Attention To Tea

Nobody tells you how to go about, 'seeing through it all.' Nobody around me seems to see it the same way I, and maybe we, see it. Nobody could help if they wanted to.

"Can you be more specific?" She looks at me with that look.

I don't know how to respond. Maybe we.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was speaking. I meant to be thinking to myself."

"On every point, honey. I'm just trying to understand." She still has that look, and the bridge between us splinters from more constant communication of not understanding.

"I'm just - I'm lost on where exactly you're lost,"

I can tell by the look on her face, it's spread to me. The bug, that bleeding, smearing bug of unintentional ignorance.

"I went voluntarily to the doctor because I knew I needed help, and I brought my relevant medical history. That was not considered because I - I don't know. They kept implying it was because of my disorganized speech, but my medicine manages my disorganized speech. Do you see why that would be scary to me?"

Please, please, please, please, please, don't misunderstand.

"I... I understand your feelings are valid, I just still don't understand why you choose to be so negative and mistrusting. Why would the doctors be out to get you?" She puts the question to me so gently, and yet it hurts so bad. Oh, honey. You strike me with the sharp end of the blade.

I'll try again.

"I'm not saying anybody is out to get me, I don't think I'm relevant socially enough for that. That's - that's not what I mean, that - no, I mean, I just am floored they didn't know how to, or couldn't, support me at the mental hospital. That's where anybody goes to get extreme help and support, right?"

"Well, yes," she sighs. Straightening up how she always does to show she needs me to consider what she says next, my honey strikes me yet again with the sharp end of her verbal blade. "I'm going to ask you a question because I'm still just so lost, and I think you're lost, too. Doctors have gone to years and years of medical school, doctors are always trying to improve and nobody wants to be liable, especially on hot button issues." Meeting my gaze straight, she delivers the final blow.

"Have you considered if they're right? I'm not saying they are..." And off we go to the beginning.

I physically feel my ears ring before I hear it. Imagine, the love of your life. Or, who you thought was. To titter between two equally abysmally stigmatized labels, within my own forcibly labeled body, daily, debating if you are a person beneath the words and the more you use, the less people understand.

Stress can induce disordered speech, too. So can mood disorders. So can settings, or substances.

I remember where I've felt this feeling before. Very few times has it ever broken through to my heart - this time, it was guided as if an expert sharpshooter had lined up the shot.

True fear.

"Fear can produce disordered speech," I say with tears in my eyes. I don't know when my eyes noticed my petition papers had been slightly mussed with, but they did. I know that is the heart of the issue. "Please," I may not be able to read a room, but I can read text from a distance. Years of bad vision without glasses refined this talent of mine.

Report if Suspected Danger to Self or Symptoms Resurface

"I just - I don't get you right now. It's like how people treat gay people. You know how that manifests, right? So... think like that. Why didn't I just get my regular medicine...? Why was that ignored?" I'm pleading. I can't deny I didn't ask to be monitored like this.

"I'm so sorry, honey," She's crying. I know I've lost. Oh, I don't want to go - don't - how many strikes against me? Is this the third time, or fourth? She wouldn't strike me with a proverbial blade like this on purpose, right? "But the papers ended up in the back seat of the car, right? So, did you really bring them in? Hallucinations on everyday tasks and activities are common, did you read up on it for yourself?"

"Yes - listen, if I imagined it, how come someone else can verify they saw me drop the papers off?"

"But can they verify they were the right papers?" She knows that's a point I can't ignore.

Why can't I be supported... outside of the hospital? Why does everybody want me sent back once I start to feel real...? Who plans to pay for this? How can I work to pay off my own bills, if I'm held against my will in yet another place that's going to stick me with both needles and worse, more bills?

"I don't have the means to help you as much as you need, I'm sorry, honey, I try, and try, and try - I just... I don't understand you, or what you want,"

How? When? Did I say that out loud?

How does she not get it?