“Is the world going to end?” I asked.
I walk out with them in my Mexican blanket; a glass of water in my hand. I set the water on the plant ledge on the side of the shed. Now sitting in the back of the car, I am off to my next checkpoint with my two trusty companions. I envision the crack that spans the horizon of my painting in the studio. I envision the crack in space and time: closing. Electric white light. Primordial worm. They have dropped me off sleepwalking. I feel the grip of strange men. Suddenly I am awake! Commanded by plastic badges on their chests, they are merciless. My shoes have no traction on the linoleum glowing up fluorescent worm at me. Rabbit heart. I am thinking of screaming and I don’t know.
I have experienced moments, in the months leading up to this, where I feel as though all the people in the world have disappeared and I am alone, walking through a world that is this and that. A world deconstructing. A world and a girl with one hand with the living and one foot with the dead. A day when there were no people in the cars and they drove themselves around a color-coded world. A half-life universe. The days come and go and people rarely notice anything that isn’t moving. They are not themselves sometimes and they don’t know.
On the opposing end of the spectrum, I have felt myself a satellite and these are the highest states of energy. The fountainhead. Godhead. Connection to the senescent forces of Earth and flux. I have heard in passing that the clinical term is “thought-broadcasting”. I would go so far as to use my own borrowed terms; the words that pour through my electric mind: “global consciousness”, the “ancient one” and the like. Solar flares, telekinetic energy, something to do with the pineal gland. Hyperawareness at times and demonic possession. Fuckin’… activity. Is it just me?
I find myself being thrown into a cement room with a cement lip of bench, a small double-pane window and a metal door, a small contraption on the ceiling and a camera in the corner. My clothes are ripped off and I cannot get the words out to describe or halt what is happening. I am screaming; psychotic; having “an episode”. What I truly am is a woman being held hostage in a cement room; the captive of frustrated men. They crave control of me. I am too weak of body and voice for this. My heart is broken.
I am alone. Uncomfortable. Naked feet on cement. Naked genitals. Locked door. No cracks. White box. White casket. I have a Styrofoam cup of water. A Styrofoam cup of unidentified red liquid sits on the windowsill. Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Will I starve to death in this room? Will they carve me up in this room? There are these drawings on the walls. My GOD! S.O.S. bubbles and empty box diagrams. S.O.S., S.O.S., S.O.S., S.O.S., everywhere. Twisty palm trees. Up high there is a cave-drawing-esque picture of a boar with what looks to be a smear of shit or projectile vomit coming out of its mouth. Is it meant to be vomiting shit? Was this a contribution by a previous tenant of this hellish room? It is high up. Are they so sick as to hire and pay a man for this? Is this art? Is this hell?
I am running through dialogue with my dead friend society. Hold my hand as I try to die. I see bones. Purple and blue flowers. The demon who has built this room within his matrix; the demon who has drawn these ugly things on the walls; the demon who has taken over my body; he will break every bone in my body with cruel mercy. The world is cruel. I will die surely here in horrible pain, unable to touch the earth, because humanity is this and humanity is cruel. A scourge to all in my life!
Time goes by. They come in and out. Come in and out of me with rubber gloves and needles. Come for my blood. My pee. Come to sting me like bees. Come to see my pussy. Come to put strange venom in me. Come to hear me scream murder. I wish I was rabid. I wish I had AIDS to bite them. I wish I could kill Ol’ Joe twiddling his willie to the camera feed. I wish I was an X-Man. Somehow my Mexican blanket has made it into this room. I wrap myself in it and huddle under the image of a palm tree. My bladder burns and my crotch burns and I hear a voice of reason say, “do it.” So, I peed on my blanket. They couldn’t have it. Their liquid gold to the god of the underworld, and get the demon baby out with it.
I remember bits and pieces from that first week in the ward. I remember looking out that city window; just watching the rain. I was lying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep when a nurse came in and held a pill-in-a-cup in my face. I thought to myself, “no drugs today…I would like to fast from this.” Don’t even know what it is! I put my hand up. No thank you. I am finding it bearable to close my eyes and have found a bit of solace in this. I wake minutes later to a male doctor and five uniformed male officers. They are in my room. They have closed the door. They are silent. They have a plan. The officers flip me on my back and take their places at the four corners of the sacrificial alter. Their lips are pursed and their gloves are tight. The blessed doctor pulls my red sweatpants and panties to my ankles. I am a wailing worm. The scream haunts my ears. The needle burns my thigh. The poison burns my brain. It does not burn out the memory. It is over. They leave in silence. I run to the bathroom and tie a bedsheet around my neck. Throttle down.
We are having a hearing about me. I am incoherent. Ol’ Friend who brought me to this asylum of pain has come but I cannot hear what they all are saying, dammit, over my chemical lobotomy soundtrack. Ol’ Friend is crying. His eyes were so blue. I must stay here for another week for my reaction. So says the judge and jury of fucking assholes at Peace Health St. Joseph Medical Center. God bless ‘em, ‘cause I won’t.
And when I got out mother came to make me take my pills again.