I'm Alright, if You're Alright ☆

1. Weary Kalopsia

Dave had this mental image of living here being like living in the pit of hell. He would lie in bed all day, trying to deal with whatever his thoughts were pushing him to deal with. He was inside this situation against his will. The worst thing about this, it was that he was powerless to stop it. He would never be able to break free from this everyday routine. Nurses and psychiatrists would weigh what was best for each individual based on their actions and behavior there. Since they all saw the same people all the time and the circumstance was repetitive, it wasn't too hard to get used to. This place was supposed to be about the rest of the people who need a specific and consecutive type of help to keep an eye on them since they tend to be out of control, but every person who is admitted to a place like this always has a different experience than the rest of the patients. And personally for Dave, the experience was leaving him worse off than he already used to be. He had some hope that maybe this would make him feel better, but it was no use, as he felt that he was left over in this place. He convinced himself that what was happening to him was no big deal, that he was just doing it to get the attention of others and that he just needed someone that would be willing to listen to everything he wanted to share in his head, he felt that intensive psychiatric care was too much. 'I can't be that bad' or so he thought. But focusing on the picture he was in and the place he had been put in, maybe it was due to a serious and not whimsical reason for attention as to why he was there.

He wasn't very fond of the people who were in that same place, not only because of the patients, but also because of the doctors and so on. He really wanted to meet someone who was there, maybe even have the opportunity to fill that void of loneliness; But it was of no use, his attempts were in vain and he was only left to talk to some doctors and little else. To his misfortune, in the time he had been there, he wasn't the best received as a new patient by the rest. He could greet them from time to time and remain as acquaintances, but none came to consider him a friend, and vice versa.

Right now, he was in the main area, where people were doing crafts or other activities in the context of psychodynamic therapy. Named specifically, "art therapy." Dave was sitting on a textured plastic couch, having nothing better to do than watch because he didn't feel like it. Up until recently, he had already been brought up by doctors because he wasn't contributing to the rehabilitation sessions. Did he wish to recover? He did, of course, but his body kept him from comprehending the encouragement. With a long, discrete sigh, he thought - 'If only the attempt hadn't failed, it would be so much easier for the rest of the people'. - Remembering the person he used to be and the one he had suddenly become, he had no choice but to go on even though he detested himself and thought he had let the others down. Now that they were making an effort to help him, he would be foolish to give up, wouldn't he?

He played with his hands and kept his gaze up, always trying not to look down to avoid looking at his, now, stumps. He had been offered residual limb massages for phantom limb syndrome, keeping it from hurting so much, which he supposed was the only thing that was decently good for a place like this. It was probably the therapy that helped him the most, apart from mental therapy.

He had already lost count of the days he had been trapped in this place. 'It's the best thing for me.' - He kept repeating in his head over and over again, trying not to have a mental breakdown that would refer him to the containment room. The voices of the patients socializing while he sat in the corner of the couch became annoying to his ears. There were times of stress when, because of the manifestation of his trauma, excessive noise or voices made him too nervous. The fidgeting with his hands went from being peaceful to more aggressive, even being kind of painful because of the intensity and overwhelm his mind was provoking. The patients' voices were interrupted when they noticed some nurses bringing someone on a stretcher, running with it toward the door of the passageway to the hospital. The psychiatric ward was merged with the general health hospital building for people who weren't to be admitted for mental health. Dave was thankful that the noise had been turned down and that the security doctors said to keep the volume lower. Still, he was a little curious as to why nurses were walking by with a body on a gurney in the middle of the psych ward. He decided not to give the situation too much thought, as it was none of his business either, but he was a little intrigued.

As the day was coming to an end, Dave finished his routine for the day. He consumed the pills that were advised for his particular situation. The doctors on responsibility of every patient often forced him and others to open their mouth and even lift their tongue after they took them to make sure they had taken the said pills. In the end, they were a kind of prescription drugs that prevented him from going into a very dejected state, which left him drained and drowsy.

He was lying in bed, storing memories, finally at peace and with permission to be in his room to rest and sleep. He desired to regain his independence and to sense the inner flames that kept him steady. Unfortunately for him, there was absolutely no sign that state would return. It appeared as though everything in his life was falling apart after what had happened. He finally decided to let the pills do their work because it was getting harder for his eyelids to remain open.

Once again, good night. Tomorrow will be another day like any other.