All in my Mind

IX.

The cast wouldn't come off. I determined that through extensive efforts. I'd actually broken my sharpie in the process. Nurse John even came in to stop me when I tried to do it with my nails. I would have preferred nurse Taylor.

Unfortunately it was 4 in the morning and she didn't come in until 5.

"Alex, you've gotta sleep man," Nurse John practically begged me after he'd very politely taken the sharpie away.

"I want the cast off," I replied.

We stared at eachother for a while, which I'm sure was just a moment for the conglomeration of thoughts without answers to swivel around in his brain. He didn't know how to respond.

"You're going to tell me that I just got the cast and that I need time to heal, but I've thought about it and I'd rather have the broken hand," I explained quite unreasonably. Isn't it a good thing that psychiatric facilities limit personal choice? Imagine if they had to comply with every stupid thing I asked? I'd be maimed for sure.

"It's only been on for a week Alex," Nurse John said gently.

It's worth noting that for the duration of this conversation, I'd been sitting on the floor rocking ever so slightly. It helped with the restlessness I was feeling. The pajama pants I was wearing weren't very comfortable. I was thinking about taking my clothes off when he left, but the camera was a deterrent. I wanted the cast off and the pants off. I wanted things to stop touching me.

But when he said that, my thoughts went much quieter. I stopped thinking about how much everything felt. I was too focused on a measurement he'd just provided. I stopped rocking.

There was a bread roll in my hand. I vaguely remembered him handing that to me when he walked in, which was probably supposed to be distracting so that taking the sharpie was easier. I must have taken a bite or two before because it was partially gone, but mostly it had been squished in my fist by a mindless action. I dropped it on the floor.

"A week?" I asked, turning to give him both of my eyes. "Like 7 days?"

"6 days," he relented. "7 tomorrow."

Time. It passes in spite.

"I really suggest lying down."

It wasn't Nurse John who said that. It was the boy to my left. He'd accompanied me all evening on my tirade. Maybe he sensed the oncoming internal soliloquy I was about to fixate on regarding my inability to keep track of passing days. More likely, he was just a manifestation of what tiny bit of reason my brain could still cling to. I wanted to give in. I wanted to eat and sleep and take meds and be nicer to the nurses and staff. Some small or growing part of me wanted that.

"Please," the boy said.

And maybe part of my problem was that I sat around trying to instill meaning into delusion, but can you blame me? We all do that. We all spend every second of every day trying to make our lives make sense. It's not my fault that mine simply doesn't.

So I picked the bread roll up off the floor and handed it to Nurse John like I was bestowing him with a gift of sorts. Then I got off of the floor. He watched me in silence because sometime over the course of a year, they'd learned to sit and wait when I changed course. They could be pleasantly surprised by my compliance sometimes.

When I resettled myself on the bed, he seemed pleased. I had laid down on top of the sheet. There was still no pillow. I was beginning to view that as a human rights violation. Instead I laid on my back with a bony arm thrown back behind my head. I stared at the ceiling.

"You can go," I mumbled. I don't know if that was aimed at Nurse John or at the boy who still sat in the floor watching me with him. Probably both.

Nurse John rose and headed towards the door with a triumphant smile that made me think he felt like he'd won something with me. If I wasn't fixated on the 6 or 7 days thing, I'd have probably told him off. Unfortunately I'd only noticed about 3 of them passing and I really hated that.