The 'Loony' Bin

A young man recounts his brief stint in a mental ward.

I hate to call it that, I do. My Mom said it once, honest, and it just sorta got stuck in my head. People go to get help, I went to get help, and what’s wrong with that? What’s loony? Alright maybe some of the people in there were bat-s**t nuts but they’re still people. I was in the place for five days,  It was a long five days.  Months can pass and it’s a breeze but those five days...well it was a long time for a kid like me.  ‘Though, really, I’m not a kid, not even close.  Everyone called me ‘kid’ in that place. I didn’t wanna tell ‘em how old I was, they would’ve said, “what? You aren’t a kid?”

            It’s like they were thinkin': ‘what’s this kid doin’ in here? He hasn’t done enough in life to be here, what’s he doin’?’  Well I’m young, sure, but I haven’t been a teenager for a few years. More than a few, actually, but who’s countin’? I promise I earned my stay in there. Despite what the others thought, I earned every bit of it.  I've got just as much of a right to be a mess as anyone.

Day one

            “Whatch’a doin’ in here, kid? Huh? You alright?” this one lady asked.  She looked at me like I’d throw my head around, realize I walked into the wrong place, and split.  I remember what she looks like, too, she reminded me of my aunt from Ireland.  I hate that aunt.  I hadn’t even been in there 10 minutes. “Huh? Not gonna tell me?  I don’t bite, I mean she bites,” Auntie stopped and poked this elderly woman I didn’t see on the other side of her. The old lady snarled. “Whatch’a doin’ in here kid? How old are you, anyway?” my Aunt look alike continued, “Ah it’s alright, kid, don’t tell me now.  I’ll find out in groups, anyway.  You’ll be alright in here, it’s alright in here. I’ll talk to you later kid.”

            Just a second after Auntie left the old woman tried to bite my arm. I made a mistake.  I knew it, 15 minutes in.  And you can’t just leave, they told me that already. 

Anyway, I had a lot of time to think, that’s for sure. When you’ve got a roommate snoring throughout the night, making sounds similar to a dying beast…well, you can bet if you don’t like thinking you’ll get used to it.  I’m not talking about the thinking everyone does, either.  Everyone’s got thoughts, plans they’re making, and you know, whatever. I’m taking about the real kind of thinking, figuring out when things changed, remembering old friends, enemies, triumphs, mistakes… The thinking where I try to remember everything that happened and I do my best to make sense of it all.  People do that sort of thinking, too, don’t get me wrong.  I’m not the only guy who ever tried.  It’s just that’s the kind of thinking that doesn't happen as often as the other, maybe, but then again, what do I know?

It was only on this first night that I really wished the guy would shut the f**k up, breathe through his nose, or something.  I really wanted sleep on the first night.  I didn't want to do that real thinking yet! I wanted to revisit childhood or make people proud doing things I can only do when it’s in my head. I’ve never been a good sleeper but there have only been a few times I really wanted it when I couldn't. This first night in the place, well, I've made my point and all already, but it’s the best example…most recent, anyway.  I looked over at the guy and couldn’t figure how he wasn’t waking himself up.

Day two

            Story goes one guy, heroin addict,  tried to strangle himself with a shower curtain only three days before. They caught him before anything really happened. Security folks followed him for a bit. Now guess what? He’s getting out.  What is that, seriously?  I’m hoping he just said he’s getting out when really they’re just transferring him elsewhere.  I don’t know anyone who in good conscious could let a guy just leave like that.  I’d like to pretend I don’t, anyway.

            Some guy, told me his name a bunch of times, I don’t remember it, said: “Ah he’s getting out sure, but addicts always get out quick.  They’ll be right back here, kid!”  What if he doesn’t come back? What if he overdoses and dies? If that’s really what they do, that’s fucked up and wrong on so many levels.  Help a guy when he’s there, make sure he at least knows where to put his feet, don’t wave and say, “we’ll see you soon!”  Because, know what, you might not.  People only pretend to care, you know, and only after it’s too late…when there’s nothing left to do but lie and say, I wish I could’ve done something.

            This day was pretty uneventful.  Just about all there was to it are what I’ve already said and the fact a guy got buck naked the night before and ran around the halls.  That was discussed a lot throughout the day. He’s apparently tried to smoke tea bags in the pantry before, too.

            “How’s that possible? Smoking tea-bags?” I asked.

            “F**k if I know,” this guy tells me, “I’m only telling you what I heard kid! Crazy a*s Carl tried to smoke tea bags. Look at ‘im, he’s nuts, kid. ”

Author's Note

Welcome to any comments.

This is a portion of a short story.

*For mature readers. The narrator is "recovering" from depression, colorful language at times*

Reviews

[Zoey]

I haven't read the whole thing because I'm a lazy reader, but I really enjoyed what I've gotten so far. I've had one of my own experiences similar to this. I admire your writing. Thank you.

[C.M Grogan]

You're most welcome. I am very glad it means something to you. And really, thank you