I Know
You want words? Fine, here are words. Here are words that will just come spewing out to make you happy, because I don't even know what to say or who I am or who I am even talking to. You people here act like I am just holding out on you. If you just keep beating on me enough, eventually I'll tire of the little game I'm playing and fess up, tell you everything you want to know, including why I'm doing this and that I'll stop now. And then give you credit for it.
You want to know what I know?
Here's what I know, you bastards.
I know that this place sucks ass. It is cold and grimy and way more filthy than you would ever imagine. It is a hospital, a mental hospital, and I don't know if it's its own entity, or just a ward attached to something else. Hell, maybe it's not even a hospital; what do I know? How could I tell? I couldn't, that's the thing. You people have me in an environment where it is impossible to discern what is reality and what isn't, and then expect me to come up with not only your version, but my own inner one as well.
Okay, deep breath. But you want words. Deeper breath. I hate giving you words. Because as soon as I start letting them out, they start ripping out of me faster and faster until I realize I am not remotely in control and the words have little to do with the me that is lost in their current and wind. You want my words? I gotta slow down. A cigarette would be nice, too, if you could see it in your little hearts to slide me one next time.
I know that my feet are cold. And dirty. Again, I mention the dirt in here. It's unprecendented, really, not that I would have any idea what the precedent for looney bin hygiene is. But I imagine it certainly to be cleaner than here. I am tempted now to say that I don't know a hell of a lot about what 'here' is, but that will send me into a negative and frustrating spiral that ends with an irreparable word clog. Must stick with what I know.
I know that my toenails have looked better. That if I were sleeping on silk sheets, the snagging would keep me awake all night. And that I may not even remember what a pillow looks like, because the fucking slabs of foam in here are most certainly NOT pillows, thankyouverymuch.
I also know that it is dinnertime, because the bell is ringing. A large, rusty, stinky (I do not know why, but this bitch reeks like ass) tell, like an teacher's bell from Little House on the Prairie (if only...) sits on the counter between the ladies that cook and us that craze, and it is rung by one different inmate/patient/captive/loser per day, at each meal. It is a type of privilege to be invited to ring the bell, and I was so honored last night, and I would like to tell you which night of my stay here that was, but that would be dipping back into the realm of the "I don't know."
I have to write fifty of these stupid Expressive Explorations, which is of course a stupid name for what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing, though, so I guess I'm not a good judge.
I know that I am not really the way you are perceiving me. My real self is actually quite nice, not a whiner, and very optimistic, in way. I don't know---oops. I somehow got trapped in this wrapping of a person who is not me, and I can't find my way out.
You want to know what I know?
Here's what I know, you bastards.
I know that this place sucks ass. It is cold and grimy and way more filthy than you would ever imagine. It is a hospital, a mental hospital, and I don't know if it's its own entity, or just a ward attached to something else. Hell, maybe it's not even a hospital; what do I know? How could I tell? I couldn't, that's the thing. You people have me in an environment where it is impossible to discern what is reality and what isn't, and then expect me to come up with not only your version, but my own inner one as well.
Okay, deep breath. But you want words. Deeper breath. I hate giving you words. Because as soon as I start letting them out, they start ripping out of me faster and faster until I realize I am not remotely in control and the words have little to do with the me that is lost in their current and wind. You want my words? I gotta slow down. A cigarette would be nice, too, if you could see it in your little hearts to slide me one next time.
I know that my feet are cold. And dirty. Again, I mention the dirt in here. It's unprecendented, really, not that I would have any idea what the precedent for looney bin hygiene is. But I imagine it certainly to be cleaner than here. I am tempted now to say that I don't know a hell of a lot about what 'here' is, but that will send me into a negative and frustrating spiral that ends with an irreparable word clog. Must stick with what I know.
I know that my toenails have looked better. That if I were sleeping on silk sheets, the snagging would keep me awake all night. And that I may not even remember what a pillow looks like, because the fucking slabs of foam in here are most certainly NOT pillows, thankyouverymuch.
I also know that it is dinnertime, because the bell is ringing. A large, rusty, stinky (I do not know why, but this bitch reeks like ass) tell, like an teacher's bell from Little House on the Prairie (if only...) sits on the counter between the ladies that cook and us that craze, and it is rung by one different inmate/patient/captive/loser per day, at each meal. It is a type of privilege to be invited to ring the bell, and I was so honored last night, and I would like to tell you which night of my stay here that was, but that would be dipping back into the realm of the "I don't know."
I have to write fifty of these stupid Expressive Explorations, which is of course a stupid name for what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing, though, so I guess I'm not a good judge.
I know that I am not really the way you are perceiving me. My real self is actually quite nice, not a whiner, and very optimistic, in way. I don't know---oops. I somehow got trapped in this wrapping of a person who is not me, and I can't find my way out.
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