Institutionalized

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It was kind of like a moment of truth for me. Jackie was leading me to my room – to my roommate. Finally, everything was clear to me; I really must be nuts. I mean, I was so convinced that nothing was wrong with me that I almost thought they’d let me go home. I know that sounds ridiculous but I didn’t really know how to feel about my new situation.

Jackie was telling me about how this was my home now until I turned 21, unless treatment went “successfully”, then they might let me out earlier. The only other way out would be if one of my parents signed me out, which wasn’t bloody likely. Apparently, in the country of West Wood Sanatorium they consider you a minor until you’re 21. I was kind of wondering why Don referred to me as a minor, while I’m 18. It’s like this place has its own set of laws which disregard all provincial and federal laws that everyone else in the country has to abide by.

We passed by the security guard from earlier. He was completely passed out this time and didn’t even stir in his sleep as we passed by. I followed Jackie around the corner into the dark hallway we’d gone by earlier.

I noticed several things about the hallway almost instantly. Besides the blood red cement walls and the (patients) doors lining either side; this hallways was purposely kept dark. There were probably at least 10 or 12 light fixtures along the ceiling, yet only four actually had light bulbs in them. But I have to admit, the most interesting/terrifying thing about the hallway was the clip boards, one or two on each door.

I couldn’t decipher what the papers in the clipboards read because of the dim lighting, but from what I gathered, they were patient portfolios.

We stopped at the end of the hallway, in front of the only door along this far wall. Unlike the other clipboards, I could read this one now that we weren’t walking. I had to squint in the dim lighting. This is what I read:


Name: Lucius Vicious
Current Age: 18
Admittance Year: 2007
Term Spent: 4.5 years
Recognizable Disorders: DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder)…


Jackie dropped her hand on my shoulder, making me jump. I turned to her, startled; disregarding my reading. Was my information going to soon be displayed for everyone to see?

“Does this...” I said, pointing to my roommate’s clipboard, “Mean he has split personalities?”

“Well, we don’t really call it that anymore...”

“But that’s what it is, right?” I asked, cutting her off.

“He does suffer from the disorder, yes,” she responded in a hushed voice before continuing. “Lucius isn’t aware of his disorder, that, or he refuses to acknowledge it. It’s probably best for you to humor each of his personalities and to not mention the others, especially to Lucius.” I stared at her in shock.

“You’re fucking mental if you think I’m not going to say anything,” I responded, dead serious. I crossed my arms over my chest, giving her a defiant look.

“Listen Salem, it’s for the best. I really feel you’ll get along together. Just remember, if he’s speaking as an ‘other’, he’s still himself. Each personality he displays is just a part of who he is,” she told me, matter-of-factly; giving me a measuring look.

“I can’t handle this,” I replied running my hands through my knotted hair. “This is too fucking complicated.”

“Relax. Sometimes people with DID relate to their true selves. Lucius’ ‘others’ don’t have different names like some people with this disorder, also his identities are not as obvious and he doesn’t seem to lose time,” she told me, glancing away at a clipboard I hadn’t noticed she was carrying. She jotted something down hastily before sliding the pen back in her pocket.

It didn’t matter either way; I knew she was full of shit. I’d seen my fair share of psychologists and knew about every possible mental disorder I might, but don’t, have; and I knew from the sounds of it, that he really didn’t have split personalities. Also, the uneducated/unprofessional way she was talking to me about Lucius was disturbing.

I said nothing.

“It may take some getting used to Salem, but this place really isn’t that bad. Tomorrow might be stressful meeting all the residents and nurses...”

“I don’t give a fuck about anyone here,” I barked, cutting her off. “Are we going to sit in a circle, hold hands, and play the fucking name game?” I asked, sarcastically.

“Look, Salem...” she began, then started jotting something down on the clipboard while she talked, “Everyone is very nice and I know you’re angry right now, but...”

“What are you writing?” I demanded, cutting her off again.

“Personal notes; it’s none of your business,” she replied, her tone daring me to object.

I easily grabbed the clipboard out of her hand, and held it out of her reach as she immediately tried to grab it back.

“Give it to me. This is very inappropriate, Mr. Cryztol,” she said seriously, though her eyes were begging.

I ignored her and glanced at the clipboard. My name was scribbled at the top of a piece of paper. Underneath she had written notes; in point form, about what she thought of me: angry - overly anxious - rebellious nature - demanding attitude - crude language - lack of co-operation - rude and ignorant - lacks open-mindedness - cantankerous - disrespectful.

“Fucking bitch. How can you be making assumptions like this about me under these circumstances? And where do you get off telling me I lack open mindedness? You haven’t even read my file for fuck sakes!” I yelled at her, my irritation for the situation increased ten-fold. If she was a he, I would have hit him. “Bitch,” I repeated instead.

My face stung so instantly that it took me a moment to realize she’d slapped me. I dropped the clipboard and brought my hand to my face in slow motion. Jackie stared at me, looking as shocked as I probably did.

“I-I’m sorry...I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never hit anyone before,” she said, sincerely, although her voice was shaking. She was clearly anticipating my next move.

I chuckled and dropped my hand from my face to my side, causing her to jump in alarm. “I suppose I deserved that regardless of how unorthodox it was,” I replied, bewildered and shocked, but somehow no longer angry.

“Maybe we will get along after all,” she said, then hesitantly, “You’re not going to report me, are you?”

“No, I guess not,” I replied sounding indifferent.

“I’ve never hit anyone,” she repeated, sounding almost bewildered.

“Well don’t worry it wasn’t the first time I’ve been slapped by a girl,” I replied.

“I can’t imagine why,” she replied with a cocky grin, leaning against the wall. I did the same opposite her. “What would really make a girl slap you?”

“You just did, can’t you remember why?” I replied sarcastically. “Besides, I get in lots of fights; people don’t really like me where I’m from…but I’m not much of a fighter, I mean, I’m scrappy but I can’t take a punch.”

"So you run your mouth and get into fights?"

“Yeah, sort of. Usually they say shit to me and I'm only defending myself. I’m from a small town and everyone knows everyone’s business, so when my parents saw my scars and started sending me to all kinds of shrinks, the whole town knew,” I said, realizing maybe I had said too much.

“Everyone knew of the scars, or the doctors?” she asked, her curiosity peeked.

“Everyone already knew about my scars; that was nothing new. It was just...I don’t know, humiliating to think my parents thought I needed that...that they think I need this place,” I replied uneasily; vaguely gesturing around myself.

“Don’t you think, from what you just told me, that maybe you do need this place?” she asked, not sounding the least judgmental.

“Why? Because I cut myself and get into fights? I don’t think that’s severe enough to constitute putting me in a mental institution,” I said, feeling defensive.

“It isn’t normal behavior, Salem. You shouldn’t need to cut yourself as a release mechanism.”

“That’s not it. You don’t know anything about me.”

“Well, I’d like to, I know all the patients fairly well, and they all feel comfortable talking to me; I hope you will too,” she paused, “Wont you please show me your scars?” she added as an afterthought.

“Why is everyone so interested?” I asked, bewildered.

“Well, I’m only interested because everyone else who’s seen seems so interested,” she replied, in a confusing chorus of words.

I silently rolled up the sleeves to Don’s sweater, revealing my pale arms, marred with mostly pink scars; some were so old they appeared white. She gasped, looking briefly horrified, before her face became curious.

Showing her my arms was nothing, considering my whole body was covered in scars like these. The only difference was the two large scars running the length of both my wrists from when I tried to kill myself. The rest of my arms, from shoulder to fingers were scarred with various designs and swirls, tiny pictures and stick people, games of tic-tac-toe, doodles, symbols, phone numbers and names all carved into my flesh by mostly myself, but also my brother with a scalpel stolen from my dads medical kit.

I never picked my scabs, and the sharp scalpel made for perfect lines, making my scars morbidly artistic. I don’t know what initially turned the angry lines on my arms into designs and pictures, but I did know that I was more addicted to the pain it caused than the relief I felt from doing it.

Jackie hesitantly ran her finger tips over newer marking that hadn’t quite healed yet. She looked me in the eyes like a deer caught in the headlights.

“I don’t understand why...” was all she said.

“You don’t have to understand anything about me. Most people don’t.”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know you,” I pointed out. There was a long stretch of silence.

“But you showed me your scars, why can’t you tell…”

“It’s completely different. I don’t care if you see them; I can’t hide it, obviously,” I cut her off, feeling annoyed at her persistence.

“Well, you’re probably tired, I should be letting you into your room now,” she said, changing the subject, much to my relief. I picked up her clipboard and handed it back to her, sneaking the pen into my back pocket.

“Sure, sounds good,” I replied, not looking at her.

“When you go into the room it will be dark. There’s a bed to the left and one slightly right of the door straight ahead. Between the beds will be a small table with a lamp, your mandatory clothing will be on your bed. There is a washroom in the corner, the door is directly to your right once you’re inside the room; there’s a small lamp in there too,” she explained professionally. Although I was surprised each room had a washroom.

“Okay, thanks Jackie.”

“Be quiet and don’t wake Lucius, its late. I told him to wake you up in the morning, which is 7am for you from now on.”

I groaned. “That’s too early. I’ll die...I’ll just die if I have to wake up at 7 every day,” I complained dramatically.

“You’ll get used to it,” Jackie replied while sliding a key in the door. She put a finger to her lips and pushed the door open.

I walked into the darkness slowly, not bothering to look back at Jackie. There was a small window at the top of the room, but it barely let in any moonlight. The door clicked shut behind me and I was left in the darkness, disorientated, the room was silent except for my roommates’ quiet breathing. I let out a slow breath and crept towards the lamp...I think...

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