Dreams and Memories

Short Story

Photo by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash

After a few weeks, I was allowed to go outside to the courtyard in the center of the facility for some fresh air.  I bumped into a man who sold cigarettes for a dollar a piece.  I didn’t have any money but shared one with him.  I don’t know if he just liked telling stories, or was simply pulling my leg, but as we smoked, he told me of a patient he once knew, who had escaped from the hospital.

The patient’s name was Earl and what made his escape all the more impressive was the dire nature of his mental disorder.  Earl could no longer make any new memories.  He lived in ten-minute increments.  Only ten minutes to gather his thoughts before once again slipping back and starting from the beginning again.  The cigarette man said that he had once snuck into Earl’s room and found little notes and pictures taped all over the walls.  Little reminders to himself.  Earl may have been cursed in a way, but he hadn’t given up, he had instead created a system of communication that enabled him to not only live but move forward with his life.

The cigarette had burned down to the filter and me and the man parted ways.  I did a few laps around the paved sidewalk, stopping every so often to pick at the grass from the center of the courtyard.  The clouds slowly drifted across the sky blocking out the warmth from the sun.  Goosebumps prickled up my arms as I heard a man calling for me to come inside.

I’m not sure what you call the men who work at these facilities.  They’re surely not nurses or doctors, but more like guards.  Inside these places they’re the people who provide most of the care to the patients.  And from what I’ve read they’re also the people who end up abusing the patients.  If you look for it, there is a plethora of horror stories about what goes on in state hospitals. 

I slowly sauntered back towards the door that led into my section of the facility.  A large common room with hallways going off in all directions, leading to individual bedrooms.  There were large tables and uncomfortable chairs spread around the common area.  There wasn’t much to do except wait for meal and med time.  I did make a friend though.  A middle-aged woman.  I can’t remember her name.  Maybe Katrina?   We’ll call her Katrina.

Katrina seemed out of place compared to the rest of us at the hospital, at least to me she did.  She was calm, serene, and seemed at peace.  I never saw her in a moment of complete disarray.  She mostly spoke of her son.  It was apparent she cared greatly for him and longed to be reunited with him.  I never quite figured out what had landed her here, but I got the impression something serious had gone down with her husband, or ex-husband, you know, the father.

We would mostly spend time talking over meals.  The food was pretty awful, maybe not as bad as jail food, but terrible all the same.  And this is coming from someone who will eat mostly anything.  I do remember enjoying the small square of coffee cake that was offered some mornings.  It was moist and had a sweet syrupy drizzle on top.  Over the years I have learned to appreciate the little things in life.  You’re kind of forced to when you feel like a dog in a shelter.  Locked up most of the day, walking in circles, waiting for the rare visitor.  Each passing day so similar to the last.  You hold steady to the last drops of hope left in your cup.  It was a friend and sweet savory coffee cake that helped me hold on.  But it was also the story of Earl, the ten-minute man, that helped me believe that I could make it out of this place.  Make it out of this facility, but also push through my delusions, my psychosis, and make a plan for my life.  

I sat up nights thinking about Earl.  In that little bedroom, if you can call it that.  Pretty much just a thin mattress with hospital blankets, you know the ones, and a little night stand next to the bed.  I’m not even sure I remember a window.  I’d lay in bed staring at the ceiling tiles, wondering how Earl had managed.  It occurred to me that maybe my curse was somehow worse than Earl’s.  This man had lost time, but he must have still had his wits about him.  And he still had that drive.  That will to push on, that will to live.  

It’s a strange thing being told by a doctor that you have a mental illness.  At least for me it was.  Perhaps some folks just take it in stride.  But for me it was difficult.  You mean I’m crazy?  No, you have a mental disorder, a chemical imbalance in the brain.  Your specific diagnosis is bipolar 1 with psychosis.  Oh, right.  

What made it even more difficult was that I was in one of my many episodes at the time of being diagnosed.  I hadn’t even met the doc; he just came in and told me.  To me there seems as if there could have been a better way to handle the situation.  To make sure that I trusted the information and the people I was dealing with.  Some of the symptoms of my diagnosis are delusions of grandeur, paranoia, anxiety, and full-on psychosis.  I think you can imagine how the diagnosis itself sent me down a whole new rabbit hole full of confusion and doubt.  

That’s really why I ended up staying up nights in that place thinking about Earl.  I never was able to fully grasp my dismal diagnosis until the ten-minute man.  Never met him.  Shit, I’m not even sure he actually exists.  But his story gave me something to grapple on to.  Sent me down a rabbit hole that left me feeling as if there was still hope for me.