Validated

The noise in the room becomes a faint, background clatter. I can distinctly hear my own breath and heart, which I imagine is about to pop through my chest. My entire body becomes hot. My throat is closing. I really feel I could vomit. My hands grasp the arms of the chair.

“Norman!” Dr. Murphy shouts, pulling me back into focus. “You were saying something”

I look at her face, angry and bewildered. I hear some of the guys laughing.

“Can we focus here, Norman?” she asks “What’s going on?”

“Nothing…sorry.”

“You were telling us about your wife. Can you continue?”

“I’d really rather not.” I really can’t think about my wife right now. It’s not even an issue. She’s not nearly as concerning as that dirty rat going through my things.

“I think it would be very good for you and some of the others here as well.” She says softly. So patronizing.

"I don't really think we need to hear about it again. I don't really give a damn about his ex-wife." One of the other guys says. He emphasizes the word ex, mockingly. I don’t really give a damn either.

Dr. Murphy looks over at him. They continue talking, I’m not quite sure about what, but I’m thankful the attention is no longer on me.

I can’t stop thinking about that damn orderly and his dirty hands all over my things. I bet he’s stealing all my cigarettes. That bastard. My stomach is in knots. I feel like I can barely breathe.

After group therapy is over, I walk slowly back to the room, counting my steps as I go. I approach my bed – thirty-seven. Thirty-seven steps. Fuck! Yesterday it was thirty-six. What happened? I start to panic, so I grab my box of cigarettes, counting each one five times. Six. Six cigarettes. Didn’t I have seven? No, it was six. There are still six. I sit on my bed exhausted, but relieved.

Before lunch, we have about an hour to spend in the courtyard outside. I sit on a bench, smoking and watching everyone. This place is a zoo. Several of the patients have to be monitored by a nurse while outside. These are the people who have been here for years and will be for probably the rest of their lives. Chronically ill and legitimately fucking crazy. I don't belong here. I hate it here, but at least the weather is always perfect. It's November, and the sun is shining. It's way better than back home. Just a few hours north where Fall is bad and Winter is worse. Icy air and slick, wet roads...

"Hey Norm," Jonathan's gruff voice pulls me out of my thoughts. He’s my only friend here. I look up, squinting at the sunlight behind him.

"I thought you were sick?" I ask. He sits down next to me. His face is sallow and there are dark circles under his eyes. He looks like shit.

“Withdrawal meds aren’t really working. But Doc insisted I get some sunlight." I offer him a cigarette. We sit together in silence until the bell chimes twelve times, indicating lunchtime. We gather in the cafeteria, take our slop, and sit. I spend ten minutes pulling the crust off my sandwich, inspecting it carefully. If I leave any little piece of crust, something bad will happen. I can't let myself make that mistake again. I look up and see that Jonathan is watching me.

"I don't like crust," I say.

“None of my business,” he shrugs. Damn right. We eat lunch, though Jonathan barely touches his. A few minutes later, the cafeteria staff hands out plates of chocolate cake for dessert. I poke at mine - it’s dry and stale. I force it down. The food here is terrible, nothing like Molly's. My chest feels heavy and I try to shake the thought away. But it's your fault she's dead, you piece of crap. No. Stop. It's your therapist’s fault.

"Maybe you should have taken up drinking," Jonathan says, with a weak smile on his face. I smile. They locked him up here because of his addiction to drinking. He's been one week sober after decades of drinking. They brought him in, kicking and screaming.

"You haven't really talked to me about why you're here," he says. He seems concerned. I look at him and then down at my empty tray. I feel my heart start to race and I run my hand through my hair, slightly pulling at it. Like Molly used to.

“Uhh,” I stall "I guess the official diagnosis is some kind of anxiety disorder.” It’s only when I taste blood that I realize I have been biting at my bottom lip.

"Well, I could have guessed that, Norm. What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"The night I was brought here, my little girl had told me that she wasn't going to be seeing me for Thanksgiving. I was so upset, that I drank a bottle of whiskey and was planning to…hurt myself. I passed out before I could actually do it. My neighbor found me in a puddle of my own vomit with a note, and here I am. So I mean, what actually happened?"

I think about the night a few weeks ago when I got the visit about Molly. The sheriff showed up at my door looking distraught. He had found Molly's car off the side of the road, destroyed. The roads were slippery this time of year, and she had lost control of the car. She slammed into a tree, which fell and crushed her. She was on her way to see me. It had been a few weeks since we had seen each other. We separated because she couldn't handle my “condition.” But we agreed that if I started going to therapy, we could try to work things out. Now she’s dead.

The rest is kind of a blur, but I know that I attacked him. I was angry, more so at myself, but I couldn't deal with that. It was my fault she was dead, but no one understood that. My therapist helped get me here, rather than jail.

"I tried to assault the sheriff who came to tell me that he had found my ex-wife dead," I say, not telling him the whole story. As far as I was concerned now, that's the full story. Though every night my guilt creeps up on me before my medication kicks in.

"Tough shit. Sorry to hear it."

We finish eating and head to the rec room. We sit down to play a game of chess, but it is abruptly ended by a coughing fit Jonathan has. I’m pretty sure I see blood. He heads back to the infirmary, leaving me alone. I decide to go back to my bed and try to read a little before my private therapy session. She is going to want to talk about Molly. But even thinking about talking about Molly makes me even more anxious, and my stomach churns. I rush to the bathroom.

The cake is just as bad coming up as it was going down. I hover over the sink, splashing my face with water. I look up into the mirror. I look so sick. My reddish-brown hair now has little white patches. I haven’t shaved since I’ve been here, so my beard is in full force. Molly hated it like this. I hate myself like this. I can barely stop myself from crying.

***

"So, Norman. How are you feeling today?” Doctor Murphy asks.

"I'm alright. Feeling okay" Lies, lies, lies.

"Can I ask how your thoughts have been today?"

“I....had some trouble this morning but I'm okay now."

"Any thoughts of people dying?" She asks me, straightforward.

"Not today.”

“You understand that your rituals are in no way connected to other people, right? You quitting doing them did not cause Molly to die.” She pisses me off. I’d like to believe that because it’s crazy to think that they do, but I can’t fight the facts, and the facts are that Molly died after I decided to take control of my obsessions. I shrug in response to her.

"Norman, I think that we're going to change your medication tonight, okay? I notice you've had some trouble sleeping and have been very irritable at our morning group therapy sessions" Well, alright. Maybe it will help to give me a break. Shut off my brain for a while.

"Okay, that's fine."

“Also, when you get those intrusive thoughts, let's work on not indulging in them, okay? Exposure helps.” She doesn't know the danger of what she's saying. But I agree, to shorten this session.

***

After picking up my new meds and washing up for bed, I count the steps back to my room. Even amount, thankfully. But it only eases my anxiety a little. I get into bed. I don't really feel any better. More sleepy, maybe, but still just as sick.

The thought invades my mind that if I don't get up now, something bad is going to happen. Something really bad. Anxiety pulls at my insides, forcing me up. The tiled floor is cold on my bare feet. I'm dizzy, too dizzy to be standing, but I have to do it. I accidentally knock over my pile of books, which is too loud at this time of night. One of the orderlies comes in.

"Mr. Collins! What are you doing up?!” He whisper-yells at me.

“I need to get up," I say. I realize that I'm slurring. The medication is making me nearly incoherent.

"Lay back down, Mr. Collins. You'll hurt yourself. You're supposed to stay in bed after medication. He grabs me by the shoulders and forces me down into bed. I can’t fight back.

***

I wake up and hear a lot of commotion going on outside the room. I glance at the clock: 6 AM. Some of the guys are already awake and have gathered near the door, looking out. I walk over and stand with them and see a group of paramedics walking down the hallway with a stretcher.

"What the hell is going on?" I ask, rubbing my eyes.

"Someone kicked the bucket," someone says.

A voice comes over the intercom, "Will patients in Room Number 10 please meet in the recreational room." That's us. We collectively walk to the rec room. I notice Jonathan is not here, and figure he's in the infirmary again. Lucky him. He doesn't have to deal with Murphy this early in the morning. We all take our seats in the rec room, where she’s waiting for us.

"Gentlemen, last night Mr. Jonathan Cross passed away. He became very ill and was unfortunately unresponsive to medication. I know that this will be very hard for some of you to accept. The best thing for us is to continue with our normal routine. If we stray from our routine, that can be even more disruptive to our progress.” Jonathan is dead? I can't believe it. I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach and remember last night. My chest feels tight, and suddenly it is very hard to breathe. I killed Jonathan. That damn orderly didn't let me do what I needed to do. Doctor Murphy - it’s all her fault. I knew something bad was going to happen, I just knew it. I can't help myself, and I start to cry. I cry because I feel guilty. I cry because I've been validated. I fall to the floor, gasping because I'm sobbing so hard. It takes several orderlies to pull me up. They medicate me and take me back into my room.

As I pass out, I think of Molly, and of Jonathan. Now I know I don't belong here. I've been validated. I'm not crazy. I'm really not crazy.