The people here terrify me. They watch, observe, take notes, feed me pills, use words that I don't know to describe things I don't know about. I don't honestly remember why I'm even here anymore.
Last thing I remember was making dinner for my family. We lived in a decently sized ranch style home. The basement even had settling cracks along the foundation. We had been there for five years. My husband and I had been together for eight years. Within the first year of marriage I became pregnant with our son Timothy. He was born on time, a fine and fit baby he was. Eight pounds exactly, such a pleasing weight to the arms. It was as if your arms new just by holding him that he was well.
Two years later I was pregnant with our daughter. We named her wednesday, she was born on a Wednesday as well, as luck should have it. A beautiful baby she was, seven and a half pounds. Petite, yet strong. "She could hold her own!" said my husband, Johnathan.
Johnathan was a hearty, strong, well versed working man. He was quiet alot, but when he spoke, it moved mountains. The deep voice boomed through the house. Never a raised voice, though.
His ways were tested in the fifth year of our marriage. We tried for another child. Seven months in I had a miscarriage. I was very sick. They kept me in the hospital for some time. Very weak, small appetite, lackadaisical demeanor with similar motivation. I was very much so in the doldrums. Even Johnathan and the childrens voices couldn't pull me out.
It seemed hopeless. Johnathan's eyes dulled considerably with every visit. That was my turning point, I believe. I began to regain my strength, my motivation. He didn't come for a week, once. That was my breakthrough. I stood and walked to the nurses station with a smile. I told them, "I would like to go home now."They looked puzzled, but they grabbed the telephone and called John to tell him the news. He was ecstatic, as was Timothy and Wednesday.
They arrived in the old Cadillac we owned. I missed the smell of the interior. I must have fallen asleep in the passenger seat.
But when I woke. I was at the stove. My right hand in a mitten, my left elbow on my hip, my right hand hanging in the air with such grace. I had my polka dot apron on, with the appropriate rags in the pockets. I opened the stove and pulled out the meatloaf, which somehow I knew was in there.
Johnathan was no where to be found. Neither were the children. I still don't know where they are. I ask the doctors daily, I tell them, "I'm better! Tell Johnathan to come get me!" But they never listen. They just look disheartened and walk away. I WANT OUT. I miss my husband. My children.
Please pass along to whomever you can. I need a higher authority to tell these men and women that I'm better and that I can leave now.
I beg of you.
Written by Abigail Williams.
Sunshine Manor (care institute)
1590 Mule ST
Patient showing signs of severe PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), generalized anxiety disorder, depersonalization disorder, manic depressive tendencies, occasional schizophrenia. After her court dates she was sent to us for mental evaluation. She was ruled out of life in prison by insanity. It was a unanimous decision.
Daily medication dosages have stayed relatively average. She shows signs of progression from time to time. Regression is still prominent. Twenty-four hour surveillance starts next week for qualification of new treatments.
No comments:
Post a Comment