored. You can’t stay cooped up in your room forever.”

I remind her that I can, “It’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

She nods and exits the room quietly. I hope I wasn’t rude. I’m just not ready.

I’m writing again.

Day Two: Morning/Afternoon/Evening

The regular doctors don’t care either. They talk to each other not me. I’m angry at them for taking so long and then forgetting that I am not a case study. And much more than the medical charts they cling to like needy children. I am tired now, the sleep is still slow and often interrupted. I have little use for these well rested, well-groomed doctors and their questions. They’ve already been told about me; have spoken to my regular doctors. I have little to say to them. They still offer treatment that I know damage my body. I know my body, I tell them. I know what makes me feel worse. They nod and make notes. They youngest looking one begins his sentence, “We were thinking of putting you on…” I’ve told him already that I can’t take that medication, it makes me feel like too numb. And the other one brings headaches. And that one makes me tremble so much that I can’t sit or sleep. They scribble furiously into their pads. I tell them that I want to talk to my regular doctors. The woman who vaguely resembles Belinda Carlisle, reminds me that my doctors are not here. I tell her that neither was she the last few days. I want to be seen by people I trust. You lot can continue taking my temperature and blood pressure. I will not take anything they give me. They insist. I tell them that I’m sensitive to medication. The one with the Payless shoes and homemade haircut seems to be a resident. He does most of the writing. He is too young to look so haggard and weather worn. He sighs and tells me that this treatment has worked for countless others like me. I tell him that I am not countless others and he doesn’t know what I’m like. I want my regular doctors. I want my mother. I want someone who understands my body and my reactions. I want someone who will listen to me. I need someone who cares.

They write furiously in the books. I know they are labeling me as difficult. I don’t care. I hate them all. All the anger I feel is betrayed by the tears streaming down my face. I am terrified and shaking. Why won’t anyone notice this. They all stand and watch me weep. I hate them even more. One of the silent one says, “We’ll leave you alone now and try to get your doctors on the phone.” I manage a thank you, as they file out of the room. The door snaps behind them. Aside from the bed checks, I am left alone for the rest of the night. I’m not sure if this is a punishment or a reward. I try to be grateful for this pocket of quiet but it creates a loneliness that recalls the curl and crying of the first day.I’m starting to no longer feel like myself. I don’t want to be here.

Day 3

At least I’m not dead.

Will not continue…