No Title

Chapter 11

“You may think you know me. I am not who you think I am, nor am I who you thought I ever was. I am not who you think I will be. I am not who you want me to be. I am not even in the existence you put me in. You think you know me, but do you really? Can you see the world through my eyes? Can’t you see that I think you are a patronizing bastard? Can’t you see that I hate you?”2

I look over my journal entries from the past few months and they seem to mock me. They ask me who I think I am, to sit here and question my very existence. How dare you, they say, how foolish of you to sit here and ask, “WHY?” They talk to me in my sleep. I can here them muttering against me, false lies. They seem to think I can’t hear them. That I 3

can’t see what they are doing. I know in my heart that they are trying to get me to believe 4

them, and not to believe anything anyone else tells me. 5

These journal entries are not to anyone in particular, unless you count the whole world as being “someone”. I know that you are probably thinking that I am insane. I don’t know, I might be. But that’s for me to know, and you never to find out. Call me insane if you will, but more and more, it feels that I am the only sane person on the planet, that I am the only one that knows that the world is going to Hell in a hand basket. I know this because things talk to me. They tell me things that would make you feel stupid and scared. They tell me things about you and what you do in secret…I know things about you that would make you want to cry. I can change your reputation in a minute and feel no regret for it because of what you have done to me. 6

You called me insane and put me in this hellhole, where the nurses and doctors tiptoe around me as though I might break if they touched me, if they talked to me. They seem to think that my medicine helps me not to hear these voices, like my journals, but they don’t. These voices just keep talking, no matter how heavy the dose. And the doses get heavy, so heavy that I cannot see the room around me for the pictures that fly around my eyes. They make the journals sound like discordant voices, like a broken record. They become louder and rougher, so that I cannot distinguish which one is talking to me. It may be Red, or Black, or even Yellow, who never seems to have much to say. But in the end, they become silent, so silent I think that I am well again, for a few hours. They always come back though to torture me with their suggestions, like which nurse to kill, or which doctor to be silent to. The journals are always right. They have been 7

right about so many things before that I always believe them. 8

They tell me I am schizophrenic. Like that is going to help me. Okay so they have a name for me. They are labeling me, just like they always did before this happened. They would label me as stupid, as slow, or as dumb, just because I never had much to say. I would go home and pour what I thought about those assholes into my writing, making up stories about how they would die horrible deaths, or maybe they would be injured very badly and I would find them and just leave them to die, walking away while laughing madly. I was always the one left out of everything. Someone would bring birthday party invitations and somehow, every time, they would be one short. And the sad thing was, I never really cared. I would always put up with it because I thought that this is what I had to do, that I never had any other choice. 9

The voices are talking again, I can feel them waking up. The dose of medicine they gave me yesterday was so strong that it kept them away for a whole day. I have never been so relieved in my life. Before they left, they were mocking me about what I had written the past month. About how I hated the entire world and how nobody knew the Real me, the Real Emily, who isn’t schizophrenic. The Real Emily, who is normal, who has people to come and visit her instead of all the other psychos on this funny farm who could care less if I was alive or dead. 10

The other people in this mental institute are even more insane than I am, if you believe that I am insane. There is even one girl who sits staring at the wall all day singing the National Anthem at the top of her lungs. She only stops when I throw my books at the wall. It kills two birds with one stone by making her stop singing and making the books stop talking. 11

It doesn’t stop the sound from her, because she’ll just start crying and screaming loudly, but I can handle that. At least she’s no longer off tune. There is no real tune for crying. There is also a big man who thinks he’s a pen. He walks up to nurses asking if they have anything that needs to be signed. He asked me that and I punched him. It got me three days in the highest security room, locked in without a pillow or blanket or my books. They forgot about my medicine. The window and walls started talking to me. That’s about all there is in the highest security rooms, except for the door. It didn’t have much to say except to call me an idiot.12

Nobody ever comes and visits me. My father won’t let them. I have a mom and dad and a sister, but they won’t come and see me. Being insane is not accepted. It’s considered bad. I have not seen my mother and my sister 13

for over two years. Ever since I have been in here, I have had no contact with my family. 14

It doesn’t bother me much. I never really did like my sister and my father. My mother was just hindrance to me, always trying to get me interested in things I never cared about, like dance or school. My father was always harping on me about my grades, and he never seemed to have time for the things I loved, like music or writing. Those were wastes of time to him. 15

As the oldest, I was expected to set a good example for my little sister. My father dreamed that I would be doctor, that I would lead the family for him when he died. Being the oldest was nice at times. I got things before my sister, but I was always the one to blame when something went wrong. One time, my sister had a party when my parents went away for the weekend and I got blamed. I tried to explain to them that I couldn’t possibly have a party because I have no friends but that only 16

got me in more trouble. Ever since then, I have positively hated my sister. She always stole my clothes and told Mom that they were hers, so I got in trouble when I tried to get them back. 17

Not having anyone is nice though. Half of the people in here spend most of their time crying for their Mommies or Daddies. They cry for days after a visit. I sit here and watch them and laugh. They look so stupid, when they are sad and alone. I am never alone because I have my journals to talk to when life gets boring, which it always is. But when I get tired of my books, I talk to the doors and walls. Some of them have quite nice personalities. They have a lot to say, like what some people do when they are alone, or what they say in their sleep. 18

I can’t count how many times I have tried to get out. I have tried everything: leaving when the door opens, sneaking past the nurses and doctors, climbing into the laundry cart, everything, but they always find me and always 19

drag me back. Then for a few days, I am put into the highest security room where the only thing to talk to is the door. I have been in that room more than any other prisoner, except for maybe the big guy. That is exactly what this place is, a prison. It may have some frills, like each prisoner has their own room, and we get to have lots of free time. Heck, you might even say that all of our time is free. It’s also like a prison in the fact that some of us will only get out of here by dying. For me, that doesn’t seem to be a short time. I have tried to kill myself lots of times before, but I fail every time. I guess you could say that I am a failure at life and death. 20

In here, I have had lots of time to 21

think. I think about death and what it will feel like. I mean, death is inevitable. It’s going to happen whether you like it or not. And I know that. The problem is, I want it to happen soon. I can’t take much more of this. I am already insane, so that’s not an option. Some days I wish that I could just lie down on my bed and die. Not a slow and painful death, nor a fast and painless death. I want to look Death straight in the face and laugh before He takes me. I don’t believe in Heaven, nor do I believe in Hell, but if I were to go to a place, I am sure I would be destined to Hell right away. I have tried too many things in my life, wished the worst on so many people that I think if there was God, he’d never even consider taking me to Heaven. Some people deserve it, but I, for one or two or three, do not believe that I deserve it. 22

I do not want you to pity me, nor do I want to you try to understand. I want you simply just listen to me. Be aware that things like this can happen to seemingly “normal” people. That no matter what you do, something can happen to you to make you a different person. Also, remember that there is no such thing as normal. There never was nor will there ever be a set normal. Normal has no basis, nor any measurement to check yourself by. I do think that there may be a boundary where you are finally considered not normal, but having walked that path, I would say that it is no different form the “normal” path, because I have walked that one too in my life. Life has many paths, but where it takes you, in the end, you decide. Choose the path that is the best for you. 23

Chapter 224

My day starts fairly normally, for an insane person. I wake up. I don’t know the time, because I have no clock. They won’t give me anything that I could hurt myself with. They bring me breakfast, usually some runny oatmeal, and every once in a while, eggs, which aren’t worth eating. They are rubbery and taste like cardboard. 25

Then I sit in my room for a few hours, writing with a crayon. I have no idea why they think that I couldn’t hurt myself with that dumb crayon, but they do, so that is what I write with. I never really have much to say, but my journals always do. They are constantly talking, but they always speak in gibberish. 26

It reminds me of when I ran. I would get so out of breath and light-headed, that I would hear voices and not understand the language. That is what the voices sound like. With my medicine, everything gets distorted, but it doesn’t stop the voices. In here, the only voices I can understand are they people, the walls and the doors and occasionally, my journals. I usually don’t pay attention when things are talking to me, just because usually, the advice they give is bad ideas. 27

At first, I didn’t realize that. My door would say, “Oh, you can open the door and leave. It’s easy.” And so I would do it, but I always got caught. I would storm back into my room, screaming at the door. The nurses and doctors would come running, and give me a sedative to calm me down. 28

When the meds kicked in, it appeared that the doctors and nurses would comfort the door. They could appear to caress it and pet it. The door would sigh and it would only make me madder. Half of the time, I would fight through the sedative and attack again. It would only get me stronger meds. Eventually, the doctors realized that the doses they were giving me weren’t strong enough. So they upped the doses. 29

Eventually, I became used to the30

provoking of the doors and windows. But nothing would ever have prepared me for what I would face with the nurses, doctors and other patients. Just to deal with them daily, I have to steel myself daily. I have to wake up and remember where I am, and tell myself that it will all be okay. That is usually the only time I cry. 31

By the time I am done with my crayon and notebook, which isn’t bound in wire, I have to go to group therapy. This is a waste of time, because I don’t say anything. I sit there as the fools talk and the psychiatrist listens and asks the rest of us what we think. The psychiatrist would be a wonderful person, with the exception that she is in cohorts with all the rest of them. 32

I hate group therapy, not only because I am constantly asked my freaking opinion, but also because I don’t talk. I see no point in speaking to people who put me in here. They only report to the big shots. 33

You’d think after three long years in this 34

place, they’d just leave me alone. But they never do. They just keep picking at me, hoping someday, I’ll give up and speak. I made a promise to myself when I came in here that I would never give up, not until I died. As long as I have been in here, I have kept that promise to myself. Many days, it’s the only thing that keeps me hanging on, along with the hope that someday, I’ll get out. 35

After group therapy is lunch, if you can call it that. The food they serve here is your typical institution food. It has no taste, and it all looks the same. Usually, I only know what it is by asking, and even then, nobody really knows. Sometimes, I think they might be putting poison in our food just to get us out of here faster. 36

After lunch, I go to my room to lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling for about four hours, until my journals start talking again, and I feel obligated to yell at them. This brings the daily dose of sedatives, and by the time, they kick in, I’ve missed supper and it’s time to go to sleep, if you can call it that. 37