I blink and there’s a blank room with two beds, two dressers, two scared strangers. If you squint your eyes just right, this could look like my first dorm room. Does college smell this much like sorrow? Can you hear so much crying through the walls?
All I can do is listen. They say I can’t talk for a few days because my throat is so raw. I cough up little specs of blood. They give me lozenges that taste like sadness. God has finally found a way to shut me up.
This is not real life. This is frost.
We’re not allowed to wear shoes. Regular clothes are fine, but something about shoes must threaten our sanity. They give us these little brown ankle socks, one size fits all, with the little white rubber pads on the bottom to keep us from slipping. What kind of trouble could you get in with shoes? Maybe you could hang yourself with the shoelaces. Or maybe you could run faster. Maybe you could stand just a little more sturdy.
Every two hours, I open my mouth, I lift my arm up. The thermometer tells them I’m still human. My blood pressure says my heart’s still beating, or whatever blood pressure is supposed to tell. In two hours, maybe not, and then they’ll have to check again. My vital signs like clockwork.
I’m becoming a chemical concoction. The doctor says I may be on Lithium for the rest of my life. Plus there’s Zoloft for the depression. Ativan so I can sleep. Something else whose name I forget.
Apple juice in little cartons. Jell-O in single-serving cups.
I can project myself into these hallways. I can make myself a hologram. I walk around, in and out of rooms and chairs. I do what they tell me, no more, no less, and nobody knows that I’m not really here. The real me is somewhere else, safe for the time being in some shoe box or suitcase, an inconspicuous home for a soul.