This is Twice Now

“This is Twice Now”

 

      I went home for two days.  I then got sent back.

      I was greeted with the warm welcoming of, “I knew you’d be back.”  This was directed at me by a staff member, Mr. OJ, who was obese and black and I hated him.  I was there for two weeks.  They decided it was not working and I needed a longer-term placement; from there, I was ambulanced to VTCC.  This time I had no roommate, at least for awhile.  A few days later, though, a black girl showed up; I don’t remember who she was or any details about her.

 

“What We Hate, We Make”

 

Unit One, I was told.  Unit One.

Some b***h thought I was her girlfriend.  Huh? 

The boys thought I was their playtoy.  Huh?

I’d never get out of there.

I still haven’t.

Will I ever get out of there?  I think not.  I live there.  Every day.  I live with these people, these souls.  I live with them, or they live with me.  Yes, that’s it; they live with me.  They taunt me, they come to me, they grab me, they grab my lungs with their sick hands and I can hear their thoughts, their sick, sick thoughts, which I have experienced in action, something unpleasant and disgusting, their twisted thoughts becoming horrid actions, their greedy hands becoming tools of torture.  How could one be capable of such things?

How could it be?

 

      Imagine this: Cinderblock walls everywhere, painted white.  One bathroom with a bathtub, a shower, two stalls, and two sinks.  Imagine a couple of 7 year-old girls and maybe a preteen.  A whiteboard on one wall with everyone’s name and their Elopement, Violence, and Suicide precautions, as well as other information such as blood pressure and allergies.  Imagine a table, a metal one, a circular metal one, in the middle of the room.  Imagine carts with trays being rolled in each morning, afternoon, and night.  Imagine rollable cots, rolled out each night with scratchy blankets and limp pillows.  Imagine being watched while you slept.  Imagine having notes taken on your sleep patterns.  Imagine being on suicide precaution number 4, the highest, and having a nurse by your side 24/7.  Just imagine.

      School was a joke.  Most days I did not even go, or if I did, I had a one-on-one.  I had a science teacher, Mr. Richmond.  I do not remember any others.  We had classes, yes.  Did I learn?  Of course not.  I wasted three years.  I was in seventh grade, if I recall correctly; then again, they all blur in my mind and some have been erased, but not completely erased, as if erased colored pencil; they have become dull, dull in color, harder to see, but still able to read if you really want to.

      The thing is, I don’t want to.

      At VTCC, there were SPs, or Suicide Precautions, on a level of one to four.  I started out on two, then worked my way up to three, then one, then four.  I had to have a one-on-one.  Actually, the “one-on-one” thing happened a lot to me in my many days of lockage.  I didn’t understand the point; I thought that if a person wanted to die, it was entirely their choice, just please not to do it in public where others would have to watch.  I guess I’m a sick kid, because I still think this. 

      We slept on cots in the common area unless we were on SP1. We rolled the cots out to the common area at night.I slept in my own “room” for exactly one night.  We had all our clothes that had drawstrings locked up for when we were on SP1.  The cots were very uncomfortable and the blankets were scratchy.  This did not agree with my sensory integration.  Also I had fat women watching me while I slept, usually sitting by the end of my bed writing notes about me.  About my movements while I slept.  I was scared to breathe.  They watched me shower, they watched me piss and s**t.  They watched me. 

      We ate all meals on the “unit” unless we were on SP1.  This was horrible.  I ate in the cafeteria exactly once in my month or two there, I have lost count; the time all blurs together.  The food was nasty.  Everyone else seemed to enjoy it, though.  Breakfast was usually things like pancakes, or cereal with milk, but I hate milk and have always hated milk and it made me sick to my stomach.  I always felt sick.

      They took notes on me as I created card castles and domino buildings to pass the time.  I spend Thanksgiving there and made my sister cry.  My soul ripped in two when I saw her cry.  My sister is not supposed to cry!  She is almost thirty years old!  I felt like the most horrid person in the whole entire world.

      There was a girl and her name was Ashlye and I thought it was very strange that she spelled her name this way.  She was always on SP4, but only for the attention.  Sometimes she was dressed in a paper gown because she threatened suicide and “tried to hang herself with her shirt.”  I hate people like that.  This girl was desperate for attention, and I pitied her.  The staff here were much nicer than those at Tucker II West.  And soon to come, the staff at Commonwealth would be ten times worse than at Tucker.

      There was a girl named Aaliyah.  Little did I know, she would show up at my unit at Commonwealth Center about a week after I did.  She was the one who made advances toward me that I did not like.  She was black.  She was crazy.  She just wanted attention, like many children who do such things as she.

      My “therapist” decided it was going nowhere and that sending me to CCCA would be the best choice.  Why he thought that, I know not, for it was the worst thing in my entire life.  Commonwealth Center for Children and Adolescents.  I was ambulanced there the next day, the day after he told me.