Welcome to the Crazy House

Year 2014: The warmest hug

Here, in the crazy house, you can meet all sorts of people. Everyone tells you they were forced to come here. Strange. Anyway, in 2014 three special men joined us and I decided that they deserve a special place in my writings. 

*

First one was Vladimir. I was so happy to finally have a Russian-speaking friend here. He wasn't allowed to communicate with anybody for about three months but after they finally let him into the living room he was the most talkative. He said he was sent here because he was depressed. I didn't know depression was a reason enough to be put here. I really didn't. We spoke in Russian so no one understood what we were talking about. With that, I ... we ... suddenly got another level of privacy. It was something they couldn't take from us, neither understand and we liked it.

Vladimir was also born in Russia, but far away from my hometown. When he was fifteen years old, his parents died in a fire. He then moved to Britain with his grandmother. Here he met a girl and she broke his heart. He then met another girl and she broke his nose. He became friends in wine. I understood him. We talked a lot about wine. Even though I had been here for quite some time, I still missed wine. Oh how I missed it.

In the middle of June they decided Vladimir was healthy and they set him free. I envied him. He said he would visit me. But he didn't have to. In November he came back as a patient. Another girl broke his heart and he renewed friendship with wine. We stayed good friends and we talked even more. But they didn't allow me to stay in other patient's rooms since that thing with Henry and they shortened his visits to living room so we only talked a few minutes a day. One day we started planning out escape but we realized it was too hard and gave up. After all, it wasn't that bad here.

Talking to Vladimir made me realize I really wasn't well. When he told me what he perceived as messed up life, I understood that my life was so much more than messed up. I really needed help. But I was still convinced that talking to Rita wouldn't heal me. I preferred telling Vladimir about my papa or Russia than Rita. I felt like he understood. And I could tell so much more in Russian than in English. In 2014 he was my personal therapist.

*

Jay was only eighteen years old when he came here in March 2014. He was scared at first but when he got used to the whiteness, he became the wildest patient. He made every day a chaotic experience. One day, while we were eating dinner, he jumped on a table, kicked all plates with food and started dancing. Four nurses and an injection were needed to calm him down. He never talked to anybody, but he rather showed us his affection by splashing us with water. He once ran naked around the whole house. He was fun. I enjoyed him. He was a cinema I missed so much. Of course, nurses and doctors hated him and they did everything to calm him down. He didn't last long. At the end of April they moved him to another institute. Another crazy house. Maybe that one was red instead of white? Maybe.

*

I made a lot of new friends in 2014. I felt less alone. But that didn't mean I wasn't alone anymore. I was still very lonely. I missed papa more than anybody. In January, I spent a lot of my time on a comfy chair near the living room. I sat there and thought about everything that had happened to me in the past. Sometimes a tear streamed down my face, but no one noticed. They were all so used to my existence that I didn't exist anymore.

Bob was known as the most aggressive patient here. He was masculine, tattooed and bald. He sometimes hit a doctor because he didn't want to go the therapy. Everyone was afraid of him and I was too. I didn't want to talk with him because I was afraid to say something wrong and he would then punch me. I didn't believe Bob was a nice person. But I also didn't understand why he was here. Actually the thing that confused me was how he let someone take him here if he was so strong. Why didn't he defend himself?

One day, when I sat on that chair, thinking about papa, another tear slipped down my cheek. It didn't matter, as I thought no one ever noticed me. But in the middle of not existing, I heard a raw voice say: "Oh, don't cry." Right after that two strong arms hugged me. I couldn't help myself. I was overwhelmed. I started crying even more. I was sobbing and he was comforting me. As much as I wanted to stop I couldn't. I hadn't received a real hug for so long it felt like I was home again. But this time, I was in a warm, honest home. No one was hitting me, no one was neglecting me, and no one was dying. Understanding. What I felt was understanding. Yes, Bob was an aggressive man, but he gave the warmest hugs. He told me he knew how it is to be alone. He said he cried a lot in his room but he didn't want anyone to see him because it was just not okay for a man like him to cry. He hugged me because he knew how hard it was to cry and have no one to be there for you.

Bob and I became friends. We didn't talk much, but we played Uno together. And from then on, he was also my protector. No one dared to do anything to me, as they knew Bob had my back. Sometimes he cried and sometimes I cried. Because at the end, we were both just two lost souls locked in a crazy house.

*

I told Rita about many interesting people I met here and she always said it was good that I became more open to the hospital society. I still didn't tell her anything about my youth and she was not pleased with it. But with every day, with every month locked here I became more and more prepared to confront my past. And at the end of 2014, when everybody celebrated New Year, I sat in my little room and whispered it. I whispered everything. I did it. I opened the long locked box. I told it all to myself. I repeated every single detail of those terrible nights. I recalled all the hits of destiny. I relived every tear. Yes, I told it all. And suddenly, it was the first day of January 2015. My birthday. A new year. But did that mean a new start? I didn't know. As my past echoed trough the room it seemed so worthless. Everything became useless. I laid back and let it all cover me as a blanket. As I tried to fall asleep the question of many years repeated itself.

Did I tell what happened when I was eighteen?

And for the last time I answered with ...

Niet.