Schizophrenia
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Sxmmy
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I Would Like to Check My Daughter into Your Institution
Tick tock... tick tock... tick tock.
The stark, gray walls of the room stared back at me, as unfeeling as the ticking clock on the wall. The only other sound was the rhythmic tap of my motherâs foot against the linoleum floor.
At seventeen, I was being discarded by my own mother, who was convinced I had schizophrenia. She claimed it was a family trait, but Iâd never shown any signs of it.
Sometimes, I wondered if she was the one losing touch with reality.
A stern-looking woman entered the room, her gaze shifting from the clipboard in her hand to me, sitting defiantly with my arms crossed. She was dressed in a black pencil skirt and her gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun. The click of her black heels against the floor suggested she held some authority in this place.
She settled behind her desk, dropping her clipboard and spreading out a few papers. âHow can I help you?â Her voice was as cold as her gaze.
My mother straightened in her chair. âI want to admit my daughter into your institution. She has schizophrenia and Iâve waited too long to get her the help she needs,â she said.
âOur family has a history of schizophrenia and I donât want her to get help when itâs too late.â Too late? What was she talking about? I rolled my eyes and sighed in frustration.
Sheâd never had me tested for any mental illness. How could she be so sure I was sick? And how could she just lock me away, taking away my freedom?
The woman began to fill out the papers on her desk, the only sounds in the room the ticking of the clock and the scratch of her pen.
âWhatâs your daughterâs name and age?â She didnât even look up as she asked.
âRyder Bends. Sheâs seventeen.â
âAnd Iâm not mentally unstable,â I added, my voice sharp.
My mother turned to me, her eyes wide with disbelief. âRyder, Iâm your mother. Donât you trust that Iâm doing this for your own good?â Her voice was grating, like nails on a chalkboard.
The smell of her hairspray grew stronger as she shook her head at me. It was a wonder she still had any hair left with the amount of product she used.
âOur family has a history of schizophrenia and you think Iâm going to let you suffer? Iâm a good parent, you know.â
I rolled my eyes. âWhat kind of good parent throws their kid away before getting them tested?â
She leaned in close, her voice a harsh whisper. âThis is for your own good, got it? Once you start losing your mind, youâll see. Iâve seen what this disease does to people in our family. I wonât let it happen to you.â
She turned back to the woman behind the desk, who was watching us with a blank expression.
I didnât even know anyone else in our family. Iâd never met my
father.
I bet he would have been a better parent than her.
The woman behind the desk turned her icy gaze to me. âMiss Bends, do you understand that you will be expected to follow all rules and regulations of Mills Mental Institution? Failure to do so will result in punishment.â I nodded.
âOur institution has been around since the 60âs and our policies have remained the same. We expect the best from our patients.â
Her monotone voice suggested they didnât really expect the best from their patients...
She gestured for me to stand, then handed my mother the clipboard. âPlease sign here to acknowledge that we will be taking full responsibility for your daughter. Visiting hours are every Wednesday at two in the afternoon.â
My mother signed the papers and handed them back. I looked at her, but she wouldnât meet my gaze. âThank you for taking care of my daughter,â she said to the woman, her smile as fake as a three-dollar bill.
The woman walked to the door. âWait here while I fetch your guard,â she said, then left the room.
I turned to my mother, but she still wouldnât look at me. âYouâre throwing away your own daughter based on nothing but suspicion. What kind of mother does that?â I scoffed. âI bet dad wouldnât do this to me if he were here.â
At the mention of my father, my mother tensed, her hands balling into fists. She turned to me, her eyes hard. âYou donât know him like I do. He was a sick man, Ryder,â she said through gritted teeth.
Before I could respond, the woman returned with a tall man in white scrubs. He was holding a blue jumpsuit and a pair of black boots.
âThis is Deral, your guard. He will escort you to therapy sessions, meals, your room, and so on. He will take you to your room now.â
I looked at my mother one last time before following Deral. She was staring at the floor again, refusing to meet my gaze.
As we walked down the dimly lit hallway, I could see patients behind the small, caged windows in the doors. Some were screaming, some crying, some laughing. Some even catcalled me as I passed, but I kept my eyes on the floor, trying to block out their voices.
The anger and defiance Iâd felt when I first arrived had faded, replaced by a growing unease. These people were unstable, and I had no idea what I was getting into.
This felt like being the new kid at school, only a hundred times worse. I was all alone in this ancient, dust-filled building, surrounded by strangers. I had no idea how to handle it...
Deral came to a halt in front of a door, and I followed suit.
He fished a key out of his pocket, unlocked the metal door, and swung it open. Inside was a single bed and an old-fashioned clock hanging on the left wall.
A lone LED light hung from the ceiling, flickering as if it was on its last legs.
Deral handed me a set of clothes and shoes, instructing me to change and give him my current outfit.
I didnât utter a word. I just walked into the room. Deral shut the door behind me, blocking the small window with his body.
Despite the guard outside, the room felt incredibly lonely and creepy. I felt tiny and vulnerable in this dreadful place.
Upon closer inspection, I noticed the blue jumpsuit had âMills Mental Institutionâ emblazoned on the back, effectively branding me as a product of this nightmare of a building.
I also noticed the boots had Velcro instead of laces. I wondered why that was...
I changed into the jumpsuit and sat on the bed. I quietly placed my old clothes and shoes next to me on the bed and stared at my hands in my lap.
I fiddled with my thumbs until Deral realized I was done changing. He opened the heavy door and stepped in, gathering my clothes.
âIâll be back to go over the rules. Donât move,â his deep voice echoed in the small room.
I didnât reply. I just kept my gaze down as Deral walked out and shut the heavy door again.
I couldnât make sense of my feelings. I was angry at my mother for putting me in this situation, but I was also terrified of what was to come. I was alone in a mental hospital.
This hospital didnât even bother to check if I was actually sick.
This place might be old, but I didnât think they still operated under the assumption that if someone claimed mental illness, theyâd just take anyone in.
Here I was, a seventeen-year-old trapped in a mental hospital with a baseless diagnosis of schizophrenia.
I was frightened and alone in an unfamiliar environment.
This was a new kind of hell I never agreed to explore.
