A short story about my stay in the psych ward a few years ago.


She pressed her nose against the cool glass…and her lips followed. She wanted to kiss the air outside…it was stale here within the confines of these yellow walls. Delaware River was taunting her with it’s calm to and fro motion…it’s obscenely relaxing nature…juxtaposition to her raging thoughts. It’s what got her here. She felt as if she were in a constant state of almost crying…but the tears they never did fall. Her ducts were constipated..and no matter how hard she push and grunt and strain…they were obstinate in their arrival.

Pacing the floor she tried to feel something…anything…rubber soled socks that didn’t permit her to slide…they’d taken her shoes and replaced them with socks. Socks and flip flops. She couldn’t choke nor hang herself on socks now could she? She avoided the’s shatterproof glass…it only made her angry…how childproof everything was within the confines of these yellow walls.

It was silent…with the exception of St. Agatha screeching down the halls “Blood of Christ!!!” several times a day. Everyone else was just as silent..just as devoid of feeling as she. She didn’t know what cocktail was in everyone else’s cup…but if they were locked within these yellow walls just like her…she imagined whatever pills they were swallowing couldn’t vary in difference that much from hers.

She tried and tried to write but it was as if she’d lost her art with the last round of meds. She was numb. Her tick had stopped it’s tock and all the little voices that pushed her pen were silenced. Mute. She was forgetting what life had been like outside of these yellow walls…and it was only what…3 days in? It was easy to lose track of time in here. She resented the nurses and aides in their colorful scrubs and hands that smelled like latex and the soft mush of their clogs on linoleum floors. “Room Check” they’d call out as if she really could go anywhere and not be seen.

Yes she was here. Melting into the walls…disappearing into oblivion. Everything that had made her an individual..unique..had been awash in the white pills at 8…the blue pills at noon…and the lavender ones at 9… Hold them between her teeth. Sip from the paper cup. Swallow. Swallowing had never been this hard…each swallow felt like she was killing herself though she was there..and those pills were prevent her from doing just that.

Chemical restraint.

She balled up in her bed underneath the scratchy blanket. Close her eyes and tried to dream.. but nothing. And maybe it was dream’s absence…or how sleep escaped her when she desire it most…or maybe it was realization that these socks were on her feet or that she was in this bed and not her bed..his bed…but …the tears..the tears that had evaded her so…had finally fallen.

And she cried.

One thought on “Amarillo

  1. Pingback: It’s Not About Robin Williams Though | Ink & Wonderland: Down the Rabbit Hole

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