11 Years Later
2013; Inanna Publications and Education Inc.; Volume: 30; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês
ISSN
0713-3235
Autores Tópico(s)Child and Adolescent Health
ResumoIl y aura bientot onze ans ce printemps, quand je fus admise a l'hopital bourse de medicaments etsoumise aux electrochocs. J'avais dix-sept ans a l'epoque, depuis, j'ai compose mon histoire a partir des bribes de souvenirs qui me sont restees en the au coursde ces annees jusqu'a maintenant. I need sleep. It has been months since I really slept. I wake up at school, at work, but I've not been sleeping. I wake from violence and gore, a woman with purple snakes under the skin on her neck that throb as she turns to show me empty eye sockets. I wake with the realization that the layers that form different stages of enlightenment are overcrowded and there's nowhere for me to go. The world is ending here and now without any space for billions of people to go next. So I am stuck here, awake. The drugs they give me keep my eyes closed and make me a prisoner inside my own body. That's not what I need; I need to get out of here and away from artificial sleep. I can't believe people who love me leave me here. How do they know there's a difference between dreams and reality? How can they tell I can't comprehend that difference? The only test they've done had multiple choice answers that didn't really apply to me. I need a cigarette, but they said there is no escort available to take me outside and watch me so I won't hurt myself. I live in a ward separate from the rest of the hospital. I guess crazy people depress sick people? Sometimes one of the nurses will take us for a walk to the vending machines in the cafeteria. Some of the other people have more privileges, like they can go down and smoke in front of the hospital. They told me I'd probably be able to sometime, when my body adjusts to the meds and I don't feel so weak. The beds here aren't built for comfort, but they are the one thing we don't have to share with someone else, so I spend a lot of time in mine. I pushed the dresser over so I can reach my drawers from bed. I keep candy in there that my friends bring me when they come to visit. I mostly want candy made out of marshmallow. My vision is always blurry, and my whole body shakes so I can't even read anymore. I wonder how the needles they poke us with can put us to sleep for eight hours but not stop the nightmares. This is what I get for doing what I was supposed to do--tell someone how I felt. The help I'm getting is designed to keep my energy levels too low for the act of suicide, to keep my mind so clouded that I can't remember why I'm so dissatisfied with the world. It's been eleven years this spring. I entered the hospital in the middle of a night in which I found myself torn between two families: the one I lived with and the one I visited in dreams who asked me to stay. My Mom drove me there and stayed with me in a quiet until the psychiatrist arrived in the morning to admit me. I brought a book, a journal and pen, and cigarettes. I remember the process: get some stuff, drive to the hospital, wait, and hope that someone could stop me from being crushed by all the invisible walls closing in on me, forcing me to contort my body and become as small as possible. Hold my breath and believe I am invisible. September eleventh, the death of Ernie Coombs, and my repeated desperate attempts to get out of a frightening and oppressive relationship are three events that I know happened in the months before my hospitalization. Being admitted to a psychiatric ward meant surrendering my rights and submitting my mind and body to medicine and people more powerful than me. I was stripped of my clothes and my identity no longer mattered. I was just another broken girl. I entered a bare room with a bed and a board that served as a table. The stark environment is a reminder that there are no other options left. Why else would I be here? At first, my few belongings were searched and held hostage, except when someone was available to observe me using them. …
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