Michael Ford: Suicide Notes

That seems to be what they do around here when you say no to them, like the doctors are the National Guard or something. So once again I got a visit from good old Cat Poop. This time he shut the door so that we were alone. I pictured Goody Two-shoes and Pinchface standing outside, pressing their ears to the door to try and hear what the doctor was saying.

“You’re not making this very easy,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “I guess my kindergarten teacher was right when she said I don’t play well with others.”

“We want to help you.”

“You know, everyone keeps saying that,” I told him. “But I have to tell you, I’m starting to think you don’t. Because if you did, you’d let me out of here. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“There’s evidence to the contrary,” said Cat Poop.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Really. Do you want me to sign something saying that? Then will you let me go home?”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option,” he said.

“What about my parents?” I asked him. “Where are they? Tell them I want to go home now.”

“Your parents agree that you need to spend some time here,” he answered.

“You can’t keep me here against my will,” I informed him. “In case you don’t know, this is the land of the free . People have rights. I have the right to free speech, and to bear arms, and to not be locked up in a nuthouse!” I knew what I was talking about. I mean, I’ve read the Constitution. In sixth grade, and I don’t remember exactly what it said. But still.

Cat Poop looked at me for a moment, then said really calmly, “You’re in a psychiatric ward because you attempted to commit suicide. You may think you’re fine, but you’re not. If you don’t want to talk about it right now, that’s your decision. You have forty-three more days to talk about it. Do you have any more questions?”

All I could do was sit there for a minute or two, watching him watch me. “What do you mean I have forty-three more days?” I asked him finally.

“You’re in a forty-five-day program,” he told me. “You’ve been more or less awake for two days, counting today, which leaves you with forty-three more to go.”

“What kind of program?” I said.

“To determine the cause of your distress and work on your healing process,” he told me like he was reading a brochure. “You’ll participate in individual counseling sessions with me and in group counseling with some of the other patients.”

“Other patients?” I said. “What other patients?”

“Other young people,” Cat Poop told me. “You’ll meet some of them tomorrow.”

“Why?” I asked. “Are we having a sing-along?”

“If you want to,” he said. “But usually the patients just sit in a circle and look at each other until someone decides to talk.”

“I don’t have anything to talk about,” I informed him.

“Then you have forty-three days of staring to look forward to,” he said. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”

“How about the environment?” I suggested. “Maybe the effects of greenhouse gases on the Amazon rain forests? Or what will happen when the polar ice cap melts? Did you know all the polar bears are drowning because they have nothing to sit on?”

“Perhaps another time,” he said. “I have rounds to make. We’ll hold off on the rest of your evaluation until you’re in a more cooperative mood.”

“Good luck with that one,” I called after him as he left.

He’s wrong about the suicide thing, by the way. This is just a big misunderstanding. I’ll sort it out in the next couple of days and then I’ll be out of here. In the meantime, maybe I will take the ladybug pill. If I have to be here, I might as well get in a good nap. And, really, I kind of like how these pills make me feel. I’ll have to remember to tell Pinch. She’ll get a kick out of it.

There are five of us. In the fun house, I mean. Well, five kids. There are a bunch of adult whack-jobs, too, but they have their own ward. We get our very own Baby Nuthouse all to ourselves. It’s just like at Thanksgiving, when all the kids get sent to the little table in the corner. No turkey legs for us. Just the parts no one else wants. Like giblets.

Let me clarify. There are four of them and one of me. I met the others today in my first group therapy session. I wasn’t going to go, but I figured if I show everyone how completely sane I am, they’ll have to let me out. The group sessions are held in what they call the community room, which is just this big room with couches and a TV and games and stuff. I guess it’s where all the crazies hang out when they’re not busy being crazy.

We sat in a circle on these hard plastic chairs. They’re orange—traffic-cone orange—like they’re a warning to anyone who might walk in. danger: crazy people talking. take alternate route. Besides being ugly, they’re also really unpleasant to sit on. After about five minutes my butt fell asleep, and I kept having to move around to try and get comfortable. Which I never did.

Cat Poop introduced me by saying, “Everyone, this is Jeff.” And they all went, “Hi, Jeff.” Only their voices all sounded the same, like zombies mumbling, “Mmmm, brains,” and nobody really looked at me. I didn’t say anything. It’s not like I’m going to be here long enough to make friends.

After that we sat in a circle just staring at each other, just like Cat Poop said we would. Nobody said a word until finally the doc pointed at this skinny girl with long blonde hair who was chewing at her fingernails and said, “Alice, why don’t you tell Jeff a little bit about yourself.”

“My name is Alice,” said the girl. Duh. “What should you know about me? Well, my mother’s latest boyfriend kept coming into my bedroom when I was asleep and putting himself all over me, so one night I waited until he was sleeping and I went into his room with some lighter fluid and matches. He didn’t die or anything, but I got a little burnt.”

At first I thought she was making it all up. But then she held up her arms so I could see. The skin was red and raw from her hands to her elbows. Alice laughed. Then she bent her head and covered her face with her long hair.

I’m not sure if she’s for real or not. My guess is that she just burnt her arms playing with matches or something stupid like that. I bet she made up the thing about torching her mother’s boyfriend. I mean, that’s a lot more interesting, and I wouldn’t blame her for going with it. If I did something dumb like set myself on fire, I’d lie about it too.

The thing is, I don’t think she did. I don’t know why, but I believe her. What’s even weirder is that it doesn’t freak me out. I can totally see why she would set that guy on fire, which maybe makes me as crazy as she is. Then again, I didn’t do it; I can just imagine doing it. Maybe that’s the difference between crazy and not crazy.

Alice didn’t say anything else, so we moved on to the girl beside her. She was almost the exact opposite of Alice: fat, curly red hair, a face like the moon. When she saw me looking at her, she actually smiled, like we were on a bus and not in a hospital.

“My name’s Juliet,” she said, all happy and chirpy like a cartoon bird. “I’m Bone’s girlfriend.”

She paused, like I was supposed to know who Bone was, like he was some rapper or actor or something whose name was all over the magazines and I was going to congratulate her on having a famous boyfriend. When I didn’t say anything Juliet nodded at the guy sitting beside me. The whole time people had been talking, he’d been looking at his feet. He barely looked up now.