My mother says that she visiting an insane asylum where Van Gogh stayed in France and now it’s a haven for the mentally ill and disabled where they are “living as happily and relaxed as possible in acceptance of their condition and treated with peace, kindness and patience.” I don’t know if I believe her.
Paula:
P. breaths heavily through her nose which is very small. Her face is flat. She looks like a pug. She breathes heavily through her nose and I ask her if she OK. This is just what I do when I don’t want to talk about stuff, she says.
As she wanders down the hallway the doctor calls her over. Miss, miss, miss ______. Can I speak with you please? Me? She says. Me? She is barely audible. I look the other way.
As she walks down the long corridor the lights flash like they did last night when she couldn’t sleep. She goes back to bed, on her plastic mattress. I can sleep here, she says. I can sleep anywhere. If only it weren’t for that light.
So many if onlys. If only you didn’t live in America you would be eating pastries in France, with goats and even if you were more like a goat than a human, or a pug or whatever, even if you read more like the trees, that would be OK. They take their past seriously there.
I am moving! I am moving out of this hospital. I am no martyr and if I were, I wouldn’t be able to do my work here anyways. If I were, maybe my back wouldn’t be breaking. I have injuries in my back that are just from observation.
It is getting cold. I forget where I have put my pants and sweaters and things. In the hospital it is always opposite the temperature of what it is outside. Too cold in the summer; too hot in the winter. Nabila says that in 2 Central, where the geriatrics are, she holds her breath as she walks down the hallways so she doesn’t breath in any of the particles. Wait, no, I said that. She said the thing about the particles. I said to an MHA this morning that I really wanted some coffee and he remarked that there is some coffee right here. No! Not decafe coffee! I said. This is what it must be like in hell, coffee everywhere but all decafe. He agreed. Later someone pointed out that I could just bring my own coffee.
The nurse I came in with, “Fuck This Place!” he said. I would have been leaving months ago if I didn’t have to wait for a new job. I would like to lead a group on this topic. “Fuck This Place!” I would have been leaving months ago if……
Andre, he asked if he could shine my shoes yesterday in group. Are you serious? I asked. I pushed him a little. They call this flirting with the patients. I think Andre is cute. He’s a fucking control freak and he never says what he means and he is always staring inappropriately and in real life this would bother me, but here I can let him be my type.
Sometimes the patients on the mentally retarded unit, where my office is, the second worst smelling unit, get to go outside. Good for them.
“I remember when we used to be able to smoke here.” You could go outside? NO! We used to be able to smoke right here! She says. During smoking time, they even gave us cigarettes. “You been here a long time ago” says the smart MHA, with the glasses, who thinks he gets to judge my groups because I’m a woman. We are both too righteous. Anyways, I was surprised, because she doesn’t look that old. I like her piercing. It in her upper cheek by her eye. How do they get it there?
Marcus is ignoring me now. He is acting weird, in fact. He is looking at me from across the cafeteria and when I catch his eye BY ACCIDENT and smile (because that’s just sort of automatic nervous reaction) he looks vaguely disturbed. And I notice that his eyes are always kind of red, like he hasn’t gotten enough sleep. He looks a little unhealthy, despite being so ripped.
Marcus, couldn’t you at least give me a conversation in exchange for all of these expectations? At least somebody should.
