I Will Try to Fix You

I bury my face in my hands and cry. The strange looking woman from across the room moves to sit down closer to me. “It sucks being here,” she comments.

Sucks is a huge understatement. This is the worst thing in the world. I wish I was dead.

“Do you want a piece of gum?” she asks me.

I look over at her and shake my head. No I don’t want a piece of fucking gum! My whole life has fallen apart. I’m not really concerned with candy right now.

“Ryan Ross?” the middle aged woman at the desk finally calls.

I’ve been here for hours already. It’s dark outside now. I’m falling apart. I’m going to go crazier than I already am.

“Let’s go,” she brings me outside into the cold March air.

I step into a van with no heat and she drives me up the hill to the main house. Once inside we go up the stairs to the third and topmost floor. We get let inside and stop at the office. A man walks me down the hall to show me my room. It’s plain with two beds and a dresser in the middle. There’s a bathroom in each room.

We walk back down the hall and I get introduced to the other teens here. One is wearing a purple hoodie and glasses. He smiles at me and holds out his hand for me to shake. “My name’s Brendon,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I nod and chew on my bottom lip. I want to go back to my room. I want to crawl in a hole and die.

“I’m Pete,” the other boy shakes my hand almost excitedly. His black bangs hang across his forehead, almost in his eyes.

“Hi…” I choke out then I go back down the hall to my room.

I pace around the room for a few minutes, looking around. There’s a painting of a tree hanging over one bed so I choose that one. I look out the window at the hill and the trees and the stars. It’s a small window and when I try to open it I notice it only opens a couple inches. I close it then crawl into the cold and unfamiliar bed. I cry against the clean white pillow and pull the blankets up to my neck, curling up into a ball. I can’t even sleep.

How has it come to this? My life is so fucked up. I’m fucked up. I’m only seventeen and I’m in a mental hospital.

After being in the psych ward at the emergency room for two days and taking an hour long ride on an ambulance over here I was kind of looking forward to being able to settle in. Now that I’m here though I just want to get out. I know I saw something in all of those papers saying I could sign myself out or something after a few days and I may have to do that. How long are they going to try keeping me here? Someone said I’d be here for at least two weeks and I don’t think I can stand it.

Every fifteen minutes a nurse comes in to check on me. She has gray hair and she keeps telling me to go to sleep. I really wish I could. This place is so strange.

In the morning the nurse returns and she has a clear plastic cup in her hands. “You need to pee in this cup,” she tells me.

“What?” I sit up.

“We need to take a urine sample to test for drugs and other things.”

“Oh…”

I’m not on drugs. This is so awful, could it get any worse?

I do what the nurse says then go get my pulse and blood pressure taken. The nurse taking my pulse says “You’re heart rate’s a little high. Are you feeling anxious?”

Of course I’m feeling anxious. What kind of a question is that? “Yeah,” I nod.

I go sit in the main room where there’s couches on either side and a television in the middle. There’s a list of rules on the wall like no wearing pajamas in this room, no telling stories about what you’ve done and trying to make it sound cool, no touching others, no bare feet… I curl up in a ball on one couch and stare at the television. It only gets the news. There is a stack of movies beside it though. We aren’t allowed to use computers, see our friends if we have any, or have our cell phones in here. We’re cut off from the outside world. Not that it matters to me. Nothing matters anymore. I just wanted to die.

A male nurse with the name Alex on his tag announces that everyone is going down to breakfast. “I don’t want to go. I’m not hungry,” I say.

“You’ll have to eat eventually,” he tells me. “But you can stay here for now if you want.”

I go back to my room and unpack the few belongings I was allowed to bring from the brown paper bag they shoved it all into after searching it. I shove my clothes into the dresser, taking notice of the writing inside the drawers. There are messages in marker and pen saying things like ‘Meet me at hot topic and we can do it’ and ‘They want to kill you in here.’ I grab a pen and carve my initials into the drawer. If I’m forced to be here I might as well make my mark here.

I go into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I really do look like a mental patient. My skin is even paler than usual and there are marks under my eyes from crying and not sleeping. I’m thin and my hair is a mess. My lips are chapped. I look mental but I guess that’s why I’m here anyway. I don’t even care anymore what I look like.

They force me to go to group therapy. I sit in a chair and stay silent the whole time. I don’t feel like talking, especially not sharing about my life and problems. What is talking to strangers who are just as messed up as I am going to help?

I go to my usual place on the couch again. The guy named Brendon walks over and sits down beside me. “Hey,” he smiles. I don’t know what the hell he could be smiling about in here. “How’s it going? I know the first nights here can be rough. If you need anything you can talk to me. I don’t bite.”

“Okay…” I don’t know what else to say to him. I just want to be left alone.

“I never thought I’d be here. No one did really. I mean, no one says ‘when I grow up I’m going to be a mental patient.’ I guess that’s life though, right?” he shrugs.

I never thought I’d be here. Of course not. I didn’t think so. Where did my life go wrong? When did I become so fucked up?

“Yeah,” I nod.

“What are you in here for?” he asks me, gazing at me with those big brown eyes.

I shrug and stay silent. I don’t want to talk.

“It’s okay if you’re not ready to talk. I’ll be here when you are ready.”

He leaves to go sit at the table with Pete who is laughing at the movie he put on the television, Ace Ventura Pet detective. I think there’s something really odd about Pete.

Bed time is nine every night. Breakfast is eight every morning. Everyone lines up at this little window next to the office for their medication. The gray haired woman nurse explains to me what she’s giving me and that I have the right to refuse medication. What’s the point in refusing it? I might as well take it. I don’t think anything can help me now but it won’t hurt me either. I swallow the anti-depressant with water. She says I can take my anxiety medication anytime I feel too anxious so I take one of those too. I top it off with a sleeping pill.

I crawl into the bed, exhaustion hitting me like a truck. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this place but at least I’ll sleep tonight.