A Psychotic World
I spent my eighteenth birthday
in a psych ward
after attempting suicide
and changing my mind
I wasn’t ready to die
but I also wasn’t sure
how to live
I spent that evening strapped to an ER bed
surrounded by puking, moaning neighbors
and felt life tightening its shackles on me
as hospital staff waited
to see if I was dying, to see if self-harm was still a concern
later they transferred me to the psych unit
where I met a circus-esque cast—
Jesus’ wife,
or just a plain jane who believed Her Holy Truth
she kept searching for Him (and weren’t we all)
asking if anyone had seen Him,
if anyone really knew where Jesus was
my roommate was a terrifying schizophrenic
short and stout, topped off with a pale orange mohawk
she liked to threaten me in the dead of night
so I did things, tried to play it safe
I made her bed, bussed her meal trays
trying not to guess at what might happen if I didn’t
but deep down, she was the one who was truly terrified
I met a kindhearted shrink
who ironically was there as a patient
poor thing was so manic depressive
she paced around and around the halls
back and forth back and forth
like a restless neurotic soul
wearing holes in the soles of her lemon-yellow hospital slippers
I allowed myself to pine
after a cute Polish truck driver
who gave me the attention I craved
a buffet of warm smiles and nice words.
while we were there, he tested
positive for hep b
he also happened to be dating
another fiery-haired patient
who liked to sit in our hard plastic chairs
coloring with crayons and judging everyone with her cigarette-stained voice
despite the flirting, she claimed to like me
there was an octogenarian
braindead from too much acid in his heyday
but his healthy-as-a-horse body
a young pregnant girl couldn’t tune out
the hoard of screaming voices carving grooves in her brain
the nurses dished out paper cups of unlabeled pills
the doctors handed us our diagnoses
and if you questioned anything at all,
they’d dish out punishments—no dessert, or maybe they’d elongate your stay
you never knew
don’t ask when you can go home
it won’t happen that way, you’re not permitted to care
I was held captive for far too long
on that floor where staff stared at their phones more than us
the parade of patients I met did far more for me
than the marvels of “modern” science
when at last I was granted leave,
I never. looked. back.
Abbie Doll is an eclectic mess of a person who loves exploring the beautiful intricacies of the written word and wandering around this increasingly chaotic planet we all call home. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Writing through Lindenwood University, and her work has been featured in Cathexis Northwest Press, The Rush, OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters (O:JA&L), among others. Follow her @AbbieDollWrites.