Admitted

Chapter 1: 

It feels like a bad dream, like a nightmare, like hell, like the afterlife, like anything but reality. 

They wouldn't let me take my flowers with me; I guess I could have torn myself open with a thorn. 

And I'm in a wheelchair even though my arm was what was operated on. For security I suppose, like I'm going to run, like I have somewhere to run, like I'm not hours away from anywhere I could call home, like I'm not horribly and desperately all alone. 

One of the guards presses a button, the doors buzz and start to open, I think 

maybe if I hadn't have been drunk I could have cut my wrist properly, instead of my arm, instead of my artery, 

I always wonder how long it took you to find me. 

While I'm a prisoner here, you're cleaning up my blood, my mess, I can't forget 

that. The tub will definitely be stained, you'll most likely lose your deposit. 

I've never been admitted, before now, and I wonder if I can call out, 

out of state back to your line, tell my mom I'm fine, its funny when all you have 

are voices, a payphone pressed to your ear, its easy to forget that through the cord and out the other end is a life you'll have to live again. 

They make me take out my septum, earrings, lift up my shirt to my titties, drop my pants to my knees, empty my pockets, I get one pair of scrubs and I have no other belongings, nothing, no glasses, no underwear, no face wash, nothing but a folder full of warnings and conditions and forms and the occasional puzzle. 

I find the main group room with the ice machine and coffee, I'm supposed to fill out meal forms but I keep looking around me. I run my fingers through my scalp nervously, they took my ponytail, so my purple hair, greasy with glitter from halloween, is ratted around my head like a homeless halo, accompanied by a big white bandage on my arm and skin so pale like I have no blood left in my body. I cant help but notice 

the only other people in the room, a boy who reminds me of someone I know, like he hears ghosts too, and a girl with short hair and a mole above her mouth and braces on her front teeth. They look about my age, a little too old for the children's side and awkwardly placed in the adult unit instead. I can only hear some of what the boy says but she laughs not like somethings really funny but like she's sad, and says, "Yeah but I don't have any friends, in here, or out there..." 

But when I pass her in the hallway that night she tells me she likes my hair, and I can't tell if I said thank you aloud but I know my mouth forms the words, I crunch ice between my teeth nervously and ask an assistant if they can make an out of state call for me, and he tells me if I dial *65 after the number it will do it for me, a small convenience but right now the small, kind things mean the most. 

I hear your voice over the phone, the black pay phone that reminds me of the time when you were in jail and I came to see you, at least the phones worked better in there, at least we could see each other, you quit smoking while you were in there but now I can hear your breaths over the phone, months later, sucking on a cigarette again. I won't mention it, because it is my fault, I got myself in here and now its up to me to get myself out. 

I only have two numbers to call, two people to talk to besides the nurses who ask me the same questions every shift, twice a day, 

If I'm feeling suicidal, or depressed, 

If I have thoughts of hurting others, or myself 

how I slept, how is my pain, 

on a scale of one to ten, 

and I say its a dull seven, that the bandage needs to be changed, it's been over a day and its starting to get itchy. I don't sleep well, unable to lie on my left side, and even triazolam can't help me ignore my roommates snores, and once they start waking people up for vitals I am wide awake, waiting until I can get up and get coffee. 

I try my best to ignore the fact that I have no one, that I am in a state between states, that my arm is basically filleted, I try to find familiar things, comforting faces, there is a man with face tattoos who reminds me of you, he has a smiley face on his ear lobe and he makes puppets out of paper lunch bags, his name is Curtis which reminds me of my uncle, and there is another man in a wheelchair who reminds me of my uncle also, going from completely cynical to positive and interesting, and there are nurses like my mother, and the truth is I'm not even sure if you want me back home, what's going to happen when I get out, where I'm going to go, or if I will be even more alone. It's hard to notice when its 1 p.m. and it's visiting hours, and I'm hunting for a phone that actually works and isn't in a room in use, if I can manage to get ahold of you, or if I'll even have anything worth saying. The only thing that I can think of to say is apologies and you've heard enough of those, and I can't tell you that my arm hurts worse than I care to admit, worse than a seven, but an eight is the feeling of not having you here, of knowing you won't come see me, a nine is how it felt when I was in the ER and woke up without you, but my ten is when you gave a list of reasons why you didn't want to be with me, when you told me I was embarrassing, when I lost you, when I lost everything, so before I could think, I was cutting into my arm, trying to bleed you out, trying to destroy myself, the thing you hate the most, and I can't even tell if you still love me over the phone, but you're all I got and I know I fucked up, but its sad how easy this is to get used to, cause I'm already used to feeling alone when I'm with you.