Janie continued to haunt me while I was in the psych hospital. The doctors raised my anti-psychotic prescription dosage and I could barely stay awake.
My parents visited and told me they missed me and were glad the doctors gave me a higher dosage. "We can't wait for you to be normal again," they said, "we don't want to live with a psycho."
The other patients would laugh at me behind my back. I didn't care anymore. I talked with and yelled at Janie. I would cry when she taunted me and I would scream for her to go away. I seemed to do nothing but scratch myself until I bled. I considered using my paper-like pants to suffocate myself. I hated living.
The mental health specialists locked me up in a padded room. I sat in the corner, looking around quickly, terrified of when Janie would arrive.
She never did.
A few days passed and Janie didn't visit me. No one visited me, really. I was in solitary confinement. The only people I ever saw were the nurses who gave me my medications and meals.
I was beginning to think it was all in my head.
Seeing my progress, the doctor let me go back to my old room in the hospital and I was relieved. I hated that padded room.
Looking back, I wish I could've stayed.