Tucker II West

 

   Tucker II West.

 

      Tucker II West.  The first time I went, it was the middle of the night.  My father came to my mother’s house.  I hate my father.  He was bringing my older brother Robert home (my parents are divorced).  As soon as I saw his face I knew exactly what was going to happen; I’m good like that.  I read people like books.  I find it fascinating, amusing.  “We need to talk,” he said.  “hah,” I thought, “is he breaking up with me?”  He went into our breakfast room with my mother.  I do not remember what they said.  My father grabbed my wrist and I grimaced in pain.  I was wearing my light and dark pink hooded shirt from American Eagle.  I still have that shirt.  He said he knew I’d been “scratching myself”.  My mother was crying—what the f**k.  He told me that if I didn’t talk about it with them, they would take me to the hospital.  I did not want them to talk to me, and I was not about to talk to them, so I said fine, they could take me to the hospital, see if I care.  They told me to go upstairs to get my coat; they weren’t kidding.  My father followed me into my room to watch me… um, what the hell?  I yelled at him to stop and he grabbed my arm.  I proceeded to howl in pain.  They took me in my stepfathers’ BMW to the hospital; I do not know the name.   We sat in the waiting room for hours, I was sulking, my parents were talking with the personnel.  I was called up to the counter and forced to show the man my arms.  “Superficial lacerations on left and right forearms,” he wrote on the computer.  I then had to get them checked, as well as my vitals.  I did not like the thing that squeezed my arm; it hurt.   We sat in a white cinderblock cubicle with three gray plastic chairs and one gray plastic table.  They asked me if I was hungry, for I had had no supper and it was now about one in the morning.  I said yes, I was, and they said they would get me some food, the man told me he would microwave something. I received from the ER personnel a tray of microwaved beef and vegetables, what was this supposed to be?  It was rubbery, very overcooked.  It was disgusting.

      Finally I got admitted to the ward, Tucker II West.  It was next to the adult ward.  Well, at least I didn’t have to be with the crazyass adults.  I got into the unit at about three in the morning.  My roommate looked like a boy, and I thought she was a boy for quite some time.  She pinned me against the wall one time.  I think her name was… well actually I don’t remember.  But if I did remember I’d change her name.  She was about ten, if I recall correctly.  The beds were disgusting.  And the concept of a roommate in a psychiatric ward scared me very much.  I hoped she’d kill me.

      The beds were wooden and very old, as were the dressers and desks.  They had tic marks on them for days people had been there.  Some of them even had numbers.  It disgusted me.  The windows were the unbreakable glass-plastic kind, and I had a lovely view of the back of an inner-city building and an old decrepit parking lot.

       All we ate at TIIW was ice cream and peanut butter crackers, and the meal trays, which nobody ate.  It was disgusting.  The ice cream came in those little Styrofoam cups, the kind that is soft and whipped, tastes like frozen whipped cream, very disgusting.  The crackers were graham crackers and Smuckers peanut butter, the peanut butter tubs, the little ones that are plastic and have about one tablespoon in them. The trays came three times a day.  I never ate them, for they were disgusting.  The food trays I also never ate.  They always looked at our trays and logged how much we ate.  Mr. OJ always commented on how much I didn’t eat.  Little did I know at the time, this would be just the beginning of my rapid weight loss.  I spent Halloween there.  We had no candy.  All the same, I did not care, for I could not taste food at that point.  I could not taste.  I could not smell.  I could barely hear through the ringing and screaming in my ears.  The “groups” were a joke, of course. 

      My psychiatrist was an idiot.  The entire staff was idiotic.  Because   I was a tender twelve years old, I was placed in the children’s unit, with seven year-olds.  The idea of a roommate in an asylum scared me.

     

      Each room had two wood-framed beds with writing all over them and a plastic mattress.  It also had two desks, wooden as well.  There was a bathroom in each room.  We were not allowed to have our own toiletries.  We had to get our towels and “wash” from outside, in the common area.  The “wash” was supposedly both body wash and shampoo.  There was neither hair conditioner nor lotion.  We had journals.  We had to turn them in twice a day.  This was stupid.  We had art class where we painted clay figures.  It was very boring.  We had gym time.  Most people played basketball or hung out in the side room and listened to the radio, playing foosball.  I was cornered one time by an older boy.  It was very unpleasant. 

      I never really slept at Tucker II West.  Never rested, half-sleeping but always staying hyper vigilant.  I only got sent to “seclusion” once; I do not remember what it was for.  Little did I know, it would be the first of many.  I was there for about a week the first time; mind you, it’s a three-day program.