From Asylum To Where
Chapter One - Intro
White walls, white straitjackets, white dress gowns. Even though it has always been said that white represented ‘purity’ and ‘innocence’, nothing felt particularly pure about this place, this… prison. The medication tablets were white, along with the wash cloths and the towels. The tiles in the bathrooms were white, and although the bathtubs began to fade and look musty, at one point in time they were white as well. The sheets, the curtains; no matter where Richard set foot, everything turned out to be cadaverous.
Richard knew that everyone was under the impression a drastic ‘change’ would happen overnight. He wanted nothing more than to laugh in their faces; it took them long enough to see he really did have a problem. For years he fought the temptations, the urges, and the negative emotions that constantly swam through his head. But, no one questioned anything until he spent two days locked away in his room, binge drinking and slashing his arm.
He found it funny how they cared, but he didn’t. In the end Richard knew he “involuntarily”, as the doctors liked to call it, checked himself in because he wanted to make mommy and daddy happy. Over and over again, Richard tried to explain that the drugs wouldn’t work, they would never be able to shove an eating tube down his throat, and the only way he could feel remotely ‘good’ about anything was by shoving a razor blade into his flesh. It became too easy for him to pretend to stop doing these things, simply because he had to fake an ‘all right’ mental state way too many times to count.
None of them knew, though, that he didn’t want to fake it anymore. Richard always wondered in the back of his mind why he couldn’t share the same happiness as his family and friends. He often wondered just how they could be so optimistic about their lives when everything in the world seemed so dull and boring. Everyone knew Richard never had a liking for routine, which was one of the reasons why he hated the hospital. He still had a few weeks to go, but really doubted that he could make it all the way to the end.
“Richard,” a female voice called from the end of the corridor, “Richard, it’s time for your…”
“I know, I know.” He stood up and walked out his room. The only time he ventured out was to take medication and use the restroom, otherwise he never came out. Over the course of one week he became known as the ‘hermit’; someone even went as far to call him ‘Android’ because he was always up and running, similar to a machine. Whenever Richard walked by, he would hear a few groups mumbling amongst themselves, and usually the conversation would be about him. On more than one occasion he wanted to jump in and just yell the truth in their faces, but like anything else he would refrain.
“Water honey,” the nurse handed Richard the tiny plastic cup and a glass of water. Without an argument, he swallowed the pills and made his way back to his room, listening to the whispers from the other patients that surrounded him.
Richard never liked to think of himself as ‘one of them’. He didn’t even think that anything was wrong with him; he went through his daily routine like usual, wrote in his journal, and stayed in his room. Even though the environment setting had changed, the way Richard performed his daily tasks – didn’t. If the nurses told him he couldn’t do something, he just nodded his head and did as he was told; nothing changed from the time he was admitted to a few weeks later. Richard knew deep down that he wanted to go home more than anything, but at the same time he didn’t want to stop cutting himself, or begin eating. He slept for a few days, and stopped drinking, so why did he have to stay there any longer?
When Richard made it back to his room, he took out the notebook he hid underneath his mattress – a black and white marble composition book, covered in magazine cutouts, quotes, amongst other literature and musical paraphernalia – opened up to the next clean page, and write down any arbitrary thought that came to mind.
It seems like the past few pages have been filled with me ranting and raving about wanting nothing more than to go home. Granted, I do, I want to get out of his… I would rather not say, but I really don’t want to dwell on it anymore. I hope that if someone finds book one day, they try and take into consideration how I feel about being here… sounds like wishful thinking if you ask me.
Now I sound like a hypocrite, don’t I? I kind of wanted to stay away from that… thought I could have gotten away with it this time. I guess, here’s one last rant. One of the things I strongly dislike about being here…
A knock sounded on the door, followed by a nurse calling out ‘Richard, time for your therapy session’ over and over again. Feeling defeated, Richard put his notebook down and stood up. When he peaked out and noticed the nurse engaged in a conversation with another patient, he quickly pulled the notebook back out and completed his thought.
… Is that it seems like there’s no privacy. I can’t go anywhere without having someone stare at me, or looking over my shoulder… I think I’m starting to develop a slight case of paranoia…
“Richard, I am not going to tell you again. It is time for your session.”
Richard closed the book for the last time and followed the nurse down the hall, absentmindedly looking around at the white walls that occasionally screamed out at him.
Richard knew that everyone was under the impression a drastic ‘change’ would happen overnight. He wanted nothing more than to laugh in their faces; it took them long enough to see he really did have a problem. For years he fought the temptations, the urges, and the negative emotions that constantly swam through his head. But, no one questioned anything until he spent two days locked away in his room, binge drinking and slashing his arm.
He found it funny how they cared, but he didn’t. In the end Richard knew he “involuntarily”, as the doctors liked to call it, checked himself in because he wanted to make mommy and daddy happy. Over and over again, Richard tried to explain that the drugs wouldn’t work, they would never be able to shove an eating tube down his throat, and the only way he could feel remotely ‘good’ about anything was by shoving a razor blade into his flesh. It became too easy for him to pretend to stop doing these things, simply because he had to fake an ‘all right’ mental state way too many times to count.
None of them knew, though, that he didn’t want to fake it anymore. Richard always wondered in the back of his mind why he couldn’t share the same happiness as his family and friends. He often wondered just how they could be so optimistic about their lives when everything in the world seemed so dull and boring. Everyone knew Richard never had a liking for routine, which was one of the reasons why he hated the hospital. He still had a few weeks to go, but really doubted that he could make it all the way to the end.
“Richard,” a female voice called from the end of the corridor, “Richard, it’s time for your…”
“I know, I know.” He stood up and walked out his room. The only time he ventured out was to take medication and use the restroom, otherwise he never came out. Over the course of one week he became known as the ‘hermit’; someone even went as far to call him ‘Android’ because he was always up and running, similar to a machine. Whenever Richard walked by, he would hear a few groups mumbling amongst themselves, and usually the conversation would be about him. On more than one occasion he wanted to jump in and just yell the truth in their faces, but like anything else he would refrain.
“Water honey,” the nurse handed Richard the tiny plastic cup and a glass of water. Without an argument, he swallowed the pills and made his way back to his room, listening to the whispers from the other patients that surrounded him.
Richard never liked to think of himself as ‘one of them’. He didn’t even think that anything was wrong with him; he went through his daily routine like usual, wrote in his journal, and stayed in his room. Even though the environment setting had changed, the way Richard performed his daily tasks – didn’t. If the nurses told him he couldn’t do something, he just nodded his head and did as he was told; nothing changed from the time he was admitted to a few weeks later. Richard knew deep down that he wanted to go home more than anything, but at the same time he didn’t want to stop cutting himself, or begin eating. He slept for a few days, and stopped drinking, so why did he have to stay there any longer?
When Richard made it back to his room, he took out the notebook he hid underneath his mattress – a black and white marble composition book, covered in magazine cutouts, quotes, amongst other literature and musical paraphernalia – opened up to the next clean page, and write down any arbitrary thought that came to mind.
It seems like the past few pages have been filled with me ranting and raving about wanting nothing more than to go home. Granted, I do, I want to get out of his… I would rather not say, but I really don’t want to dwell on it anymore. I hope that if someone finds book one day, they try and take into consideration how I feel about being here… sounds like wishful thinking if you ask me.
Now I sound like a hypocrite, don’t I? I kind of wanted to stay away from that… thought I could have gotten away with it this time. I guess, here’s one last rant. One of the things I strongly dislike about being here…
A knock sounded on the door, followed by a nurse calling out ‘Richard, time for your therapy session’ over and over again. Feeling defeated, Richard put his notebook down and stood up. When he peaked out and noticed the nurse engaged in a conversation with another patient, he quickly pulled the notebook back out and completed his thought.
… Is that it seems like there’s no privacy. I can’t go anywhere without having someone stare at me, or looking over my shoulder… I think I’m starting to develop a slight case of paranoia…
“Richard, I am not going to tell you again. It is time for your session.”
Richard closed the book for the last time and followed the nurse down the hall, absentmindedly looking around at the white walls that occasionally screamed out at him.