“Katrina never plays by the rules.”
“Not once in forty-two days. She definitely doesn’t play by the rules.”
Ellen waves in my general direction. “Edie can play me.”
“Yeah. Edie never has to role-play. It’s her turn.”
“Definitely her turn.”
“That’s not goin’ to happen, y’all.” I squeeze my stress ball a few more times, then shove it in the pocket of an Ithaca College hoodie. Apparently, Edie had a box of clothing from the last time she was here at good old Livingston Mental Health—nicer sounding than mental hospital or nuthouse. It was filled with mostly sweatshirts and tracksuits, flat velvet shoes, and normal underwear. Her parents sent them along, and nothing says “we care” like a smashed-up box sent by UPS. Then again, I did call them roaches.
“We all have to show respect for each other in group,” therapist Rhonda reminds us. She takes a pencil from behind her ear and writes something in the notebook on her lap. “Katrina, you know your role is to watch other members use the problem-solving strategies we’ve learned in group to express your feelings in a more constructive way.”
Katrina shrugs and sits back down. Carol and Anna volunteer to role-play the other two women, and there’s nothing quite like crazy people trying to act like they’re not crazy by repeating monotonous “strategies.”
“I should use appropriate language when expressing myself,” Carol says in her deadpan voice. “And not call a person a bitch.”
Anna nods in agreement. “I need to consider other people’s feelings. I definitely need to play by the rules.”
I look at Katrina and her lunatic smile. Out of all the women here, I like her the best. To say we’re friends would be a stretch, but yesterday she came into my room and wanted to use my tinted lip moisturizer and mascara. She colored a little out of line, poked herself in the eye, and I was afraid she’d go psycho on me. She just made a joke and laughed and told me that Livingston is the best mental hospital she’s been in. I don’t ask how she knows. Best not to pry open that can of crazy worms, but sometimes I get the feeling she isn’t as demented as she appears. Although I don’t know why she’d fake being a psycho when the goal is to get out of here. At least that’s my goal. Since I’ve been here, I’ve watched patients come and go, and I definitely want to go ASAP.
I don’t really remember the first sixty days. I was locked up in ward C, where I had to use the toilet in my tiny room and wear a heavy suicide smock. I slept a lot and lived a nightmare when I was awake. I was scared and confused and cried all the time. Edie’s lawyer, Garver something, came to visit. He talked about the courts and my patient’s rights, and I couldn’t understand what any of it meant. I got the feeling he worked more for them than for me.
I was getting sicker and more lethargic, and the doctors noticed that the medication that worked for Edie in the past didn’t work for me. They were baffled and scanned my brain for damage due to blood loss after Edie’s suicide attempt.
Lucky for me, they were so shocked by the imaging, they scanned it a bunch more times. They didn’t find damage (praise God and baby Jesus), but saw instead a drastic change from Edie’s last neuroimaging. Goodbye to her dark blue and pale yellow brain, hello to my brilliant gold and orange. I was reevaluated and retested and diagnosed with profound retrograde amnesia and complete autobiographical memory loss. The doctors determined my amnesia is likely caused by one or more of the following:
Blood loss and coma
Psychological trauma
Emotional shock
Hysteria
Dissociative break
They don’t really know.
When I first got here, the staff asked a lot of questions about why I think I’m Brittany Lynn Snider and why I hate Edie, but I learned my lesson. Even when I was a drooling mess, I insisted that I didn’t remember, and eventually they stopped asking.
The good news is that faking amnesia is getting easier. The bad news is that the staff believes my amnesia is temporary and that the key to unlocking my memory is through “triggers.” What I know and they don’t is that no amount of word association, sound pairing, and photos is ever going to make that happen.
“I never said Ellen’s a bitch.” Katrina stands and points to her nemesis. “I said Helen’s a bitch.”
Predictably, problem-solving skills descend to hell and we’re dismissed until Monday. Thank God I have the weekend before I have to rejoin the ladies who actually need cognitive therapy.
I’ve been in ward B for a month now, and I’ve been tapered off the strong psychotropic drugs. Now I take a low-dose antidepressant, which I figure I probably do need due to my depressing situation.
Everything that had been in Edie’s vanity case in El Paso was returned to me in a plastic red pouch with my name written in black Sharpie. The hospital has a policy against arriving with Louis Vuitton, which is best, given the kleptos around here.
Since landing in ward B, I have more freedom, and by more freedom I mean I was awarded a seat on the minibus to Meijer for good behavior. I bought scented lotion and good shampoo and conditioner, cosmetics, a black Carhartt knit cap, and a mini calendar. I mark off every day right before bed, and that might not seem like a big deal, but it’s progress toward the end of the tunnel. I don’t see light yet, but at least there’s a tunnel.
I can leave my room and wander around, and I can attend church services in the lobby on Sundays. The preacher who comes isn’t as fiery as Johnny J., which is for the best, I suppose. No one wants fired-up crazy people running around.
I eat my meals in the cafeteria, although that’s a privilege I can sometimes do without. Like when Twitchy Lisa (not my name for her) accuses everyone of having an affair with her husband, Roy, which is really laughable. Roy is bald and spotty and not in a good way. Lisa has nothing to worry about, but she seems to target me more than others. The doctors say it’s because she sees me as the biggest threat. I don’t care about the reasons; I’m over trying to reason with her.
After group, I return to my small room and pull out a black-and-white composition notebook. Spiral notebooks are against the rules—the wire might be used as a lethal weapon.