Flashbacks 2 & 3

Wrote this little entry while I was still in a pretty bad state. First morning at the hospital after my little afternoon of games.

“”September 16 — 9:30 AM

Day one, or rather, morning one. All I have to write with are the guts of an ink pen shoved inside a flimsy rubber tube. I suppose they believe something like this will keep me from shanking myself, or someone else. I am not even supposed to have a writing implement here in my room with me but they’re not very thorough, and I don’t think they would simply ask me to leave if I did manage a stab or two. Too bad. I’m already ready to leave this place.
But at least I have a room to myself at the far end of the hall. BH16B — my room number. I didn’t bring a change of clothes. Just many books, most of which are hardback which they wouldn’t let me keep. Now all I have is Dante, The House, and my composition notebook/ journal. I’m sure the roommate back ‘home’ will bring me what I need. Although I’ve sent no word yet to anyone outside. Nor have I had any of my medications in well over twenty hours, including the Neurontin I have to take regularly for my tics and convulsions. They’re still working that shit out.

Trying to remain out of the fool’s corner.  “”

I suppose all of this might be pretty uninteresting to the rest of you, but I don’t care. I said I was going to post my journal entries from my stay, and I bloody want to as well. So deal with it or fuck off.

This next entry came not long after they got some medication in me.

“”September 16 — 3:00 PM
Doc put me on Lithium, cut my Effexor in half. They finally medicated me. Started me on a new anti-psychotic, the name of which I can’t even remember. My morning started in the corner: Kicking my own ass; Busting my own lip. Biting down on the tears. I haven’t cried yet. I was there, though. Fighting, knowing that if it’s taken me this long to get psych meds in a psych ward, the inevitable post-purge migraine would likely take a hell of a fight on my part for so much as a tylenol.
They did finally get some meds down my throat and, well, no one ever believes that I can feel the effects from any new form of treatment within a few hours of my first dose.
I don’t feel trapped now, even though I most certainly am. No more volcanic water-welling tears.
Perhaps I should have cried when I was capable.
Then there’s group therapy. They can’t force me to go. I do it to allay the already mind-numbing boredom in this place.
First session was a joke. Second session: “Spirituality Practice” or some such shit.
My first surprise — group is led by the hospital’s chaplain.
Second surprise — This man most definitely hails from somewhere in the East. He started the session with a guided meditation. . . Third-Eye visualizations and everything. Then came a ‘validation’ exercise. One of us was to volunteer to speak candidly about ourselves while the rest of the group asked certain follow-up questions.
We waited but,
No volunteers.
Meditation had me feeling alright, so I took one for the team. Or from the team? Ha! Whatever.
I spoke clearly to this room of seven or eight strangers about my guilt, my narcissism, my self-destructiveness.
Naught so majestic as a narcissist holding a room hostage to his emotions, eh?
I would like to believe that by merely being honest I avoided that trap.
Before the session ended I even managed to express guilt over the fact that all these poor fuckers had to listen to me talk about my guilt for ten minutes.
I'm lost
But not far gone.
Return to center
And ever landmark
Has a stretch
To fill.

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Filed under flashback, hospitalization, mad ruminations, meditation, poem, poetry, schizophrenia

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