The Frayed Ends of Sanity

The walls are a sickly pus color. Not quite yellow, more like a mix of different shades of yellows, grays, greens, and browns. The smell of Clorox is strong in the stale air, so strong my eyes water.

Or is that just my resolve not to cry finally cracking?

Underneath the Clorox smell is the pungent odor of urine, feces, and vomit.

“God help me” I mumble to myself.

The nurse glances at me, her eyes cold, unsympathetic, and empty, an exact reflection of this mental hospital and its inhabitants. Because that’s what it is. There’s no point in trying to sugarcoat the place.Calling it a “wellness center” or a “rehabilitation center”, or even “a place to start fresh with a clean slate” isn’t going to make it any better.

But they-my parents- think I’m crazy because I have terrifying nightmares, nightmares so realistic I wonder if they are real and when I wake up I’m just in a temporary dream. I suffer from depression, and because of that I’ve sunken into a deep hole that prevents me from speaking to anyone lest I am taunted, so I have to be here.

“For your own good” they said.

************************************************************************

“Dinner’s served in half an hour” the nurse says.

I nod and she smiles briskly, a glimmer of warmth reaching her eyes. For one second I believe there is hope here, and that maybe I’ve found a sympathetic lifeline, but then the warmth dies out, fades away like a candle flame blown out by a puff of air.

The door closes shut and now I’m alone.

This room- my room- is reminiscent of a tomb, like the mausoleums my grandparents were buried in. The walls are gray. The carpet is gray. The bed sheets, covers, and pillow are gray. The color closes in on me and suddenly I can barely breathe.

My chest feels tight, as if I’m about to explode, all the anger I’ve been holding inside bubbling up like a hot fire, the flames climbing higher and higher up my throat, to my face, out my mouth.

I grab the pillow and hurl it to the floor. I can’t take it anymore. I hate this place, and though I swore I wouldn’t cry I can’t bring myself to follow through with that promise.

The tears stream down my face, tasting salty and bitter in my mouth as I scream quietly- don’t want to bring attention to myself now do I?- and stomp up and down on the thing until it’s no longer plumped up and ready for me to dream on.

Then I reach into the tangled, untamable beast that has become my hair and pull out a bobby pin. The ends are sharpened to razor-blade perfection.

I smile to myself.

The security guards never thought to check my hair for anything harmful, dangerous, and potentially life-threatening.

Their words, not mine.

I grab the limp, dead pillow and stuff it into my mouth to muffle my whimpers as I drag the bobby pin blade across the velvet-smooth, fleshy underside of my arm. The brown skin splits apart and crimson blood beads up like jewels spilling from a treasure chest.

The letters need to be small.

I’ve done this so many times, its second nature to me. I ignore the hot tears that pour down my cheeks and quickly turn into a river of ice.

Tears are a small price to pay.

I need this release.

I need to distract myself from this nightmare I believe is reality.

I ignore the dizzy feeling I get from holding my breath as I press deeper into my raw flesh, carving deep, deeper, and deepest into flesh, muscles, and veins.

I ignore the voices in my head, urging “Stop”

and listen to “Keep going. Don’t Stop!”-me, myself, and I.

This, I listen to.

Soon I am done. There, glistening red, raw, and painful, is one word.

Sane.