Imported Poems

Next chapter after Polemical Visions ***********************

When she came to, she found herself staring at the ceiling with water streaming down her face, her pillow drenched from the tears she had shed over the union with Drew. Even her fantasies were laced with the pain of her heart, she considered, though she preferred the dream-suffering of love over the agony of emptiness that characterized her real existence.
The sun had begun its descent, and the ray of light that had streamed through the single window had faded to a barely perceptible glimmer. Her roommate was still asleep, her snores ricocheting off the walls in stereo. Christine arose and, making her way to the community lounge, flung herself down in the shoddy beige chair closest to her. A respectable looking 30ish woman with curly brown hair sat across from her on the sofa, watching Fox News.
“Do you know what time it is?” she asked the woman.
“It’s 5:45; supper is in 15 minutes,” the woman responded. “I’m Barbara by the way. What’s your name?”
“Christine,” she replied shyly. “So, what do we do in here all day? Do we have classes we have to attend - you know, Anger Management, Self-Esteem and what-not?”
Barbara smiled politely at her. “No classes.”
“Really?” she proclaimed, dumb-founded. “So, what do we do?”
“Well, we sit around and watch TV and talk. You’re psychiatrist will probably talk to you tomorrow. If you’re good they’ll discharge you in three days.”
Christine frowned and gazed around at the shabby, stained burgundy carpet and Goodwill furniture. Three days here, she thought, with nothing to do but stare at the walls and other patients. Her previous institutionalizations had required at least a two week stay, and included an intensive therapeutic curriculum of courses intended to rectify faulty thinking and build a social support network. She could not imagine how three days locked up in a dismal facility with nothing to do could be beneficial to her, let alone those severe cases such as her roommate.
At promptly 6:00PM a nurse ushered the small crowd that had gathered into the dining area, which consisted of several portable plastic tables and chairs. The dinner was a typical poor-man’s meal: a sandwich and soup, with a piece of fruit and a few crackers. Christine hadn’t eaten in two days and devoured the food before her, but the awkward silence that permeated the room left her to stew in her thoughts.
Weak Link she mused as she recalled the words the company president had spoken to her during one of his visits. Little did he realize his insouciant remark had confirmed her greatest fear: that she was inferior to other people. For days afterward she had ruminated upon Darwin’s Survival of the Fittest and the theory’s implications in her own life. The weak, she remembered, were consumed first by the predators, enabling the others to survive. Was it any wonder, then, that she had tried to kill herself? What other message could she have possibly gleaned from her dismissal?
And what little comfort it was knowing they had reviewed her files post-termination and discovered that - contrary to expectation - her work had been superior, even outstanding. By then she had already downed a deadly concoction of pharmaceuticals and been rushed to the hospital where the doctors had tried to jam a tube down her throat. She recollected with bitterness waking up with dried blood upon her face from where the intubation had failed, and the uncontrollable bowel movements from consuming charcoal, which had left her utterly mortified. Their rush to judgment had led to her current degradation , and yet she had chosen it for herself. She had decided to let others dictate her worth.
After supper, Christine watched the news for an hour, then retired to her room to rest. The chemicals coupled with dysentery had drained her of all energy, and she immediately drifted off to sleep.

*******************************************

After breakfast the following morning a nurse called Christine in to meet with her new psychiatrist. Inside the conference room she discovered an oversized oblong table with a middle-aged Asian woman seated at the far end. Pulling out the chair farthest from the doctor but closest to the door, Christine sat down and gazed at the woman.
“So, said the psychiatrist, whose name was Dr. Payne, “tell me why you’re here.”
Surely this is a joke, Christine thought, nonplussed by the woman‘s ignorance. “I tried to kill myself.”
“Prescriptions or slashing your wrists?” the doctor inquired.
Christine rolled her eyes. “Prescriptions.”
The psychiatrist scribbled on her notepad. “So, what did you take?”
“Uh, Klonopin, some muscle relaxer, and a barbiturate migraine medicine.”
The doctor jotted additional notes. “So, how long have you been abusing Klonopin?” she asked.
The question took Christine aback. “Huh? What are you talking about?”
Dr. Payne set her pad aside and looked at Christine. “Why were there only 4 tablets left?”
Christine stared back at the woman. Was she dense? Did she not hear what she had just told her? “Because I took them to try to kill myself!”
“So, how many did you take?”
“I don’t know!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t count. I didn’t count them, or the barbiturates or the muscle relaxers. I mean, if you were going to kill yourself, would you count the number of pills you took?!”
Dr. Payne penned some additional comments then handed Christine a questionnaire. “Fill this out. When you’re done, return it to the nurse.”
Scanning the questions, Christine discerned it was some sort of inventory. “Am I free to go now, then?”
When the psychiatrist nodded affirmatively, Christine arose and returned to her room, where she began completing the self-survey. She noted the reoccurrence of several questions - all framed in slightly different ways - and the open-ended essays, which presumed she drank alcohol. By the end of the test, Christine had resorted to using exclamation points to reiterate her sobriety, and her innocence in drug use.
When she was finished she returned to the nurse’s desk, where she discovered her psychiatrist bent over a plethora of papers.
“I’m done,’ she announced.
“Good. Let’s go to the conference room for a moment, shall we?”
Christine followed the doctor in and took a seat opposite hers. For several moments Dr. Payne quietly reviewed the self-survey. “Have you heard of Borderline Personality Disorder?” she said at last.
Christine sighed silently to herself. Of course she had heard of the disorder. Although she had never been diagnosed by a professional, she had recognized herself in the criteria listed in The Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Psychological Disorders, Version IV. But, for the most part, she had recovered from the traumatic experiences that had produced her poor coping mechanisms, and save for moments of intense stress, she no longer acted out on those impulses.
“Yes, but I’ve also been diagnosed with bipolar disorder,” she informed the doctor, who ignored her.
Reaching on top of a shelf, Dr Payne pulled down a paperback volume. “I have a book I want you to read,” she said.
Christine perused the volume, then shook her head incredulously. She had already completed all the steps required for “healing” and the recommended writing exercises were - to her at least - absurd.
“Thanks,” she muttered, smiling politely through clenched teeth. “Can I have my medication now?”
“No.”
Sitting back in her chair, Christine stared in bewilderment at the woman. Perhaps she doesn’t understand I only want my anti-depressant, she thought. “I don’t want the Klonopin; I just need my Effexor,” she clarified.
“No medication,” the doctor repeated, setting down the survey.
“But I’m not supposed to go off the Effexor,” Christine countered. “Abrupt discontinuation can cause severe side effects.”
“No medication.”
Christine was livid. Slamming her hand down on the desk, she yelled “Fine!” then stormed furiously out of the conference room. ****ing idiots, she seethed. This place is filled with a bunch of idiotic morons who know less about psychiatry than I do - a simple layperson!
Withdrawing to her room, Christine hurled herself upon the bed and crossed her arms petulantly. Several moments later, a nurse appeared at her door.
“Christine?” the nurse called. “Can you come with me? We have some medication for you to take.”
At once Christine felt a flood of rage depart from her body. She would not have to endure the endless panic attacks, migraine headaches and brain shivers after all.
Following the woman back to the nurses’ station, she observed Dr. Payne re-shelving a book before disappearing behind a curtain. She looked it up, she mused to herself. She looked it up and realized I was right. What does it mean, she wondered, when a psychiatric institution is so opposed to drugs, that it sacrifices patient welfare to maintain what it views as sobriety? If she had to fight for her Effexor, what about her roommate? What about the manic episode down the hall? Who else was not receiving the medication they desperately needed to live? And who else had the tools and knowledge she did to prove the doctor wrong? Christine shuddered at the possibilities, and considered the other hospital. But I’d rather be here, she resolved. I’d rather deal with ignorant medical practitioners than malicious evil people.
After swallowing her pill, Christine meandered down the hall to the common area to watch TV, but was disappointed to discover the station tuned to Bloomburg Television. A few moments of observing the stock listings fly by on the lower screen as the analyst discussed the plummeting drop in the Dow Jones Industrial Average proved intolerable to her sensibilities, and so she returned to her room, where once again she was confronted with insufferable boredom.
Laying down, Christine turned her attention to the scene outside her window. Dim sunlight streamed from between several bare branches, which protruded from below the window sill. No breeze blew to move them, and yet they soon began to wriggle like unearthed worms, then intermingled until the entire image was blurred…