Situated
It was one of those no win situations. I couldn't do the things I wanted to that just might make me feel good, and I couldn't even just let myself feel bad. It was May 2003 and I was admitted to Saint Vincent's Mental Health Unit. I guess I felt that I could let myself go there, but my number one priority was getting some medications. My craziness just reached one of those stages where it lead me to seek help.
The bitch of the situation was the doctors would only release you after 7 days if they felt you were no longer a threat to yourself and or to others. They also could hold you longer if they felt you haven’t made progress. Knowing this I had to learn to act. I had some experience in doing this around family and friends. So it was nothing new to me. In fact, I considered myself a professional actor when it came to pretending I was normal with that ever so repetitive "Yeah I'm fine", "I'm okay." "Don’t worry about it." I knew how to make a person absolutely believe I am totally recovered even if the day early I was sitting in a dark, silent room drooling on myself. And being that this fucking unit is based around rules of formality, there was no way I could do anything I wanted to do, but I approached it half way. They had these horribly organized talk sessions that all patients were expected to go to or risk loosing points for not participating. Yes, fucking points! On top of that absurdity the doctor would probably hear about it and use it to keep you in there; making the claim that because you felt you had to withdraw from the rest of the group you’re probably not doing so good. Which isn't entirely bullshit, but I just could not stand these corny group sessions.
They had groups on stress, topics involving people who are bipolar, schizophrenia, how to eat right by following the food pyramid, and the worse were the music groups. As soon as someone requested to hear "Proud to Be An American" and the aid played it on his guitar I was officially done with that group. All of these other crazies would start singing the most insanely depressing version of an already awful song. During the other group sessions there was always at least two very outspoken crazies who would constantly interrupt the group leader and go into their life stories. It was painfully annoying.
One patient, Mary, was an overweight black woman probably in her mid 50's. She talked a lot and most of this talk was directed towards her two dead husbands who talk back to her. She was the kind of women who took no shit. Apparently, she was raised in mental institutions, and was raped in one, and gave birth in one. The baby she had was the baby of the person who raped her. I felt for her. I really did, but would not take any shit from her. In a way this made her and me alike. I once walked into the eating room which was also the decaf coffee room. Oh how I hated that god damn decaf coffee.
I cant even have a little java in the morning!? Mary was sitting in a room all by herself. I was getting another useless cup of decaf and offered a cup to Mary who obviously had five empty cups in front of her. " Naw hat boy I'm alright." Every patient on the floor knew me as that kid that always wears the winter hat and this was how I was introduced to all the new patients by all the aids working there. After I got my cup of useless decaf, I contemplated sitting down with Mary, who was clearly in a deep discussion with her dead husbands. Fuck it, why not. I sat down right in front of her in a very relaxed way, hoping this would make her feel comfortable. Knowing I was there she abruptly stopped talking to her husbands. I asked her what her husbands names were. "Shawn and Dean. Both are pains in the ass, but are good men," she said. I wanted to know more. I asked, "What were you guys talking about.” She gave me a long look. When you’re crazy you have to carefully choose the things you tell people because you don’t know if they might be the doctors’ little spy. Paranoia is big. I could tell she was weighing me out. "Well, Shawn is being an asshole. You know he could have helped me when I was being raped but he is an asshole. And Dean is trying to act like he don’t love me. How couldn't he love this sweet ass. I know he lying'!"
I felt a need to say something. I said, "Well they'll come around; it must be hard having two husbands though. That’s twice the problems." She became very quite and then opened her mouth and leaned forward. " What is a handsome young man like you doing in this hell hole?" she asked me. I responded with the truth. "Well I keep seeing evil spirits and they are started to weigh too much for me. I'm here in hope that I can get away from the people in the white vans who keep trying to steal all my songwriting ideas." She leaned back and her eyes opened more than I've ever seen them open before and she was sporting a face of disgust and disbelief. "Boy, that’s just crazy. Crazy as shit!" and she got up and walked away.
Looking back on this it's pretty funny how a person who talked to her dead husbands would call me crazy. But that was what I was, and that was what we all were there....crazy. So, it takes one to know one. It was hard to let go, when everyone around you is also letting go too but I managed. I would portray myself as a silent assassin. One of those guys who doesn't talk too much and looks like he would break your face at the drop of a hat. This was good because it kept the other crazies away from me when I didn’t feel like talking, and kept others away when I was talking to someone who I thought needed to get away from the patients that were talking their ears off.
If a patient did get in my face too much I would either calmly respond to settle them down or violently respond with a combination of the craziest phrases and actions. The violent response worked like a charm but I only used it if I had to. Usually the other patient felt matched or threatened and would turn around and walk away. When I did talk to another crazy I was very interested in their situation for my situation was just as unbelievable.
One man, whose name escapes me, was Russian and his accent was very thick. He was about my height and was slimy built. He pulled me into the game room one day and said he had to tell me something. He was very nervous and made sure that we were in the room alone. He even would tell people to get out and would close the glass doors. Before he told me, just like every crazy does, he had to make sure I checked out right and swore me to secrecy. He went ahead and asked me a few questions first. The one that I can remember was; "what's your religious stance and why?". I replied "Well, I don’t believe in one religion. They all have something that’s good about them. I'm more spiritual than religious." He seemed pleased with my answer which happened to be the last question. " You see Jon there is one love and one God and we are all a part of this. We are all god." I then asked him why he was here. He answered: "I'm here because there are some people who would rather not listen to the things I have to say. It becomes dangerous when you are taking on the views of religion. Taking on views that people have written in stone, especially the Roman Catholic Church. The Russian secret service has gotten involved and my life may be at risk. They are scared of my views because they are true."
He then handed me the first of many letters he would give me. It was written in Russian with only a few English words that I could read. He said: "I want you to give this to your grandfather for me. I saw him the other day when he visited you and he looks like a man that would understand. But remember, don’t tell anyone else about this conversation." I agreed, and before I even saw my grandpa next he and I had quite a few conversations where he would enlighten me with his views. "One God Jon, one love, and we are all a part of Him. It is a never ending circle...life that is." He would whisper these things to me during group sessions and I found him to be very intriguing. The last letter he gave me before he left the unit had his name and number on it. "When you get out Jon, deliver this letter to the Archbishop of the Roman Catholic Church in New York. It is of the highest importance, and I would be very appreciative. I include my number here so and if you run into any problems just call me. Also if you ever need a job in Virginia you got one."
He left the next day and I couldn't help but observe that as crazy as I am, as crazy as my father was, and as crazy as everyone in here is, there is a certain truth to everything. And like my Russian friend said, they are just things that people would rather not hear much less listen to.
The bitch of the situation was the doctors would only release you after 7 days if they felt you were no longer a threat to yourself and or to others. They also could hold you longer if they felt you haven’t made progress. Knowing this I had to learn to act. I had some experience in doing this around family and friends. So it was nothing new to me. In fact, I considered myself a professional actor when it came to pretending I was normal with that ever so repetitive "Yeah I'm fine", "I'm okay." "Don’t worry about it." I knew how to make a person absolutely believe I am totally recovered even if the day early I was sitting in a dark, silent room drooling on myself. And being that this fucking unit is based around rules of formality, there was no way I could do anything I wanted to do, but I approached it half way. They had these horribly organized talk sessions that all patients were expected to go to or risk loosing points for not participating. Yes, fucking points! On top of that absurdity the doctor would probably hear about it and use it to keep you in there; making the claim that because you felt you had to withdraw from the rest of the group you’re probably not doing so good. Which isn't entirely bullshit, but I just could not stand these corny group sessions.
They had groups on stress, topics involving people who are bipolar, schizophrenia, how to eat right by following the food pyramid, and the worse were the music groups. As soon as someone requested to hear "Proud to Be An American" and the aid played it on his guitar I was officially done with that group. All of these other crazies would start singing the most insanely depressing version of an already awful song. During the other group sessions there was always at least two very outspoken crazies who would constantly interrupt the group leader and go into their life stories. It was painfully annoying.
One patient, Mary, was an overweight black woman probably in her mid 50's. She talked a lot and most of this talk was directed towards her two dead husbands who talk back to her. She was the kind of women who took no shit. Apparently, she was raised in mental institutions, and was raped in one, and gave birth in one. The baby she had was the baby of the person who raped her. I felt for her. I really did, but would not take any shit from her. In a way this made her and me alike. I once walked into the eating room which was also the decaf coffee room. Oh how I hated that god damn decaf coffee.
I cant even have a little java in the morning!? Mary was sitting in a room all by herself. I was getting another useless cup of decaf and offered a cup to Mary who obviously had five empty cups in front of her. " Naw hat boy I'm alright." Every patient on the floor knew me as that kid that always wears the winter hat and this was how I was introduced to all the new patients by all the aids working there. After I got my cup of useless decaf, I contemplated sitting down with Mary, who was clearly in a deep discussion with her dead husbands. Fuck it, why not. I sat down right in front of her in a very relaxed way, hoping this would make her feel comfortable. Knowing I was there she abruptly stopped talking to her husbands. I asked her what her husbands names were. "Shawn and Dean. Both are pains in the ass, but are good men," she said. I wanted to know more. I asked, "What were you guys talking about.” She gave me a long look. When you’re crazy you have to carefully choose the things you tell people because you don’t know if they might be the doctors’ little spy. Paranoia is big. I could tell she was weighing me out. "Well, Shawn is being an asshole. You know he could have helped me when I was being raped but he is an asshole. And Dean is trying to act like he don’t love me. How couldn't he love this sweet ass. I know he lying'!"
I felt a need to say something. I said, "Well they'll come around; it must be hard having two husbands though. That’s twice the problems." She became very quite and then opened her mouth and leaned forward. " What is a handsome young man like you doing in this hell hole?" she asked me. I responded with the truth. "Well I keep seeing evil spirits and they are started to weigh too much for me. I'm here in hope that I can get away from the people in the white vans who keep trying to steal all my songwriting ideas." She leaned back and her eyes opened more than I've ever seen them open before and she was sporting a face of disgust and disbelief. "Boy, that’s just crazy. Crazy as shit!" and she got up and walked away.
Looking back on this it's pretty funny how a person who talked to her dead husbands would call me crazy. But that was what I was, and that was what we all were there....crazy. So, it takes one to know one. It was hard to let go, when everyone around you is also letting go too but I managed. I would portray myself as a silent assassin. One of those guys who doesn't talk too much and looks like he would break your face at the drop of a hat. This was good because it kept the other crazies away from me when I didn’t feel like talking, and kept others away when I was talking to someone who I thought needed to get away from the patients that were talking their ears off.
If a patient did get in my face too much I would either calmly respond to settle them down or violently respond with a combination of the craziest phrases and actions. The violent response worked like a charm but I only used it if I had to. Usually the other patient felt matched or threatened and would turn around and walk away. When I did talk to another crazy I was very interested in their situation for my situation was just as unbelievable.
One man, whose name escapes me, was Russian and his accent was very thick. He was about my height and was slimy built. He pulled me into the game room one day and said he had to tell me something. He was very nervous and made sure that we were in the room alone. He even would tell people to get out and would close the glass doors. Before he told me, just like every crazy does, he had to make sure I checked out right and swore me to secrecy. He went ahead and asked me a few questions first. The one that I can remember was; "what's your religious stance and why?". I replied "Well, I don’t believe in one religion. They all have something that’s good about them. I'm more spiritual than religious." He seemed pleased with my answer which happened to be the last question. " You see Jon there is one love and one God and we are all a part of this. We are all god." I then asked him why he was here. He answered: "I'm here because there are some people who would rather not listen to the things I have to say. It becomes dangerous when you are taking on the views of religion. Taking on views that people have written in stone, especially the Roman Catholic Church. The Russian secret service has gotten involved and my life may be at risk. They are scared of my views because they are true."
He then handed me the first of many letters he would give me. It was written in Russian with only a few English words that I could read. He said: "I want you to give this to your grandfather for me. I saw him the other day when he visited you and he looks like a man that would understand. But remember, don’t tell anyone else about this conversation." I agreed, and before I even saw my grandpa next he and I had quite a few conversations where he would enlighten me with his views. "One God Jon, one love, and we are all a part of Him. It is a never ending circle...life that is." He would whisper these things to me during group sessions and I found him to be very intriguing. The last letter he gave me before he left the unit had his name and number on it. "When you get out Jon, deliver this letter to the Archbishop of the Roman Catholic Church in New York. It is of the highest importance, and I would be very appreciative. I include my number here so and if you run into any problems just call me. Also if you ever need a job in Virginia you got one."
He left the next day and I couldn't help but observe that as crazy as I am, as crazy as my father was, and as crazy as everyone in here is, there is a certain truth to everything. And like my Russian friend said, they are just things that people would rather not hear much less listen to.
posted by Elias Lemoon | 9:05 AM
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