My Mental Mayhem
“Get off me! Fucking get off me!”
They pushed me to the ground.
“Barnaby, calm down we need you go to your room.”
“No, let go of me!”
They pinned me to the floor as I scream no more, grabbing my arms and legs, they threw me on the bed.
“ Do you have the restraints?”
“Good, lets start with his right arm.”
“No! Fuck you! Why are you doing this!?”
Each upper and lower limb inflexibly in place so I was bound to the bed, splayed out, unable to force my way out.
“Barnaby, we have this injection to make you feel better.”
“Noooo, its poison, I don't want it.”
A cocktail of depressants filled the syringe and they pierced my flesh with it.
The walls witnessed and wailed for me as I felt unjustly petrified to the bed.
I scream and shouted for someone to save me.
To take me away from this inferno as Dante would call it.
This is hell.
“Once the medicine kicks in, and he sleeps, we’ll take the restraints off.”
It wasn't before long my thrashing stop and I laid there tipsy, drunk on the drugs.
Hours went by, and I was finally free.
A nurse came into my room.
“Barnaby, I have your evening meds. Are you ready to take them?”
“Do I have a choice?” I said with despair.
“Well, it’s up to you. Meds are to help balance the brain chemistry.”
I conceded and took the meds.
This was my introduction to my second mental hospital, Silver Hills.
I stayed there for half of September and the whole month of October.
It was the year I was diagnosed bipolar.
The year we lost we lost our house on Laurel street.
The year my father left my mother.
The year that forever changed my life.
Silver Hill was the beginning of a long slew of hospital visits.
17 in total.
I hate the hospital.
I hate the medicine.
And yet I still go and I still take the medicine.
This is my life as a mentally ill person.