They called me The Messiah. Actually, a Messiah was far from what I was. In actuality, my mistakes were no different than theirs, it's just that mine came attached with the splendor of a college education, loftier vocabulary, higher socio-economic status, and a few more road trips. Even had I tried, I wouldn't have been able to convince them of my mortal status. A full set of teeth and an open mind had already set me aloft from these people.
I noticed, rather quickly, that they asked to borrow my clothing. They coveted things that had touched my body, lusted after them like tailsmens, as though they somehow had power and charm. There was a touch of the supernatural about it, as though they believed that wearing my clothes would make my own supposed superior character traits transfer onto them. I imagined they worshiped them, placed them before altars, and whispered incantations before bed.
And though I shouldn't have, I took advantage of my status. I took them all into my confidence, and I slept with each of them. Not because I particularly cared about them. Not because I found them particularly attractive, because they weren't. Rather I did because they they were available and because I could. I deliberately ignored and violated rule number 4 on the list of patients' rights and responsiblities which stated that romantic and/or sexual relationships between patients and/or members or the staff are expressly forbidden.
Beth was first. Once she had determined that she was not, in fact, HIV positive. (and had proclaimed this fact loudly to the rest of the ward). I set my aims onto securing her. We finished up early with our occupational therapy assignment, which was yet again water coloring a cheap piece of balsa wood, and I took her into the staff bathroom which I knew to be unlocked.
The staff was too consumed with making sure that Mr. Norris wasn't sexually harrasing the other patients or mutilating himself. He would idle up to female patients and express a desire to kiss them. The only thing the staff could think to do to discipline him was to restrict his smoke breaks.
No, you ain't smoking today, Mister Norris, said the African-American nurse, her face a portrait of annoyance, hands on hips. I heard you been causin' trouble.
I had the misfortune of rooming with Mr. Norris. I would find bloody rags and paper towels in the trash can. I would wipe the urine off of the toilet seat. I would never walk around in the bathroom without my rubber soled shoes.
They called all of us, even the hopeless cases, Mister, Miss, Misses, or Mis., as though we really weren't stark raving insane and were instead guests at some exclusive resort with horrible food and dishwater coffee.
I never quite understood the point of occupational therapy. Nor did I understand the word selection. This activity wasn't exactly labor-intensive, nor did it imply any sort of helpful exercise that I could reckon. What it did to was occupy patients' time while the staff took smoke breaks and drank copious amounts of diet soft drinks.
We filed into a room with lots of tables and chairs. You were supposed to select three colors that you preferred, and that hopefully weren't painted shut from someone else's carelessness. Then you were supposed to select a object to paint. They had all kinds of tacky wooden structures, like fish or hearts on sticks. As soon as you finished, you were promptly sent back to the day room, where you would watch Mr. Norris moonwalk across the room with a dishcloth on top of his head, much to the amusement of other patients.
Round-faced, sarcastic Beth had maybe one-half a front tooth left, due to crystal meth usage. I tried to ignore this, and tried to ignore the fact that as she brushed up against me, the oily foundation she had caked onto her cheeks rubbed off on me. Earlier in the day, she had emplored, Is this even? I didn't have the heart to tell her that the fact that it was evenly distributed wasn't the problem so much as she didn't know how to properly apply it. She tasted like cigarettes and the sex was merely a release, nothing more. We brushed ourselves off and returned to the day room.
I had various rude nicknames for certain patients I disliked. Snow White was the moniker of one such woman, an exceptionally pale-skinned thirty-two-year-old who had slashed her wrists. She showed us all the threads of the stitches that had closed the open wounds. It reminded me of gothic horror--the way that eyelids are sewn shut. She pulled out her Bible in an effort to show us how the events of now were connected in some large, overlapping way to the fact that we were now sitting here, in the moment. I feigned interest.
She had terrified the more trusting, and more devout members of 5 West by feigning a seizure in the dayroom, while all the time repeating the same verse in Proverbs. This had drawn the fury of the rest of the ward, and she was now a pariah. In an effort to be sociable, she had practically dry-humped me under the pretense of attaching a loose telephone cable. She wondered out loud if she could divorce her husband in an effort to justify a relationship with me. I wasn't interested, and I'm particularly uninterested in women with small children.
Mr. Norris talked non-stop. Initially, this had freaked me out, but Frank, the extremely homosexual nurse gave me a reassuring smile and told me oh, he's just old and confused. Mr. Norris always wanted to shake your hand and tell you about his house over by the helicopter pad which was supposedly only a few miles away. He looked at my painted toenails and responded, I wish I had some polish on my nails would you do it for me you know if they saw a man like me with polish on his nails they'd call him a sissy.
Polly was next. I ignored the yellowing teeth and the greying hair and the slightly bulging eyeballs. I ignored the way she was constantly perky and volunteered to do everything first, just like the teacher's pet in elementary school. I ignored the way she stumbled over her words and slightly inverted her sentences. I knew she liked me since she had pronounced me mighty fine earlier in the day.
So, I took her into the bathroom after O.T., just like before. These country girls certainly don't restrain themselves. I was petrified someone was going to hear us before we finished up.
I considered an affair with Frank, too, but I knew that it was highly unlikely I'd be able to take him into the bathroom. Plus, I had a regard for him that superseded any of these transitory pleasures.
Sandy was the only patient to which I felt much of an attraction. Although so new-agey as to be self-parodic at times, she was the most attractive. Even though she was old enough to be my mother, she wore her pink lipstick and blonde hair well, and the only thing that slightly marred an otherwise perfect dancer's body was a middled-aged woman's wrinkled face and hands.
She conducted rudimentary yoga classes for us, although I must admit I was the only male who attended. A manic, manic-depressive, Sandy was currently so sedated that she couldn't think straight. She talked about teaching dance in Los Angeles and London. She insisted that all visitors to her house take shoes off when entering her house. She was also the sort of person who slightly misuses big words for the sake of emphasis.
She was the most difficult to coax into the bathroom, feeling that lavvy shagging was somehow beneath her. While perhaps the most physically attractive, she was the worst in bed, considering she obsessed the whole time about whether or not the hard tiled floor was clean and whether she was going to get bruised in the process.
I noticed, rather quickly, that they asked to borrow my clothing. They coveted things that had touched my body, lusted after them like tailsmens, as though they somehow had power and charm. There was a touch of the supernatural about it, as though they believed that wearing my clothes would make my own supposed superior character traits transfer onto them. I imagined they worshiped them, placed them before altars, and whispered incantations before bed.
And though I shouldn't have, I took advantage of my status. I took them all into my confidence, and I slept with each of them. Not because I particularly cared about them. Not because I found them particularly attractive, because they weren't. Rather I did because they they were available and because I could. I deliberately ignored and violated rule number 4 on the list of patients' rights and responsiblities which stated that romantic and/or sexual relationships between patients and/or members or the staff are expressly forbidden.
Beth was first. Once she had determined that she was not, in fact, HIV positive. (and had proclaimed this fact loudly to the rest of the ward). I set my aims onto securing her. We finished up early with our occupational therapy assignment, which was yet again water coloring a cheap piece of balsa wood, and I took her into the staff bathroom which I knew to be unlocked.
The staff was too consumed with making sure that Mr. Norris wasn't sexually harrasing the other patients or mutilating himself. He would idle up to female patients and express a desire to kiss them. The only thing the staff could think to do to discipline him was to restrict his smoke breaks.
No, you ain't smoking today, Mister Norris, said the African-American nurse, her face a portrait of annoyance, hands on hips. I heard you been causin' trouble.
I had the misfortune of rooming with Mr. Norris. I would find bloody rags and paper towels in the trash can. I would wipe the urine off of the toilet seat. I would never walk around in the bathroom without my rubber soled shoes.
They called all of us, even the hopeless cases, Mister, Miss, Misses, or Mis., as though we really weren't stark raving insane and were instead guests at some exclusive resort with horrible food and dishwater coffee.
I never quite understood the point of occupational therapy. Nor did I understand the word selection. This activity wasn't exactly labor-intensive, nor did it imply any sort of helpful exercise that I could reckon. What it did to was occupy patients' time while the staff took smoke breaks and drank copious amounts of diet soft drinks.
We filed into a room with lots of tables and chairs. You were supposed to select three colors that you preferred, and that hopefully weren't painted shut from someone else's carelessness. Then you were supposed to select a object to paint. They had all kinds of tacky wooden structures, like fish or hearts on sticks. As soon as you finished, you were promptly sent back to the day room, where you would watch Mr. Norris moonwalk across the room with a dishcloth on top of his head, much to the amusement of other patients.
Round-faced, sarcastic Beth had maybe one-half a front tooth left, due to crystal meth usage. I tried to ignore this, and tried to ignore the fact that as she brushed up against me, the oily foundation she had caked onto her cheeks rubbed off on me. Earlier in the day, she had emplored, Is this even? I didn't have the heart to tell her that the fact that it was evenly distributed wasn't the problem so much as she didn't know how to properly apply it. She tasted like cigarettes and the sex was merely a release, nothing more. We brushed ourselves off and returned to the day room.
I had various rude nicknames for certain patients I disliked. Snow White was the moniker of one such woman, an exceptionally pale-skinned thirty-two-year-old who had slashed her wrists. She showed us all the threads of the stitches that had closed the open wounds. It reminded me of gothic horror--the way that eyelids are sewn shut. She pulled out her Bible in an effort to show us how the events of now were connected in some large, overlapping way to the fact that we were now sitting here, in the moment. I feigned interest.
She had terrified the more trusting, and more devout members of 5 West by feigning a seizure in the dayroom, while all the time repeating the same verse in Proverbs. This had drawn the fury of the rest of the ward, and she was now a pariah. In an effort to be sociable, she had practically dry-humped me under the pretense of attaching a loose telephone cable. She wondered out loud if she could divorce her husband in an effort to justify a relationship with me. I wasn't interested, and I'm particularly uninterested in women with small children.
Mr. Norris talked non-stop. Initially, this had freaked me out, but Frank, the extremely homosexual nurse gave me a reassuring smile and told me oh, he's just old and confused. Mr. Norris always wanted to shake your hand and tell you about his house over by the helicopter pad which was supposedly only a few miles away. He looked at my painted toenails and responded, I wish I had some polish on my nails would you do it for me you know if they saw a man like me with polish on his nails they'd call him a sissy.
Polly was next. I ignored the yellowing teeth and the greying hair and the slightly bulging eyeballs. I ignored the way she was constantly perky and volunteered to do everything first, just like the teacher's pet in elementary school. I ignored the way she stumbled over her words and slightly inverted her sentences. I knew she liked me since she had pronounced me mighty fine earlier in the day.
So, I took her into the bathroom after O.T., just like before. These country girls certainly don't restrain themselves. I was petrified someone was going to hear us before we finished up.
I considered an affair with Frank, too, but I knew that it was highly unlikely I'd be able to take him into the bathroom. Plus, I had a regard for him that superseded any of these transitory pleasures.
Sandy was the only patient to which I felt much of an attraction. Although so new-agey as to be self-parodic at times, she was the most attractive. Even though she was old enough to be my mother, she wore her pink lipstick and blonde hair well, and the only thing that slightly marred an otherwise perfect dancer's body was a middled-aged woman's wrinkled face and hands.
She conducted rudimentary yoga classes for us, although I must admit I was the only male who attended. A manic, manic-depressive, Sandy was currently so sedated that she couldn't think straight. She talked about teaching dance in Los Angeles and London. She insisted that all visitors to her house take shoes off when entering her house. She was also the sort of person who slightly misuses big words for the sake of emphasis.
She was the most difficult to coax into the bathroom, feeling that lavvy shagging was somehow beneath her. While perhaps the most physically attractive, she was the worst in bed, considering she obsessed the whole time about whether or not the hard tiled floor was clean and whether she was going to get bruised in the process.