Volatile as Gasoline

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     I eventually got used to being watched all the time. Grew accustomed to grown women getting paid to watch me shave my legs to ensure I won't harm myself. Got used to being drugged up on anti-depressants, and placed in a room to entertain myself with useless objects sprawled everywhere.

       I also grew aware of all the cold, dull eyes of the other patients. The way some stared off into corners, and mumbled incoherent words to themselves. How some had fire in their eyes, but could never douse the flames in a place like this. They were angry, trapped, and wanting nothing more than to escape the brick walls of their prison. I connected with that.

       There were times I'd act out. I'd throw myself to the ground in a puddle of tears, wondering, Why me? Life isn't fair, and it's never been. But, before it get's better, the darkness gets bigger.

        I grew more depressed, more anxious. There were several times I'd considered taking my pure white sheets, and creating a crude noose to end it all. I barely ate, because food didn't fill the emptiness inside. I fought sleep, because falling asleep made me more vulnerable to my nightmares. In all, I was a mess.

      But she helped clean my mess. Her name, Kasaiya. Assigned to keep me sane and alive, she did her job. She would coax me out of bed, feed me the bland food, and ensured that I had showered and no longer smelt of cat litter. On occasion, she would sit on the corner of my bed while I stood awkwardly, and tell me about the others she had cared for. She told me the happy stories, of recovery and true smiles. Of old scars and new beginnings. She gave me hope, and hope was all I needed.

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