The walls are cheesy-white. Devoid of any warmth. Sterile, hostile, bleak. The endless hum and flicker of fluorescent lights are the backing track for the desperate cries emanating from the grey padded cells, for the muffled, futile pounding of fists on cushioned doors.

The long, gloomy halls are filled with the smell of detergent and despair. White sneakers squeak on the polished floor, as orderlies and nurses travel between patients rooms, stripping beds, handing out pills and counting the hours until they can leave.

There's no such hope for the inmates - theirs is a life sentence.

In the large common room, patients sit in wheelchairs and plastic seats, staring into space, numbed by the pills and the crushing monotony of the place. Some hum tunelessly or mutter to companions only they can see.

The doctor is coming now, starched white coat and clip-board, all impersonal efficiency. Pat looks up at the sound of heels clicking on the waxed floor - a flicker of recognition in her hazel eyes.

She's been here since she was eighteen, because mother couldn't stand to look at her anymore. With her limp and neck twitch. With her endless questions and beseeching expressions. It was too much for mother to bear.

She used to visit once a week, after church, sitting with her youngest daughter for a full twenty minutes - forcing conversation. Her penitence for leaving Pat in this place - this asylum.

Pat could feel her brain turning to cheese, could feel herself slipping away. Her body had long since thickened from the heavy food and medication she was given and her mind wasn't far behind. She felt sluggish and dull as if the foam they lined the walls of the rooms with, was slowly growing around her mind.

There was no sharpness any more, no delight or anger. No real colour to the world. Everything was grey or cheese, melting slowly at the edges.

'Pat!'

The doctor stands before her - one shapely eyebrow raised as she glances down at the dilapidated woman in the chair.

'It's time for your session Pat. Please follow me.'

The doctor turns on her heel, her shoes clicking on the floor. Pat heaves herself to her unsteady feet, and trails after the doctor - eager for the session. The doctor will ask her questions. Which means she does still exist and hasn't completely faded into those cheese-coloured walls.

The doctor's office is a riot of colour compared to the rest of the asylum. There's green plants in the corners, a red couch for patients to lie on, an assortment of colourful stationary on the desk. Even the carpet is cheerful, with it's geometric pattern and various shades of sepia.

Pat sinks onto the couch, swinging her swollen ankles up so that she can lie back comfortably and turns to face the doctor expectantly.

'How have you been feeling this week Pat?'

It's always the same six questions, with little variation in the answers. The answers don't really matter. There's no escaping this place, no matter what you say. Pat's tried everything. Appearing sane. Appearing insane, Begging to leave, begging to stay. Nothing makes any difference in here. The moment her mother signed her in, her voice was silenced.

The doctor takes notes and then politely indicates when the time is up - each patient gets just a quarter of an hour.

Then it's back to the common room, with it's breathing corpses and cheese-coloured walls, it's flickering fluorescent lights and resignation.

When Jessica and her mother goes travelling; strangers often mistaken Jessica to be the mother and the mother to be the teenager. Jessica never wanted this, in fact, to Jessica, Benjamin Button was a documentary of her inner life struggles; a boy/man aging backwards as time moves forward. She yearns for the moment when she can visualize her childhood, to experience fully what a child experienced in the early dawn of what life has to offer. Maybe when she's 80, she can finally open her eyes and look at the world with fresh wonderment; with her entire life ahead of her. Until then, she is trapped in this crazy house.

"margaritaville" begins to sour

morning breath like rotting citrus

en route to be intensively outpatient

at the psychiatric hospital

every day for a month

I listened to that song in the car

mania plus time fogs up my memories

and dizzy from the antipsychotics

acrylic nails clutching the steering wheel

early in the day, 8 o'clock

I plan my late arrivals in advance

jimmy buffet and I always take a detour

when I walk in, carrying my breakfast

in a greasy paper bag from burger king

they hand me the form that asks "how much do you want to kill yourself?"

and I pretty much always say "not at all"

(tw cursing yelling kinda disturbing shit and death... also real events)

(the status of the girl is unclear, we never knew if she lived or not but they carried her away under a white blanket)

asylum is a rude word for this place

we are not insane

we are not going to go crazy

well... not again

no nonono now were getting help

now were locked up here waiting, waiting for the day we get to leave and the open the doors waiting for the day that we dont have to do those strip searches no i cannot wait im going to be free let me BE FUCKING FREE I WANNA BE FREE

(please focus on the prompt)

im sorry

im sorry im sorry imsosorry i didnt meant to be rude im sorry IM SORRY

(just focus on the prompt)

right

that

its silly

i was locked up for a week

never called them asylums

not anymore its rude

when i got out i went tow months before being locked up again

this time it was for two weeks

did you know that sometimes when you go to a safe place you can watch a girl get murdered?

hahahahahahaha

i didnt

but i did

(please return to your prompt)

im sorry

i got out after two weeks locked up there

but mommy made me go away again

this time i was locked up in a better place

where they would "help" me

(did they help you?)

a little bit

they told me what was wrong with me but mommy said i couldnt get the medicine to help me

i dont have help i need help i dont like heading them

(the peompt)

I HATE HAVING TO FUCKING HEAR THEM LET ME GO! LET ME FUCKING GO!

(please sit down)

FUCK YOU FUCKYOU FU-

(are you ready to continue?)

no

(do you have a choice?)

no

(then please continue)

i was locked up from feburary until july

i know that lack of freedom, the sobbing the fights

its funny though

i made family there

a friend who wittnessed the same death as me

my family

i miss them

i miss the crazy sometimes

but im glad i dont have to do it anymore

until i lose it again