don’t know what is involuntary or what I control. Everything feels disconnected or at least suppressed under a weighty, womb-warm blanket. I am totally cocooned and immobile in this protective layer, but now I can hear. Now I understand and feel, and I want out. “That’s it, Arti, open your eyes. It’s a beautiful day.”
Bam! A burst of bright light and a pain so sharp, it feels like my chest had been cracked wide open with a hatchet. I croak out a garbled noise that must be amusing because the lady now looking down at me has the widest smile. “Yes!” she cries and fist pumps the air. She then takes my wrist, then her fingers press my pulse point, and in seriousness she starts silently counting. Placing my hand limp at my side, she then elevates me from lying flat to almost bolt upright with a touch of a button. “There, that’s better.” She fusses with my covers and tucks my hair behind both ears. She misses and a large section falls across my face, and I look down to the wave of hair on my breast. Wow, that is a lot of hair. When did it get so long? Wait…No!
The images that bombard me are like bullets: hard, fast and lethal. The doctor…my father…this place. Cal left us. Pip…oh, my God, my baby. Cal sold my baby to my father, and my father gave her away!
“Shit!” The woman’s voice is utter panic. I start to tremble, not gentle shaking but violent tremors, which rack my body, and flip me jerking on my side. “Shit! Shit! Stay with me, Arti! Try to breathe…Fuck!” A piercing siren goes off, and a rush of bodies attempt to restrain my seizing body. “Do you have to? I’ve only just got her to wake up?” I can’t respond, but I comprehend perfectly. This woman doesn’t want me sedated any more than I do, but it doesn’t look like there is going to be a choice. My last moment of focus is on the clear liquid poised to drop from the tiny needle. Blurred and frenzied struggles end my fight, as it had before, but now I remember everything, I remember everything with excruciating clarity. I succumb because this blissfully potent blanket is just too damn heavy, and right now, I need the oblivion it affords.
I have been awake for a few days now. Each day is a little more real yet surreal at the same time. Physically my body seems fine. I can feed myself, but I am never hungry. I can wash myself–well I could, if I was allowed to–and I can take myself to the tiny ensuite toilet on my own, when I’m allowed. I can feel everything now, but rather than the joyful euphoria one should feel at being alive, at a chance of a real life again. I just feel raw and desolate.
I haven’t spoken yet and I can see the lady, who woke me and introduced herself as Dr. Burrows, is getting frustrated. I am not fooling her one bit. Today is no different.
“You must have a million questions, Artemis, and I am here to help you.” She pulls a chair close to the side of my bed and takes my hand. “Artemis…I–”
“I would rather you didn’t call me that.” My voice sounds as cold as the sentiment I am expressing. But she looks thrilled, her smile is wide, and she bounces in her seat, looking more like a giddy preschooler than a professional psychiatrist. She checks herself, but her face is alight and eager for more. That’s a shame. I close my eyes and don’t say another word. Not for days, weeks maybe, it’s difficult to keep track of time. I have stopped eating, only taking a few sips of water when my throat is parched with pain. One of the nurses was careless enough to leave her fountain pen on my nightstand, which I carefully spent the night dismantling and carving the date 21.04.11. into the inside of my wrist. The wound seeped for a few days and has scabbed over nicely, but it did mean I have been restrained each night to prevent a repeat occurrence. I have no intention of making any more marks. I was just so scared they would do something to make me forget. I needed the permanent reminder.
Every
Bam! A burst of bright light and a pain so sharp, it feels like my chest had been cracked wide open with a hatchet. I croak out a garbled noise that must be amusing because the lady now looking down at me has the widest smile. “Yes!” she cries and fist pumps the air. She then takes my wrist, then her fingers press my pulse point, and in seriousness she starts silently counting. Placing my hand limp at my side, she then elevates me from lying flat to almost bolt upright with a touch of a button. “There, that’s better.” She fusses with my covers and tucks my hair behind both ears. She misses and a large section falls across my face, and I look down to the wave of hair on my breast. Wow, that is a lot of hair. When did it get so long? Wait…No!
The images that bombard me are like bullets: hard, fast and lethal. The doctor…my father…this place. Cal left us. Pip…oh, my God, my baby. Cal sold my baby to my father, and my father gave her away!
“Shit!” The woman’s voice is utter panic. I start to tremble, not gentle shaking but violent tremors, which rack my body, and flip me jerking on my side. “Shit! Shit! Stay with me, Arti! Try to breathe…Fuck!” A piercing siren goes off, and a rush of bodies attempt to restrain my seizing body. “Do you have to? I’ve only just got her to wake up?” I can’t respond, but I comprehend perfectly. This woman doesn’t want me sedated any more than I do, but it doesn’t look like there is going to be a choice. My last moment of focus is on the clear liquid poised to drop from the tiny needle. Blurred and frenzied struggles end my fight, as it had before, but now I remember everything, I remember everything with excruciating clarity. I succumb because this blissfully potent blanket is just too damn heavy, and right now, I need the oblivion it affords.
I have been awake for a few days now. Each day is a little more real yet surreal at the same time. Physically my body seems fine. I can feed myself, but I am never hungry. I can wash myself–well I could, if I was allowed to–and I can take myself to the tiny ensuite toilet on my own, when I’m allowed. I can feel everything now, but rather than the joyful euphoria one should feel at being alive, at a chance of a real life again. I just feel raw and desolate.
I haven’t spoken yet and I can see the lady, who woke me and introduced herself as Dr. Burrows, is getting frustrated. I am not fooling her one bit. Today is no different.
“You must have a million questions, Artemis, and I am here to help you.” She pulls a chair close to the side of my bed and takes my hand. “Artemis…I–”
“I would rather you didn’t call me that.” My voice sounds as cold as the sentiment I am expressing. But she looks thrilled, her smile is wide, and she bounces in her seat, looking more like a giddy preschooler than a professional psychiatrist. She checks herself, but her face is alight and eager for more. That’s a shame. I close my eyes and don’t say another word. Not for days, weeks maybe, it’s difficult to keep track of time. I have stopped eating, only taking a few sips of water when my throat is parched with pain. One of the nurses was careless enough to leave her fountain pen on my nightstand, which I carefully spent the night dismantling and carving the date 21.04.11. into the inside of my wrist. The wound seeped for a few days and has scabbed over nicely, but it did mean I have been restrained each night to prevent a repeat occurrence. I have no intention of making any more marks. I was just so scared they would do something to make me forget. I needed the permanent reminder.
Every
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