Walking down the hall again. It's 3:05 again. Meeting with Dr. Collins again. Left, right, left, right...
That's the way they want us thinking. I know what they're really up to; they want to tear us apart like an old abandoned building. When we are gone, they'll build another building, one more building that they say is us, but it isn't. It's a new, perfect, modern design of the old thing, a poster child made from the scraps of paper that are us, the "bad children." It's always the same here, always the same repeating pattern. They tear you apart until you're like a robot, they change your mind. They make everything "normal," but they leave you behind in the process.
Welcome to the crazy hospital, where crazies are free to be changed. We can't all be perfect, but they change you into the best person they can. Another day of the nurses and the treatments, the pills and the doctors, the psychiatrists that cannot make me tell them anything. No. I refuse to fall.
On the first day I screamed. I screamed all day and all night, not stopping until my voice was so rough I couldn't even croak. I whispered my words and they were ignored by the nurses that stuck their heads through the door every ten minutes.
On the second day I was dragged, kicking and screaming, to the psychiatrist's office on the floor below mine. He asked a bunch of questions that I didn't answer. Every time he finished speaking, I just said, "Can I leave now?" I don't know if it was because he had another appointment or because he knew I wasn't going to talk, but he finally let me leave. Dr. Collins, the baldy.
On the third day I quit eating the disgusting slop they tried to pass off as food. I saw a nurse make a few notes, and I heard her murmur, "Must be anorexic..." before she walked off. One more diagnosis to add to the list that steadily grows.
I know the list says depressed and anorexic, but a lot of girls are both of those and more, and I don't see them here. I did something, but they won't tell me what it was. Maybe it's the fact that I sneak out onto the abandoned, unstable old bridge every night. If it collapsed, I could be crushed to death or drown in the river. Maybe it was the day they caught me swallowing pill after pill with my glass of orange juice. I could have died of over dose.
I'm normal, more so than you think, actually. I sneak out onto the bridge because it has a history, and it's close to water. (I'm one of the crazies who climbs trees in the pouring rain.) I wanted to be normal, so I swallowed pill after pill in hopes that they'd make my brain better somehow. All that has changed now.
