The Mental Ward

Humiliation sums up what it's like to admit yourself into a mental ward.  They take away all of your personal belongings, removing anything they consider to be potentially harmful.  No belts, shoelaces, makeup, hoodies, nail clippers, tweezers, earphones or electronics in general, are allowed.  What's worse is that they body search you to make sure you're not hiding anything harmful in some other unthinkable place.

After stripping me of practically everything I'd brought, they dumped me in an empty room with three beds.  What little stuff I had, underwear included, was to sit out on an open shelf in plain view.  Beyond that, I was locked in like a prisoner, unable to come and go as I pleased.  What had I gotten myself into?

The nurse handed a book to me that turned out to be a psych test close to 1000 questions long.  Didn't they know a huge part of my problem was my total inability to concentrate?  To answer just one question I had to read it at least three times.  Even then, I didn't know how to answer.

An eternity passed.

Some ten pages later a new girl is admitted into the room.  She's on the heavy side, looking strangely weak.  What surprizes me is how uncommonly social she is.  As it turns out, the mental ward is a routine haunt of hers.  As soon as the attendant leaves she looks around suspiciously, then with a smile, raises her shirt just enough so I can see her  large belly, heavily bandaged in the shape of a large "Z".

"I'm a cutter." she explains with a smile, "I cut myself."

In order to show me more proof of her unique skill, she pulls up her sleaves, displaying white, chubby arms, riddled with scars.

"It almost killed me this last time." she said with a hint of pride,  "I lost a lot of blood before the ambulance arrived.  Of course, I was passed out by then . . . "

None of this is any big deal to her.  She's just relaying the facts in a friendly fashion.

"So what about you?" she finally asks.

"Postpartem depression." I replied flatly.

The nod she gave me in return indicated some small measure of understanding.

"Is that 'The Test' they've got you working on?"

"The Test?" I repeat.

"Everybody has to take 'The Test'." she answers, "It's as standard as them taking away our deadly shoelaces."

For the first time in a while I cracked a sincere smile.

"As if we couldn't find some way to kill ourselves anyway." I reply.

Soon we've launched ourselves into a long discussion regarding all the ways we could still find if we really wanted to kill ourselves.  Shoelaces are deadly, but the phone cord isn't?  The windows aren't breakable?  Couldn't we smash a mirror?  Heck, my test pencil alone could do some serious damage!

We are laughing.  Lock the doors, take away what they want, body search us even - no one could ultimately stop us from doing 'the deed' if that's truly what we want!  I'm not alone.  There's someone else who understands! For the first time in a long time I feel a little glimmer of hope.