15: Getting Out Of Bed
The fifteenth installment in the "semi-colon" series.
“semi-colon” contains a discussion of mental health struggles. It may not be appropriate for younger readers or those sensitive to candid descriptions of suicidal ideation or other depressive symptoms.
“Getting Out Of Bed”
Comfortable. I was quite content laying in room six-zero-nine. Bing Bing Bing, the alarm hummed throughout the room. Thoughts flowed in and out of my mind to the beat of the Bing. Bing. Bing. What a day, what a day, I thought. What a day to heal. Or maybe it was a better day to leave. Or maybe best to stay in bed. Always difficult to get out of bed.
Cold. A sweatshirt would have been nice to put on the night before. Very nice. A favor to my future self, as the warmth would help me face the coldness of the day. The sun, like a peek into hell, draped over the linen. The sheets battled the light, yet it still found its way into my pupils. Bing.
Bing. Bing. I hit snooze. Deafening silence. Birds chirped and sang and did whatever birds do to produce such a chaotic melody. What a day, what a day.
Shivering, my foot dropped onto the carpet. Each fiber stung my heels. No. Bad idea. Stay in bed, stay in bed, I thought. My foot crept back into the white sheets. Simply impossible to get out of bed on a day like this.
No. Someone will come get me. Surely, they will drag me out of here. Comical to not get out of bed. A silly thought. Face the day, face the day, I knew.
The idea of getting out of bed was odd. And painful. And impossible. And outright outrageous. The world would not change with me getting out of bed.
The idea of getting out of bed was odd. And painful. And impossible. And outright outrageous. The world would not change with me getting out of bed.
But I suppose I could change. But probably not. Where are my slippers? By the window next to the sun and the birds and everything else. Crawling onto the end of my bed – the floor was out of the question – my awkwardly long arms grabbed the ever so symbolic footwear. Now what? Guess I have to get out of bed.
Cold. It was just too cold to get out of bed on a day like this. But for whatever reason, I did. For whatever reason. My beat-up slippers slipped across the carpet to my bags. A sweatshirt. Someone special gave it to me. Weird, how things can bring you back to a person. A lovely person. Finally, some warmth on a day like this. What else to do?
Shower. Shower or they will think you are crazy. Why bathe if I would just do the same tomorrow? But I had expectations to meet. Damn expectations. A terrible thing.
Cold again. My sweatshirt tossed onto the floor next to my slippers. Probably hungry, but my stomach did not feel the request. My bones made of glass, holding up the frame of whoever I was. The mirror showed a reflection of confusion and doubt. Messy hair was fixed above brown eyes of sorrow. My eyes, I thought. My eyes. A dirty brown, like a window into my broken mind. Blue or green eyes, I thought, as my bare feet stepped onto the porcelain.
Posed below the spigot, my palm rotated the little dial. HOT, I thought. Only I had forgotten a key element of taking a shower; waiting. Impossible to wait on a day like this.
Blizzards flew from the shower onto my scared skull. For whatever reason, I stayed underneath the clouds of ice. For whatever reason, the shock of the water felt alright. Not good. But alright. Alright enough for me to feel something. Anything that made me feel something was certainly worth doing.
Alright enough for me to feel something. Anything that made me feel something was certainly worth doing.
No soap. Or shampoo. Or anything necessary to constitute a successful shower. But I only had to look like I bathed. The cold water would suffice, for now. Now. What time was it? Time. A funny thing. My fingers reached the knob and halted the shower’s chilled pity.
Bing. Bing. Bing, chirped the alarm next to my bed.
Wishing I was simply never born, I dried my broken body. Numb from the arctic tendencies of room six-zero-nine, I had to get dressed. For some reason.
With my towel wrapped around my weak waist, I wandered to my unpacked bags. Sweatshirt. Pajama pants. Slippers.
After falling into my clothes, my slippers hugged my feet. Bing Bing Bing. The alarm continued to ring, like the birds faintly humming from the window. Bing Bi— my palm paused the noise of the clock.
I hated myself more than I missed myself. Actually, that is not right. I hated missing myself more than anything.
Staring at the clock, time became a figment of child’s play. Time heals all wounds? No such thing as healing a wound. Always a scar. In the two mental facilities, I would eventually learn how scars are part of healing. It just took me a while to understand. For some reason. My body wandered over to the desk and grabbed the binder.
My thin wrists reached for the door. Back in bed, back in bed, I thought. But for some reason, I walked outside. Warmer. The hallway was warmer. Put your hood on. Hood on, the voice in my head mentioned. Fine, the other voice responded.
Fully hooded, I slowly trekked down the hall, probably looking pretty badass.
“Hey,” I said, a little too loud, into the doorway of nurse station two.
“Honey, how are you?” Clara said. She had taken my vitals, which were required to be taken twice a day (for some reason), the night before.
“Unbelievable,” I said, enthusiastically enough for it to sound positive.
“Good, good,” the woman said. She was probably around my mom's age. Edging fifty. She had the eyes of someone who would have your back even if you broke a chair over theirs. And she did. Clara always had my back.
“Your new meds are here,” she mentioned as she strapped the thing on my finger and the other thing on my arm.
“Awesome,” I replied.
It was not awesome. Antipsychotics and mood stabilizers did not feel awesome. The opportunity to be at HopeWay? Now that was awesome. I just didn't know it yet.
This was just the beginning of our friendship, so there was some awkward silence until the machine flashed the numbers.
“Amazing,” she said when the things were finished doing whatever they were supposed to do. Amazing? Whatever. I wanted to go to sleep and never wake back up. But hey, I guess my vitals were amazing. For goodness sake Clara, I am an eighteen-year-old boy in a mental hospital. How is any part of this amazing? Her optimism pissed me off.
“Thank you so much,” I enthusiastically told her after she unstrapped the thing from my arm.
“Of course,” she said, turning to the cabinet to grab my medication.
My long legs hung off the chair like a waterfall. Soaking wet hair chilled my head, while the dark green pajama pants warmed my limbs.
“Here ya go,” she paused, “twenty-five milligrams of Lamictal and two milligrams of Abilify.”
“Breakfast of champions,” I said with a weirdly genuine smile.
“Breakfast of champions,” I said with a weirdly genuine smile.
Clara gave me a blank stare as she handed me the little white pills. Evidently, humor stuck around during my battle with depression. Life was nothing but a cruel joke, so everything was a little funny. Laughter was the only way to survive.
“You are all set,” she hesitated, “let me know if you need anything.”
“Have a great day,” I said, “will do.”
What a day, what a day. What a day to take some new little white pills. Or maybe it was a better day to crawl back in bed. Or maybe best to break out of here. But for whatever reason, my slippers walked out of nurse station two and down the hallway.
“Good morning!” a nurse welcomed me, standing beside the door.
“Mornin’,” I responded.
She scanned her little card on the scanner until the light on the door flashed green. I trudged out of the residential unit.
A fish tank. I saw a fish tank as I walked through into the foyer. Were fish supposed to make me feel better on a day like this? Ignoring the gill-bearing animals, I moped to the cafeteria.
Evidently, humor stuck around during my battle with depression. Life was nothing but a cruel joke, so everything was a little funny. Laughter was the only way to survive.
What a day, what a day. Coffee. I wanted coffee. That would make me feel something. Anything that made me feel something was worth doing.
Starbucks. Classy choice for a mental health treatment facility. Veranda Blend or Pike Place Roast? A question old as time itself. Time. A hilarious thing. Veranda felt right on a day like this. My fragile palm grabbed two paper cups and pressed the little thing on top of the coffee dispenser. Nothing. Nothing happened. No coffee for a day like this.
For the first time, my eyes examined the room. Empty. No one was there. Maybe I heard voices in the cafeteria, but they were just in my head.
Late. I was late on a day like this. What a day, what a day. What a day to be late to my first session of therapy.
I don’t know what it is like
To not have deep emotions
Even when I feel nothing
I feel it completely
– Sylvia Path
Thank you for the poems, Katie. You are a blessing of a sister and a gift of a friend.
“Getting Out Of Bed” is the fifteenth in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis, and healing. To join the nearly 4,000 followers of semi-colon and automatically receive the next installment please subscribe:
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Your “getting out of bed” not only changed your world but is now changing the world of so many others. You are helping so many by telling your journey! We are constantly hearing from friends both young and old that they are impressed and touched by your courageous sharing! We will never know how many people you are helping with their problems. One person would be huge but we already know their are many, many getting help and many, many more with a better understanding and awareness of suicidal ideation. Many have become more aware of the help their loved ones and friends need. Mimi sends her love - she loves you so much! Love you too! G’dad
Thank you once again for sharing. Please give my love to your family. 💙