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MMC NP

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  • A dark room. Padded walls. A drugged descent underground.
  • Panic. Suffocation. I felt like Beatrix Kiddo, buried alive. And for a while I acted like her, buried alive. I wept and moaned in despair. I was not buried alive, though. A band held my chest down. Bands wrapped around my wrists and ankles, holding my body splayed out like a frog ready for dissection.
  • It was the worst feeling I had ever felt in my entire life. At least when I was feeling the worst pain I’d ever felt, I could still move.
  • I felt for the knot on my left hand. I undid the knot. I used my free left hand to undo the knot on my right. With my arms free, I slid under the band holding my chest down. I undid the knots on my ankles.
  • I went outside looking for someone to explain why I was being held there against my will and why I was attacked by five huge men when I started looking for my doctor. Why did they suffocate me? Why did they nearly break my nose under a pillow, causing tissue damage that would give me profuse bleeding for the next four days? Why didn’t anyone just tell me what was going on?
  • When they found me sitting outside on a bench, they grabbed my wrists and ankles and tied me up again.
  • I undid the knots and escaped again.
  • This time I managed to find a doctor, who shrugged off the fact that I had been violently suffocated and restrained.
  • I shook with fear and hardly ate for the next few days.
  • One day there was a middle-aged woman, drawing calmly inside the nursing station as if she was not captive in a place full of crazy people and violent nurses. I sat down next to her and for the next half hour or so she talked in motherly tones of lines and colors and blending and light and dark and, “there’s no wrong interpretation.”
  • I drew, too.
  • Her daughters visited. I liked talking to them because they were taking the whole situation in stride and they were good company.
  • Then, one day she left.
  • and
  • time passed
  • and
  • time passed
  • Time passed.
  • Time passed.
  • Time passed
    • time passed
    • Time passed.
    • Time passed.
    • Time passed
      • time passed
      • Time passed.
      • Time passed.
      • Time passed

I was in despair. I wrote a lot about my despair on the computer on which the only applications that worked were Plants Vs. Zombies and Notepad. Not even Microsoft Word worked. I wrote of my despair and the abuse I’d undergone. I wanted to sue the doctors. I was very vocal (or at least writal) about it…

Before, I had thought that my psychiatrist would never have thrown me to the wolves the way they did that night.

I know now that I was wrong.

She even suggested that I be threatened with a return to that ward if I made a misstep. I need another psychiatrist. One that is not so crazy.

To be let out, I had to say I was sorry. I am not sorry. I made my point. I paid the price. Could anything be fairer and more right than that?

P.S: 

Right before I left, a girl was admitted. She was young – only in her twenties. In our fragmented conversations I pieced together a picture of a fragmented life. Course after course unfinished. A list of universities that could barely be counted on one hand. And an energy, always a restless energy…. She danced in the halls… She begged and threatened for just an extra minute to stay up with a snack and a magazine. Things that no one would have begrudged anyone in the real world. And I had to think about how much mental health “facilities” amplify and distort whatever’s wrong with your mind and body. I don’t think this is something I can figure out on my own.

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