I was lying in my bed. Waiting for my being discharged. I was finally going home today, after four long years.
The room I had been staying in was white. The walls, bed sheets, equipment; everything. Except the big, brown door that lead into the hallway. I had mostly stayed in my room the past years. I’m a bit antisocial. I never was really interested in interacting with the other patients.
I stood from the bed, and walked around the room. Looking at all the things I’d come to know here. I wouldn’t miss it.
I wished it had never happened. Maybe if I’d never been diagnosed, it wouldn’t have happened. I was only fourteen when they did the first tests.
They diagnosed me fully at fifteen. I was in the psychiatrist’s office. The walls were pale blue, the table I was sitting on was white. The doctor, Dr. Anozi, was an older man. He had graying hair, and a wrinkling face. Dr. Anozi had tired grey eyes, too. He had a strong voice, and he was tall.
I had my hair fan-spiked in the back, with bangs in my face. I wore tight black jeans, with a bright blue tee-shirt. It had a pink monster on the front. I also wore pink fingerless gloves.
As soon as he saw me, he told me I had manic depression. I suppose he judged me by my cover. I remember him asking me questions. The questions were about hallucinations, feelings, and compulsions.
“I have visions of this black, crocodile-like thing. It has red eyes, with deep black pupils. It watches me.” Dr. Anozi had scribbled it down on a piece of paper. I told him of visions of death (my own, and of others). I also said, if I didn’t rub, or touch a certain thing six times, I felt anxious. Every now, and again it would be without reason.
He sent me down the hall to get a cat scan. It took around twenty minutes. I came back in the room to find the results on the computer. It had a picture of a normal brain on the let, and mine on the right , There were distinct differences.
Dr. Anozi came back into the room.
“The results of your cat scan, questioning, observation, and previous MRI,” before this appointment I had been sent to get an MRI at the neurologists. And Dr. Anozi observed me for a week. “Indicate that you have severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, tourette syndrome, bipolar mood disorder, paranoid personality disorder, a bit of dissociative identity disorder, and the beginnings of schizophrenia,” my jaw dropped. My mother teared up, and left the room.
Dr. Anozi gave me a few medicines to slow the progressions of the schizophrenia, and DID (dissociative identity disorder; also get used to seeing these acronyms).
The medication had worked, too. At least until a few months after my seventeenth birthday. After a big thunderstorm, I went into a paranoid state. My paranoia clashed with my bipolar mood disorder. When they clashed I had a mental breakdown.
Dr. Anozi sent me to live in a mental institution until I was in full control of myself. I had been for the past year, but he wanted to make sure.
I was back on my regular medications, and I returned to my normal symptoms. He was still weary of the discharge.
The nurse walked in with my forms.
“Are you ready to go home, Mr. Demidov?” asked the nurse. She had on scrubs, I guessed she was going into surgery soon. She wasn’t my regular nurse, this was one I hadn’t seen before.
“I’ve been for a long, long time,” I said as she helped me put my jacket on. I was dressed in my normal attire. Black pants, black button-up shirt (three-quarter sleeve. Believe it or not it gets warm in New York), black shoes, and a black suede jacket.
“I’m sure you have,” she looked at me with her piercing green eyes. Blonde wisps of hair escaped her cap. “Come along, Mr. Demidov.”
It was required a nurse walk you out. I don’t see the reason, it’s not like I’m going to break down in the outside lot, and kill someone for God’s sake.
We went out of the room, and down the hall. The hall walls were painted a light blue. There was a big desk in the middle, it was the doctor’s station. There weren’t many there today. Most were off on Saturdays.
“Can you wait here a moment, I need to talk to Deborah,” the nurse said, gesturing to the only person over at the desk. Deborah was my usual nurse. She had curly brown hair, with brown eyes, and glasses. She had a pinkish complexion, and Deborah was a little chubby. She was about mid to late thirties. Her personality was much younger, though, which made her fun to hang around.