I am not Crazy

1655 WordsFeb 19, 20187 Pages
I’m here because I couldn’t hold my liquor at nineteen. Though all I remember of the night before is a cloying scent of alcohol and whispered taints in my ears, it’s obvious what happened was bad. I’m sure if I tried, I could remember the events that led to my hospitalization, but I don’t want to. I'm the sanest here. I’m not one of the vegetables, blank stares directed at bland infomercials that flickered across the television screen, or one of the psychotics, smearing their food, both before and after it had passed through their bodies, on the walls. They like to label me as a paranoid schizophrenic, but I know better. They hear the voices too, they just hide it better. The office smells faintly of smoke and dried ink. Ceiling lights reflect sharply off wire rimmed glasses. I can’t see his eyes. That's a good thing; eyes are dangerous. It’s hard to focus when you’re wondering what the underlying glints mean, what they know. Eyes pick you apart and toss your innards to the wind. I once had a friend who said she could drown in a man’s blue eyes. Drowning doesn’t sound enjoyable. The doctor had chosen white for his walls, like every other goddamn room in the place. The white is suffocating. I hate it, I want to peel it away and reveal what they were hiding, like I want to peel away the nurses skin and peer at their true intentions. His wooden desk is coated in pencil shavings and grayed paper that is covered in tiny dark font.
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