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.
I Can Remember
Harper climbing into my twin-sized bed with me at night, and us clinging to each other in terror as we would listen to them fight. And it would only escalate as the endless moments ticked by. Screaming. Cursing. Glass breaking. One time we even heard the hard slap of skin hitting skin, right before everything went silent, except for mom's crying and their soft whispers. We never knew if the physical aggression had been the action of Daddy or Mom. But I always thought it was Mom, or liked to think that it was, anyway. Daddy would never have done something like that, right?
I was young then. I just don't know anymore.
Jack Daniels can make people do some pretty crazy things. And, although he never let Harper and I see it, Daddy did love his Jack.
I was young then. I just don't know anymore.
Jack Daniels can make people do some pretty crazy things. And, although he never let Harper and I see it, Daddy did love his Jack.
I'm Not Sure When I Finally Put Two and Two Together
About Daddy's drinking problem.
Anybody who knew him would never have suspected that he was harboring such dark secrets. He never broke out the booze until after Harper and I were in bed and presumed to be asleep. That was when he would let his demons out to play.
Mom usually started the fights, though, so it was kind of her fault. She should have realized at some point that she should just leave him alone when he was like that. When he was drunk was not the time to start nagging him about helping her out more around the house.
Despite everything, though, they did love each other very much. You could see it in their eyes. Now, you can try and tell me all you want that it was only an act for my sister and I, but eyes are the windows to the mind. The look in one's eyes says everything when not a single word graces their lips.
Daddy never did give up his drinking habits, but once he felt that Harper and I were old enough to recognize his problem, be began to go out and drink. Every Friday night was the same. He'd come home from work, have dinner with the family, and then mysteriously slip off into the night, and when he would return home around midnight, his breath reeked of the bar.
And then there was the night that he didn't come home.
Anybody who knew him would never have suspected that he was harboring such dark secrets. He never broke out the booze until after Harper and I were in bed and presumed to be asleep. That was when he would let his demons out to play.
Mom usually started the fights, though, so it was kind of her fault. She should have realized at some point that she should just leave him alone when he was like that. When he was drunk was not the time to start nagging him about helping her out more around the house.
Despite everything, though, they did love each other very much. You could see it in their eyes. Now, you can try and tell me all you want that it was only an act for my sister and I, but eyes are the windows to the mind. The look in one's eyes says everything when not a single word graces their lips.
Daddy never did give up his drinking habits, but once he felt that Harper and I were old enough to recognize his problem, be began to go out and drink. Every Friday night was the same. He'd come home from work, have dinner with the family, and then mysteriously slip off into the night, and when he would return home around midnight, his breath reeked of the bar.
And then there was the night that he didn't come home.
Monday, January 2, 2012
It Was Almost Two A.M.
When we were woken up to a knock on the front door.
At first we figured it was Daddy -- Mom probably locked the door on her way to bed and he had forgotten his key.
But after only a moment, we were aware that it wasn't him.
Mens' voices. Something about an accident. Drunk driving. Dead on impact? Who was dead on impact? Mom's gut-wrenching scream was enough to answer the question.
Immediately, we were out of bed and discovering Mom in the foyer, lying in a heap on the floor, sounds unlike anything I've ever heard coming from her mouth. A combination of sobs, screams, and gasps for air.
Knelt down beside her were two police officers. "We're very sorry, Mrs. Fitzpatrick," the one was saying, sounding as though he himself was trying hard to choke back tears.
It felt like forever before one of them looked up and noticed Harper and I, standing teary-eyed at the foot of the stairs, knowing that something terrible had happened.
As he gently approached us, I closed my stinging eyes and said a silent, frantic prayer.
Please don't let it be Daddy.
At first we figured it was Daddy -- Mom probably locked the door on her way to bed and he had forgotten his key.
But after only a moment, we were aware that it wasn't him.
Mens' voices. Something about an accident. Drunk driving. Dead on impact? Who was dead on impact? Mom's gut-wrenching scream was enough to answer the question.
Immediately, we were out of bed and discovering Mom in the foyer, lying in a heap on the floor, sounds unlike anything I've ever heard coming from her mouth. A combination of sobs, screams, and gasps for air.
Knelt down beside her were two police officers. "We're very sorry, Mrs. Fitzpatrick," the one was saying, sounding as though he himself was trying hard to choke back tears.
It felt like forever before one of them looked up and noticed Harper and I, standing teary-eyed at the foot of the stairs, knowing that something terrible had happened.
As he gently approached us, I closed my stinging eyes and said a silent, frantic prayer.
Please don't let it be Daddy.
If There's One Thing I've Learned Over the Years,
It's that God won't answer a prayer if the unthinkable has already happened.
It says in the Bible that Jesus was able to raise the dead, so why wouldn't He raise Daddy? Why would He take him away? He had two little girls and a wife to care for; he couldn't die. I wouldn't accept it. He wasn't dead.
I wiped away my tears and refused to let myself shed another one.
This was all a lie. It had to be.
My Daddy wasn't dead.
It says in the Bible that Jesus was able to raise the dead, so why wouldn't He raise Daddy? Why would He take him away? He had two little girls and a wife to care for; he couldn't die. I wouldn't accept it. He wasn't dead.
I wiped away my tears and refused to let myself shed another one.
This was all a lie. It had to be.
My Daddy wasn't dead.
It Wasn't Until Two Days Later,
On the day of Daddy's funeral, that the harsh reality of everything finally came crashing down all around me.
He's only sleeping, I told myself as I approached the open casket at the front of the church, hand-in-hand with my mother and my sister. Mom was quietly sobbing, and Harper kept her eyes fixed on her shiny black patent leather shoes, her soft blonde curls partially hiding her little face as she choked back tears. She was just five years old; much too young to be going through hell like this. I just stared numbly up at the carved image of Jesus hanging lifeless on the cross.
He's only sleeping.
He did appear to only be sleeping. I almost half-expected his eyes to flutter open and for him to say drowsily, "Hey there, girl. Wanna go for a walk? Go get my hiking boots, then."
My eyes began to well up at the memory of it. No more nature walks. I had to wake him up.
Before I could think about what I was about to do, I gingerly reached into the casket and touched his hand. I immediately drew back, the bottled-up tears overflowing and streaming down my cheeks. That wasn't Daddy. It couldn't be! The hand...it was so cold. There was no blood pumping through that hand. No heart beating inside that body. It wasn't Daddy, was it? One last glance at him confirmed my darkest fears.
It was.
The rest of that day was a blur. I can only recollect certain details. Running away from the casket as fast as I could, down the aisle and out the door. Hearing gasps, sobs from the crowd of people seated on either side of the hysterical eight-year-old just trying to escape the inevitable. Collapsing in tears in the churchyard. Harper coming out and lying down beside me to comfort me, now crying herself. Blackness.
Watching the men lower the casket, lower my Daddy, down into the darkness of the six-foot hole. Mom kneeling down beside the temporary marker where his tombstone would later be placed, still in tears, and dropping a single red rose into the abyss with him. Clutching their wedding picture to her chest. Blackness.
Waking up later that day, in my bed. Hearing Mom crying across the hall in her bedroom. Knowing that nothing could be done now. It had finally hit me.
Daddy was gone.
Blackness.
He's only sleeping, I told myself as I approached the open casket at the front of the church, hand-in-hand with my mother and my sister. Mom was quietly sobbing, and Harper kept her eyes fixed on her shiny black patent leather shoes, her soft blonde curls partially hiding her little face as she choked back tears. She was just five years old; much too young to be going through hell like this. I just stared numbly up at the carved image of Jesus hanging lifeless on the cross.
He's only sleeping.
He did appear to only be sleeping. I almost half-expected his eyes to flutter open and for him to say drowsily, "Hey there, girl. Wanna go for a walk? Go get my hiking boots, then."
My eyes began to well up at the memory of it. No more nature walks. I had to wake him up.
Before I could think about what I was about to do, I gingerly reached into the casket and touched his hand. I immediately drew back, the bottled-up tears overflowing and streaming down my cheeks. That wasn't Daddy. It couldn't be! The hand...it was so cold. There was no blood pumping through that hand. No heart beating inside that body. It wasn't Daddy, was it? One last glance at him confirmed my darkest fears.
It was.
The rest of that day was a blur. I can only recollect certain details. Running away from the casket as fast as I could, down the aisle and out the door. Hearing gasps, sobs from the crowd of people seated on either side of the hysterical eight-year-old just trying to escape the inevitable. Collapsing in tears in the churchyard. Harper coming out and lying down beside me to comfort me, now crying herself. Blackness.
Watching the men lower the casket, lower my Daddy, down into the darkness of the six-foot hole. Mom kneeling down beside the temporary marker where his tombstone would later be placed, still in tears, and dropping a single red rose into the abyss with him. Clutching their wedding picture to her chest. Blackness.
Waking up later that day, in my bed. Hearing Mom crying across the hall in her bedroom. Knowing that nothing could be done now. It had finally hit me.
Daddy was gone.
Blackness.
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