Langley-Porter Psychiatric Hospital

I have lost track of time. I have lost a sense of space. I know I have been here at least three nights, maybe more. Hours flow into days flow into nights.

The monotony is broken by the occasional screams of other patients. For my part I have not (yet) felt it necessary to scream or resist the omnipresent staff. They have the system down pat here. It's clear that they know how to handle the mentally disabled. Everything is locked down.

I spent my first day searching for ways to kill myself. There are none. I made a thorough inventory of all the surfaces and edges that I might use to kill myself. There are none. I despair of finding a way to kill myself. And that is disheartening. As odd and contradictory as it sounds I am slowly getting beaten down. I have once again shown myself my ineptitude at suicide. I guess I will just fade into the background of blue paper scrubs until I begin to scream, too.

I am isolated. I have lost all capability in making and retaining friends. Alcoholics Anonymous has shown that to me. There is no friendship there. I now find myself in a crowd of approachable people. All are locked away with a strong common similarity. I am alone. Solitude is probably what put me here. All the other patients socialize with one another in the dining room. Even their screams resonate among themselves. As I write this I am apart from the crowd. I cannot bring myself to approach them.

The truth is I have given up. I gave up some time ago. I do not know when it happened. I think I lost myself in the dark of the winter after my divorce. Faced with total loneliness –no friends– no family–I turned inward. I became my own best friend. My thoughts and daydreams became my companions. I made good company of them. I guess this is what my psychologist and psychiatrist call disassociation. I do this a lot even today. I consider it daydreaming. The truth, however, is that I do this in face-to-face conversations. I disappear. I check out.

It is innate human nature to socialize. I hurt because I cannot be a part of a seemingly complex web of conversations. All seem so adroit at developing and maintaining the interplay of personal ties, humor and the use of these things to bring themselves closer to one another. I am sitting at the edge of the cave. Like Plato said, the fire is casting shadows of reality. I cast no shadow. I am unreal.

They are all moving into my personal space. I panic. The nurse is chasing everyone out of the dining room and into the living room where I am sitting. It is humorous, really. The nurse is herding cats. Adept at her job she eventually succeeds. As in all other matters the nurses evince their skill in gently but firmly handling mental patients.

The dining room is separated from the living room by a folding retractable door. It is open now. It has been cleaned of the detritus from dinner. The Spanish-speaking patients have returned to it and talk loudly and insanely with one another.

Too many people. I cannot stand it.

The halls are filled with patients all sort of just roaming around. Conversations come and go. I hear snatches of them. I can hear the people in the dining room. My Spanish is not very good but I can recognize some of the words as they drift into the living room. God I feel alone. It is all my own damn fault. I isolate myself. I sit at a table writing in this journal. It is a way of remaining physically and socially private. I hear the gently flirting of young people in one corner. Others talking in other spaces. A mild hum of contentment and conversation drifts over me. No problems. The staff are breathing a sigh of apprehensive relief.

One kid has a shadow. An orderly follows him around wherever he goes. He is very troubled, even by the standards of this hospital. “Help, help,” yells another patient from the back of the hallway that separates the bedrooms from the common areas. I saw him dancing in the halls earlier.

Discharge. I spoke with my psychiatrist here at the hospital this morning. I just found out that it is Wednesday. Time passes in a formless continuity. Anyway, I told her that I no longer feel suicidal. I am not really certain about this but it is what I said. My real motivation is to get the hell out of here. Upon reflection, I guess I no longer obsess about suicide. I do not know how this happened. I have not gotten any psychiatry. I guess I just needed to cool my jets. The good aspect of this place is that it is safe from the world and its swirling tumble of emotions. Here everyone devotes all of their energy recovering from the challenges of life on the outside. Normal people devote very little of their time to mental health. Inside or outside I devote a good deal of my time to mental health. I must accept that I am simply mentally challenged, to be politically correct.

Discharge. The idea has an alien feel about it. I have become accustomed to the hospital routine. I finally recognize the variety of personalities. A sense of home has settled on me. A sense of belonging. Of not being alone.

Discharge. I am a bit afraid of it. Will I be able to cope with life outside of this safety net? I have visions of my apartment. I feel it inside of me, I think. But it all seems like a movie to me. Like a show on television. I need to wrap myself around the reality of life outside. What will life be like as I leave through the door. I am armed with a veritable pile of support material. I am admonished to attend the Partial Hospitalization Program after leaving here. It is all-day out-patient group therapy. It will last for three weeks. I leave. The strangeness of this pervades me.

I am gone.