Psychological Affairs

Chapter Thirty-Two: Medication

Thursday, January 31st, 2008

Lithium, Divalproex, Carbamazepine. Valium, Ativan, Xanax. Haldol, Zyprexa, Clozaril.

            I am high; the brink of my insanity. Entrapped into a monochromatic, silent white cage with the windows locked so that I won’t take the easy way out and runaway. I see/saw my life as it was. A future of probable incarcerations and sedations; either I comply to their rules or I’ll just rot here.

            I laid here; a dead figure with drool dripping down her chin. I am Insanity; a child of abnormal behavior and the vast notebooks of psychological analyzations and evaluations. I am not human anymore, I’m dead. I am nothing but mood stabilizers, antidepressants, antipsychotics, and anxiolytics-being maintained by the Omega-3s daily for their pleasure.

            I am no longer Michael Johanson; but Michael Johanson, a patient with Borderline Personality Disorder. I am not Michael, but a disorder.  I am not black nor am I white. I am pills; small red ones, large white capsules, and medium sized blue ones. You are branded with a white bracelet (e.g. #103191BPD) and that is who you are. You’re not Michael, Kate, or Hilary; you are prisoner #103191BPD.

            I am a slave to this institution; merely an experiment, a test dummy. I am forced to talk to “professionals” with degrees from here to there; board certified too. They expect me to tell them my hopes, dreams, secrets and fears. What good is telling a “professional” anything if you legally can barely say a sentence without being called a psychotic? You will be judged, if anything, you will be humiliated. Your life is no longer yours; it is planned like a Communist government. You are taught how to act, how to speak, how to feel, how and when to eat, how and when to sleep, and when to wake up. You have no privacy; experiments don’t get that privilege. If you’re me, you don’t get to enjoy the privileges of fresh air.

            What can I do in here? I thought about suicide, but with what? Belts, shoe laces, and anything you can hang, cut, suffocate, drunken, or torture yourself with is/was/gets confiscated. Not even banging your head on the door doesn’t do anything but give you a bad headache, possible sedation and time in the isolation room, and points off. I am tired of resisting.

            I looked at my hand; thin fingers attached to a hand with visible green colored veins showing through my coloring. I bit into the sides of it, biting until I felt pressure on my bones. I felt my teeth sink into my skin; my/their/its blood slowly dripped into my mouth. I’m a little bit more alive.

Now

Another long day of work. More files, appeals, and schedules.

            I walked up Chris’ doorsteps and rang his doorbell. I waited until he finally opened the door. We both flashed each other smiles. He moved himself to the side and allowed me in.

“Sit. I’ll join you in a minute.”

            I shrugged, walking over to a sofa and sitting down on it. I sat back and closed my eyes while rubbing my temples.

“You okay?” Chris asked.

            I opened my eyes to him who was infront me. He looked very concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just tired.”

“I noticed that you came here later than you usually do. Weren’t you supposed to get off work two hours ago?”

“I had to finish these documents for my boss’ case. It was very important that I finish it today.”

“Oh.” He nodded.