psychward / climax

  "You're in my seat," I say to a man in a grey Lockheed Martin t-shirt. He holds my gaze but doesn't say anything. "30B?" I offer, hoping this'll inspire him to interact with me. It's my third flight of the day and it's already four hours late. I'm exhausted and covered in a layer of grime from three different airports. My bangs are sticking to the sweat on my forehead. I can tell this man has not been charmed by me. He's not even willing to remedy the situation. He looks annoyed. "I'm not -" He starts. His wife touches his arm. "Eric," She says. Then she pulls out their boarding passes and shows me that they are, indeed, in the right place and it's me that's being an asshole. "Oh," I say. I pull out my boarding pass. 29B. "Fuck."

  It's such a dumb mistake that I sidle into the seat without looking at the woman next to me. She is giggling nonetheless. My head jerks to throw a look of annoyance at her - Don't fuck with me. Not today. - but catching her eyes turns the corners of my mouth up despite myself. "We should have C open," she shows me the United App, "Some little extra leg room?" She phrases it like a question, as though she's trying to bribe me into a better mood. I'm surprised that her over-familiar tone works on me. Me and this stranger are now a team, dividing the spoils of an unexpected victory over public transportation. I scoot over and give us both room to stretch our thighs over the middle seat. "Flying home?" She asks. I jerk up my chin to indicate that I am. "Explains your mood. How's LA?" Startled, I yank my neck as I turn and look at her full in the face for the first time. She looks familiar. "Excuse me?" She laughs at my confusion again. "We went to high school together? We have each other on Facebook?" I think I can recall engagement photos in front of our towns lighthouse - hers, not mine. Prom, cheerleader, the cookie cutter life. My features twist into a grimace as I feel annoyance, then disgust, then shame. If she has me on Facebook, she's seen enough to make her own judgements. I thrust my seat back in defense and cross my arms. "LA is great." I say. I shut my eyes. 

 All I want is sleep but there is turbulance and I'm struck with motion sickness. There is no "looking at the horizon" while in a dark airplane. The best I can do is lean forward and mash my eyeballs into the heels of my palms. I tell myself It's fine. You're in an airplane. You can't control the motion, but that's okay. My digestive system isn't convinced. It feels like the back of my throat is sweating. The burger I ate in the Denver airport turning mercilessly in my stomach. I let out an audible groan. "Don't be nervous," my 'friend' from high school tells me. How could I be, with miss 'helpful' by my side? I'm too sick to think anything other than derisive thoughts. I shake my head. "Do - you - have - dramamine?" I say between clenched teeth. I worry that if I open my mouth all the way that my internal organs - and their contents - will make a mad dash to escape. She produces a plastic bottle and twists the air conditioning nozzle so the cool air blows on the back of my neck. I give her a tight-lipped thumbs up. She nods, leans on her elbow and averts her gaze out the window. She is giving me my privacy and I'm grateful, really grateful. I still can't remember her name but I wonder if we'd spoken. I think back to high school and hope not. 

  We land on a wet tarmac at four in the morning. There is a smattering of applause from rookie flyers. I smirk and try to catch miss helpful's eye but she is asleep. Her hands are upturned in her lap and I think about how it's a sign of defenselessness to sleep so openly. I wonder what her twenties have been like. She lets out a little snore. A couple people pause retrieving their bags from the overhead to glance at her. I smack her bicep with the back of my hand. "Huh?" She sits up. "Rise n' shine," I say in a flat voice. "Oh." She says, and gets busy putting her things away. She zips her lap top case and . She takes off her neck pillow and buckles it so it hangs off her backpack. I shove my charger in my own pack, pushing down the socks, underwear, and crumpled boarding passes that threaten to spill out. She eyes the mess that is me and I bristle. "I didn't have time to pack," I huff. Like it'd make a difference, I think, hating myself. The line starts moving forward. I swing out of my seat and march off the plane. I get to baggage claim without looking behind me. I regret not saying anything else to my - friend? - but then I'm relieved to see her. She stands sort of close to me. I hesitate. I don't really know what to say. I need people, but I hate needing people and I'm a coward. She saves me, again, because she says something first. "Message me if you want to catch up or something," She tell me. Then she strolls forward and catches her bag neatly off the conveyor belt. Her bag matches her back pack. It's turquoise with a floral pattern. "Wait," I say. She doesn't turn fully. She just tosses her hair a little so she can look at me out of the corner of her eye. "It's Jessica," she makes a little duh gesture, and once again, I'm served a well-deserved dose of shame. 

    Christmas and New Years pass by without any real calamity. On Christmas my father lays in bed and drinks. He misses the beouf bourginion that my mom spent all day making, so I eat two helpings even though every bite sticks to the roof of my mouth and lingers uncomfortably in my throat. I don't really want to be here, but I don't want to be in Los Angeles, either. I miss something that doesn't exist for me anymore: the hope that things can actually get better. I don't want to be depressed and angry but I am. I want something. I want someone to see me and to love me anyway. I want to go home and be surrounded by love. I want to know what it was like for my peers who grew up in seemingly perfect households and grew up to be seemingly perfect adults. Why are things so fucked for me, why am I the way that I am? I wallow in my angst and try to be cheery for my mom, but she's as unhappy as I am. We place the border pieces of a jigsaw puzzle on our dining room table and we both cry. Her for herself, me for myself, and each of us for each other. I didn't want to go out while I was here but I need to get out of this house for a bit.

  A few days after New Years, I plan to have a chill night downtown. I'll have a few drinks, do a little blow. I'm feeling nostalgic, but not nostalgic to actually hit anyone up to hang out. I figure, once I go out, I'll see the people I'm meant to see. The veterans will be there and I don't care if they see me like this. My real friends might be turned off. My mom wants me to take it easy. She's worried about me, but I don't find it endearing. The classic sign of addiction is viewing everyone who tries to help you as a bother. I'm addicted to multiple substances at this point, and though I want her help I want it in the vague and distant future, after I've bought my drugs and have had a rowdy night. I name-drop a few girls I used to hang out with when I lived her and tell her, "It's okay, we're just going to drink wine and watch movies." She sits on my bed while I unpack and doesn't say anything. She talks about how dad (alcoholic, mean) is doing and how my brother (Borderline, addicted to anything available) are doing. She wants the best for all of us and she won't give up. We're three of the most fucked-up human beings I've ever met and she still loves us. She looks at me with owl-like eyes through her glasses she got at Walmart. She looks smaller and frailer than I've ever seen her. Before I leave, I give her a long hug that I want to mean a lot more than it does. What I want to say is "I'm here, you're not alone, we're going to get through this together." But I already called my dealer and I'm not worth leaning on for anything. 

  I knew going into the night that it was a bad idea. I knew it wasn't what I really wanted. I knew I was playing into the worst ideas and notions I had about myself. I later learned I got into a verbal altercation with some random guy. I'm not even sure why the cops got involved, but before I knew it, I was sulking with my hands cuffed next to a cop car. I'd blacked out up until that point but now I was conscience enough to remember the golden rule of getting arrested: keep your goddamn mouth shut. That didn't stop Joyce-like hurricane of stream of conscious rage from billowing through my head. Youstupidmotherfuckingassholepiecesofshit "I'm super anxious, can I speak with a lawyer before I talk to you guys? I don't know anything about the legal system." I cock my head and give them my best, most vacant dumb blonde smile. There's two officers. One's a dorky looking white dude and the other is a forty-something black woman. I can tell she can see right through my bullshit, but she talks the white dude behind me and grabs my wrists and pulls up my sleeves. "Excuse me?" I shout at her. She ignores me and they deliberate for a second. "Ma'am, I'm gonna give you some options, okay?" She walks around and looks at me. I try to keep my gaze steady but the street is starting to spin around me. I really want a bump. "We can arrest you and take you to jail or I can put you in a psychiatric hold so you can get some help for all these little cuts on your arms." Shutyourfuckingmouthyoufuckingbitchdon'tfuckingtouchme I deliberate for a moment. On one hand, I've never been to jail before, so that'd be a new and interesting experience. On the other, I didn't want that on my record. "Take me to the psych ward then," I say. She grabs my arms and the white dude she's with opens the back door. They push me in, and before they shut it I say, "For the record, this is the least fun I've ever had in handcuffs." 

  I walk into the hospital admission flanked by my two cops, the worlds lamest entourage. I imagine us walking in slow motion to the beat of Gangster's Paradise. It makes me let out a hollow little laugh. It's all I can do to see the absurdity of my situation. I already feel bad enough. My face points downward but I glance around the room with a glare from under my brows. I see nurses my own age: women who went to school, had careers, are maybe married, might have kids. I want to think of them as squares, people with out enough devil-may-care attitude to do life their own way. But as I am right now, I'm beginning to see the draw of a stable life. I wonder what their problems are like. An overcooked roast? Long hours and a husband who travels? Maybe their mother's in hospice. I know that a life free of addiction and trauma doesn't make you anymore immune to it's pain. I'm also beginning to realize a lot of my own problems are stemming from myself. Why did I go out? I know I was looking for trouble. Is this what I wanted? Enough attention that they get the professionals involved? A new woman cop, a blonde this time, takes me into the women's room to strip search me. She takes off my cuffs and has me take off my clothes. My hands feel under my bra and I clasp a plastic baggy of coke with my fingertips. I toss it into the toilet and kick the flush lever down with my foot. "It was a receipt," I say with a shrug. 

   They take my blood and they give me results in an instant. "You got a blood alcohol level of .13 and you have cocaine in your system," a nurse tells me. The cop that searched me is standing behind her with her arms folded. "I left my drink unattended. I don't know what some random dude might've put in my drink," I say. To me, that's obvious bullshit. But I'm not sure how obvious it is to them. These are the types of people that make the PSA's that people are giving kids pressed ecstasy pills on Halloween. I remember my Alcohol Serving Training as well, and the program telling me with real sincerity to keep an eye out for people coming into the bar under the influence of Ayahuasca. Drugs are like celebrities in that it's easy to believe all the stories until you actually start doin' them. No one who does coke would believe a guy would dump it into a girls drink unless he, for some reason, wanted her more conscious while he raped her. But the truth, the underlying truth that some guys will prey on women by any means necessary held firmer than any belief whether or not it would work. Plus, if men were going to keep doing that kind of shit, I'd be damned if I wasn't going to use it to get out of a drug charge every once in a while. I passed through intake with flying colors. They gave me my hospital gowns and my socks with the rubber tread on them and bid me a goodnight. 

  

   If you've never been to a psych ward, you simply must go. It's a worthwhile endeavor just to see how little the healthcare system gives a shit about the truly mentally ill. A high school kid struggling with an eating disorder and self harm shouldn't have been in the same ward as a six foot five guy bellowing about his goddamn sister turning him into the fucking CIA for knowing the truth about the unabomber with his hospital gown billowing open and revealing too-tight briefs and a wild mess of pubic hair. I behaved worse than I wanted to. I was hungover and fed up. I stood by the nurses counter in the middle of the communal 'living room' and wheedled the nurses to order me an I.V. "I'm dehydrated, I feel like I'm going to pass out," I begged. "You drank too much," my male nurse said. He didn't look up from his computer. "Excuse me, what the fuck," I said, my voice raised. A twenty something Hispanic kid approached the counter. "You're gonna get a shot," he said, "If you keep acting up they're gonna tranq you an' they're gonna keep you here longer." I looked at the nurse who just made an  mmmhmmmm noise. His eyes were still riveted to his screen, where, I could see he was playing a slow game of solitaire. "Shut the fuck up and take your methadone," I told the Hispanic, then, immediately felt bad. I stormed off to my room and slept off the rest of my hangover. 

  

  I emerged around dinnertime. I don't remember what they gave me. I don't even remember what I ate. I learned that I could make as many phone calls as I wanted and I scarfed whatever it was down. I called my mom first and let her know what happened. "Oh, Monica," she said in a way that twisted up all my internal organs and made me wish I could either A.) stab myself until my ribs turned into pudding or B.) drink myself into a coma. "I gotta go," I tell her and hang up. My next call was to Damien. He picks up and I can hear house music bumping in the background. "Yo?" he questions. "It's Monica. I'm in the -" I catch myself "-hospital. Long story." I can hear Damien talking to someone in the background. "I'm at the Insomniac Christmas party, bro, you won't believe who's here -" he cuts out for a moment. "Hello?" I say, annoyed. "I. Can't. Make. The. Meeting." I tell him. "No worries dude," He tells me. "Feel better." He hangs up. I feel helpless. I don't even think he's mad I'm not there, I just don't think he cares. I'm convinced, in this moment, that all Damien really cares about is himself making it and it's probably for the best that I'm not there to pitch my own show so that he can make his own calls as far as contract go. I'm swept in another fit of sweaty rage and I glare down all the hallways looking for a fight. Fuck with me you bastards, I dare you. I prowl into the common area where a couple older ladies and the Hispanic kid are watching The Great British Baking Show. One of the ladies is holding herself and crying. My anger releases suddenly and I feel nothing but pity for them and ashamed of myself. I perch on the arm of the couch. Nobody looks at me. I want to hold myself and cry too. 

   The next day, I meet with the psychiatrist who holds my future in his hands. The standard for my kind of deal is a 72 hour hold to make sure I don't harm myself or others and to assess my future likelihood of there being such an event. So far, I'd been inside for about 35 hours. The psychiatrist is about two inches shorter than me. His office is pristine. He wears a tidy gray suit. He's about thirty eight and he gives off the sour air of someone who simply cannot be bothered. The first words that pop into my head are insufferable twat. I know exactly how to play this. "So, what's going on with you?" He deigns to look at me from under his square frames. I can tell he hasn't read my file. "I was angry at my boyfriend," I show him my wrists, "Honestly, I was just being dramatic and thought it would get his attention." The psychiatrist scoffs at me. "That is the most childish thing I have ever heard. You're in your twenties, you're not in high school." I cut myself in high school, too, you prick. I nod along. "I know," I say, "I didn't expect any of this to happen. I'm not depressed and I've one thousand percent learned my lesson." He gives me a long lecture that is the equivalent of him stroking his long, hard ego while I watch. But it's alright by me: I exchange my dignity for my freedom. He lets me call my mom to pick me up and I imagine the scene from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. "They bought it." 

  

notes:   I get out of the psych ward by playing up what everyone believes about cutters: It's for attention, of course. They don't even hold me the full 72 hours. I'm picked up by my very concerned, disappointed parents. But, later at the dinner table my mom tells me "You know, Angelina Jolie was a cutter." After all of everything, they're still on my team. Later that night, I get the call that the show is getting picked up and "Japhy" is going on and on about the clout and accolades we'll get from it. I've done the bulk of the writing at this point and his ideas are pedestrian. ("My show." I say, tired. "It's my show. I'm the one who wrote the pilot. Those are my jokes in there." He hasn't even asked me how my stint in the hospital was. I understand that's the gig - but I'm over it. "Bro, this is our thing. You wouldn't have even met >insert execs name< if it wasn't for me!" And that's when I realize what Japhy is. He's the man about town, the meet and greeter, the nobody middle man who shakes his cup every time he gets two people in a room together. He is necessary and insidious in this industry and he will take everything he can from talents greater than his own. I hang up the phone. He can take the pilot. It's not going anywhere without me, and even if it does it won't be the same show anyway. I don't believe in it anymore.)