admit one - day two ·
3 March 06

I don’t know what time I slept, but I heard noises that stirred my eyes awake. Breakfast time, so it must have been 8am. What really woke me up was last nights vile taste spreading across my senses like an unwelcome family member everyone despises.

Last nights medication has fucked up my taste buds. Whether inhaling through my nostrils or beginning the action of moving my tongue, the entire scene creates and explosive disinfectant taste and smell to all my senses. Imagine drinking water that smells like bleach; when you taste, your tongue reeks in disgust.

You take a deep breath , but the sanitised air gets there first. Your mouth does feel stripped bare of its normality, like a bear without fur, or a car without a chassis, your flesh without the two or three protective layers of dead skin that you pamper forever. What peopel call clean and beautiful skin is simply polishing the dead. All that fucking money you spend on face washes, exfoliating products, moisturisers and toners. All the compliments you get for your beauty. The plastic surgery to raise that dead skin more prominently. All these efforts made to paint dead skin cells. You people are the real crazy bastards.

There are no good looking crazy women around here. The opposite is true. They’re crackheads, old, fat, receding, fraks of society rolled into a large sock and hit on to the head of a new born baby repeatedly until it’s skull splits and the jam pours out of the slight open wound. At least in drug rehab, there’s something’m goi to consider. Trying anything here would amount ot elderly abuse or a freak attack, or perhaps being anti-mental-asylum. The place is flooded with blacks and asians, from patients to ward staff. There’s not the diversity I was expecting.

I persistently declared my innocence with my claim of no narcotics for over a year. They continued to question and probe

Is it possible that white people are sane, and that everyone I see here, including myself, is almost predictably here out of logic? Was it just a matter of time before me, or some asian friend of mine would end up in such a place? Seeing as statistically most murders, child molestation and assaults are commited by that populace, then this month might be “quiet white month”.

Today was another intense day, with myself, two support nurses, two medical students and a shrink. I didn’t want to talk about the voice anymore. The shrink yesterday didn’t take all the nites. The bitch. I should’ve killed her. The guy says, “Tell me about the voice”. I tell him, “no”. I claw my right hand against my left, and vice versa. He asks again, it’s Niagra Falls, it’s Hiroshima’s bombing, it’s the Big Bang. My head is exploding.

I’ve been threatened, warned even: “If you try to leave, we will force you to stay”. Fuck, these fucking fuckers are fucking my head up. I have no choice and return from having left the room, calm and relaxed, all of it a front for him, the bastard. “Ask me what you want” I tell him. My new attitude suprises him. Confident, articulate, stronger, faster I am the 30 pence man.

I walk drunkenly back to my room, sedated out of my head. I can’t get to sleep, though

The conclusion? Medication and psycho therapy. A pill for depression, a pill that’s an antipsychotic and of course therapy. The pill for depression is experimental and currently in clinical trials, leaving me to be the first in the borough to be adminstered it. I am the guinea pig, the experiment. A simple test subject.

My urine test came back positive for drugs. It turned out to be cannabis and something else, as I persistently declared my innocence with my claim of no narcotics for over a year. They continued to question and probe, and I continued to answer. Urine tests are known for being unreliable and so it was, that this was a fucking farce of irritating proportions. They tell me they’ll check my blood sample to see how that comes up, no doubt it will be returned with the ebola virus knowing my shitty luck.

The nurse taps my arm repeatedly to find a vein to pierce, like a helper junkie you can probably by in some smack shop in the middle of nowhere surrounded by desolate wastelands. It feels good. Pain and pleasure. With my fist clenched, I keep pumping the blood like a wind powered pull, the containers filling and turbines turning to pump more. THe harder I clench, the fast the blood floods the container.

The plastic surgery to raise that dead skin more prominently. All these efforts made to paint dead skin cells

After lunch, we watch TV. There’s a talking group and I run away from the cult organisation. Here, you can get away with running away because you’re supposed to be crazy and that’s what crazy people are meant to do. TV continues to drone on all day, and it’s absolute crap.

Nightime and they give me my meds. 1 x antibiotic, and 1 x antidepressant sedative. The sedative works, but slowly. My eyes lose focus and start to wander.

Around 7.30pm they offer slices of toast and butter, plus tea or coffee. Their generosity is astonshing, as it’s the only thing left to eat before they shut up shop. Meaning midnight snacks are simply out of the question. Like vultures to a corpse. They take three slices, then four. THe rela mental fuckers finger their bread like a possession, and butter them all night, never actually consuming their food.

I walk drunkenly back to my room, sedated out of my head. I can’t get to sleep, though. Struggling, I think I’m going crazy. My body is fighting against the sedative. Has your body rejected ingested medicine violently? Mine did to the point that I asked it what it wanted. It’s horrible.

Eventually, hours later, it works. I’m knackered the fuck out and turn off.