Escape from the Loony Bin

08/07/21

“Ms. Rain, can you please give me your arm?”

The man talking to me has the prettiest sapphire eyes, with specks of gold. I find myself so transfixed by his eyes that I didn’t catch what he said.

“What?” I ask as I give my head a little shake. The last thing I need is for any of the people around me to think I’m any crazier than they already think I am.

“Can you give me your arm?” He asks again.

“Oh, yeah… sure,” I say while sticking out my right arm. He gently takes my arm, careful not to touch the jagged, torn skin at my wrist. After looking at the self inflicted injury for a minute, he reaches around me and produces a roll of gauze and medical tape. When he’s done bandaging me up, we’ve arrived.

The ambulance door opens into a starless night. The man with the pretty eyes hops out and takes my hand to guide me from the vehicle. The other two people in the cab follow once I’m out.

The building in front of us is five stories tall and looks like a prison. There aren’t any bars on the windows or anything, but it gives a feeling of despair. Of course, I’m bias, knowing I’ll be confined here against my will for who knows how long. Needless to say, I feel hopeless and trapped.

I find myself hating my roommate, Amber, for calling 911 and having me sent here as the intake man has me strip down to my underwear and sticking electroids to my entire body for an EKG. I know it’s wrong, but I hate him, too. I know it’s not fair to hate them, but I do.

The intake man took away my hoodie, shoelaces, and bra. He even took my bracelets. He said it’s protocol to take away anything I can use to hurt or kill myself or anyone else. I feel exposed and vullnerable, and I hate it. I hate everything about this place. I hate that the lights are too bright and there are no windows or even fans to circulate the sterile air. I hate everything about this place.

It’s been a few days since I've been locked up in the loony bin, now. I can’t stand the people who work here. They ask me every night when they give me my pills if and why I want to kill myself, then say it’s good I’m only suicidal instead of homocidal. It’s so obnoxious. I do, however, enjoy a few of the other patients. There’s this boy my age here named ‘Finley. He’s batshit crazy— always talking to himself like he’s two people— but I kind of love his personality and energy. It’s too bad I’m leaving tonight. I would love to know him better.

We do group therapy every morning and afternoon. They’re trying to convince us that it’s possible to get better. I think that’s a load of bullshit, though. Life is a shitshow where the only things you can rely on are pain, sadness, and disappointment, and I can’t take anymore of it.

They take away anything we can use to hurt ourselves, but I think I’ve found a solution. We are allowed to use these stupid, bendy pens during therapy with supervision, so, naturally, I snatched one. There’s a soft plastic cap over the tip of the pen to prevent us from stabbing ourselves. Finley showed me how to pop the cap offf earlier today, and I figured out that if you dampen toilet paper and wrap it around the pen, it hardens and creates a hard shell around the pen that makes the pen inflexible, the way it should be.

I’m sitting on my bed now, looking around this sad excuse for a room for the last time. I wish I got to see the stars the night I was sent to this place. I’m desperate for it all to end, but seeing something other than this sterile room would be nice before the end. I’m determined to succeed in my attempt this time. I close my eyes, breathing in for hopefully the last time, and drive the pen into my jugular.