The Stranger From the Bridge

Three months I've been here. Stuck in the same building, day in, day out. Nothing much to do, but has there ever been? The white, plain room which I've learnt to call mine after so long is pretty much the same as it had been from when I arrived. The only difference is that now there's a small collection of my clothes in the wardrobe, and on the book case there's a about 30 different books.

Each time my mum or sister visits me, they bring one. They acknowledge that reading is one of the only things that I actually like to do. Wether it be fact or fiction, I'll read it. It gives me something to do. Last time the book was The Catcher in the Rye, which I enjoyed quite a bit, and ended up reading twice.

They visit about twice a week, alternating between each other for who's to come and see me. Each time they talk to me, or attempt to for about an hour, before they have to leave to go home. We never talk about things too seriously yet. They still tip toe around me, as if I'm going to try and hurt myself again, but have they seen where I am? It's impossible to find anything to hurt yourself. Apart from the paper cut I got from reading on tuesday.

I'm still yet to create much of an opinion of this place, despite the length of time I've had to develop one. It's just the same routine each day, so seeing outside the boundaries which are set for myself is hard. There's about 25 other people who are here, the number always changing slightly as people come and go. But there's the regulars who've yet to depart. Myself included.

The doctors say I'm getting better though, which has to be a good sign because my family are forking out a lot of money for me to be here. But the issue is, I don't know what normal feels like or what normal even is, because for so long I've been depressed as they like to call it, that being happy is abnormal to me.

But I am feeling different. I can hold a conversation with more ease and if someone approaches me, I don't get as tense, nor fidget so much. Still I do, but not to the extreme levels that I had been prior to my admittance here.

The doctors say that it's because I've cooperated well with what they've been trying to do. If I have to do something, I'd do it. If I had to take some pills, I'd take them. It wasn't as if I was ever refusing to get better, I just didn't know how to, nor did I know that I was unwell to begin with. I've learnt how to socialise with people properly. They said that's because I've been reading and analysing the interactions between people in the books, but they've also said it's because I've been taking anti-anxiety pills so I'm not as nervous.

Because despite being so cooped up in my room the majority of the day here, for at least three hours a day, I have to go into the main living area where a large population of the ward usually are. I've also had group therapy with 2 other guys around a similar age to me, with what they like to think as similar issues. We don't. I've had therapy 1:1 with an older man named Joe. He's about 50, give or take a few years, but I didn't want to ask as that'd be rude.

He seems to understand what I'm going through. He said that when he was a little younger than myself, he went through a stint of depression. He explained to me in the first few sessions what he went through, and after I realised that he'd been through something which I found relatable, talking to him became a lot easier than what I originally thought it'd be. It meant that I was talking about things which had been bothering me, which may have been a cause for me to be the way I am. He has managed to make me realise stuff about my own life which I was oblivious to; and so many doors have been opened as a result.

I actually feel, what I think is seen as human for once.

That thought makes a smile to spread across my face as I sat crossed legged on my bed, facing the door, with my head resting agains the head board. An actual smile though. Not a meek smile which has obviously been drawn on with a fake demeanour to it, but a smile which, even though not large, is real. True. I can feel the smile not only on my lips, but through my body as a whole. It was only now just hitting me that despite how long I’ve been here, it’s helped and that it’s significantly benefited my well being from being here.

Now I just need to get out and live my life the way I should have done. Go out and meet people. Get a job and support myself, instead of just living at my parents place still. Do things which I’ve missed out on; simple stuff which I ignored to do like doing my own grocery shopping or walking the dog. I’ve been cooped up in my room too much to have done that , so I’m making sure that I will.

It’s currently 10:00 in the morning, and where I’m sat right now is where I’m always sat at this time of day. Breakfast was at 8 and I’ve already spent an hour in the games room, but in a few minutes it’s my time to speak to Joe again. I need to ask him how I’m doing, and when I’m supposed to get out this place, because even though I’m thankful it’s helped me so much; I can’t help but want to get out and leave.

As I presumed, at 5 past the hour, there’s a knock on my door. Two knocks.

“Come in,” I called, and one of the nurses opens the door, before entering the room a metre or so in. As most of the nurses here, she’s dressed in the pale blue scrubs with her name tag displayed on the left hand side of her chest, just underneath the pocket which holds a pen.

“You ready to see Joe?” She asks, and I nod. “Okay, he’s ready now, so up you get. You know where to go.”

“Thank you,” I say with a small spring in my voice, as I turn from where I’m sat, and let my feet settle down onto the floor. Standing up, I hear my knees crack a little, but it’s nothing I’m not use to.

As I move across the room, I realise that I’m moving faster than I’d ever been before. Doing the same thing as I usually do to require movement, but I notice that I have more strength in my muscles to not slouch so much and to put one foot in front of the other is a lot less difficulty. I am getting better.

I walk down the ward, which is very much like my room, in respect to the fact that both the walls and floor and incredibly pale and have a lack of personality. The only difference is that along this corridor, the walls have posters every few meters which carry information to the patients here about both safety on the ward, regarding not running or shouting too loud, but also self help posters. No one refers to them though. We rely on the doctors, not a piece of paper.

As I reach the door, I see the same, brass name plate which has been screwed onto the door at all four corners, as there are at every other door belonging to a member of staff. Shiny, looking brand new, but I know that the cleaner just has too much time on her hands and polishes it every few days. On the piece of metal the words ‘Dr Joe Lenton’ are written, and below it holds his degree. I don’t really care about that. I just need to get better.

As the nurse did on my door only minutes ago, I know two even beats upon the door, and only have to wait 20 seconds or so before the door opens up and I see Joe. “Jack, it’s good to see you, come on in and take a seat.” He greets ever so pleasantly, as he always does when I arrive at his door. With no trouble at all, I move over to the blue chair with the striped cushion on the back and look around the room.

Despite being in here 5 days of the week, I still always look around and examine the belongings which he has gathered in here over time. There’s the bookcase which are filled to the brim with books on both psychology and sociology as well as on subjects I’m not overly sure on. Also around the room are a few photos of him and who I presume are his family, 2 teenage boys and his wife, and paper work scattered everywhere. Like everywhere, on every surface possible. It was there. I can’t stand it, but I’ve learnt that I need to deal with it, not make a big song and dance about it.

“So,” he begins as he makes himself a cup of coffee at the kitchenette in the corner of the room, “I was talking to your mother after you saw her a few days ago, and we got on to the subject of your discharge from here.”

He pauses, and my ears have perked up and him not saying anything for another 5 seconds just frustrates me. “Can you please explain.” I ask eagerly.

“Of course,” having made his drink he makes his way to the swivel chair opposite to the one I’m currently sat in and holds it in his hands with a firm grasp. “Now all the doctors and nurses have noticed a significant difference in your mental health in the past few weeks. An improvement, I’d like to to add. Now after having a few meetings with the senior management, we’ve agreed that now is a suitable time to discharge you from here. How does that sound?” He asks, smiling at me, in a friendly way, not patronisingly like a lot of the nurses do.

“Well great obviously. Like, I’ve been here for what seems like forever, but I do feel better which is start I guess. Will I have to come back at all?” I ask hesitantly.

“It’s good that you’ve noticed the improvement in yourself, I’m pleased you recognise that because it shows that you’re more likely to have a better complete recovery. Now coming back.” He pauses and takes a sip of his coffee. “We’d still like to see you for therapy sessions once a week. It’ll just be 1:1 with me, no group therapy this time, but it’s more just to check up on how you’re doing. But if you relapse in anyway, we’ll have to admit you like this again.”

“What do you deem as a relapse though?”

“Okay, that’ll be any suicide attempts again, use of drugs or drink dependently, or if your parents feel as if you’re getting into bad depression again. About a third of people end up coming here for a second time, and even though I like you as a patient, I hope not to see you here other than for the therapy sessions.” He explains.

“And when will I be leaving?”

“Tomorrow,” he says shortly.

“Wait tomorrow? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I query because of how quick I’ll be leaving here. Don’t get me wrong, I want to leave, but an earlier warning would have been nice.

“Yeah, we’re sorry about that, but someone’s being admitted tomorrow afternoon and we’ve got a shortage of beds, so we were looking at all the current patients, and we were only discussing discharge for yourself, and it feels like the right time, you agree?”

“Yes, what’s going to happen tomorrow then?” I ask.

“Okay, well your mum will arrive here at around 10, as we’ve already planned with her last night. She’ll be bringing you a case to put your belongings, and that needs to be cleared by 10:30 to allow the cleaners to sort out your room. But we will still need to have your therapy session tomorrow, so you’ll be getting out of here at around 1, as we’re arranging it a little later than usual, if that’s okay with you?” I nod to his question. “Now that’s all cleared up, I’d like to ask you how you feel about being discharged, and I’m interested to hear what you’re planning to do.”

“Well,” I begin. “obviously I’m excited to leave here. I appreciate everything which has been done for me here, don’t get me wrong, but there’s only so much I can learn from being here. I need to not only accept who I am in these four walls, but in the outside as well.”

“That’s good to hear Jack. How are you planning on doing that then?” Joe has his pen poised on his notebook like he usually does for these sessions, but I see that he isn’t writing as much, just very brief notes. Instead he seems to be having his full attention on me. Looking at how I move, how I talk. It’s obvious that he’s doing it, I can see where his eyes are directed. If this was 4 or so months ago, this would cause me to be in a large state of paranoia, because I would be terrified that he’s judging me, and making false assumptions based purely on how I move. I’ve learnt to trust him though. He’s doing his job. Admittedly, if people who I’m a complete stranger to were to look over me, I’d probably feel cautious about it, but not to the extent that I was.

“Well, I know I’m still going to be living with my mum. I knew that from the start. But I need to get more dependant, and not to rely on her both financially and emotionally.”

“But you didn’t rely on her emotionally before you came here, Jack.” Joe interjects.

“I’d like to think I did. Because she’d always ask if I was okay, and that was my backbone, to know that at least one person was aware of who I was. I just need to be the person who goes to her if I have a problem, and not avoid her if I find myself in a situation which I would struggle with, if that makes sense?”

“Yeah, that does.” He replies shortly whilst quickly writing a few notes down. “So what would you like to do finically then? Are you planning to go to college or just jump into getting a job?”

“I think I want to do college. It’ll only be at the community college, because I don’t want to leave Baltimore yet, but I’m planning to get a part-time job along side that. Probably at a shop of some sort, whoever wants to hire me to be honest. It also means that I have a chance of making some secure friends if get out more.”

“What about Alex, the man who brought you here”

“What about him?” I ask, tilting my head to the side, questioning what he asked me.

“You said that when you get out of here, you’ll go and visit him to say thank you. He also wanted to see how you were doing after getting out”

“That wasn’t in my plan, Joe.” I explain guiltily.

“Why not?”

“He lives too close to where ‘it’ nearly happened. I don’t want to go back there. He’s also seen me at my worse and I’m embarrassed because I was such a mess that day.”

“Why don’t you arrange to meet up with him? Your mum could call at his house to sort it out. And he said himself that he wants to see how you’re getting on, so it’d only be polite to thank him and do as he asked.”

“I’m not going.” I retort.

“Jack…”

“No, I’m not. I don’t want him to see me. Yes I know I’m a lot better, but seeing him will cause to many memories to return to too much of an extent for me to deal with it. Later, yeah maybe, because I know I need to thank him, but not right now.” I say, having to bite my tongue to stop myself from shouting across the small room at Joe in annoyance.

“If you insist, Jack.”

“Thank you, now if you don’t mind, I’d like to return to my room.” I say getting up, not allowing Joe to say anything against it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I hear him call as I swiftly depart the room, doing my best to slam the door behind me to add affect to my annoyance.