5 Days Too Many

Day Two

The day begins before the sun rises, with the harsh fluorescent lights of the ward flickering on. The noise is abrupt, tearing me from a dreamless sleep. A nurse enters, clipboard in hand, telling me it's time for my morning meds. I'm not fully awake, but I know the drill. I sit up, stretch my aching body, and swallow the pills she hands me - two for depression, one to make sure I don't sink deeper into whatever pit they think I'm in. I follow it with a sip from the mandatory protein shake that tastes faintly of chalk. They're tracking my weight, and if I don't down three of these day, they'll have questions I'm not interested in answering.

Breakfast is in the common room, and I force myself to go. It's part of the "routine." The structure they think will make a difference. I grab a tray and sit at the edge of a table, hoping not to draw attention. The scrambled eggs look rubbery, and the toast is burnt, but I take small bites anyway. I feel eyes on me from across the room, some wary, others pitying. But I keep my gaze down, focusing on eating just enough to get through the meal without another lecture.

After breakfast, the usher us into a small, pale-blue room for group therapy. The air is heavy with anticipation, like everyone is waiting for something profound to be said. The circle feels suffocating, and I wish I were anywhere else. The therapist begins with a soft-voiced prompt, encouraging us to share our feelings and stories. I can already see where this is going. My turn will come, and they'll expect me to talk, but I won't. I'm not ready to spill my guts to a room full of strangers whose pity I don't want.

One by one, the others speak. Some share stories of broken homes, others about battles with addiction or grief. There are tears, nods understanding, words of support. It's my turn, and the silence feels deafening. I stare at the floor, feeling the weight of their expectations pressing down on me. After what seems like an eternity, the therapist moves on, but the tension doesn't leave. I can feel the eyes on me. Some judging, others simply curious. I stay quiet, locking my thoughts away where they can't reach them.

The rest of the morning blurs by. I sit with another doctor who repeats the same questions I've heard a hundred times: "How are you feeling?" "What's going through your mind?" "Do you have any hope for the future?" My answers are mechanical, just enough to satisfy them without revealing anything real. I hate how clinical it feels - like I'm a specimen under a microscope. They jot notes as I speak, and I wonder if they're searching for cracks in my mask, any hint that I might break and reveal some deep truth I don't even understand.

There's a mandatory "activity hour" in the afternoon. We're given a choice between group games, crafts, or some kind of guided meditation. I choose crafts, something that lets me keep my hands busy without needing to talk. I pick a seat in the corner, away from the others, and grab a handful of colorful beads to make a bracelet. It's mindless work, stringing one bead after another, but it's still strangely calming. My hands move automatically, and for a brief moment, my mind is still.

At lunch, the food is as bland as breakfast, but I force myself to eat more. A nurse lingers nearby, making sure I'm getting enough calories. I manage to finish most of my tray, and she seems satisfied, marking something on her clipboard before moving on. I know they're all watching, keeping track of what I eat, how much I weigh, whether I look any better than the day before. It's exhausting, feeling like a specimen to by monitored rather than a person.

The afternoon drags on with more sessions. Individual therapy this time. The therapist asks me about my past, my family, the things that brought me here. I give brief, detached answers, revealing just enough to keep her pressing too hard. I don't want to dig into those memories; they're too raw, too painful. She doesn't push, but I can tell she's waiting for me to let my guard down. I don't plan on giving her the satisfaction.

I spend what's left of the day in the common room, reading a worn novel I found on the bookshelf. It's not the kind of book I'd normally choose, but it's something to fill the empty minutes. I lose myself in the story, feeling the weight of my own thoughts recede for a little while. The other patients are scattered around the room. Some talking, some staring blankly at the television, others absorbed in their own distractions. We're all lost in our own worlds, sharing the same space but never really connecting.

Dinner is another ordeal. I sit alone, pushing the food around my plate, but I make myself eat enough to keep them off my back. The two girls who approached me yesterday try again, offering polite conversation, but I don't have the energy to respond. I nod and smile where appropriate, giving them just enough to make them go away. I'm not ready for friendships, not here. Not now.

After dinner, there's another round of meds, I swallow them without protest, knowing that resistance is pointless. I feel the drowsiness settle in as the sleep aid begins to take effect. It's not the peaceful kind of tired, but the heavy, artificial weight of a medicated fog. I drag myself back to my room, feeling the ache of another day spent just surviving.

I curl up on the thin mattress, wrapping the flimsy blanket around me as tightly as I can. The room is too cold, too empty, and the fluorescent lights from the hallway seep through the doorway. I stare at the ceiling until my eyes blur, waiting for the pills to pull me under. Sleep comes, heavy and dreamless, but the loneliness doesn't leave. It's there, even in the dark, a shadow that refuses to let go.