The walls in the asylum talk and talk from their crayon-colored pictures.
“The best is yet to come.”
“Every day is a new start.”
“I am worthy of being heard.”
“I am worthy of being seen.”
“I’m deserving of happiness.”
“I am capable of achieving my goals.”
Where I am is a countrified wing of a mental hospital, but I like “asylum” better. The people who come here are “dual diagnosed.”
All have an attachment to a drug.
The drugs they are attached to range from alcohol to heroin to cannabis to crack and beyond. But they are also troubled with depression, anxiety, and other psychiatric disturbances.
This is a strangely calm place most of the time, a place where we are required to go to several meetings a day. The themes of these meetings are:
“The best is yet to come.”
“Every day is a new start.”
“I am worthy of being heard.”
“I am worthy of being seen.”
“I’m deserving of happiness.”
“I am capable of achieving my goals.”
There are about thirty of us. Most are youngish, although there are exceptions. Like me, for one. I’m old. And there are others in the middle stages of their life who have tried repeatedly to stop drinking or taking some other drug. And most of us also suffer from depression or anxiety or both.
This is my third time here.
Each stay is two weeks long and, in addition to the meetings, includes therapy sessions, both group and individual.
I am worthy of being heard.
But Larissa doesn’t think so. Larissa is a small, talkative, lively young woman. She is in our large group meetings but not my small group therapy session, which is the best way to get to know someone. I wish I’d known her better.
As I mentioned, I am old. I suffer from arthritis in my knees and therefore am one of the very few who use the slow, unreliable elevator.
As an old person, I might add, I tend to have hands that tremble when I lift up, say, a cup of coffee and sometimes I press the wrong button on the elevator and go up the two stories to the dormitories instead of down the two stories to the meeting room.
To go backwards just a bit, I had recently become friendly with a wildly elegant and beautiful young woman who is slim, tall, and always dressed in black.
Although she is a great deal younger, I developed a crush on Haze even before we talked books and I learned she’s literate as well as slim, tall, and elegant. Her name is Hazel, which she abhors. So, she’s known as Haze.
When I mentioned my crush to my in-house therapist he said that there are lots of people here who’ve suffered very serious trauma in their lives and it’s best not to act on any romantic feelings in this setting. In fact, one doesn’t know what might trigger a negative response.
But Haze and I began to lunch together and talk literature. Clearly, she had suffered something unspeakable in her younger years. She never spoke about her early troubles, but I could tell from the tears occasionally standing in her gorgeous black eyes that she’d been very hurt. That made me love her more.
It was my one joy, getting close to Haze.
One day I was going to the meeting downstairs from the first floor. I pushed the elevator button and apparently erred and went up instead of down.
At the second floor, when the dilatory elevator door finally opened, I was faced with Larissa, who laughed when she saw me. As she took the stairs. I pressed the correct button and got to our meeting. It was one of the large groups, twenty-five or so people.
The meeting hadn’t started, so I strolled over to where Larissa was seated and started to ask her why she laughed at me. Her response was explosive. “Because you’re a pathetic old man who don’t know up from down.” Although it was a rule to be kind in this setting, Larissa wasn’t.
“And don’t you come any closer to me!” she shouted and made a semi-circle with her finger on the floor in front of her. “This is my personal space. Don’t come a step further!” Her clearly real rage stopped me in my tracks.
But after a second, I started tentatively toward her again and said, “I don’t see why you’re angry.” “That’s because you’re a blind, shaky old motherfucker. Get back! Fuckin’ wacky old fuck!”
Everyone in the room was unnerved. I considered taking another step forward when others in the group called my name and said, “You’d better move back,” which I did and sat across the room at my usual seat, glancing at Larissa. “And don’t you look at me, motherfucker,” she said to clarify her position even further.
I left the meeting room and took the elevator up to my own room where I cried inconsolably.
After this, Haze avoided me completely and would not answer when I spoke to her. I did see her the next evening coming out of the nurse’s office as I waited for my meds. She just kept walking and I said in a loud voice, “So, because I was bullied by Larissa in front of you, you won’t speak to me anymore?” And as she was out of sight down the hall, I heard her call back, “Nailed it!”
Still, it’s a relief to know that the best is yet to come. Every day is a new start.
I am worthy of being heard.
I am worthy of being seen.
I’m deserving of happiness.
About the Author
Alec Solomita is a writer working in Massachusetts. His fiction and poetry have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, The Lake, Red Dirt Forum, and One Art.
He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword Journal. His chapbook “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017. His full-length poetry book, “Hard To Be a Hero,” was released by Kelsay Books in the spring of 2021. He’s just finished his third book, “Small Change.”
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