Angels and Wallflowers - 1202

Letter Three

Sunday, May 28, 2017
Dear, Friend

    Tomorrow is the 29th. I wake at the same time they give me meds at. Nothing eventful really in the morning except that me and Wheelchair left our rooms at the same time, spooky I know. These letters have added a stress to my life like, should I tell you every single detail of my life like when I had a small rock in my shoe that bothered me for a whole day until it was time to sleep and I had taken my shoes off? Or like how they took my blood pressure Friday, and I woke up while they were just finishing up, then the next morning the night nurse asked me if my blood pressure was always high? Then how I did have to mark down what I was eating and what I wasn't, then suddenly it just stopped today? I suppose that had changed because I was actually eating. I haven't really explored much of the ward but Good Kush, Clean Record, Black Hoodie and I all took over a small corner at the end of the hall. If you looked down this hall you could see the doors that lead outside. It lead to what we all yearned for. Not escaping the ward, but going home. I couldn't say I'm homesick because I hadn't been there for so long. A month marks tomorrow. Not a month in the ward but a month in the hospital all together. Later after supper we decided to watch the oldest Spider Man movie we could find, because that was Wheelchair's favourite movie. It was a good choice of movie, except the CGI was horrendous.

Wheelchair pointed that out, but her voice was nice and calming to listen to. I could listen to her talk about anything honestly, for a whole day. I guess I should say that I started reading a nice book. It's called The Perks Of Being A Wallflower. I enjoy it very much, but that also could be because an older nephew gave it to me. He's my nephew because my parents had adopted me and he's her sister's child. Confusing? Kind of. But maybe I liked the book for the format of how it was written, or how I looked up to the older nephew. I like acting like there's someone reading this while I write and they make little comments that help write more detail in the letters, but of course it's just me and my imagination. But, back to the Spider Man movie idea. I stopped watching after Uncle Ben was fatally shot by the man that Peter could have stopped from robbing the wrestling company but didn't. I think that was very selfish of Peter but I continue to like him. He had a motive for not stopping him. But I didn't tell you why I stopped, and that was because I heard Wheelchair in the music room. I slipped away from the main crowd and walked to the music room. I heard Wheelchair singing her heart out and honestly, I feel bad for knocking and interrupting her. She was playing the ukulele. In a way that was like Peter. Being selfish for himself so he would benefit. Me being selfish so I could be with a very very beautiful lady. She could be my Mary Jane. No, that was silly to write.

But In the music room we didn't play, write or even think of music. The music room was closed off, private. Perfect for talking. I now know why Wheelchair was in the ward, and why she got extra snacks, and how the nurses picked out the food she had to eat, not like the rest of us. Because we, the other patients, had freedoms, we could pick to not eat Breakfast. We could decide to not eat Lunch. We could choose to have six muffins at Dinner with a side of three peanut butter packets and a three cheese pizza without the three cheeses. But not her. Because she had an eating disorder. Suicide may have been common but I wouldn't have expected her to have an eating disorder. "Because typically people with eating disorders have a stereotype that revolves around them." is what she said to me. Only skin covers their bones. No muscle. No fat. Just skin. They could have a horrible heart but great lungs, and that's because when you don't eat your body has to make energy. That energy comes from the destroying of organs in the human body. I wouldn't say I'm glad she's there, but I'm happy she's getting the help she needs. I guess we were all there for a little help. Guidance to get back on your feet I suppose. That's how she said it at least. I understood where she was coming from because I understood how she talked. She talked like she had something to live for. She did. She still does. She always will. But she treated me like she treated everyone else. I kind of disliked that because I wanted to be her special someone to hold them when they felt low, or to comfort them when the thunder rumbled so hard that it shook the earth inside and out of it's grassy skin. I suppose we talked about other things too. Like how Black Hoodie was slightly more annoying than everyone there for expressing his problems aloud. Or how Wheelchair called Black Hoodie by his girl name and not his boy name. Or how she enjoyed all music types but she enjoyed Alternative the most. Or how I played the guitar, but not well. Or how tomorrow would mark a birthday I hadn't wanted. Or how she asked about my story. I didn't tell her but, maybe if I did she would have liked me a small bit more. Just my thoughts though. I hope you think this is long enough and you don't break my pinky. I also want you to know that writing about Transgender people is confusing because they're originally a girl, so you write her. Instead of his. And then you may accidentally call them a different gender instead of their desired gender. Ugh.

Love always,
-a