It seems as though my timing is always off. Always. I walk back to Sofia’s office and just from being on the outskirts of her office, you can hear her going off something terrible in Spanish via a phone call. From what I can understand in my small fluency, there is something going on at home with “su madre” (her mother) and it appears as if it is her turn to go home and defuse the situation. You can tell that she is clearly irritated but defeated by whoever is on the other line giving her this information. I give a slight knock, hoping that this may be a “saved by the bell” moment for her. She just waves me into the office and continues going off on whomever she is speaking with. You can tell that she has a full and busy life. As put together as she appears in person, her small office is a complete mess. However, it is one of those types of mess that she can put her hand on any given thing if it is requested of her. I totally get. Messier desks equals a brilliant mind.
Sofia finally hangs up the phone and holds her head in the palms of her hands. I suggest she just takes it a step further and lay her head on her desk and I can come back when she has taken a break herself. She looks up and chuckles. I tell her that she is handling things just as she should and she should probably let some of her team that reports into her hear her in English, so that they know she ain’t nothing to play with. I tell her about Nicole and how she lives by the creed of “Only Bitches get the corner office”. Sofia looks around her small broom closet of an office and you can tell that she is trying to strategize her next move without the administrators of this hospital thinking that she should be a patient of the “Doom Room” too.
Sofia looks me in the face which looks like she has lost her best friend. I ask her if she is ok or should I come back at another time. She shakes her head no. She tells me that she will not be able to finish our discussion this afternoon. She has an issue at home that needs her immediate attention. She starts to pack her things to leave and in the midst of this she is trying to explain that she will not forget about my situation and that she is here to help. She promises. I tell her that I love the Louis Vuitton Artsy MM bag that she is carrying. I was in the process of purchasing one and changed my mind for a Chanel bag that is still sitting in the window at Neiman’s. This compliment slows her down and she checks me out again. As crazy as I am looking physically, she knows that she is dealing with someone that has a different eye for “art”. She tells me that she appreciates it and that she promises to pick up where we left off on tomorrow morning. I remind her that tomorrow is Sunday. Does she even works on Sunday? Her reply is that she works everyday. I stand to leave her office as her phone rings again. It must be her man, she is explaining that she is going to have to either cancel tonight or will see him much later when she leaves her parents. She is rolling her eyes as if he hears this same line way too often. She says, I promise I will call you from the car in a short. As she is hanging up and I am walking out of her office with her, I tell her… “Stop saying ‘you promise’. People who know you, know that you will come through for them or do whatever you said that you would do for them. It may not be in their timing, but it will be in the right timing. Trust me, keep up the promising, and you will be me. In a psyche ward for no damn reason and yet I am feeling bat shit crazy trying to get out and no one can seem to do that for me.” I tell her goodbye and I walk away. She stands there stunned, trying to digest it all and I can feel that she is watching me walk away, she just can’t see the disappointment or the tears falling from my face. I just knew that I had a loop hole to get me out and now that loop hole is again walking through the door of the matrix. At the same time, I am in my head trying to figure out where the hell did I get the words to tell her the advice that I just did…. God.
I walk back to my shared prison table with John. This time he is reading the bible intently. I don’t speak and I am trying my best not to disturb him by even being present. Right now, all I want to do is lay my head on this nasty ass prison table and close my eyes. I figured with John sitting right there, no one will bother me. NOT!!! Disgusting and Ghetto are walking around doing a half ass job of scanning bracelets and taking notes for each patient. I hear that damn clicking of the pen on the clip board and it is taking everything in me, not to make him a new dentist appointment downstairs in the ER from punching his rotten ass teeth in. The minute I raise my arm, I hear the beeping saying that my scan has gone though. John has his arm up and he is just as irritated because it seems like it was only five minutes ago that they just scanned his arm and they know good and damn well he ain’t moved since free time was announced. He finally notices that I am sitting at the table with my head laid down. “Mrs. Daniel, what did I tell you about showing pity, defeat, and depression up in here?” I sit up straight and tell him that I get it. I am just tired and I am not sleeping. I would just appreciate a good hot shower, washing my hair, a decent meal, something for this now migraine, and at least two hours of sleep. He laughs and tells me that I will never get two hours of sleep again. I think that he is just jiving with me and little did I know that going forward, the only way that I would be able to sleep would be via medication. On my own, as of today, the day that you are reading this, I will never be able to sleep more than an hour or so on my own without medication. I should sue the whole state of Florida and the truth of the matter is that I would lose. How do you sue for time you can’t get back? Again, you can wave the “What the fuck I would be doing if I were you” flag. However, it will never work that way… Ever.
Now that my head is up and my eyes are open and alert, here is my favorite smelly sister Susan. John is totally fed up and takes his bible and sits on the floor to finish reading. He thinks it is just a down right sin to not allow this hospital to wash her garments. At the same time, these garments still has her mother’s blood on them. If you wash the blood away, will that mean that you will wash her mother away too? Does it mean that she gets some closure to making sure that her parents are finally put to rest peacefully? Or does it remind her that she has to get the fuck up out of here so that she can make shit happen on her own. I get it! I get it! I get it! And since my situation with the “Doom Room”, I don’t judge people for their appearances in this light anymore. I still laugh at people, I am not going to lie. But for Susan, she can just sit next to me any day and I will always have her back and I will always listen to whatever it is she has to say. It doesn’t matter if she has repeated the shit to me a million times, Everyone has to have someone to depend on. EVERYONE!
Susan starts in with her original ask of me. It’s ashamed that she has had to write the shit out on paper with an orange crayon. Fucking “Doom Room”. She has made her best rendition of a Power Point presentation. I am impressed by her improvising and I give her the stage. I notice that there are others watching us as we make notes on the presentation with different color crayons so that things on the presentation make sense. Susan’s mental illness is PTSD and Manic Depression. Part of her issue is that since she has been in this facility, it has been hard for her to focus on doing anything. It is hard for her to start an activity and follow it through fruition without someone telling her how to continue. This is because her brain has been traumatized in several places. When this happens, one part of the brain that is communicating to your body how to move or what to do next is cut off by another message in another part of your body that tells you that you need to think back to why you are having to do this action in the first place. This is the most fucked up part about the order by which you have to recover from a PTSD episode.
So for example, I can wake up and know that I need to go to the bathroom and then brush my teeth. I know that I will need a toothbrush and toothpaste to make this successful. I go to the bathroom and I once I am finished washing my hands (that’s what I didn’t add to the equation, but I know that this is a step that I need to do once I go to the bathroom), I pick up the toothbrush. This is when it is likely that the other part of my damaged brain cuts the original direction off. Now I am sitting here with a toothbrush in my hand. I know what it is. However, I do not know whether or not I have already brushed my teeth. What do I use with it (water and toothpaste)? Do I have toothpaste (yes, it is sitting right there on the sink, but I can’t see it)? Did I brush my teeth? You get my drift. This will send someone like myself or Susan into an oblivion and it feels horrible. I mean it literally hurts. In your mind, you know that you are a smart and intelligent individual and yet this toothbrush has explained to you in so many words that you ain’t shit and you can’t get back to where you used to be mentally when you WERE smart… Sad but true. I am hoping that this explanation is helping some of you who either have someone in your life who suffers from this and instead of getting frustrated at them because they can not remember when or what to do with the damn toothbrush, just make them feel normal and show them that they just need to brush their teeth and move on so that you don’t ruin the rest of their fucked up thought process.
Susan is on a mission to get the hell out of here. She said that when I asked her if she was a lawyer and why the hell was she still in here, it ignited a fire within her. Yayy Jacinta, gemstone to the gates of heaven. She asks me, if I could look through her strategy to see if she has some form of a case. Her big ask, is if my sister Nicole will help her submit it in the Baker Act office. She explains that she has money and will pay for our help, but she has to get access to it. Can we help her with the intentions of getting funds paid upon her access? I am dumbfounded. Nicole Binion and I have always been about our paper. However, there is no way in hell that we would charge anyone to help them save their lives. That is ludicrous. All the more reason why I think that yes, you should be charged for a service or product. You should not charge a soul for being a soul. It is a sin and God sees it even when I am cussing.
I put the three crayons down. I look Susan in the face and tell her that she is not a thing!!! She doesn’t have the money to pay Nicole and I. She looks overwhelmingly defeated. In her mind, she has tried to get help again. She knows she has the money to pay, she just needs to get out and she needs someone to believe her. It is as if she has been plotting to approach me to help her since I got here and her plan has fell through the cracks. Her sobbing is unbearable. One of the nurses starts to come over with one of the death needles and I stop her. I tell her to have a seat and pay attention for a damn change. This makes the nurse walk back to the nurse’s station to get a second needle for me. NOT today and NOT ON DUTY! With my hand in the air towards this nurse who is by far shorter than me, I tell her to take a damn seat! Disgusting and the other orderlies are no where in site as usual, so she decides to sit her ass on a prison stool.
I grab Susan by her nasty ass hands and I tell her that she is Somebody! Not Something! I swear I wasn’t on some ole Jesse Jackson shit. I just needed Susan to know that what I was saying to her was true. It appears culturally, that well to do white people utilize the exchange of something for something else as a bargaining tool to move up. I could be wrong as hell and stereotyping, but this has just been a crazy observation of mine over the years. I look to her again and tell her that there is no way in hell that I am spending these relentless ass minutes, in this shit hole on something that I don’t believe is productive. Having said that, she is not something or somebody that I consider unproductive. I give her the same attitude that John gives me and tells her to stop all this damn crying and feeling sorry for herself. I explain to her that tons of people don’t have parents. Some have died, some lock you up in a closet for a few days when you are three with your little sister who is only 18 months, some parents don’t even know you exist or know where the hell you are, and some sell you at birth. Lucky for her, she got to know her parents and they were able to pass along to her things that no one else in the world would be able to give her. To take it a step further, they sent her ass to Law school and provided her the legacy of transforming a very prestigious law firm to an epicenter of hope for people like us who need legal help to fight the very personal battle that she and I are dealing with right now. Are you a fucking lawyer or not? Her focus needed to change from feeling like this parental death situation had something to do with her. It didn’t. What pisses me off is that I know that Susan has probably been to psychiatrist and psychologist way before any of this other stuff happened in her life, and because one or more of them were in the practice for the wrong damn reasons, they made her think that she really did have an issue, when she probably didn’t. This diagnosis fucked with her self esteem, made her question her every decision and movement in life. Got her to buy prescription drugs to “cure” the shit that was never a problem for her in the first place. The doctor got a kick back from the pharmaceutical company. They got paid and she got mentally fucked in the process. Hence, why we are holding nasty ass hands and she is weeping like she doesn’t have anywhere or anyone to turn to.
I then put my hand in her face and tell her to pretend that this shit is a mirror. “Bitch, you got you! You don’t need anybody else!” The tears suddenly stop and so does the rest of the room. Everyone is looking at me. I guess when I get mad or I am on one, I tend to take it there. To make sure that no one thinks that she and I are arguing, I tell her to pick another color crayon and we will sketch out the rest of our plan to get her ass out of here tomorrow. I give her a pound, which looks awkward as hell, cause she has no idea what the hell a pound is.
The nurse is still sitting in the prison seat with the two shots in her hands and I had totally forgotten about her. I am thinking to myself damn! I ask her if I can just be on the floor when she gives me my shot so I don’t bruise so damn bad from falling. She looks at me, puts the two needles in her scrub’s pocket. “You are one hell of a motivator.” She walks away. Disgusting yells…. “Visitation!”