DisOrdered

A Short Story, 2021

I wrote this story at the end of 2021, but its bones go all the way back to a piece I handed in for my grade 11 creative writing class. So yes—there’s angst. There’s drama. There are a few lines I would definitely write differently now. But despite all that (or maybe because of it), I’ve decided not to rewrite it.

This version earned me some of the first real feedback I ever got from people outside of school or my circle. It’s flawed, a little raw, and still kind of close to my heart. I’m sharing it here not as a polished final draft, but as a snapshot of where I was in my writing life—one of those messy stepping stones that helped me get to where I am now.

So here it is. As it was. As I was.

Everything in the room is designed to prevent me from killing myself. The door, the knobs, the taps. They’re all on a slant so I can’t hang myself. The mirror is plastic. Makes sense. Can’t break it to cut myself. I don’t even get shoelaces. I get socks with rubber grippies.

My intake form says Diagnosis: BPD. Bipolar Disorder? Borderline Personality Disorder? Big Phat Depression? Who the fuck knows? Apparently, I’m serving a 28 day sentence at “HiPoint Psychiatric Hospital.” The name says it all. Call it what it is. This is prison.

Sometimes life throws you lemons. And they tell you to make lemonade. Last night, life threw me a birthday party- with cake and ice cream (no lemons, though). I didn’t really want a birthday party. My mom worked so hard to plan it. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best day to do what I did.

Let’s not pretend that anyone was oblivious to my more sinister proclivities. They knew. But they kept their eyes closed. They pretended it wasn’t weird that I wore long sleeve shirts in the middle of August. They closed their eyes to me, to the destruction of our family, and to the silence at the dinner table.

Honestly.

Honestly, I liked it that way. Everyone goes about their day pretending not to know, not to see. It was comfortable in my destructive little shell -until it wasn’t. Until the cops and medics dragged me to a fucking mental hospital.

I just think it’s funny that I’m the only member of my family that’s been committed. I’m certainly not the only one who belongs here. This place is not what I expected. I expected a lot more really crazy people, running around in their robes and pajamas, screaming their faces off, hallucinating the devil. I mean, there is a guy here like that, but he is the only one.

It’s more or less a bunch of teenage zombies. And a weird nurse with dreadlocks (a white guy with dreadlocks, mind you). Everyone gets their own room- with the door slanted and unlockable bathroom. My room is sea-foam green.

Of course, there are rules- as Dreadlocks informs me with an insincere grin.

NO SMOKING. (And if you want to smoke, a nurse will light it for you)

FOLLOW THE SCHEDULE (it’s the same every fucking day)

PLAY NICE (no beating the other inmates)

NO KILLING YOURSELF (or cutting yourself or burning yourself or pulling out your hair)

I get to decorate my jail cell- I mean bedroom. They let me bring a picture. I chose one of my family. Ironically. In it, we all look great. Like we have our shit together. Like we’re a regular, happy family- but we aren’t. We’re really messed up. I also choose a framed picture of a horseshoe to put right up above my bed to bring me luck. I think that is somehow ironic, given my current imprisonment. I don’t really know what ironic means.

I don’t even remember how it started. It just happened. Dad started drinking. Mom started leaving the house more. My brothers moved away. I just existed. The parental units got divorced. Dad moved South. Mom stayed North. Dad continued drinking. Mom didn’t like her new life, so she made up a new one. One brother went to university, the other started dealing pot. I started high school.

The daily schedule comprises various types of therapy: group, one-on-one, workshops. Therapy is exhausting. I can’t do any activity and sustain it for more than ten minutes, let alone five or six hours a day. Hello. My brain is clearly too fried. People with regular brains don’t slit their wrists at their own birthday parties.

By the end of the first forty-eight hours, I’ve behaved and am granted the privilege of a visit from mother-dearest. The gash on my left forearm is healing, but it’s still pretty juicy. It’s hot and itchy. She stares at it. Dad didn’t come…too drunk.

I can smell her as she sits across from me at the plastic table. She used to smell like cookies, soap, sunlight, mommy. Now she smells like Maybelline, leather, expensive coffee…stranger.

I wrap my arms around my stomach. I swallow so its contents don’t spill out in front of me, onto her pretty clothes. She looks up from her cheap vending machine coffee. For the first time since my birthday, into my eyes. She resents me. She’s angry at me. She blames me. I close my eyes, squeeze away the hot tears gathering on my eyelashes. I run.

I don’t know what I’m running from anymore. My parents? My decisions? The smell of her crappy coffee? I bump into Dreadlocks. I’m dripping sweat and salty tears.

“You should sit down.” He says. So I sit down right in the middle of the hallway. He doesn’t make me talk. But I do anyway: attempted suicide, cutting, drunk dad, weird mom, absolute self loathing and hatred, high school.

He’s kind to me. He gives me a tissue. He takes me to my room. He won’t touch me. Not even a gentle pat on the back. What is he afraid of?

He is kind of good looking, you know. In a not-so-obvious sort of way. Crooked teeth. Wonky nose. Soft, pretty, blue eyes. Blonde eyelashes that brush his cheeks. I decide to like him. Of all the crazy motherfuckers in here, he is the most sane -and he’s nice to me. When he looks at me, I feel my heartbeat in my cotton, psych-ward issue panties.

I’m not stupid; I know I can’t have a relationship with a nurse. If I plan to get what I want, I have to get out of here. So, I behave. For four whole days, I behave. I eat my meals. I take part in therapy. I don’t kill myself. I watch Dreadlocks. I learn his name is Michael- like the angel.

I notice he isn’t as nice to the other girls. He doesn’t go running after them with tissues when they cry. When he smiles at me, his eyes sparkle. The little crinkles in the corner get deeper. He likes me. I enjoy looking at his big, fat, smoldering blue eyes. He avoids eye contact because he doesn’t want me to know; but I know. There is a tenderness when he speaks to me and looks at me. I see his eyes draw the lines from my chin, over my neck and across my chest. I’m not allowed to wear low-cut t-shirts, but it’s hard to hide what I’ve got.

I’m alone in the library. Everyone else is watching a movie in the rec room, but I’m not interested. The rain beats against the windows, and I stare out it like I’m a character in a sad music video. I like the way the sound makes me feel. The thump of each drop hammering against the window beats in time with my heart. I vibrate at the synchronicity. Whatever drugs they’re giving me are kicking my dopamine into high gear-I think. I always thought those meds took four to six weeks. It’s been five days.

You can go through the motions of recovery, but if you don’t believe in it, you won’t feel it. I don’t. I’m good at pretending. I can be anything you want as long as it gets me what I want. I want Michael more than I want my stitches to stop seeping blood.

I feel him come into the room. I don’t have to turn to look. I know it’s him.

“Sure you don’t want to watch the movie with everyone?” He says. His voice is cheery, but clinical.

“Actually, I’m good here.” I say. I do not break my gaze from the window. It’s made of solid, unbreakable glass. It doesn’t open. I want to be solid. Unbreakable. But I want to open.

Michael stands next to me, trying to see what I’m looking at. He’s warm. I can feel his body heat. It radiates. It glows. It latches on to me.

He turns to me, opens his mouth to say something. But I don’t wait. The window won’t open, but I want to. I lunge. I kiss him so hard on the mouth I taste blood.

He goes white. Throws his hands up. He still won’t touch me. He triggers the alarm on his ID lanyard. I’m still holding on to the back of his head. His hair feels like ropes. Security barrels in. They tackle me. I scream and fight and push and cry. The needle hits my skin and my body turns to slush. It feels nice. I stop crying.

I’m on lockdown for my crimes. No rec-room movies. No library. No unsupervised bathroom visits. Have you ever had to wipe your ass in front of a fat nurse with a sweaty hairline? 3/10. Would not recommend. Tell me again that this isn’t a jail.

I’m alone in a new room. The same plastic furniture, nailed in place. Slanted doors. Plastic mirror. But this time there is a camera fixed to the ceiling. I’m sure it can see everything. I’m alone, but I’m not. I’m being watched. This room doesn’t even have windows. And I still want to open.

I twirl the hard, plastic stitches on my forearm between two fingers. I wonder how far I could get before the person behind the camera notices. I smirk, a little pleased with the idea of someone cleaning up my mess. Just like my shitty birthday party.

I work quickly. It hurts. Worse than slicing myself the first time. Like fire and ice at once. With a swift jerk of my hand, I pull each stitch. I open. When I’m done, I look right into the camera, like an endless black eye looking back at me. I pull the wound and rip the healing flesh back in two. I am open.

Again, the barreling security guard rushes in. This time with a white coat. I’m amused at the contrast of my red blood on the white coat. Another needle. This time, it doesn’t feel as good. It feels heavier. I’m not open. I’m lead. And everything is black.