The last time I was ever locked up against my will, I was fifteen. I just wouldn't eat, for I was genuinely hideous when carrying even an extra five pounds. My friends never had a problem with it. Mother never noticed, being too busy looking at herself in the mirror. My father was such an avoidant man he might as well have evicted himself from our lives. The guy lived at work, right? Anyways, until I started fainting, and worrying the doctors with it all, I was free to be whatever I wanted.
Thin.
This is different.
I'm being watched through a camera in my room, even as I sleep. I'm being bothered to take psychiatric medication. They prescribed me over four things just in two days of being here. And how did they come up witn my diagnosis so fast?
Paranoid schizophrenia.
This system amazes me.
My brother visits me every other day, asking the staff when it was that I was going to come out. They have no answer; only the assigned psychiatrist can say. My last talk with the doctor was a short conversation, where I was told if I am physically seeing zombies, whether or not I do drugs that day, I belong on antipsychotics, those pills that make you feel ambivalent to everything around you, for my hallucinations were alarming.
They even asked me to speak to a parapsychologist about my interpretation. I disclosed nothing, knowing how much longer I would end up staying if I admitted to anything, and showed signs I wasn't improving.
It took two weeks to convince them I was stable enough to leave. I missed Jimmy's funeral thanks to the hold I was kept under.
Things have changed a lot since. For one, I haven't touched any drugs for the sake of keeping my mental health from going downhill. I'm also taking it up with a therapist, my anxieties from maintaining my figure by starving to discussing my dream patterns. She advises me to keep a journal. But I don't remember my dreams.
I can't help but feel negative in many ways.
My life has become so dull. Nothing helps. No amount of talking changes what I feel. The meds force my body to carry extra weight, causing me to overwork myself in the downstairs gym. I leave the house during the day but avoid nights where I'm at risk of relapsing.
Adam thinks I'm depressed or something. I feel bad for worrying him. I have a clue why he never bought that place in Seattle. It's me.
God. Everywhere I go, I'm such a problem to everyone I care about. I should go somewhere else, far away, and never come back.
I chuck my medications into the garbage can next to me. Since I want to light it on fire, I back away slowly. This isn't enough for me, however.
I end up running to the shower where I keep my razor. I stare at it. Then my wrist. I slash the skin, hard enough to immediately draw blood, but not deep enough to send me to an emergency room.
My phone suddenly rings and I ignore it. I dread the actions of talking, listening, and responding. Knowing where it leads. I am a person of no expectations. You don't fool me.
It rings again. I'd better tell whoever this is that I'd rather be left alone. The call display shows a number I don't recognize, and I'm suddenly aggravated enough I could throw the thing across the room.
"Who is this?" I answer.
The call ends.
Three loud knocks are then heard on the front door, downstairs.
As if I'm answering. I'm so over things driving me mentally sick that I decide to go to bed. It isn't hard when your brain needs the extra rest.
I wake to the sound of my brother shouting my name from downstairs. I cover my ears with the pillow I'm using and shut my eyes.
"I noticed your meds are missing." his voice echoes through me. "And why the hell is there blood on the sheets? And your wrist? You cut yourself, didn't you?"
"Bravo." I say. My voice sounds so stupid, immature and gone.
"I can't take this anymore, Amy." Adam lowers his voice and sits in the chair next to my bed. "I think you need to stay with the parents."
"I'm not going to live in Vegas." I protest.
"It'll be easier to find a new band."
"No, it'll be easier to become an escort, and eventually end up on drugs again."
Adam sighs. "I don't know how to help you."
I look away.
"And Mom knows about this mental illness stuff more than I do."
I grab my phone and dial Josh's number immediately, still relying on the paper he gave me eons ago.
"I need to see you."
"Give me twenty minutes."
Love how he doesn't even need to ask what is going on. In less than a half hour, he is at the door. I fling it open before he can knock.
"Hey. So what is it you're-"
Without hesitation, I pull him in by the collar of his shirt and kiss him. He kisses me back, placing one hand softly on my cheek and the other around my back, to cradle me with. I moan. He feels so made for me. But I turn cold inside, again, as an immediate response to love.
"Brother's kicking me out. I'll be moving to Nevada."
"No, like hell you're not." He protests, "Jane has an extra room. I'll pay your rent."
"Is this for me or for you?" I respond coolly.
"Please don't do this."