It is December 25th, Christmas morning, and I am in a psychiatric hospital. My lights are flipped on at 7:00 on the dot, every day, and even though it’s Christmas, this day is no different. Over a lukewarm English muffin, we are informed that tonight we must all wear dress clothes, and participate in Christmas dinner in the hospitals cafeteria. They say it’s to make it more “homey”, but I can’t imagine how eating dinner with fourteen crazies is going to be anything like home. After being here for three months, I’m beginning to think that craziness truly is contagious. The people here make my family seem like the Brady bunch, and believe me, that’s saying something.
The day is nothing special, were still chauffeured around by staff members, and force fed our happy-pills in little paper cups, we still have to sit through group therapy, which is basically just us sitting in hard plastic chairs set up in a circle, and talking about “feelings”. I have no intention of sharing mine. I haven’t spoken in group since I arrived here, besides yes’ and no’s to direct questions, which are seldom asked anymore. My group leader is accustomed to my silence. They think I’m quiet, reserved, well mannered, but I’m far from it, I just have nothing to say to these people. We are different, and the thought that we may be similar scares me, so I say nothing.
5:00 rolls around and we have to get ready for our big Christmas dinner. The staff unlocks the bathroom, and I enter it to change for the evening. It is quite obviously a psych Ward bathroom. The mirror, is not a mirror, it is a piece of relatively foggy metal that you can barely make out your general figure in let alone see a detailed image of yourself. That’s so that nobody can break it, and slit their wrists or something. The shower curtain is held up by Velcro, so that if anybody got the notion to hang themselves, their attempt would be a failure. Or a success, depending on how you look at it. It’s painted a generic shade of white, and the floor is the type of linoleum that hasn’t been seen since the 70s. I slip into my black slacks, and put a cardigan on over my t-shirt. After pulling my hair up, I put on some chap-stick and look in the make-shift mirror. My eyebrows are ridiculous, since we can’t have tweezers and I have several zits on my chin, because despite popular belief this place is stressful. I decide I’m better off not looking at myself, and walk into the hallway. After the staff checks the bathroom to make sure I didn’t leave my crack-pipe in there, the next person is allowed to enter.
I slide down the wall to sit on the floor, and busy myself with a loose thread on my cardigan. After sitting for a while my ass got numb, and just when I was about to reposition we were told to line up. I got in my assigned line spot, fifth from the front, and we went on our merry way. The staff had pushed the tables in the cafeteria together so that they formed a long table, and put green plastic table cloths on it. The decorations were pitiful. A small bare tree, that must have been the last on the lot, with about ten ornaments on it, that we made for art therapy a week ago, and a couple strands of garland. We took our seats, where we were told to, and unsurprisingly there was a staff between every two people. To monitor our sporks I assume. Because I’m sure every person in the room was dying to Spork someone in the throat.
I looked around the table, and said a silent prayer that I looked nothing like the people around me. The girl across from me was a tall gangly girl, all points and angles. It looked like she stuck her finger in a light socket, and the girl next to her was an unwashed frumpy girl. Her hair was so greasy that if someone was brave enough to squeeze it; it would surely drip out enough grease to fry a pan of chicken. She had a heinous shade of fuscia lipstick on, there was a bit on her teeth, and she obviously hadn’t lined her lips because it was seeping onto her skin. I decided to look at my plate, instead of the sorry bunch of people around me.
After, we were given permission we took the covers off of our plates, which unsurprisingly revealed the saddest Christmas dinner in the history of Christmas dinners. There was a slimy piece of ham, that was probably 60% fat, a scoop of mashed potatoes that quite obviously came from a box, and a scoop of green beans that I’m assuming came from the kind of can that is made specifically to feed people in a hospital. And on top of all of that, was some kind of sauce, which could have been gravy, but I really didn’t know. I put the lid back on my plate, and turned my attention to picking at my cuticles.
The staff next to me nudged me with her elbow and said “you’re not gonna eat that” I shook my head, and she said “but it’s so good!” and followed it up with a big bite of ham. I’m sure she took the bite for my benefit because I saw her spit it in her napkin out of the corner of my eye, and she excused herself soon after to get a cup of coffee in the staff lounge. I felt a wave of tears coming on and willed myself not to cry. “I’m not gonna cry, I’m not gonna cry, I’m not gonna cry” became my mantra for the night. After everyone decided the food tasted like s***, we were given a sugar cookie, and forced to sing Rudolph the red nosed reindeer at an extremely off key pitch, we were chauffeured back to our designated rooms.
I put a pair of sweat pants on, and climbed into bed. I took my mom’s t shirt from under my pillow and put it to my nose, like I did every night. I haven’t washed it since I got here. It’s losing its scent, but there’s still a hint of home on it. I cry myself to sleep that night, and wake up the next morning at 7:00 on the dot, when the staff flicks on my light. Just another day on the psych ward.