‹ Prequel: Ana
Sequel: Relearning Laura ›
The "You're Not Fat" Campaign
Hopeless Blue
The doors to the Child and Adolescent Psychiatric Unit slide open and my stretcher is pushed inside. I am taken off of the stretcher and told to wait here. I lean against the off-white wall and close my eyes. I want to cry but I can't. I feel dehydrated. My mouth is dry and my head is aching and my tongue feels swollen.
A nurse comes up to me and smiles and says something and I try to smile back but I can't and then she gestures at me to follow her so I do.
We walk to a room and she opens the door and says "This will be your room while you're here" and I go in and everything is off-white and a peculiar shade of hopeless blue. There is a narrow bed and a grey chair without armrests and a set of shelves with a protective hunk of rubber on the corner so I can't bash my head against it. There is a window that is screwed closed and probably bulletproof so I can't smash it or jump out. There are shelves and a desk and a chair and a trash can and a bathroom with a futuristic-looking shower and a toilet and an automatic sink.
The nurse sits me down in the chair by the desk and says that I have to fill out some forms and then I can have my clothes back.
Thank god. This hospital gown is humiliating.
And cold.
The nurse, who tells me that her name is Tasha, asks me some questions and writes down my answers. My brain doesn't seem to be working properly. All I can think about is how cold it is and about the hopeless blue that is pervading this space that is now my own.
A nurse comes up to me and smiles and says something and I try to smile back but I can't and then she gestures at me to follow her so I do.
We walk to a room and she opens the door and says "This will be your room while you're here" and I go in and everything is off-white and a peculiar shade of hopeless blue. There is a narrow bed and a grey chair without armrests and a set of shelves with a protective hunk of rubber on the corner so I can't bash my head against it. There is a window that is screwed closed and probably bulletproof so I can't smash it or jump out. There are shelves and a desk and a chair and a trash can and a bathroom with a futuristic-looking shower and a toilet and an automatic sink.
The nurse sits me down in the chair by the desk and says that I have to fill out some forms and then I can have my clothes back.
Thank god. This hospital gown is humiliating.
And cold.
The nurse, who tells me that her name is Tasha, asks me some questions and writes down my answers. My brain doesn't seem to be working properly. All I can think about is how cold it is and about the hopeless blue that is pervading this space that is now my own.