Before I moved to Alabama, I told myself Alabama would be the happiest place on Earth. I had somehow conjured up a vision of green pastures with horses prancing about in the fields, and kind farmer couples-- the type that would welcome young boys into their home if their alcoholic fathers wouldn't pay attention to them, or if they were orphaned. And you know what? Alabama is hardly like that, but I still have been remarkably happy. I want to say it's because of God, I know it's because of God. As usual, however, my heart is always full of doubts and questions.
My first week in Alabama was okay, I remember being in the hotel and having a mental breakdown. When my dad left for the Honduras the second week, I instantly had to be hospitalized. I remember my conversation with the nurse on the phone. It was awkward because I was sobbing, but we both decided it would be best if I spent a few nights in the BMU. I don't know if BMU stood for "behavioral medical unit" or "bayview medical unit". Either way, I spent three nights there.
This was my third stay in a behavioral health center, so I was pretty used to it. I was greeted by a woman wearing very thick mascara named Kathy. She looked to me, disillusioned. And very tired, I was tired as well, it was midnight. I had been carried in on a stretcher because it was "protocol" and it was invariably humiliating.
I heard a man yelling with the nurses in the hallway, and my eyes widened in fear. Kathy, apparently saw my expression.
"You're not like them, you know," she said to me, taking my blood pressure.
"What?" I said, exhausted. I just wanted to crawl into bed and die for a few hours.
"They're going to come back. They get clean for a few days, and then they go right back on the streets. But not you, you're going to go to college and be successful and never come back," she said with total confidence. I smiled weakly, I wasn't sure if that was true but I wanted to believe it was. It wasn't so much coming to the place that bothered me, it was being in a state where it was either the hospital or death.
"Do you have any meal preference?"
"Vegetarian," I said, recalling the taste of hospital meat.
I had to then strip down to show I didn't have any "contraband". I apologized for my body, as a usually did, and explained the stretch marks on my stomach. Kathy smiled at me and told me I was beautiful and not to worry about it. She told me then, that I didn't have a room mate, and I felt relieved when I walked into the empty, clean, room and crawled under the sheets.
I don't remember much about the hospital, but I remember an old man who I wanted to write to. He seemed so sad and he cut his arm. It was a deep scar and you could still see the blood on the bandages. And I remember a man named Ricky. He coughed up phlegm into his gown and showed it to the nurse in front of me. Besides that he was nice. I remember a veteran telling me that he had been through worse than me. I didn't respond, but stared out the window in response.
I met a schizophrenic named Ed. He was kind to me, but I remember him saying "I hope rapists get raped in the ass in hell." I felt distinctly uncomfortable.
My time was more enjoyable when I made it downstairs to the milder patients' ward. The man who took me downstairs was Polish. His name? I don't know. But he was sweet and had blue eyes. He was balding, but had a gentle beauty despite that. He had a kindness that I don't think any amount of conventional ugliness would have drawn me away from him.
"How many times have you been here?" I asked a sad looking man.
"This is my eight time," he said.
I remember looking at my crossword puzzle wishing I would fall into the floor and disappear for eternity. And I remember the days when I returned, I was angry and emotionally violent. I would lie on my bed and scream and cry out for help. But I don't think anyone can help someone who is that broken. Even today when I feel okay, I'm waiting to fall apart into a million pieces. Then whatever is left of me, that's sentient, gets to spend time picking me back up. And then I'll explode again. Each time, my foundation getting smaller and smaller until I am nothing. I await that day, once there is less of me, there can be more of God.
My first week in Alabama was okay, I remember being in the hotel and having a mental breakdown. When my dad left for the Honduras the second week, I instantly had to be hospitalized. I remember my conversation with the nurse on the phone. It was awkward because I was sobbing, but we both decided it would be best if I spent a few nights in the BMU. I don't know if BMU stood for "behavioral medical unit" or "bayview medical unit". Either way, I spent three nights there.
This was my third stay in a behavioral health center, so I was pretty used to it. I was greeted by a woman wearing very thick mascara named Kathy. She looked to me, disillusioned. And very tired, I was tired as well, it was midnight. I had been carried in on a stretcher because it was "protocol" and it was invariably humiliating.
I heard a man yelling with the nurses in the hallway, and my eyes widened in fear. Kathy, apparently saw my expression.
"You're not like them, you know," she said to me, taking my blood pressure.
"What?" I said, exhausted. I just wanted to crawl into bed and die for a few hours.
"They're going to come back. They get clean for a few days, and then they go right back on the streets. But not you, you're going to go to college and be successful and never come back," she said with total confidence. I smiled weakly, I wasn't sure if that was true but I wanted to believe it was. It wasn't so much coming to the place that bothered me, it was being in a state where it was either the hospital or death.
"Do you have any meal preference?"
"Vegetarian," I said, recalling the taste of hospital meat.
I had to then strip down to show I didn't have any "contraband". I apologized for my body, as a usually did, and explained the stretch marks on my stomach. Kathy smiled at me and told me I was beautiful and not to worry about it. She told me then, that I didn't have a room mate, and I felt relieved when I walked into the empty, clean, room and crawled under the sheets.
I don't remember much about the hospital, but I remember an old man who I wanted to write to. He seemed so sad and he cut his arm. It was a deep scar and you could still see the blood on the bandages. And I remember a man named Ricky. He coughed up phlegm into his gown and showed it to the nurse in front of me. Besides that he was nice. I remember a veteran telling me that he had been through worse than me. I didn't respond, but stared out the window in response.
I met a schizophrenic named Ed. He was kind to me, but I remember him saying "I hope rapists get raped in the ass in hell." I felt distinctly uncomfortable.
My time was more enjoyable when I made it downstairs to the milder patients' ward. The man who took me downstairs was Polish. His name? I don't know. But he was sweet and had blue eyes. He was balding, but had a gentle beauty despite that. He had a kindness that I don't think any amount of conventional ugliness would have drawn me away from him.
"How many times have you been here?" I asked a sad looking man.
"This is my eight time," he said.
I remember looking at my crossword puzzle wishing I would fall into the floor and disappear for eternity. And I remember the days when I returned, I was angry and emotionally violent. I would lie on my bed and scream and cry out for help. But I don't think anyone can help someone who is that broken. Even today when I feel okay, I'm waiting to fall apart into a million pieces. Then whatever is left of me, that's sentient, gets to spend time picking me back up. And then I'll explode again. Each time, my foundation getting smaller and smaller until I am nothing. I await that day, once there is less of me, there can be more of God.
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