love in the time of schizophrenia
love in the time of schizophrenia
The nurse beside me had the kind of Facebook-trawling brunette vibe, you know the one, where she backs the blue but votes Democrat and has a racist boyfriend. Her partner reminded me of people who would write Destiel fanfiction back on Tumblr. They complained all night about the schizophrenic patient down the hall who kept angling his head outside, pleading for more Ativan that never came. I’m sure late-night shift patients can be insufferable but I was skeeved out nonetheless.
I was in the ER for intrusive thoughts and the repeated anxiety that comes from it. Bad drug experiences that compounded onto themselves led me to this point, with the direct culprit of the day being going on a 3-day bender. It was embarrassing enough to have my mom drive me to the hospital in a state of quasi-tweaking, but to get there and be administered merely blood pressure and blood tests while receiving 0 actual relief is an impressive mortification. At least I received tons of love and well-wishes on IG.
In a quadrant of down-and-out people, I felt like an anomaly. My hallway bed was flanked by 2 paranoid schizophrenics and 2 patients who vocalized they wanted to kill themselves. A reasoned wave of gratitude washed over me. “I have it pretty good compared to them, my condition will pass” etc. I didn’t mean to patronize, but sometimes perspective comes from an unflattering hospital gown and grippy socks. I thought about someone I loved who saw I was in the ER and didn’t reach out. I hoped she was okay.
What these kinds of situations induce is a state of intense focus on minutiae. The overhead fluorescent lights and their unbearable omnipresence, the rank and file normie medical staff that probably had impeccable Hinge profiles, being served inedible cafeteria food that was cold long before it ever reached you. These are the only things you can think about because the sterility of the environment wretches any critical thought out of you. Foucault would’ve laughed.
The woman across from me kept getting fed up that she wasn’t being discharged. If I remember correctly, she had both gotten into a car crash and was a victim of sexual assault in a span of hours. She accused her nurse of stealing her backpack with her laptop in it and fucking her boyfriend, so naturally, the cops were called over. They talked her down and she stayed in her bed sulking, while the Facebook nurse and they joked about it. “We rarely get pretty ones, but they’re always crazy.”, she laughed. I felt like I was watching a circus exhibit.
Somehow, I got enough sleep for the long night to transition into morning. The Ativan man had a new nurse, who he was much more conversational and pleasant with. She let him play music from a speaker, and he was really jamming to the Sundays. I thought about how I never would have seen this side of him if he wasn’t afforded this type of grace, and how the man also had great taste. If psychosis and religion are intertwined, maybe dream pop is the music of the gods.
Soon after, I received my discharge papers. They were interested in keeping me overnight, but I knew that would only make my mental state worse, and they obliged me. I hoped my new compatriots were going to be okay, and then I left. My brother was waiting in the parking lot. He greeted me with typical nonchalance and then asked if I wanted to go to Dave’s Cosmic Subs, with him offering to pay. I declined, but I never felt more loved by him than right then.