morning and every afternoon Joan–she calls herself that, never Doctor Burrows, not since the first introduction–comes in and talks to me. She sits for an hour or so, and chats about anything and nothing, but everything she says is an open ended question and her desperation to get me to engage is a little pitiful. I don’t want to speak to her; I don’t want to speak to anyone. I just want to get out of here.
Joan’s eyes look tired today when she rounds the open door and walks slowly into the room. She draws in a deep breath, and lets out a heavy sigh. She comes to the side of my bed and wipes away the blood from the crook in my arm. I ripped the IV out, again. Her voice is so soft, I find myself leaning toward her to hear.
“You know, darling, if you ever want to get out of here, you are going to have to stop acting like a crazy person.” She doesn’t smile with the joke, and I have to wonder whether she meant it as one.
I snort, but decide to throw her a bone. “When in Rome, Joan,” My gaze meets hers but she still looks so sad, and I was, at the very least, expecting a little smile. A small laugh at my lame attempt at humour. I can see her words weren’t trite…they weren’t a joke at all. In a voice that chills me with its serious timbre, she places her hands on my face, and holds me captive with her cool, gentle grasp.
“You are not crazy, young lady, but you are acting that way and if you don’t stop…” Her voice breaks and her eyes pool; so do mine. “If you don’t stop, sweetheart, there will be nothing I can do to help you.” In a move that I am sure crosses the professional line but hits me hard in my heart, she places a kiss on my furrowed brow then leaves the room. No chatting today. In fact, I don’t see her again for several days, but I use the time to think about what she said. I think about nothing else.
I’m not crazy; I’m angry. I’m unbelievably angry and hurt. I’ve been betrayed by the one person I loved in this world, and I’ve been deceived by the people who are supposed to love me most in the world. Desolation doesn’t cover what I’m feeling, but I’m not crazy. I don’t even think what I have been doing is really indicative of mental illness. My silence or loss of appetite, even ripping the IV out, are just expressions of utter frustration at being forced into a situation where I have no control.
I will tell Joan as much, if she ever comes back. In the meantime, I stop tearing out my drip and start to pick at the food that is brought to me. When Joan does return, she is still a little guarded, but she can’t hide her smile at my empty breakfast bowl. She sits patiently and I guess this would be my opportunity to start the ‘I’m not crazy, get me out of here’ speech I have been plotting.
“I don’t want you to call me Artemis or Arti or any derivative of that name, if that is all right? I mean if that isn’t going to be construed as the act of a crazy person.” I raise a teasing brow and she bites back a smirk.
“What about Ada? It’s the initials I’ve been using on your notes and it’s my dog’s name, and I love my dog.” She beams at me and I chuckle.
“You want to name me after your dog?” I try to sound affronted, but she shrugs at my unconvincing tone. “I like it…I like Ada.” I confirm.
She nods, her jaw must be aching with the spread of that smile. She starts to rummage in her bag, and she groans when she pulls out a few hardback books and places them on my nightstand with a thud. “You must be bored out of your head. I got you these, but since I have no idea what you like to read I brought a selection of fiction and non.” I look at the six stacked books: a book on the History of Art, Hitchhikers Guide, Villette, The Odyssey, Twilight, and Count of Monte Cristo.
“Wow that is eclectic! How long am I going to be here, exactly?” I smile at the range of books, but it is a serious question.
“That depends on you, Ada.”
Joan’s eyes look tired today when she rounds the open door and walks slowly into the room. She draws in a deep breath, and lets out a heavy sigh. She comes to the side of my bed and wipes away the blood from the crook in my arm. I ripped the IV out, again. Her voice is so soft, I find myself leaning toward her to hear.
“You know, darling, if you ever want to get out of here, you are going to have to stop acting like a crazy person.” She doesn’t smile with the joke, and I have to wonder whether she meant it as one.
I snort, but decide to throw her a bone. “When in Rome, Joan,” My gaze meets hers but she still looks so sad, and I was, at the very least, expecting a little smile. A small laugh at my lame attempt at humour. I can see her words weren’t trite…they weren’t a joke at all. In a voice that chills me with its serious timbre, she places her hands on my face, and holds me captive with her cool, gentle grasp.
“You are not crazy, young lady, but you are acting that way and if you don’t stop…” Her voice breaks and her eyes pool; so do mine. “If you don’t stop, sweetheart, there will be nothing I can do to help you.” In a move that I am sure crosses the professional line but hits me hard in my heart, she places a kiss on my furrowed brow then leaves the room. No chatting today. In fact, I don’t see her again for several days, but I use the time to think about what she said. I think about nothing else.
I’m not crazy; I’m angry. I’m unbelievably angry and hurt. I’ve been betrayed by the one person I loved in this world, and I’ve been deceived by the people who are supposed to love me most in the world. Desolation doesn’t cover what I’m feeling, but I’m not crazy. I don’t even think what I have been doing is really indicative of mental illness. My silence or loss of appetite, even ripping the IV out, are just expressions of utter frustration at being forced into a situation where I have no control.
I will tell Joan as much, if she ever comes back. In the meantime, I stop tearing out my drip and start to pick at the food that is brought to me. When Joan does return, she is still a little guarded, but she can’t hide her smile at my empty breakfast bowl. She sits patiently and I guess this would be my opportunity to start the ‘I’m not crazy, get me out of here’ speech I have been plotting.
“I don’t want you to call me Artemis or Arti or any derivative of that name, if that is all right? I mean if that isn’t going to be construed as the act of a crazy person.” I raise a teasing brow and she bites back a smirk.
“What about Ada? It’s the initials I’ve been using on your notes and it’s my dog’s name, and I love my dog.” She beams at me and I chuckle.
“You want to name me after your dog?” I try to sound affronted, but she shrugs at my unconvincing tone. “I like it…I like Ada.” I confirm.
She nods, her jaw must be aching with the spread of that smile. She starts to rummage in her bag, and she groans when she pulls out a few hardback books and places them on my nightstand with a thud. “You must be bored out of your head. I got you these, but since I have no idea what you like to read I brought a selection of fiction and non.” I look at the six stacked books: a book on the History of Art, Hitchhikers Guide, Villette, The Odyssey, Twilight, and Count of Monte Cristo.
“Wow that is eclectic! How long am I going to be here, exactly?” I smile at the range of books, but it is a serious question.
“That depends on you, Ada.”
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