Nuthouse – Part Three

<< Nuthouse – Part Two

“Lucy smiled,” was the thought that led me back to consciousness. Its hint of satisfaction immediately shattered against the padded walls.
“Not again!”
I let my head fall back against the cushioned floor. My arms were numbed by the straightjacket. I knew I was out of a job; contrary to a bunch of other illness, schizophrenia was considered too unstable for the government to force employers to keep me on their payroll until I got better.
Asylum was the only option for us – as if a tour in hell promoted mental health!
My mother would blame my father’s side of the family for my defect and cry every night until I was out of here. My father wouldn’t be able to look at me because I ruined his relationship with his wife. No one would really want me to answer the “how are you?” question they would ask when visiting, once in a blue moon. I’d eat hospital food, gobble up pills, be questioned, studied, tested, stressed and relaxed. The doctors would find the triggers of the crisis and teach me to manage them.
All this would heal me – of course! – before they released me into the world for the fifth time.
“We’re awake!” an overly enthusiastic voice said through the speakers in the top corner of the room. “Are we feeling any leftover discomfort from the tranquilizer?”
Great. ‘Teamwork’ had already begun. Doctor and patient didn’t exist; we fought off insanity as one. The only patients exempted of such treatment where the ones with low self-esteem.
“We’re feeling okay.” I’d be here for an eternity if I didn’t play along. “We would like a glass of water.”
“We’re reasonable. That’s great!”
If I scored enough points, I might get out of the straightjacket before the end of the day. “We’re happy to get help. The morning weighed down on us.”
“Acceptation is half the cure! We’ll think about that while we wait for our water and our first medicine, won’t we?”
I hid a grunt behind a “We sure will!” Though I knew this whole circus helped me – even if the result was temporary – the mechanic itself was debilitating.
My hopes went up when my doctor walked in with pills and a plastic glass of water; I didn’t know him so there was a small chance he might actually figure out what was wrong with me and give me the proper tool to control my crisis. He straightened his jacket carefully before he spoke.
“Hello Madison. I’m Trevor. We’re going to work on your problems together.” He spoke softly and slowly, measuring each word before letting them out.
“We can’t wait to start!”
He straightened his jacket carefully. “We agree.” He offered me a couple of pills and helped me chase them down with water. Then he straightened his jacket carefully. “We can take off the straightjacket now.”
I patiently waited while he undid all the ties. He was my first psychiatrist with OCD. Maybe he would stress enough over the details to discover something that had escaped everyone before him.
Maybe…
Coherent thought began to take time. Fragments. Drugs. Damned.
Straightjacket came off. Hallways.
“Hey Mad!”
I knew that guy from my last stay. I couldn’t remember his name.
Trevor parked me on a couch in front of a soap opera.
I’d be out in a month if the sounds in my head remained silent.
Which they did.
For the first week.

Nuthouse – Part Four >>