This I Want To Be True : Once Upon A Time In My Life - Part 4
I'm told there is to be a hearing in a few days, concerning what I don't know. I'm not worried. I don't belong here and am capable of causing a lot of trouble for whomever is responsible for keeping me in this place. Am spending a lot of my time in a lounge/tv room away from the main part of the unit. One day, as I watch CNN, the Dow Jones is dropping like a stone. Financial movers and shakers know that I'm in here and they're pissed about it and are willing to lose hundreds of millions of dollars to show the government that I deserve to be released. I start rocking the tv back and forth on its stand, thinking "You don't tilt over a Coke machine with one push. It takes a bunch of tries", a line I remember from either "Seinfeld" or "Dr. Stranglelove", I don't remember which. The patient with sweatpants walks by: today is going to be a slow day, as he is wearing the red ones. I won't be released, and settle in, waiting for dinner.
The next morning I'm led to a courtroom located within the hospital. This is my chance to tell a real judge, a man of authority and power, about the injustices forced on me by so many people in the last weeks. The first witness called is my crush, the attractive nurse who was the first person I spoke to my initial morning on the ward, the one I decided to trust. She avoids my eyes and I know she will miss me when I'm gone. The questions start. Instead of asking her about how poorly I've been treated, the government lawyer asks her about the night I was put in restraints. The nurse appears a bit nervous, but seems to have been down this road before and is able to put together a reasonable description of that night. And that's it. No more witnesses for the government. I am called to the stand for maybe five minutes and perform admirably, with cool and aplomb that certainly will win my release. I avoid histrionics and do not bring up the many cameras and microphones in the unit, the fake "patients" being "treated", the civil war that nearly broke out the night of my restraint due to my many supporters and admirers, incensed at my treatment.
A letter arrives several days later. I am told that I will be held for observation for up to a month. The balls! The arrogance! I've known my whole life about the way small people get fucked over in life, but I am not a small person. I am the writer of Apartment404.blogspot.com, read and admired by millions. I have had intimate conversations with President Bush, LeBron James, Al Franken, Marvin Hagler, Tina Fey, Dick Cheney, Kim Mulkey, Jerry Remy, and Amy Sedaris, to name a few who have come under my spell. Where are my friends now, now that I need them? They can't have given up on me. They care about me, I know.
Just to mess some more with my head, I am told I will be transported to Portsmouth District Court to face a judge regarding the assault charges stemming from the incident at the Motel 6. On a rainy early morning in April I am driven in a state police car back to the coast. Knowing that there will be reporters there I try to psych myself up. They want to break me, to get me to show weakness. That won't happen. If they put me in prison today I will be fine with that. Arriving at the courthouse I am led to a basement jail and put into a jumpsuit, then have my arms and legs shackled. Cool! I feel like a tough guy. A real criminal bad ass. Maybe the guards putting the metal on me know how scary I am, and I'm thrilled. I'm led into an elevator. The doors open into a large courthouse, with a metal wall, thigh high, located in a six foot perimeter around the elevator door. Where are the cameras? Where are the reporters? The people here seem bored, but I assume it's simply an act to calm my nerves. No need to get me jumpy. The judge quickly reads some paperwork. I don't understand any of it; he is speaking jibberish. When he is done reading he looks at me, and I know I'm supposed to say something. Sticking my head back and my neck out in the toughest, baddest pose I can muster, I say, "Yes, Your Honor." Just like on "Law And Order." I'm taken back to the elevator, downstairs, where they return my clothes, and am driven back to Concord.
As a veteran of psych wards I am a pro at making time pass. Eight o'clock is breakfast, then newspapers and the "Today Show." Take a walk with the others out on the courtyard, maybe some kickball in the gym. Then it's lunch at noon. A nap, more tv, another walk when the weather allows, early dinner at five. I seem to be going to bed early; maybe 7 or 8. And am sleeping well.
One day I am talking to one of the staff members on the unit. He is my age, military haircut, decent build. We talk about the war in Iraq. When I ask him his opinion, he claims to want to turn the Middle East into "a parking lot" with nukes. I am taken aback but the brutality of the thought. An officer who wants to just bomb the shit out of a couple of countries? I guess it takes all shapes and sizes to run a war, but I don't want this trigger happy jarhead watching my back. Another time a dog is brought in to the unit. I realize quickly that this brown lab is going to be my dog once I'm released. Those in charge are using the carrot and stick approach on me: act nice and this beautiful animal will be yours, Joe. I give the dog a big hug, and eyeball his handler menacingly when I let go. Don't fuck with my animal, I want to say to the bastard.
The meals are what I look forward to the most. Not the taste, not the full belly, but the military precision with which we, the patients on the unit, seat ourselves and eat in almost complete silence. I couldn't ask for a better group of actors to be in here with. They all seem so normal and are kind to me. It would be unthinkable that these normal, healthy looking folks would be locked up in a psychiatric hospital. Couldn't the armed services come up with more men and women who at least appeared the part? These folks look just like me.
My Mom comes to visit. She looks older than the last time I'd seen her, and she's clearly tired. Probably a late winter cold or flu. We are given a private room to eat our meal in. I try to explain to her what is going on but when the words come out of my mouth, I only hear myself saying, "How is the cat? Seen anything good on television? Are you watching the basketball tournament?" She only stays for a half hour, but I want her to stay longer. To see my room, to see the operation here at the hospital, to just sit for a bit.
Days later, another hearing is held. This one in a different courtroom. My godmother is there, my Mom's sister, who lives in Connecticut. Guess she was visiting this week and came along for the ride to Concord. My mother speaks: she describes me as delusional and sick. She is scared of me and what might become of me. I tear up, because she is so confused. This poor woman is trying to prevent her second son from realizing the life he deserves. I am brought back to the ward and do not make eye contact with Mom when I leave. She has done her best to hurt me and I won't soon forget it.
The next morning I'm led to a courtroom located within the hospital. This is my chance to tell a real judge, a man of authority and power, about the injustices forced on me by so many people in the last weeks. The first witness called is my crush, the attractive nurse who was the first person I spoke to my initial morning on the ward, the one I decided to trust. She avoids my eyes and I know she will miss me when I'm gone. The questions start. Instead of asking her about how poorly I've been treated, the government lawyer asks her about the night I was put in restraints. The nurse appears a bit nervous, but seems to have been down this road before and is able to put together a reasonable description of that night. And that's it. No more witnesses for the government. I am called to the stand for maybe five minutes and perform admirably, with cool and aplomb that certainly will win my release. I avoid histrionics and do not bring up the many cameras and microphones in the unit, the fake "patients" being "treated", the civil war that nearly broke out the night of my restraint due to my many supporters and admirers, incensed at my treatment.
A letter arrives several days later. I am told that I will be held for observation for up to a month. The balls! The arrogance! I've known my whole life about the way small people get fucked over in life, but I am not a small person. I am the writer of Apartment404.blogspot.com, read and admired by millions. I have had intimate conversations with President Bush, LeBron James, Al Franken, Marvin Hagler, Tina Fey, Dick Cheney, Kim Mulkey, Jerry Remy, and Amy Sedaris, to name a few who have come under my spell. Where are my friends now, now that I need them? They can't have given up on me. They care about me, I know.
Just to mess some more with my head, I am told I will be transported to Portsmouth District Court to face a judge regarding the assault charges stemming from the incident at the Motel 6. On a rainy early morning in April I am driven in a state police car back to the coast. Knowing that there will be reporters there I try to psych myself up. They want to break me, to get me to show weakness. That won't happen. If they put me in prison today I will be fine with that. Arriving at the courthouse I am led to a basement jail and put into a jumpsuit, then have my arms and legs shackled. Cool! I feel like a tough guy. A real criminal bad ass. Maybe the guards putting the metal on me know how scary I am, and I'm thrilled. I'm led into an elevator. The doors open into a large courthouse, with a metal wall, thigh high, located in a six foot perimeter around the elevator door. Where are the cameras? Where are the reporters? The people here seem bored, but I assume it's simply an act to calm my nerves. No need to get me jumpy. The judge quickly reads some paperwork. I don't understand any of it; he is speaking jibberish. When he is done reading he looks at me, and I know I'm supposed to say something. Sticking my head back and my neck out in the toughest, baddest pose I can muster, I say, "Yes, Your Honor." Just like on "Law And Order." I'm taken back to the elevator, downstairs, where they return my clothes, and am driven back to Concord.
As a veteran of psych wards I am a pro at making time pass. Eight o'clock is breakfast, then newspapers and the "Today Show." Take a walk with the others out on the courtyard, maybe some kickball in the gym. Then it's lunch at noon. A nap, more tv, another walk when the weather allows, early dinner at five. I seem to be going to bed early; maybe 7 or 8. And am sleeping well.
One day I am talking to one of the staff members on the unit. He is my age, military haircut, decent build. We talk about the war in Iraq. When I ask him his opinion, he claims to want to turn the Middle East into "a parking lot" with nukes. I am taken aback but the brutality of the thought. An officer who wants to just bomb the shit out of a couple of countries? I guess it takes all shapes and sizes to run a war, but I don't want this trigger happy jarhead watching my back. Another time a dog is brought in to the unit. I realize quickly that this brown lab is going to be my dog once I'm released. Those in charge are using the carrot and stick approach on me: act nice and this beautiful animal will be yours, Joe. I give the dog a big hug, and eyeball his handler menacingly when I let go. Don't fuck with my animal, I want to say to the bastard.
The meals are what I look forward to the most. Not the taste, not the full belly, but the military precision with which we, the patients on the unit, seat ourselves and eat in almost complete silence. I couldn't ask for a better group of actors to be in here with. They all seem so normal and are kind to me. It would be unthinkable that these normal, healthy looking folks would be locked up in a psychiatric hospital. Couldn't the armed services come up with more men and women who at least appeared the part? These folks look just like me.
My Mom comes to visit. She looks older than the last time I'd seen her, and she's clearly tired. Probably a late winter cold or flu. We are given a private room to eat our meal in. I try to explain to her what is going on but when the words come out of my mouth, I only hear myself saying, "How is the cat? Seen anything good on television? Are you watching the basketball tournament?" She only stays for a half hour, but I want her to stay longer. To see my room, to see the operation here at the hospital, to just sit for a bit.
Days later, another hearing is held. This one in a different courtroom. My godmother is there, my Mom's sister, who lives in Connecticut. Guess she was visiting this week and came along for the ride to Concord. My mother speaks: she describes me as delusional and sick. She is scared of me and what might become of me. I tear up, because she is so confused. This poor woman is trying to prevent her second son from realizing the life he deserves. I am brought back to the ward and do not make eye contact with Mom when I leave. She has done her best to hurt me and I won't soon forget it.
posted by joe sweeney at 8:19 PM
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