Get Well Soon
Page 1
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Day 1
Friday, Day 1
Day 2
Saturday, Day 2
Day 3
Day 3 Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!
Day 4
Monday, Day 4
Day 5
Tuesday, Day 5
Day 6
Wednesday, Day 6
Day 7
Thursday, Day 7
Day 8
Friday, Day 8
Day 9
Saturday, Day 9
Day 10
Sunday, Day 10
Day 11
Monday, Day 11
Day 12
Tuesday, A Day of Death (Day 12)
Day 13
Wednesday, Day 13
Day 14
Thursday, Day 14
Day 15
Friday, Day 15
Day 16
Saturday, Day 16
Day 17
Sunday, Day 17
Day 18
Monday, Day 18
Day 19
Tuesday, Day 19
Day 20
Wednesday, Day 20
Day 21
Thursday, Day 21
Last Day
Friday, the Last Day
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Copyright Page
For Tracy,
who wrote me letters every day
And for Matt,
who’s way dreamier
than any boy in a book
Day 1
I AM SITTING AT A DESK IN THE MIDDLE OF A HALLWAY, and all of the lights are off. No one will tell me what they’re going to do with me or how they’re going to help me or how long I have to be here. They just plunked me down in this freaky place, told my parents not to worry, and now I’m stuck.
They told me to write. Write down your feelings. It’ll help you. Have some paper. Have a pencil, they said. I don’t like pencils, I told them.They smudge. I once kept a journal all in pencil, and when I went back to read all of the depressing stuff that I wrote, it was gone. Smudged away. I wrote it all down, the stories of my life, my feelings, all of the crap you’re supposed to say in journals so you can look back and see what a big loser you used to be. But it was all gone, mushed together as if none of it mattered in the first place. Which it didn’t. Because I still wound up here.
Screw journals. I don’t need a journal to tell myself what I already know: Life sucks. I’m fat. Nothing interesting ever happens to me. I don’t want to deal with that shit anymore.
So I’m not going to keep my thoughts around. I’m going to send them away. I’m going to write my thoughts in letters, like I did when my sister went to overnight camp. That way they’re gone. Someone else has them, and I don’t have to look back and see how pathetic I once was. I will write letters and I won’t feel so bad. I won’t feel so bad that I’m depressed. I won’t feel so bad that I’m fat. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t feel so bad that my parents had me locked up in this fucking mental hospital.
Friday, Day 1
Dear Tracy,
By the time you get this letter, you’ll probably know where I am. I can just picture you calling my house after you got off of work at the mall and my mom trying to answer the question “Is Anna there?” What did she say? “Oh, sorry, dear, she’s at the nut house. Try back in a few months.” I can’t imagine she’d call it a nut house, though. She probably said something like, “emotional rehab.” Maybe she didn’t even tell you the truth. Shit. Did she tell you I went to a fat farm? I’ll be pissed if that’s what she’s telling people. I’d rather be considered crazy than fat any day.
But I’m not crazy, Trace. I just can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe that things got so bad that my parents sent me to a mental hospital. It’s weird here, T. Right now, it’s like, 10:30 at night and they have me just waiting in the middle of some hallway at one of those school desks (where the seat is connected to the desk part and there’s that little book holder basket where the person behind you can stick their feet. Remember when Joe Shafton used to torment me in junior high by shaking my desk incessantly? Bastard. I finally started crying in class and the teacher let me change seats). All I have with me right now are my pillow from home (my mom packed it), and this gummed pad of paper and a suckball pencil (annoyingly without an eraser) that they oh so generously gave to me. I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve been crying since the moment I got here, and I think the lady at the desk is sick of hearing it. I told her you were my best friend and that I’d kill myself if they didn’t let me write you a letter. The writing is helping me feel a little calmer, so that’s good. I wish I could have talked to you before my parents dragged me here, but I didn’t want you to freak out while you were ringing up some big thong purchase at work (do you get less commission when you sell thongs than granny underwear ’cause there’s less fabric?). Sorry—I’m trying to be funny so I don’t go completely insane due to the fact that I AM WRITING TO YOU FROM A LOONY BIN!!!
[Pause to note that a group of teenagers just passed me in the hallway. They were totally staring at me, so I just shoved my face into my pillow so they wouldn’t see how horrid I look from all of the crying I’ve been doing. At least I don’t wear makeup, so I don’t have freakish mascara running down my cheeks.]
Lakeland Hospital. Why am I here, you ask? I don’t know. I know I haven’t been at school much lately, and I’ve been a little weird to talk to (sorry about that). I don’t know what my problem is. For a while now I haven’t been feeling very normal. Like, I can’t sit through classes without getting antsy and claustrophobic and having to get up to go to the bathroom (so embarrassing). My mind starts racing and racing, and I can’t concentrate on things at all. I just start thinking about how I might get a stomachache and won’t be able to sit through class, and then it makes my stomach actually start to hurt and I just have to get out of there. And sometimes I worry that my stomach will make a grumbly noise, and some jerk guy will say something like, “Looks like it’s time for your ten o’clock feeding, Fat Ass.” I even start thinking about what would happen if (yes, you may laugh) I fart in class! Nobody forgets a class farter. I mean, I totally remember when Johnny Stran ripped one in 7th-grade history, and everyone simultaneously scooted their desks away from him—SHROOM!—so he was left alone in the middle of the classroom. I would be mortified if that happened to me. That psycho bitch therapist I saw over the summer claimed that these are called Panic Attacks, but I don’t think I’ve ever read anything in scientific journals about fear of farting (not that I’ve ever actually read a scientific journal, but, whatever). Just because it supposedly has a name doesn’t help the fact that I can’t sit still or be near anyone. Not you, of course, but it’s just nice and mellow when we hang at your house. And you wouldn’t berate me if I farted in front of you (well, you might, but then I’d just remind you of that time you let out a turbo one at a slumber party while we were doing Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board, and everyone thought it was some evil ghost fart and they dropped you).
Anyway, these panic attacks are the reasons why I’m never in class anymore. Either I ditch and hide in the bathroom, go to the nurse and lie on one of those nasty lice-proof vinyl couches and chew Pepto tablets, or convince my mom to call me in sick. That last one was getting much harder to pull off. You know how nice my mom is, but she was starting to hate lying for me. She told me she was afraid I’d never go to scho
ol again (which doesn’t sound too bad to me). But she started making me feel guilty, like I shouldn’t force her to make the choice between my truancy and my happiness. And she and my dad have been fighting a lot (what else is new) because he thinks she’s being too passive and should just make me go to school. I guess she kind of is being passive, but in this case I like it. Plus, if he wants me to go to school so badly, why doesn’t he make me go? Not that I want him to even talk to me, but isn’t that hypocritical? Mom’s all worried that since it’s my junior year I won’t be able to get into college with all of these cuts on my record. I try to tell her that at least they’re cuts from honors level classes, but that doesn’t seem to help. That’s why I started seeing that skag of a therapist. My mom found her by recommendation from one of her mah-jongg friends. She’s kind of perverted (the therapist, not the mah-jongg friend). Everything I say she relates to sex. The other day she said I liked The Clash because, get ready for this, “Clash is a slang term for a vagina.” She actually said that. What a total freak! It’s not like I would listen to them for their music or anything. And since when is that a slang term for a vagina? She totally made that up. Plus, she’s always telling me how I need to lose weight. Like I didn’t know that. And how is making me feel more like shit about myself therapeutic? She analyzed this dream I had where I was pushing a shopping cart with a floppy wheel, and she said the wheel represented my “spare tire.” I thought only men had spare tires. And there she is sipping on her Diet Coke the whole time. She probably goes and throws it up after each therapy session. If she doesn’t sound sucky enough already, she’s the one who recommended to my parents that I get hospitalized. I mean, just because I wouldn’t go to school. And I want to die. But I don’t remember telling her about that.
I will now describe this place to you, just in case you have to spring me and need to draw a map. To the right of where I’m sitting is an elevator with some intricate key system instead of up and down buttons, no doubt so I can’t escape. In front of me is what looks like a check-in desk at a doctor’s office. The hall lights are dimmed, but from what I can tell, I’m at the cross of a T-shaped series of hallways. Someone is coming. More later …
… HOURS LATER
This place sucks. I want out of here so badly. I am now sitting on a bed at the end of the hallway near the check-in counter wearing nasty blue hospital pajamas. You know how I told you I said I’d kill myself if they didn’t give me this paper and pencil?
“We called your doctor,” a desk lady told me.
“What doctor?”
“Your hospital psychiatrist. Until he can meet you on Monday, you’re on PSI II.”
Who is this “doctor” anyway? He can’t even come in on a weekend to meet me to see if I’m actually suicidal or not? Probably because of his golf game, or whatever it is that those in the psychiatry business do with the overabundance of money they make not helping people. So now I’m on PSI II—Possible Self-Injury Level II. Meaning, I could kill myself at any moment, so someone has to watch me constantly. I think the only thing worse is Level III, and that would have me tied up and sedated. But, oh joy, I’m lucky to only be on a bed in the hallway, instead of in a room. I miss my bedroom at home already. It was my favorite place in the whole world. I even miss the babyish clown wallpaper border my parents put up before I was born but never bothered to take down. And I totally miss my clothes because they won’t give them back to me until I have proven that I won’t kill myself (I’m not naked—just in a hideous blue hospital frock). How would I even do it, paper-cut my wrists until I bleed to death?
Before they gave me the PJs they made me go into a room with two big women with mustaches and thick German accents (I may be making up the mustaches and accent parts) while I took my clothes off. Thank God they didn’t have to search any further than just looking at me, if you know what I mean. They gave me all of these psychological tests, too. I had to sit at a desk while some blond-bunned woman asked me twelve billion questions. The way she spoke to me was like I wasn’t even a real person. The whole time I was crying and hugging my pillow, and she showed absolutely no sympathy. I’m sure these fools think I should be in this loony bin, with the way I’m acting. They even gave me a Rorschach test—you know, the ones where they show you blobs of ink and you have to say what comes into your head. I think I may have messed that one up, though, because each ink blob looked like the same thing to me—that piece of evil from the movie Time Bandits. Remember when we watched that? And there was that devil guy who exploded at the end into little pieces that all had to be collected up and contained, or else something really bad would happen? But one of his pieces (that looked like a burnt turd) was found in the little boy’s toaster oven, and he kept yelling at his parents not to touch it because it’s evil but they do touch it and then they blow up? Well, all of the ink blobs looked just like that piece of burnt turd evil to me, so that’s what I told them.
I’m never going to get out of here, am I?
Day 2
Saturday, Day 2
MORNING
I so did not sleep last night. I don’t know how I could be expected to, seeing as I was lying in a bed in a hallway (which is, by the way, where I continue to sit). The night crew was two men and two women talking as loudly as possible about their personal lives. And here I was, poor little mental patient, trying to sleep not even ten feet away from their hootin’ and hollerin’. I don’t care that you got yourself a new weave, girl! The worst part came at 5:00 a.m. when one of the men made me sit down at the infamous desk-chair combo and took my blood. Tracy, you know how I am about needles and blood (I may have to excuse myself to go vomit as I tell this story). This fool did not know what he was doing at all. It took a million prods and pokes to find the right spot, and then it took a million hours to get the blood. They barely even acknowledged that I was scared and crying. Heartless wenches. I’m already showing some bruising on my arm. I don’t even know why they took the blood! I asked the night staff if I could have my blankey for comfort. This one woman with kind, sparkly eyes said yes, but then a guy said, “No! Nuh-uh! Her record said she can’t have anything yet.” They think my trusty blankey could endanger my life. Oh, unlike this full-sized blanket that they have sitting on my bed! Evil.
I wonder what my parents would think about this. I wonder if they even think about it at all. I bet my dad is thrilled that I’m not there to cause any fights between him and my mom. And what about Mara? I never know if my sister is even aware of what’s going on. It’s not like she’s too young to figure it out, but she’s always out and about with her perfect friends and her perfect clothes and her perfect middle-school life. We used to be so close. Now she probably thinks I’m just a crazy blob of a loser.
The night shift is leaving now, and four new people are coming in. I feel like a zoo animal. No—I feel like a circus freak locked up in a cage! It’s like people won’t really say anything to me; they just look at me.
Maybe I should give them the finger to see what they’ll do.
Yeah, like I’d ever do that.
TEN MINUTES LATER
Of course I didn’t give them the finger, but I did ask if I could go to the bathroom. They got all mad and told me I’m not allowed to speak to them until they say I can. So I raised my hand, and they got all pissed and said that I’m not allowed to raise my hand; I have to stick two fingers out, not up, and I can speak when they call on me. Call on me? I’m on a bed in the middle of a hallway! This place is so weird. When they finally did “call on me,” and I told them I had to go to the bathroom, a woman actually came with me! She didn’t come in, but I had to leave the door open. Good thing I only had to pee. It was so awkward, though, because I started to have a panic attack and thought I had to go #2 (such a dorky way of saying “shit”), so I was in there for a long time. Fucking Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Could they think up a possibly more embarrassing name for this problem? They might as well call it “Nervous Shit Syndrome” because that’s no less offensiv
e than talking about how my bowels are irritable. All that it really means is that I get a poopy stomach when I’m nervous. How could I not be nervous locked up here?
The woman kept calling out, “Are you OK? You almost done?” What am I supposed to say to that? Hand me a magazine and stop talking to me? I wanted to ask her if she ever tried to take a crap with the door open and a stranger sitting outside. I couldn’t do it, so I flushed and got back in bed. I was really anxious and felt awful, so I stuck my fingers out and asked to go to the bathroom again. “But you just went.” Sigh. This scenario repeated two more times. So humiliating. I wish I were never born.
AFTER THE MORTIFYING BATHROOM SCENARIO
I got a better look at some of my fellow patients in this freak hole, and they all look pretty close to my age. They come up to the check-in desk to get pills. After they take them, the desk people look in their mouths to make sure they’ve swallowed. It’s like something out of The Twilight Zone. Are they going to do that to me?
The night I got here a desk woman asked if I was on any medication, and I said, “No. Well, sometimes I take Tylenol. And Aleve for cramps.” Pause. “Oh, and I’ve been on Lexapro for a week.” I don’t know why I didn’t mention the antidepressant first. One would think it obvious in this sort of setting, but I haven’t noticed any change in my happiness level since I started it, so it’s not fresh in my mind. I know: “It takes time.” But what if by the time it works I’ve already decided to hang myself (although definitely not the way I’d choose to off myself) or OD? What if I OD on antidepressants? Wouldn’t that be ironic? It’s a thought. With my luck I’d be found right away and they’d have to pump my stomach, and I’d be all full of needles and they’d make me go right back on the pills anyway. Why bother.