3. Why Can’t You Be Nicer To Me?
THREE
WHY CAN’T YOU BE NICER TO ME?
MILA
“It’s always the pretty ones who snap. Why do you think that is?” I think she’s talking to me, but I don’t bother to acknowledge the woman. Her stare is quite nearly hot, her attention so purposefully directed at me, there’s no way to pretend I don’t notice.
But being talked at like I’m an animal behind a glass enclosure only makes me itch for violence, a need that can no longer be tempered by the dull monotony of humanity and most certainly can’t be held off by less than twenty milligrams of your favorite benzodiazepine.
“Heeelloooo?” She draws out the vowels, leaning in so close, it’s impossible to avoid her face.
She’s barely inches from me, but still, I pivot a hundred and eighty degrees in the opposite direction and give her my back.
Problem is, there’s no one else to talk to.
It’s three-fifteen, which means our ward has atrium time until a quarter to four.
It’s too cold out there for me, the air on full blast to mimic the outdoors, but I sigh in defeat, shoulders slumped as I power past the pushy, middle-aged woman.
I spot my roommate by herself, lips moving like she’s talking, even when the cigarette’s at her lips.
I beeline toward her, relieved just by her familiarity.
Too out of it to speak the first few days I’d been in—cycling through sedatives in the morning and sleeping pills at night to get through the weekend—it wasn’t until Tuesday morning that I finally got a good look at my roommate.
Poor thing has had to deal with my middle of the night freak-out rituals, and she’s consistently all smiles, despite the fact we both know I’m intolerable.
“Camila.” The smile reaches her eyes, a sincerity that’s hard to find in a place like this, but I somehow have a feeling she hasn’t been here much longer than me.
Her spirit is still somewhat intact.
“I hate to use you, but save me from the asshole lady please. Just pretend like we’re engaged in conversation.” My eyes are pleading, but hers are still soft, folding even more at the corners as she finds amusement in my desperation.
“Or hear me out: we could just actually talk.” She lifts a single eyebrow and grants me the opportunity to oblige, but I say nothing. With a sigh, she pushes again, tone less cheery and a bit more serious. “What happened last night?”
“Hard to explain.” I look down at my shredded cuticles, fighting the need to gnaw on them as a way out of this conversation.
I remind myself I asked for this, eyes darting through the atrium and accidentally meeting the stare of the woman whose only enjoyment is pushing other patients’ buttons.
I wrinkle my nose at her and mouth the words I hate you. Her mouth makes an O-shape, and she looks intent on walking our way, but I turn my head back to my roommate, giving her all my attention instead. “What’s your name?”
She bursts out laughing. “Seriously?”
My cheeks heat with shame. This is the first time we’ve actually interacted. Well, aside from when I’m screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night and she has to call the staff to get me sedatives.
“I-I’m sorry. It’s been a hell of a weekend.” I hang my head in shame.
“I’m just messing with you.” She bumps my shoulder with her own; it’s playful, and I’m filled with relief. “It’s Helana. Is this your first time?”
I don’t understand the question. “First time?”
“Inpatient.”
“Oh, yeah. You?”
She laughs. “No. Unfortunately, this is where I feel safest. I’m basically a regular here.”
“You feel safest around these lunatics?” I ask, not masking my astonishment.
Her amusement turns to hurt, like I’ve stabbed her soft psyche with a knife.
“That’s not nice. Everyone is going through something, whether in here or out there.
” She gestures beyond the walls of the sanatorium.
“The only difference between them out there and us in here is that someone else decided for us what normal looks like.”
“Sorry.” I shake my head, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that I’m here—”
“Involuntarily.” She nods. “Been there, done that.” Helana chuckles. “Get back to me when your internalized ableism is finally gone so you can see we’re not that different.”
“You come here on your own?” I cringe at the thought.
“Yeah. Psychosis is one hell of a drug. I don’t think I would be here today had my mom not brought me in at fifteen against my will.” She chuckles, but it’s an awkward one this time, less humor and more attempting to convince me she’s okay.
“And this time?” I prod.
“I can recognize when things are getting bad, when I need more support than what the outside world can provide. Doctor Valerian and I have a protocol set up now, checkpoints for me to look within and see where I’m at and what I need. When my foundation begins to crumble, I come back.”
I snort. “Sounds like you need a stronger foundation if it keeps crumbling.”
Helana shakes her head again, eyes piercing me like she sees through everything I am. “Some of us are given straw instead of brick and told to build a house. All we can do is keep stacking it, keep building. It doesn’t matter how many times the wolf blows it down—straw can never become brick.”
“So steal it.” I shrug. “If we aren’t all born with bricks, maybe sometimes, you just have to take them from someone else.”
I think of Demetri and how often he’s been the solid ground beneath me, how many times he’s lifted me up and kept me standing despite how wobbly my knees tend to get.
Helana smiles, using only half of her mouth. “What if you just lend me some of yours?”
Naya’s cackle is obscene, forcing me to wince through her loudness in my ear. “Yeah, yeah, give the crazy girl some of your crazy to use as support, that’ll work. Tell her how you killed your last best friend, but the vacancy isn’t quite open just yet.”
Helana notices my discomfort, her gaze pointed directly at where my dead former friend stands. “When you’ve got some to spare, that is.”
I chuckle. “I’ll let you know when that happens.”
“Two minutes until group,” the intercom warning screeches throughout the atrium with Nurse Joy’s voice, but there are at least two patients lighting a new cigarette instead of preparing to come inside.
I resign to the indoors, the air muddled by thick, nicotine-laced smoke that the plastic plants can’t filter out, the glass dome’s one vent working overtime to clear the oxygen for the smokers. It doesn’t make for the fresh air vibes I was so desperately craving.
Everyone’s a smoker when you’re in a psych ward. I realized that pretty early on. Nothing passes time quite like a self-harm tool disguised as a treat. I guess it’s better than a razorblade or a rope if it keeps us around a little longer.
Helana follows, not bothering to finish her cigarette first, simply handing it to a tall blond who’s been eyeing her throughout our conversation. He takes it, granting her a crooked smirk before bringing it to his own lips to keep the cherry lit.
I think they’re flirting, but I can’t tell in here.
Everyone is either overly nice, or they want you dead.
Actually, that seems to fit with the outside world too, so maybe it isn’t so different. Maybe Helana isn’t wrong. Maybe it’s just the walls that hold us and the foundation underneath us that grant an illusion of uniqueness.
I seem to be the only one who can see that below us all is a gaping abyss.
“I thought it was time for group therapy?” I ask the daytime charge nurse.
I think her name is Moira, but I can’t remember, and it’s too late now to ask again. I’d rather be ignorant than come off as rude.
“Doctor Valerian would like to see you instead in his office for one on one therapy.” She guides me through the hall behind the dormitories.
I’ve had a few private sessions with Doctor Valerian.
Guy’s a little off, for sure, but I guess you have to be when you’re surrounded by glass-fully-empty types all day long.
Still, he seems to want the best for all his patients, me included.
He took one look at me and pegged me for what no one else could see.
“You’re grieving,” he reassured me. “It’s normal. ”
Still, it wasn’t enough for him to sign the papers releasing me from my involuntary hold. He said everything was on my time, that there was no need to rush healing, that my old life and the real world would be waiting for me when I’m ready—assured me I wasn’t meant to be a permanent fixture here.
I guess he was referring to people like Helana, who end up frequent flyers, nearly ready to pose for a portrait to be hung on the wall of longtime achievers of Sunny Valley.
Still, there’s no promised date or time for when my hold will be up, as if there’s something he’s keeping from me about myself.
“Or maybe he knows he can’t help you. That what you want to call grief is actually murderous guilt!” Naya cackles in my ear, dancing in a circle around me. “Crazy bitch, crazy bitch, crazy, crazy, crazy bitch!” she sings on a perfectly haunting tune.
“He’s expecting you.” Moira gestures to his closed door, taking a few steps back and leaving me to take the final step, though she doesn’t stray far.
I lift a hand to knock, but my wrist resists. It’s a poor attempt, and my knuckles only hit twice.
“Come in.”
Reaching for the knob, I twist, pushing the door open to enter the world’s most boring office. No family photos, no semblance of social life, pets, or anything that makes him seemingly human—just a few degrees hung up on the wall, as if his academic accomplishments are the only ones that matter.
I’m cautious, hesitant to start conversation, but his gaze is still fixed on the screen in front of him. “You wanted to see me?”
His face keeps forward, ready to get back to the work on his laptop, but his eyes dart up beyond the frame of his glasses. There’s a small smile on his lips, but it’s only alive for a fraction of a second. “Sit.”
A hard lump forms in my throat. I struggle to swallow it down, so I just shake my head, gripping the chair in front of me. “Is something wrong?”
Dr. Valerian’s lips form a hard line, face full of empathy but his eyes stay empty of it. “It’s better if you sit.”
My knees buckle. Something inside feels dreadfully wrong, so I clutch the back of the chair even harder. I shake my head. “I-I think I’ll stand.”
The doctor clears his throat, eyes drifting back to the screen before he looks my way again. “Your fiancé came by last night.”
“Yes, we had a nice visit.” I can’t quite remember it, but I remember feeling good about seeing Demetri. I always feel good about Demetri.
“Did you?” His tone is a bit less empathetic now, dry, as he scrolls past something with his mouse before shifting to me again.
I frown, confused at the question. “Yes. I mean, I think so. I had already taken my nighttime medications, so it’s a bit fuzzy.”
He lifts a curious eyebrow. “Can you remember if he said anything out of the usual?”
I laugh. “I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, Doctor V.”
He’s not laughing. He’s not smiling either.
I know the confusion is written all over my face, but he isn’t telling me anything worth knowing, only attempting to pique my interest in the situation. “Did something happen?”
He smacks his lips, frustration and worry clearly weighing him down. “Your fiancé wanted us to let you know he won’t be visiting anymore.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”
“He left the message with Nurse Ferreira last night.”
My entire body begins to shake, palms sweating on the chair I’m now using to fully support me. “Why? Did something happen?” I repeat, this time a bit quieter.
“This is pretty common with long-term admittances like yours. We often see family members take on the hurt and absorb the pain in a secondary way, and they often find it best to create distance during the patient’s healing process.”
“Long-term?” I interrupt, picking up on only the few words that matter.
“Yes, Camila. We go through this almost daily now. Until we see results, it is best you stay inpatient for round-the-clock care.”
The lump in my throat obstructs my breathing, swelling my airways and making it impossible to push it down or work around. I reach for my neck, but the feeling doesn’t subside, doesn’t ease up. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“Breathe, Camila,” Dr. Valerian instructs, pushing his rolling chair away from the desk and finally giving me all his attention.
It’s a joke of a command. My throat is sealed shut, a prison of soft tissue collapsing in on itself as my lungs attempt to suck inwards.
He sighs loud enough that his frustration becomes a tangible thing, thickening the air and making it impossible to draw oxygen. I collapse to the floor, an obscene noise escaping my throat that resembles a dying frog.
“Camila, look at me.” Dr. Valerian is just a blur now; I can barely feel his presence, leaving me with a cold feeling while my vision goes dark.
I hear sounds, but the room is colorless—even the presence of heat dissipates around me.
“Let’s deliver a full milligram of Midazolam right now and get her prepped for procedure.”
“She’ll be dead with her bestie! Dead with her bestie!” Naya chants like a macaw in a cage, the jarring sound of her voice the only thing that stays with me as I fade.