If there's a light where is it?
If there is a God, where is he?
The smell of the cell makes me wanna throw up.The cold bars of the sides of my bed almost sear me with coldness. The sounds of coughing and groaning follow me into my dreams.
The smell of the gown makes me question if they even washed them. My thoughts are my only alibi.
Nurses walk in as if they are walking in a pit of animals of the Roman times times and they were the gladiators. They jot down things on their clipboards.
There's a big black board on the wall the size of a small child. ( Many patients that are underneath of that black board scratched at it at night which always made me wince.
) The wrote down the date and other things as well. April 12, 1921, and also that for dinner we would “Feast” of chicken and gravy and a slice of bread.
I've never tasted bread that horrendously bad.
The date stuck with me because it has been a year since my father convicted me of being bipolar and sent me to this hellish place.
Ever since his wife and also my mother died she slipped away from reality. I wish I could do that but in a happier way.
He started blaming people of mental illness to the point where he turned on his own daughter.
A man around 25 gave me the look of nightmares. As if he saw a dead corpse-sadly that was not that uncommon but terrifying all the same- He stared right at me, his muscles tensing.
His arm swung around and grabbed me by through and yelled as he attempted to choke me. Guards with battens or something of that sort.
They hit him over the head with great force: almost enough to break a skull. He was pulled into a padded room and he was never seen for a while.
Later that evening, after dinner I had another person around 18 stood around in a box-like room pure pink with a window or a peep-hole.
The girl huddled towards me like I was the only warmth in the world. Her hair was shiny and black like a raven. She was horrified. I didn't know what we were doing .
Hours passed to the point I just fell asleep. When I woke up I was strapped to a bed: Doctors looking over me. I felt like I was a new born baby and they were the proud parents.
Once again with clipboards in their hands. They noticed I didn't fight back and let go of the straps. They let me go to my roomish situation.
As I was going down the halls, the girl (who was with me in that room) was in a wheelchair which was being pushed by a very creepy nurse.
My bare feet clapped on the floor every time I took a step. I never looked to my sides because I didn't want to see what abominations were going on in another room.
I have seen but never went through torture, but I fear of being next.
When I got to my room I could hear a man yelling down the halls like he was being murdered by the Axeman of New Orleans. What a surprise I thought to myself sarcastically.
The never had us here to help us only to hurt us.
The next morning there was a strange tone in the air, almost ghostly. Nurses come in as usual with there clipboards but this time all of them were facing me.
No one in the room but me and these devilish nurses. A nurse pulled up a wheelchair from the corner of the room next to the blackboard.
The seat itself was going to give away by the weight of a baby. One of them gestured me to get up. Shaky out of fear I begrudgingly got up as prompted. When
I sat down, surprised that the wheelchair didn't fall right through.
When I was little- And still innocent- My mother would push me around in a wheelchair and I had a gay ol’ time. This time I felt no joy from the ride.
They led me into a room with the most disgusting shade of green. The plain table was in the middle of the room with straps on every corner.
On the left of it was a metal tray with cotton, paper, and some sort of stick. Drawers beyond drawers of medical files. Adrenaline hit my bod with striking fear.
“Lobotomy” I read, tears streamed down my face. The doctors lifted me a white pill.
“Marie Rose Williams Passed away April 13, 1921”
Not all stories have a happy ending, and not all strong people get there happy ending. The bravery of the ones who worked in the Mental health field and their patients.
Sadness is a part of life it can make you strong but also destroy your life. People will not always have a comeback story nor a happy one. So grasp every moment of joy in life and savor it.