“This isn’t new. This is a pattern I’ve been carrying my whole life.”
Perpetually bored and desperate to keep my mind occupied, I invented “games.” Adventures, really. Most of them were not appreciated by the staff—they had better things to do than deal with my amusing (to me) chaos.
Inside the unit, I became the “cool” one. The person people gravitated toward in the cafeteria, in the day room, even while waiting in line for chow. I was the unit bully—not truly me, but a persona I wrapped myself in like armor. My motto: fuck around and find out. And I meant it. No longer mousey, no longer shrinking into corners hoping to disappear. I was the it girl, and it felt good. Empowering, even. Within the sterile enclosure of the unit—safe, controlled, predictable—I could finally be loud.
The Weeble prowled the halls like he owned them, glaring at everyone. One day at the nurses’ station, he snapped at me to mind my own business. Something inside me detonated. I stepped into his face, called him an asshole, and warned I’d bowl him down the hall if he didn’t move. I had never stood up to a man like that before. The adrenaline was unreal. I strutted back to my room feeling invincible.
A week later, on an especially manic day, Martin provoked me again. I chased him down the hall yelling, calling him a fat, disgusting pig. Nurses had to separate us. After that, he mostly avoided me.
Running in the hall was another one of my bad habits. Still slightly manic, I was always in a hurry. I called it walking fast; the staff called it unsafe. Unsafe? The chaos I’d left behind in the real world was unsafe. Inside a single corridor? Please.
My best mind game with the staff was “hide and go seek.” We all wore tracking bracelets that synced with the handheld computers staff used to monitor us. The bracelets were easy to remove, which gave me plenty of opportunities to stir things up. I’d take mine off, hide it somewhere off‑limits, and wait for the “Code Yellow” announcement over the loudspeaker. Then I’d sit in the day room, amused, watching staff run around looking for me. After the first time, my unit buddies knew exactly what I’d done and stuck around to watch the show.
A less dramatic game was collecting Styrofoam cups. Every time we wanted water, we were given a new cup. Wasteful, in my opinion. So I refused to throw mine away. I’d hold the whole stack or hide them in my room. Housekeepers always found them and tossed them, but I kept trying. My personal best was twelve cups. The orderlies would smile when they saw me clutching them like treasure. Juvenile, yes—but the ward offered nothing else. No real games, a few incomplete decks of cards, coloring pages, and markers that required a bureaucratic ritual to access. We were expected to attend group therapy and “work on ourselves.” Too much time to think. Not enough to do.
My last hurrah was the worst—and the best. I put my tracker in the trash headed for the outside dumpster. When it went unnoticed, the announcement escalated to a serious “Code Red,” meaning someone had escaped. I nearly wet myself laughing, but wanting the game to last longer, I hid in the dark corner of a shower—one they overlooked during the search. When the order for dinner came, hunger won. I lined up, and that’s when they found me. My bracelet was replaced with one impossible to remove without scissors. Game over. Staff 1, me 0, this time! That stunt earned me a time out in my room. I was defiant and angry, so I filled entire composition book full of nasty, mean, dangerous words. I followed the alphabet from a – z each referencing feelings; anger, hopelessness, rage, even synonyms for death. hen a list, spanning an entire page filled with line after line of different ways to die. It was scary how many I could think of, i even categorized them
We were each given a workbook at admission—something meant to help us reflect and gain coping skills. I used mine to vent my anger, frustration, and boredom. My responses twisted into something deeply disturbing. I found it amusing to write the worst of the worst answers—ones that gave even me goosebumps. If anyone had seen it, I’d be locked up forever. I still have it, hidden. My scrapbook of horrific, dark, dangerous words. To me, it’s funny. To the outside world, it would read like the journal of a madman.
Read more about the mess I’ve been trying to survive, →
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 