The Window

A lot of important details I've forgotten. The majority of what was said by the doctors, nurses, and the slew of other professionals that fluttered in and out of my sphere of reality. The things I revealed about myself during sessions, crying spells, and tantrums. The promises I made with the intent on breaking. The promises others made and never planned on keeping. The manipulation spilled from everyone's lips in hopes of gaining the advantage. All of this I remember, but not scrupulously. Sometimes, I wonder if these details have been blocked out of my conscious memory for sanity or even survival purposes. What I do remember with phenomenal ease are all the inconsequential bits of my days spent in the psyche ward. I woke up still disoriented from the trauma of the day before, and probably a bit from the drugs too. I was dressed in jeans and an oversized hospital gown. My shirt had been permanently stained with charcoal from the evening before. I saw it as an ever-present testament to my soon to be infamous suicide attempt. I stumbled into a room dotted with nurses and a line of kids, my inmates if you will, standing before a cart containing today's breakfast. Dazed, I sat in the chair furthest from everyone. Almost immediately upon my admittance I identified the doctors and nurses as my vindictive adversaries. They couldn't help. They were of no use to my "recovery". The patients, I sadly discovered were no better candidates for allies. Many of them were quite literally insane. And the others were either narcissists or petty "drama queens", probably the latter. The only common bond any of us seemed to share was the feeling of knowing you are locked away. And this feeling of unjust imprisonment festered inside me. I spent most of my time in the room I shared with a delusional schizophrenic girl. My roommate seemed almost average compared to the other patients I shared my world with now. Though she was hardly normal. I was frequently caught off guard by sudden bursts of giggles that would expel from her at any given moments. When I interrogated her as to what was so funny, she merely pointed to the wall and asked "don't you see it?" No, apparently not. With civil communication seemly impossible, I withdrew more and more inside myself. I found salvation in the most unlikely area of my hospital domain. A large double pane window taking over one wall of my room was the one to sooth my anxieties. The window didn't open and even if it did I was stationed too high above the ground floor. I didn't even consider it as a tool to help me escape. Frankly, I would have been stupid to try. My window served a greater purpose. During my free time, when I wasn't in one of many therapy sessions, I would position myself up top the desk that had been placed beneath the window. And sitting with my legs crossed, I would watch people conduct their lives from the city streets below me. I would watch these people that were completely oblivious to my human silhouette. They had no idea what was going on behind the walls of the hospital. And they had no idea I was watching them. This fascinated me. I would manage to sit in the same position for hours. There was a bouquet of fast food restaurants directly across the street from my window. And during lunchtime the intersection located below me would become alive with hungry people, more so than any other part of the day. It was during this time of day I would see some of the employees that supervised my peers and I as they were released from the world of the insane to eat lunch. It was odd seeing some of them interact with those who weren't socially inept. And even though I couldn't hear the conversations they shared with their friends, I imagined the things they were talking about. I imagined the events that had occurred in their lives beyond their place of employment, beyond the loony bin. And for some reason I found peace in this. I managed to project myself into this world I created for other people and for some reason it brought me some sort of deliverance. I'm sure I should have left the hospital with a better understanding of my disease and myself. I'm sure I should have learned better coping skills or something of that nature. Perhaps, I should have come to terms with many of my demons during my stay, but I figure I brought back what I needed to survive. Despite the fact that many professionals would probably say otherwise, that I shouldn't have focused all my energy on the pretend lives of other people. Still, it must have done me some sort of good. I mean, after all, I haven't been back.