Just got sprung


Hey hey! Miss McRicketts-McGee is back in action!

This post is a bit rambling!

Where was I? Well, according to one of my fellows, I was in a hotel. No fooling. That’s where she thought we were. Despite the strip search, photographs, and interview; your cell phone, belt, shoelaces, underwire bra, credit cards, and ID being taken away as contraband; the nurses, gowns, wristbands and locked doors; the people looking for you every fifteen minutes–even when you’re asleep–and checking your name off on a little sheet of paper, the medication dispensed, the cafeteria for the good boys and girls and the tray meals for the troublemakers, and the constant yelling, crying, pacing, and hysterical laughter. I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t pull up in an ambulance. Maybe she pulled up in a Rolls Royce.

I would also like to inform you that I have been diagnosed as a snotty bitch. This was by a fellow patient. He went apeshit on me Saturday night. See, I’m like honey to nasty old men. I don’t know why, but they fucking love me. Inside the nut hut is no exception. One nasty old man kept hitting on me. I kept shutting him down. Not in a rude way, but by not continuing conversations with him. I just didn’t throw the ball back. I have no interest in talking with someone about my dancing, my race, my body, my place of employment, my marital status, et cetera. All the letters. Et cetera. No, I will not be meeting you on the outside for coffee. No, you will not be coming by my work.  All this came to a head Saturday night when X left a wrapper for some cookies on the table.

“X, you’re not leaving that there, are you?” says I.

“No–and don’t you even worry about it. You’re just snotty. Snotty! You’ve been snotty since you got here! You’re just a snotty, rude person!” He hurls the wrapper at me. It’s light, so it twirls and lands on the floor, nowhere near me. Impotence in action.

I pick the wrapper and am leaving the room.

“Yeah, so rude and snotty! No regard for people! You, you–whatever you are! BITCH!”

I was sorely tempted to turn around and tell him, “Nigger, I am a nigger bitch, that’s what I am.” Because he would have called me that if he had known. Maybe just a Black bitch. He might have been too chicken to even utter the dreaded n-bomb. But I didn’t. I didn’t because I wanted to get released. The next day X apologized to the person sitting next to me, as if that would somehow be contagious and I would catch it, but he wouldn’t have to go through the discomfort of actually talking to me with humility.

I was on a 5150 (72 hour hold, danger to self) but had been threatened by the staff psychiatrist with a 5250 (14 day hold) if I didn’t behave. I had to sign in for an extra day as “voluntary” because the psychiatrist threatened me with the 5250 if I didn’t. So although I was “voluntary,” I couldn’t leave. I was going to go through the hearing process (a hearing with a patient’s rights worker and I don’t know who else) to get the fuck out of there if they didn’t release me today.

Because the thing is, I feel fine today. They took me off the Kayoed Friday night, cold turkey. That was rough. I had night terrors. I kept half waking up, still unable to move and dreaming a little. I dreamt that my roommates (we were three to a room) were touching me. Now, I was roomed with two people who wouldn’t hurt a fly (severe paranoid and a severe depressive), but the medication had me tripping. It didn’t help that one said in her sleep, “Excuse me, excuse me!” and the other said, “It’s really different in here.” Also, as I mentioned, they check on you every fifteen minutes. So they open the door to the hall and look at you every fifteen minutes to make sure you’re still breathing and no one is trying to stop you from breathing. But the next day, I felt fine. No suicidal ideations at all. And I was never going to follow through, y’all.

I didn’t use drugs while I was in there. They had lots of Ativan and Valium and encouraged patients to take them so they were more manageable. They offered me sleeping pills, too. I declined them all and just felt uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. I didn’t take a shit until today, and even then hardly anything came out.

Oh, and if you didn’t know, I am very high-functioning, for a crazy person. I don’t scream, I don’t break into tears or hysterical laughter, I don’t pace the halls. I don’t threaten people. I don’t sleep all day and night. I communicate in a rational manner. I have a strong social network. I have friends. People called me constantly to check on me.

I will give you some tastes of crazy tomorrow as well. But I will leave you with this one. Someone gave me her phone number as I was leaving. She wrote on it where I met her with the address, and what date, day of the week and time (1:42 pm) it was when she wrote the message down. Then at the bottom it says this:

But will be changing my name @ the Oakland Vital Statistics and make some changes with banks and business

I couldn’t make that up if I tried.



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  2. Pingback: Oh, you fuckers. You fucking fucks. Fuck you, too | Occipital Hazard

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