The P in PICU stands for psychiatric. The ICU means the same as it would elsewhere. At SASH it is a place for high risk suicidal patients or violent psychotics. I represented the latter. Love Letter – – part 13 from the beginning
How could a 16 year old hold his own with violent crazy people? He was one of them. The only time that I’ve ever been hit in the face with a closed fist happened on my first night there. I think I deserved it. I was about to throw a heavy chair onto a large Mexican man. I was convinced that he had looked at me in a sinister way. Despite delusion I was probably right, but the chair made sense at the time. He never really bothered me after that. That episode prompted the first of many physical and chemical restraints to control my violence – – protect others, protect me. The rooms aren’t really rubber, but the walls were padded. Over two years I would see five different versions. Three had green walls. The color of calm? That night and many after I screamed with demonic rage. It may have scared others. I had lost fear’s protection. I had abruptly arrived at the bottom of my pit after free fall and a concussive landing – – much like the man with the turban after his encounter with a train.
Could I elaborate? Yes. But it hurts. I’m crying now and it oddly surprises me. I’m not crying in sorrow, regret, joy or beauty. I actually think it is the Holy Spirit communicating with God in a way that I can’t understand. Grieving for me, with me. That is how I’ve been praying for you since the beginning. I no longer speak in tongues. I hope that doesn’t displease God. I don’t think it does because I love his Holy Spirit and understand him much deeper that I ever did when speaking in tongues. So that is how I pray for you and your family now. This part of the letter follows your unspoken request. I’ve been faithful. Will I elaborate in the future? I don’t know. But in a fragmented style I can recall that fragmented epoch.
Racing thoughts with no conclusions. All links severed – – the web is for entangled poverty of mind. Two types of people here – – those on drugs and those not. I wish I was on drugs. Then this might stop if I stop. Molasses thoughts with no rest. Just stuck. God help me. Who is God? I am god. Why can’t I read? Why can’t I think? Why can’t I write? It doesn’t make sense and I hate nonsense. I hate more and more and more. I hate the one who made me and hate the one he made. I raise a fist against that god. Why doesn’t he just kill me? Man propositions me. Another fight. After weeks a lower security unit with a glass door where I can see light again. I walk through the closed glass door with outstretched arms. Still. Have. Scars. More restraints. More meds. More diagnoses. Depression. Mania. Psychosis – – I favor that one. Everything is related if I can just figure it out. Everything has significance, so nothing does. More drugs, less rage, less everything. Less. I don’t have the courage to kill myself. Myself. Myself? Haldol and thorazine until my tongue fills my mouth in dystonic revolt. Ativan, valium, anything to … calm … me … down. So down that I slept 20 of 24 hours and despaired of the other 4. Despair. What does Bertrand Russell know of despair? What does the writer of Hank know of despair? Unyielding despair so corrosive that it didn’t leave me desperate.
I hate you God – – just kill me and send me to hell.
Photo credit: Handwritten letter by Descarte: by PHGCOM [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) via Wikimedia Commons