My name is Temple, like Shirley Temple. But that's not who I was named for, no. Apparently, my mother watched some kind of weird movie while she was pregnant with me, about this crazy girl named Temple, who slaughtered her whole family and landed herself in the nut house. Quite a bizarre character to name your child after, but hey, I guess she thought the name was pretty.
Yeah, pretty ironic.
My name is Temple, and I am a patient -- no, wait. Resident. They don't like the word "patient". -- of Ridgefield Psychiatric Institution.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
White.
The place is nothing but a vast sea of white.
Doctors in crisp, white coats, rushing around with their long, white syringes and bottomless bottles of tiny white pills.
Nurses in starched, white uniforms, scurrying up and down white corridors, carting baskets of white sheets, some soiled, some not.
Cooks in grease-stained, white aprons, spooning awful government food into white styrofoam trays.
Patients in baggy, white hospital attire, sitting up and staring wild-eyed around tiny, white rooms. Up at white flourescent lights. Down at white floor tiles. Out windows blocked by iron bars, painted white.
No color, no cheer.
Just me, suffocating, drowning in white.
Doctors in crisp, white coats, rushing around with their long, white syringes and bottomless bottles of tiny white pills.
Nurses in starched, white uniforms, scurrying up and down white corridors, carting baskets of white sheets, some soiled, some not.
Cooks in grease-stained, white aprons, spooning awful government food into white styrofoam trays.
Patients in baggy, white hospital attire, sitting up and staring wild-eyed around tiny, white rooms. Up at white flourescent lights. Down at white floor tiles. Out windows blocked by iron bars, painted white.
No color, no cheer.
Just me, suffocating, drowning in white.
The Layout of the Hospital
Is fairly simple.
This massive, intimidating, stone structure resembles a prison and consists of fifteen floors.
The lower floors are reserved for temporary patients (er - residents). You know, depression, self-mutilation, eating disorders -- the small stuff. The higher you go in the building, the higher security is. The upper floors are for far more serious cases -- schizophrenia, attempted suicide, murder.
Most of the lower-level rooms hold two people.
Me? I have my own room. Room 1509.
This massive, intimidating, stone structure resembles a prison and consists of fifteen floors.
The lower floors are reserved for temporary patients (er - residents). You know, depression, self-mutilation, eating disorders -- the small stuff. The higher you go in the building, the higher security is. The upper floors are for far more serious cases -- schizophrenia, attempted suicide, murder.
Most of the lower-level rooms hold two people.
Me? I have my own room. Room 1509.
It's No Kind of Place to Live,
But it's home to me, and has been for three years now, and likely will be for the rest of my life.
They said it would be better than prison, but honestly, I don't see how prison could be any worse than this place.
I spend most of every day confined to this unbearably small, concrete room. No friends, nothing to do to while away the endless hours. The only taste of freedom I ever get is exercise hour, and even then I'm kept under close supervision behind the chain-link fence of the hospital lawn.
At night, I am put to bed with restraint cuffs locked around my wrists and ankles, as if I would actually attempt to do anything, with cameras in the room watching my every move. There is no privacy here.
"It's for your own protection," they say.
Protection?
They have already gone to extreme measures to prevent suicides; even if I wanted to kill myself, I'd have nothing to do it with. No ropes or cords, no sharp objects, nothing. They even keep everyone's hair cut nearly to the scalp because of a girl who lived here back in the seventies, who somehow managed to strangle herself using her own long hair.
I still haven't figured that one out.
They said it would be better than prison, but honestly, I don't see how prison could be any worse than this place.
I spend most of every day confined to this unbearably small, concrete room. No friends, nothing to do to while away the endless hours. The only taste of freedom I ever get is exercise hour, and even then I'm kept under close supervision behind the chain-link fence of the hospital lawn.
At night, I am put to bed with restraint cuffs locked around my wrists and ankles, as if I would actually attempt to do anything, with cameras in the room watching my every move. There is no privacy here.
"It's for your own protection," they say.
Protection?
They have already gone to extreme measures to prevent suicides; even if I wanted to kill myself, I'd have nothing to do it with. No ropes or cords, no sharp objects, nothing. They even keep everyone's hair cut nearly to the scalp because of a girl who lived here back in the seventies, who somehow managed to strangle herself using her own long hair.
I still haven't figured that one out.
The Only Thing That Brings Joy to My Life
Is music.
I used to love to listen to my extensive CD collection. Some of my most cherished memories involve dancing around the bedroom I shared with my sister, Harper, singing along to The Killers and Blink-182. Those were the good times, back before Daddy died. Before Mom married The Monster. Before that night in late April. Before I condemned myself to a life of misery, here.
I'm not sure what ever happened to my old music collection, but it was probably lost in the fire, along with everything else.
Personal music isn't allowed here in the hospital, anyway. They have a radio in their poor excuse for a rec room, but they never turn it on. Instead, I've made friends with an old guitar that sits in the corner, forgotten by most. I spend what little bit of time I'm granted in the rec room playing it. Or trying to play it, rather. I've managed to teach myself a few simple chords and am learning to piece them together and create melodies.
When I play, I temporarily forget everything. I wish I could play forever, nonstop, permanently erasing the pain and regret that overshadows my mind most of the time.
Music fills the hole in my heart where love was originally meant to be.
I used to love to listen to my extensive CD collection. Some of my most cherished memories involve dancing around the bedroom I shared with my sister, Harper, singing along to The Killers and Blink-182. Those were the good times, back before Daddy died. Before Mom married The Monster. Before that night in late April. Before I condemned myself to a life of misery, here.
I'm not sure what ever happened to my old music collection, but it was probably lost in the fire, along with everything else.
Personal music isn't allowed here in the hospital, anyway. They have a radio in their poor excuse for a rec room, but they never turn it on. Instead, I've made friends with an old guitar that sits in the corner, forgotten by most. I spend what little bit of time I'm granted in the rec room playing it. Or trying to play it, rather. I've managed to teach myself a few simple chords and am learning to piece them together and create melodies.
When I play, I temporarily forget everything. I wish I could play forever, nonstop, permanently erasing the pain and regret that overshadows my mind most of the time.
Music fills the hole in my heart where love was originally meant to be.
So I Guess You're Wondering
Why I'm here.
Sometimes I wonder the same thing.
I mean, I know the reason why I'm here, but sometimes I wonder, why not prison? Why not death? I certainly deserve it.
But while I will say that I have regrets, I have no remorse for what I did.
That man deserved everything he got. Everything that I gave him. If I hadn't done it, I know that Uncle Charley or Uncle Dan or Daddy's old friend Johnnie would have, had I told them the truth. So I guess, technically, I did a good thing. I saved them from a fate like this. Or worse.
Anyway, it's a long story; sure you're up for it?
Okay, then.
Sometimes I wonder the same thing.
I mean, I know the reason why I'm here, but sometimes I wonder, why not prison? Why not death? I certainly deserve it.
But while I will say that I have regrets, I have no remorse for what I did.
That man deserved everything he got. Everything that I gave him. If I hadn't done it, I know that Uncle Charley or Uncle Dan or Daddy's old friend Johnnie would have, had I told them the truth. So I guess, technically, I did a good thing. I saved them from a fate like this. Or worse.
Anyway, it's a long story; sure you're up for it?
Okay, then.
I Guess If I'm Going to Tell You My Story,
I should probably go all the way back to the best time of my life, before all the events leading up to this took place.
I was such a daddy's girl.
I can remember us going on daily nature walks in the woods behind our old house. When I was really little, I would tire quickly and he would have to lift me up onto his shoulders and carry me along. But he didn't mind. Everytime I would say, "Daddy, let's go for a walk!" he would only smile and reply, "Go get my hiking boots."
After I was a little older, he saved up and bought me my very own pair of durable, brown hiking boots and I was able to truck along closely behind him, two of my strides matching just one of his as we wove our way through the dense foliage.
He taught me many things on those walks: the names of all the trees, what plants were safe to eat if I ever got lost, how to make a fire, how to find water, and one time he even taught me how to shoot a gun. He was big on outdoor survival.
Every evening, we would come home to one of Mom's delicious, home-cooked dinners. My sister Harper always proudly announced that she had helped tremendously with the cooking, although at the time, she was too little to reach the stove. She loved to hang around the kitchen with mom, and that was just fine with me because I got Dad all to myself.
A mother. A father. Two daughters who closely resembled their parents. We were the perfect, all-American family, right?
Wrong.
I was such a daddy's girl.
I can remember us going on daily nature walks in the woods behind our old house. When I was really little, I would tire quickly and he would have to lift me up onto his shoulders and carry me along. But he didn't mind. Everytime I would say, "Daddy, let's go for a walk!" he would only smile and reply, "Go get my hiking boots."
After I was a little older, he saved up and bought me my very own pair of durable, brown hiking boots and I was able to truck along closely behind him, two of my strides matching just one of his as we wove our way through the dense foliage.
He taught me many things on those walks: the names of all the trees, what plants were safe to eat if I ever got lost, how to make a fire, how to find water, and one time he even taught me how to shoot a gun. He was big on outdoor survival.
Every evening, we would come home to one of Mom's delicious, home-cooked dinners. My sister Harper always proudly announced that she had helped tremendously with the cooking, although at the time, she was too little to reach the stove. She loved to hang around the kitchen with mom, and that was just fine with me because I got Dad all to myself.
A mother. A father. Two daughters who closely resembled their parents. We were the perfect, all-American family, right?
Wrong.
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