I Only Want to Close My Eyes Half of the Time - Part 1

Every night that it rained, I was completely in my element. There was nothing more liberating than feeling the rain fall on me, and there was nothing that I could possibly have wanted more than the pure freedom of walking on those nights. I always made those walks by myself, and it was a great way to distract myself from the the troubles of my life. Please don’t get me wrong - I love my wife and my son, they are my world - but a guy needs to recharge his batteries every now and then. And while the rain was not always present in the evenings, I took full advantage of it to take those walks.

I would end up back at the house a little bit after my wife had put our son to bed on those nights. I would slip into his room and kiss the top of Niko’s head and make sure that he was covered with his blanket. Hang my clothes to dry, take a quick shower, and then I would climb into bed with my wife. She always sighed, making the same sound that she subconsciously made whenever we would cuddle; I always took it to mean contentment, and after several years of marriage, I didn’t think that I was far off the mark.

Sleep was not something that overtook me easily, especially after my rainy walks. Maybe it was the fact that my thoughts were racing about my head, the chores that still needed to be done, replaying the events of the day, relishing the quality time with my family. Perhaps it was the fact that my wife was right there in my arms, dressed for bed in her usual attire of something made of silk and lace, her dark hair tied up to expose the delicate ivory of her neck as she lay facing away from me.

Realistically, though, as much as I loved to muse on such things, I knew that the real reason that sleep was so elusive was purely by my own design. Having been a coffee drinker as far back as I could remember, it wasn’t unusual for me to have several cups throughout the day. Naturally, the caffeine would wind up keeping me awake, wired for hours after my wife and son were long asleep. So even as I was laying there, holding the beauty that had accepted my proposal so many years ago, I could not relax, could not fall asleep.

Because the moment I closed my eyes, it was over.

All of this would be gone.

And I had not the faintest spark of a clue whether or not this would ever return.

Unfortunately, caffeine and fear can only work their twisted magic so far before human frailty wins out. My eyelids descended, and despite my best efforts, I was slipping into the darkness. I managed to say what I always said to Meghan when we would part ways: “I’ll come back to you as soon as I can, darlin’.”

The darkness did not last long, thankfully, but the glaring sunlight that streamed into the room cast the images of the wire mesh from the windows onto my bed. No matter how many times it happened, I was still unnerved by the brightness of the new day. I tried to block the morning sun from my eyes, and, as usual, found that my eyelids were a poor substitute for curtains. I could hear the commotion outside of the room, and I steeled myself for the impending and inevitable interactions.

The door opened, as did my eyes, and they entered, laughing about only-God-knew-what, a small case in their hands. “OK, Jason,” the first one, a husky lumberjack, said. “You know the routine. I’m gonna remove the restraints, and you be a good boy, ya hear?”

I managed a weak nod from the bed. The fight had gone out of me ages ago, and I understood the futility of giving them a hard time. The lumberjack unstrapped my left arm and rolled up my sleeve; the air carried the persistent chill of the constant sixty-eight degree environment. His partner, a smaller blonde guy of slight build, opened the pouch and readied the needle.

“Time for your morning meds, Jason. Just keep holding still for us, OK?” Blondie said, his tone patronizing and condescending. As if I was a child.

As if I was crazy.

The needle slipped beneath my skin, a small pinch at first with, in rapid succession, the pain caused by the expansion of the tissues from the rest of the needle. They did not believe in small gauges for their needles here.
Though to be fair, they didn’t tend to believe in too much of anything.

The sedatives worked their way through me with force, and I could feel my jaw go slack, my fists unclench, and my legs turn to rubber. This stuff wasn’t designed to put me under - contrary to what I wanted before, sleep would have been an exceptionally welcome friend at this point. But this was to make sure that I was malleable and receptive. The familiar sensation of fogginess enshrouded me, and I was ready for them to remove the restraints. Blondie unstrapped my ankles while Lumberjack freed my other arm. They had learned, through the painstaking process of trial and error, that this was the best way to deal with me.

And I had learned through the same trials and errors, that fighting back only made it abysmally worse.

I let LJ and Blondie drag me to my feet and deposit me into the wheelchair in the hallway. This routine was, for us, more than a science, graduated to an art form. So there I sat until someone came to wheel me into breakfast. I had stopped paying attention long ago, since it was, quite literally, the same damned thing each day: someone would push my chair to the cafeteria, they would place in front of me a tray of runny eggs, sausage patties that were still cold in the center, barely-singed bread that they laughingly called toast, and something that was supposed to resemble coffee. And that is what they called “breakfast.”

That coffee was alternately the worst and best part of it all. Cold, and possessing a flavor of something that was definitely not made from roasted beans, it couldn’t hold a candle to the stuff I made at home, but it was something, but for the life of me, I was having a difficult time discerning why I always found the coffee so important. The damn fog in my head really made things difficult, but I knew that as the fog lifted, the notion of the coffee and its importance would come back. It always did.

Choking down the runny scrambled eggs was about all that I could muster. Aside from the mostly inedible nature of the once-powdered yellow nightmare that was on my tray, I could still taste Meghan’s garlic pork roast from dinner. I sipped from the imitation java and let LJ and Blondie, in their usual impatient manner, grab my tray. Whether I was actually done eating or not, I was done eating. Lumberjack and Blondie ruled my world. I chuckled softly, since I realized that, no matter where I was, there were always exactly two people who had such a level of control over me.

“Hey, Jason thinks something’s funny. Maybe he’ll share in group session today, ya think?” Blondie scoffed.

Lumberjack snorted, “Nah, what’s he got to say anyway? Nothin’ new. Just something about his wife and kid. I’m bored with his made-up crap.”

Made-up crap. The resulting anger from his comment did help me to focus a bit through the sedative-induced cloud inside of my head. Comments like that from the staff always tended to set me off. I mean, why wouldn’t they just believe me? What was stopping them from seeing the truth? That I really had a wife and a son and a house and a car and a career and…?

Slow it down, bunky. That reaction is what got you on the meds in the first place. And when the doctors and nurses realized that I was spitting out or puking up the pills, that got me jabbed in the arm a bunch during the day. As much as I was anxious to get out and leave this place far behind me, I knew that I would never manage getting within sight of that goal if they still thought that I was crazy. Such was life in an asylum.

Although today they call it a “mental health hospital.” A cute little euphemism that paints such a pretty little picture to the outside world. But those of us who are in here know better. The others in my ward weren’t lucky like the ones in a short-term care ward; those lucky bastards would be released after a small stay, and they were given “privileges.” Their medication was voluntary and came in pill form exclusively, no forcible needle option.

But those of us who were in it for the long haul - the schizophrenics, the ramblers and ranters and ravers, the ones who heard voices and saw visions, who were frightened of the impending alien invasion - we all experienced the darker side of the hospital. And then there was me, in here because I woke up one morning and swore up and down that something was so very wrong with the world. Because I fell asleep with Meghan in my arms one night, and I woke up the next morning somewhere far from home, far from the life I knew. And when I tried to put the pieces together, someone thought I was out of my mind. So here I am, struggling to maintain my identity, being wheeled down the hallway of the long-term care ward in a “mental health hospital,” towards my appointment with some psychologist or another. I had lost count, frankly, of how many I’ve had, and of most of the nurses and orderlies. Only Lumberjack and Blondie had remained, the only people who were constant in my so-called life here.

The doctor’s office had plenty of room for them to push me in with ease, and they closed the door and waited, as they always did. I glanced at the psychologist’s lab coat with the name embroidered on the left breast. Dr. Sue Miller. The sedatives, thankfully, did not block Dr. Miller from my memory, so I gave myself a mental high-five for keeping track of her name; it helped them to think that I was with it.

There were some things about here and home that were identical - major phenomena, like geography, national news and events, global stuff, the world leaders - things like that. The parts that were different were Meghan, me, and our son. So when they asked me about who the President of the United States was, I, in my initial anger, gave them the smart-mouthed answer that I readily gave, “Some jerkwad. What does that matter?” Today was going to be different, however. I had been steadily working my way to presenting something more “normal” to them, something more cooperative, compliant, and polite. The sedatives and the revolving door of physicians made it more difficult, but I was determined to get out and find out just what in the hell happened to Meghan and Niko and our life.

“So how are we today, Jason?” Dr. Miller always came across, just like the orderlies and nurses and other psychologists, with a smugness that only added to my frustration.

If you ever want to experience the futility of Sisyphus, try explaining to trained psychological medicos that you really are sane and not the least bit crazy. Swallowing the frustration as I did the liquid yellow mess of breakfast, I answered weakly, “Not too bad, Doc. Could use some more sleep, really. But hey, couldn’t we all?” My attempts at flippancy and levity rarely went over well, but they didn’t seem to hinder me. I thought of those moments as small victories against the fog in my skull.

“Well, Jason, you know that we do not permit nap time during the day here. We have a strict schedule, and besides, we need you to sleep at night, when you’re supposed to sleep. That’s typical and normal. Don’t you want that for yourself? To feel normal and better?”

Damn. I always tried to sneak a nap in. I figured that falling asleep during the day would help me get back to Meghan and Niko sooner, but for if you have ever tried to fall asleep in a wheelchair, I have to be honest with you, it gets to be fairly obvious if you’ve gone down for a siesta. LJ and Blondie would always wake me up just as I would start to drift away. I managed a small shrug for Dr. Miller, “I thought that I was getting better. I mean, I’m taking my meds, eating my meals, and going to sessions all the time. Aren’t I getting better…?”

Bullcrap. I was being injected, barely getting to eat whatever slop they dropped in front of me, and literally being pushed from one place to the next. There were days that I longed for that roast that Meghan burned that one time…
Stay with her, bunky. Stay focused. I knew that I could blame distraction on the sedatives, so I wasn’t too worried. But if I drifted off too much, then Dr. Miller would know it was more than just the happy juice that they pumped into me.
“You’re making progress, Jason, and things are looking up. We would like you to share more during group sessions, and we are a bit worried about your weight -” Then let me eat your crappy food! “- but you’ve come such a long way. We’re considering going back to pills for your medications. How does that sound?”

Forward progress. Sounded good to me. Anything to get away from her, and to get one step closer to out the door. My appointment ended, and my ever-present companions escorted me to the day’s activities of group therapy, TV time, lunch, art therapy, dinner, and then more TV time. Finally, the interminable day had ended, and I allowed myself the hint of a smile as they strapped me into bed, turned off the lights, and shut the door.

I was going home.

This was no time to fend off the sleep. My eyelids closed and the darkness of sleep washed over me for an instant.

And I was home again. Opening my eyes brought me to my life, to the place that I wanted to be, needed to be. Meghan stirred and yawned. It was bizarre, knowing that I was physically awake and alert, but also feeling mentally drained. I was going to need some coffee…

Meghan interrupted that thought with a kiss and a breathy whisper in my ear.

Maybe I wasn’t quite as mentally drained as I had thought...

The coffee could wait.

Part 2: https://steemit.com/short-story/@phoenix32/i-only-want-to-close-my-eyes-half-of-the-time-part-2