April, 12th 2017 — Voluntarily fucked
This article is part of the series “What is like to attempt suicide and fail”. Start there, if you have not read it yet.
Wednesday, D Day + 5
Frightened, I slept. Frightened, I woke up. It’s the day I have to go to the psychiatric clinic that will welcome me for treatment. In theory, the only reason for my hospitalization is to allow time for the new medication — lithium — to stabilize in my system. That’s what I trust. All the time. “From one week to 15 days,” said the psychiatrist. I’ve already spent five being medicated at home. So, by my advanced mathematical wisdom, another 10 should do it and I can get back to my life and the world, even if it is to continue treatment for a longer time at home.
I understand this is a humanistic clinic (good thing), with Internet access (great thing), where people are treated and cared for individually (good thing). Each case is different. I trust everyone. My family, my psychiatrist, my therapist, the people at the clinic, whom I do not even know, but from whom I receive messages through my ex-wife. They are all my friends. And so, trusting in everything and everyone, I leave for the place that will make me hear the rooster crowing dozens of times while Peter, the apostle, gives me that naughty wink. Oh, Peter. Oh, Peter. You motherfucker.
The way to the clinic should have been a sign that things would not be good. I fought with my kids. I fought with my ex. I even fought with the GPS woman, that bitch. GPS was not mine. With mine I would never fight. With holes, screams, dramas, wrong turns, and so on, I finally arrived at the clinic.
Do you know that picture of the McDonald’s sandwich box? The one that, when you buy and open, looks just like the naked nut sack of your grandfather? So. This was the feeling I had when I arrived at the clinic.
In a warm room we waited until someone could come to us. I decided to ask my kids to wait in the car. It had all the ingredients to become become a depressing broth bubbling in everyone’s face.
The check in
The first step of arrival is to make the a check-up of all my belongings. It works like this: a gentle kid turns all my things around and orders back everything that can be useful, I mean, harmful. Cell phone, money, perfume, aerosol deodorant, it all goes away. And then I begin to understand the seriousness of the problem. I’m coming to a clinic with loads of drug addicts, which is the one thing I’m not. And at this very moment the wise words of William Shakespeare echo like a bell: “Holly shit, this is going to be bad”.
While waiting for the inspection of my belongings, hoping that they would not take away my dignity, I look around. Dozens of people are pacing, visibly drugged or in serious mental suffering. My heart breaks.
I’m bipolar. This is no joke. It can lead to suicide, like the most avid reader should be aware at this point. That does not escape me. But it is clear, at that moment, that I am at a place that was not made for me. This is a place of confinement.
It is “voluntary”, of course. But look. My family brought me whether I wanted to come or not. Only Zeus knows when they will come back to get me out of here. But the signature on the contract is mine. That mean, it’s vo-lun-ta-ry. In the middle of nowhere, without any documents, IDs, without money. Voluntarily fucked!
The end of privacy
After my arrival, I have an initial consultation with the psychiatrist on duty and the coordinator of the clinic. The two sit bizarrely behind the same table. It’s the first time I see this in 40 years of existence. Two large, broad men, theoretically competent at what they do, side by side, behind the same tiny desk, scraping elbows with one another. The psychiatrist notes my shortcomings on paper. The other guy types everything to the computer (I wonder what the paper is for). My confidence level in the whole thing drops to zero for the first time.
I have my first tray lunch. Rice, beans and meat. The juice is too phosphorescent for me to try. I’m introduced to my room. One of the most debilitated patients at the clinic helps me with my suitcase. I find that I have two colleagues. Privacy is gone. They told me I was lucky. Newbies usually spend a couple of days in the infirmary which, it seems, is a branch of hell.
Satan’s socks
I try to make friends. I’m introduced to everyone. I am quickly presented the smokehouse, which is where everyone god to smoke and talk. “I do not smoke,” I have to explain a few times, almost ashamed to be the only one. “And you’re here why?” Someone asks me. “I am bipolar. Last Friday I tried to check out,” I tell him. “I’m addicted to crack,” someone says. “My thing is cocaine,” says another. “That girl is borderline, this dude has a drinking problem”, they all inform me as guides of the torment.
It’s time for another appointment. This time with the psychologist. I enter the room that has no windows and smells like the feet of a thousand demons. “So what do you want to tell me, what’s the problem?” Begins the psychologist. Do you really want to know? My problem is this damn smell in your room. Holly shit. It mells like Satan himself used the same sock for 16 years and decided to take them out here in his room that doesn’t even have a fucking window. That’s what I wanted to say. But I didn’t. Instead, I said what everyone already knows. That I’m bipolar, that I tried to kill myself and the whole shabang. “Yeah, we need to work on this ,” he goes. Really?
I think back. I am kinda pissed if you haven’t noticed.
The night comes and with it the quiete at madhouse. The home in which I am now Mr. Crazy number 58.
If this was the place where each one is supposed to feel unique, the first night is about to make it not quite so clear. I cried my heart out. Tears covered my face and and my eyes with sadness. It’s time to sleep. I need to sleep. It’s cold. I could not take a shower. It did not seem right. Like taking a shower would mean I accept what was happening to me. Like saying I’m okay with all this.
I go to sleep in jeans and wearing the same jacket I had when I arrived. I lie down on the smallest bed I’ve ever seen. I shrink in the corner and, crying, I feel someone lying down with me. Yes, someone just hugged me. But it doesn’t warm me up. Instead. It makes me colder. I have the chills. I’m afraid, but I look behind my shoulders. It’s her. The old friend. The sadness that accompanies me wherever I go. And now, she hugs me to sleep. It will be a long night, I imagine.
She, my Monster, puts her lips close to my left ear and whispers, “Welcome to the sanatorium, my angel.”
I will post more tomorrow. I’ve created a list of songs I’m listening to while inside the psychiatric clinic. To listen, subscribe to the “After Death” playlist on Spotify.
If you want to talk to me, write to rodrigo@bressane.com.
Be kind,
Rodrigo
