Sam

Her name was Sam. At least that's what I would have named her from afar. It didn't matter what she called herself. She was real. Petite too; 5'5" and barely scratching a hundred pounds. She reminded me of a bopper from the 20s with wavy brown hair cut just below the ears. She said she was a painter, sometimes a sculpter. She could've been my younger sister. I could've kissed her. Instead we talked as we walked along the hallways of floor 7G of Roosevelt Hospital--the psych ward.

"I was getting pulled by the wind," she said. "I had just left my ex-boyfriend's--I mean my boyfriend's. The wind kept pulling me until finally I was against the door of this building. Then I went inside, and I saw these empty white walls and I figured I'd make an exhibit. Performance art you know. So I started swirling in circles. There was this audience but they didn't get it. They kept trying to stop me. Someone called the police."

"What'd you do?" I asked.

"I kept spinning. Then they came and brought me here."

"That's pretty funny."

"At least you got it." She smiled. "Aside from you, there's not much to do here."

I laughed. "Welcome to hell. The food isn't so bad though."

Awkward silence.

"So you from New York?" I asked.

"California and Connecticut. I've been here for six months. I stayed with my boyfriend for a couple of days. Then we broke up. I moved in with some friends I met. What about you?"

"Ohio. I don't really live here, just sort of passing through. I actually drove here."

"And then you end up in the hospital?" she asked.

"Something like that, yeah. Once I got here I started walking. I parked my car, got out, and just started moving. I even stayed in a shelter for three days. Then I walked here."

"I do that a lot. Walk around."

"You move in circles too."

She laughed. "Yeah, that too. You know they gave me a shot to calm down." She held out her shoulder where there was a band aid.

"Holdrol?"

"Benadryl. No, maybe that one. I don't know. I didn't like it. It made my heart slow down."

"They once put me in restraints. Tied me down with leather straps. I wasn't even violent. Just arguing with a nurse."

"They did that to me in the back of the ambulance. Just my wrists thought."

"Have you taken the medication?" I asked.

"I refused," she replied.

"They're just placebos anyway. That's what irritates me about mental health. It's all bullshit without any true science to back it up. I mean, how can they diagnose me bipolar when they can't even scientifically or medically explain what bipolar is? You know they vote on what qualifies as a disorder." I feel satisfied airing out my views.

"I once read through their book, the DSM. There's some weird disorders in there."

A nurse interrupted our walk. to talk with Sam. I told her I'd see her around.

The beauty of Sam was how she took everything so lightly. She would laugh, wave off the doctors, not worry about the seriousness of life. She told me she had gone to college for a semester to study art. She dropped out, came to New York. No job. Life was hallway to walk down. I felt relieved in her company.

Later on, watching, I joked that she would have been a stand in for a Chaplin film.

"I bet you would look great in overalls," I said.

"I own three pairs," she replied. "How'd you know?"

"Just that look about you."

"Thank you."

Sitting there at the table in the TV room, I wrote her a poem. A gift of words the best I could give her at the moment. I wrote it on a paper towel because the nurse wouldn't give me paper. I swallowed my shyness and let Sam read it. It brought a smile to her face. That was good enough. There's a thin line between romance and hyperbole. The words can their best to capture a moment in time, a feeling. Memory is the only true camcorder.

She made a painting for me in return. Right on a Bran Flakes cereal box. I thanked her but deep down I knew that it's the things that go unsaid that makes a bond permanent. What we had together, if only briefly, was an unspoken friendship. Two days in a psych-ward. It doesn't get more real than that.

Later that night, sitting across from each, we ate Oreos with our feet tucked beneath us.

"We should call today a date," she said.

"That was the cheapest date I've been on." Without much segueway, I added, "I'm going home tomorrow."

"That's too bad."

"I wish I could stay but the shelter isn't going to do it. I need to establish myself here one day. You should come to Ohio. We've got a great art museum."

"Where is at?" she asked.

"Toledo. Right on the northwest corner of the state. Not much there, but if you're ever passing through."

"I'm going to St. Louis pretty soon. I have some friends I want to see. That's not too far from Ohio."

"I have an aunt who lives in Missouri. We could take a road trip. Ohio's only 12 hours away."

"I'm going to miss you," she whispered.

I wrote down my phone number on a paper towel with a marker. The hospital didn't allow pens either.

"We'll keep in touch," I lied.

"When you come to New York again, we'll be friends right?"

My heart sank. For once I didn't want to leave the hospital. "You'll be the only person I look up," I lied.

I hugged her before going to bed, regretting not having kissed her.

The next day we shared lunch together and then went to art therapy group. In the middle drawing black lines on a sheet of paper a nurse came in said my dad was here. Sam and I hugged again before I said goodbye. I regretted not kissing her.

Path of Least Resistance

Walking down a dilapidated pier
Toward an uneventful horizon
Save for a blooming ominous cloud
Spreading its wings over the horizon.

A cool breeze blows against me
Pushing me back from the edge
Circles spread out like pulses
Where a boy spits in the blue.

When all directions point forward
Saving grace lies in the unfolding doom
Knowing full well home is behind me--
So much depends on a breeze and a cloud.

Isolation baby desperation child [2004]

Isolation baby desperation child
We met at the mouth
Under an envelope of envy
She whispered, "have your way"
Only youth kept me from obliging

Undeterred, she crawled upstairs
Now the smell of dew and bare ass
Bad things happen at the right moments
This one was no different
So I hugged her and said it would be alright

We cowered under a torn blanket
Long enough to simmer in sin
Then I suggested I drive her home
In the car she asked if I loved her
I just stared ahead

St. Luke's Roosevelt

The halls are painted cream with egg white trimming. Combined with the fluorescent light and you realize this is what depression is: an ugly color scheme. A hospital should make you feel happy, invited. I want to throw up. I've seen McDonald's that look better than this. Throw in the brown furniture and you have a perfect shit storm. That's St. Luke's Roosevelt floor 7G. The pysch ward. I've been here a week.

I came here on my own accord. Living in a New York shelter, without any money or ID, I had nowhere to go. I had no friends in the world except for the one in my head. He's the reason I'm here in the first place. Voices. They get me every time. They're the one's that said run to New York. I listened. But I'll save that story for another time. This is about Roosevelt hospital.

I've been holed up her for exactly seven day. I've seen the doctor once. It's not very promising. The psychiatrist says she is going to change my medication to a dosage that's effective. I've heard the same thing for three years. You learn to nod your head, act interested. You almost want to believe it this time. But belief betrays hope, and without hope you're left with reality. Reality is depressing. I'll cling to hope.

Apparently my doctor is on leave this week. The problem is no other doctor has seen me. I was admitted on Friday, saw the doctor on Monday, and it's now Thursday. My week has been wasted sitting in a hospital. Not that time matters right now. I'm unemployed. Once I get on disability, I'll be living the dream. Officially retired. I'm going to learn French and how to play the piano. But I might not get out of here for weeks. In the meantime, I'm getting fat. Too much food. Too many sweets for snacks. That's the hospital for you.

With little to do, food is the only thing to look forward to. I count the hours on the clock, waiting for mealtime to be called. The meals are the only thing worth boasting about here. Breakfast consists of a hard boiled egg, a muffin, and a bowl of cereal. You also get a fruit of your choice. I always get a banana. There's also the complimentary cup of decaf coffee.

Lunch and dinner always come with dessert. My favorite is their brownies from Sarah Lee. Plenty of calories. We have snack time at 8 pm. I always get a package of Oreos, a bag of Sunchips, and cup of yogurt. Sometimes they add ice cream. I'm definitely getting fat.

I made a friend here named Zach. He claims he lost 30 lbs. in five weeks. He's been here for five weeks. He hears voices in his head that tell him he's Goku from Dragon Ball Z. He's the only person I've met whose story is worse than mine. Hospitalized 25 times and he's only 22. He's been in jail and rehab. His mom died from an overdose. I feel guilty because I find comfort in knowing someone else's life is more fucked up than mine. We're both bipolar. I don't want to be here for five weeks though. One is long enough.

Which brings me back to waiting on my doctor. I'm on a lower dose of medication than what I was on before I came here. I'm going backwards. This is why my faith in psychiatry is shaky at best. They base their diagnosis on any real science, but rather the story you tell them and any symptoms they can actually observe. Hard to do when they occur in the mind. Hell, even their bible, the DSM, a comprehensive guideline for diagnosing all the mental illnesses, is voted on. Imagine if doctors voted on what qualifies as cancer. But that's that the state of mental illness in 2013. Snake oil, placebos, and limited research. This makes me lose hope.

St. Luke's Roosevelt is a shining example. They feed you, but they don't cure you. They waste your time. I refuse to just sit here and believe their medication is going to make me better. I have too much faith in cold science to believe it. Medicine won't help until a doctor can say scientifically what bipolar disorder is. How is the brain affected? I'd trade this disorder for diabetes in a heartbeat. At least I can take comfort in knowing science can explain that one.

The World's Not Over

The only thing that separates mania from reality is lack of results. The manic mind can come up with compelling narratives, believable schemes, even realist expectations. but what the manic mind fails at is achieving results.

I should be a nurse right now. I was accepted into an accelerated nursing program two years ago. Then I got re-accepted last year. Both times, mania forced me to withdraw. I've seen my life flushed down the toilet too many times to count. The latest I was too numb to care. I've been there and done that.

My new goal is law school. I want to get involved in law and politics, become a lawyer, have wanted to for years. Nursing was just a good paycheck. I can swallow this defeat.

I've applied for disability, receive food stamps, will probably get government housing. My faith in American welfare is strong. We don't let our citizens starve. I know first hand. What we don't do is provide options. At least not feasible ones. Once you go poor, it's a bitch getting out.

My recent manic episode led me to New York city. My third time here. I hate this fucking hell hole. Opportunity is everywhere, but the people are loud and rude. No one speaks English. No one knows where anything is. I walked around Manhatten for 12 hours looking for a hospital.

When I first arrived I got myself into the shelter system. I had no ID, no wallet, no money. No where to go. Just a hospital letter stating I was homeless. The shelter took me in. I made it three days. I never want to be homeless again.

Our government provides shelter for the homeless, but what they don't provide is an easy way out. What do you do when you don't have enough money to buy a toothbrush or razor? I'm not a native New Yorker, being from Ohio. I don't qualify for housing cash assistance, or welfare. Without my social security card or birth certificate I can't even get a New York ID. Freedom may be having nothing left to lose, but ask the closest bum how free they feel? Being dependent on strangers isn't my idea of freedom.

I won't throw out the word "socialism" but it's time we start to talk about social progress. The "American Dream" is an archaic term, especially when our minimum wage isn't enough to support a family of three, nor at a time when receiving a quality education that might help you get a well-paying respectable job costs the same as a small house. We're holding back our citizens and great minds. Poverty, mental illness, lack of options, being born to the wrong family--this is the real crisis facing Americans. This is why I want to get in to politics. I've experienced too much shit to not care. I've left everything I've ever had in the waste. I've seen too many opportunities thrown away and felt too much heartbreak. My only option is to care.

A voice tells me once in a while, "The world's not over for you Mike. It's only begun." That's one I don't tell my psychiatrist about.

To the Lady in My Head

If I kept her in my head forever,
Would she even be real?
Only if a dream can become reality,
A vision undisturbed by obstacles.
If that is the mark of a mad man,
Then strike me as crazy.
It's a fool's game to wish for miracles,
And a blindman's to wait for coincidences,
But in this head
It is only the mental distortion
That prevents belief.
Were I sane I'd run from your echo
And hide from your song,
But belief is the only thing
That I can cling to,
And if other's words offend me,
Only you can redeem
This worthless character
In a dime store narrative.