The Phoenix

Chapter I: Nostalgic Recurrences


I always see fields of lavender: The slight mounds of purple, green and gray seem to roll over the hills forever until the base of the mountains stop their pursuit. Before these fields lays a small patch of lush grass, in which I sometimes massage my feet. There’s always a brilliant sky above me as well. It’s dawn all of the colors in the visible spectrum fill the air with generosity. Shiny gold and red emanate from the rocky peaks and the rest of the horizon remains a turquoise blue and orange. The cumulus clouds reflect these colors perfectly.

For miles in the landscape before me, all I am able to see are these lavender plants and the burnt-sienna mountains. It is the same scene every day, but it is the slight changes in the sky that keeps my soul grounded here. At times I’d reminisce of the similar fresh smell of this place. It reminds me of my birthplace, Panama City, Florida.

I always sit on the porch of the same two-story Antebellum house. The entirety of the building is painted a glossy-white, but my grity hands and feet always seem to soil the pureness of the floorboards. However, grit isn't the kind of thing that matters here. I trace my fingertips along the gloss, feeling its coolness travel up to my spine.

This house has six columns that reach all the way up to the roof. I lean my head towards the one to the right of me. It’s smooth and cool and white, like the porch floor. I sit on the edge of the porch with my feet on the top of the four steps.

My eyes feel anguish but my heart feels weightless. My eyes continue to be the only thing that ails me here, as everything once wrong with my vessel vanish in this place. I remain care-free, but I know there is something other-worldly here.

There’s always a man here, too. It’s funny: Sometimes he looks like an old woman; I guess it just depends on the day. His tough skin is sunburned, yet bronzed, and it has more grooves in it than an old vinyl record. His thinned lips contrast with the sharpness of his eyes. They are the same gray as the lavender. His salt-and-pepper beard, accompanied by his long black hair in two braids, holds ashes that fall from his pipe. Usually he’ll spend the morning in his rocker behind me on the porch, folding his calloused hands while he props his elbows on his knees. They are as roughened as his face.

At times when I arrive here, he’ll tip his leather, wide-brimmed hat at me and raise his hand slightly as a sign of welcome. Whatever he does, he always radiates a sense of contentment and peacefulness towards everything.

The smell of his burning tobacco taunts me, and I am prompted to speak to him. But I never have. We have yet to have a conversation, I feel. I don’t know who he is or why he’s here--but I feel like I know him from somewhere. I even feel we are connected somehow, despite lacking his tawny skin and gray eyes.

His humility and presentation makes him seem like a destitute king. I feel he has no name, so I think of him as God.


Chapter II: Mary


But once again, I awaken on the same foam mattress and these recurring images vanish. I’m back in my room, away from the mountains, the sky, and the lavender fields. My eyes remain fixed on the high ceiling. My bones are chilled to the marrow, which is typical, but here they refuse to give us more than two blankets. I’m thankful that the windows are shut for this same reason. It keeps the winter air out and allows my visions of a summer-time sunrise to linger.

My bed is by the window. We don’t get much sunlight here, so the shrinks distribute melatonin as if it were candy. I’m lucky, however, that my room’s façade faces the track of the sun. So just as my visions of an other-worldly dawn escape my mind as I begin to wake, I wait for the eastern glow every morning. But what I get glimpse of here is nothing compared to my daily visions. Through the thick blinds, covered by bullet-proof glass, I hopelessly hope for a sunrise I have seen so many times before.

I sit up and direct my eyes towards my roommate. Seeing her every morning is comforting, in some peculiar way. Her thin blonde locks are sprawled all over her pillow, a plushy tribute brought by her parents. Her back is to me. I watch the cotton sheets rise as she breathes, however I can’t help but flinch and pity her when I see her vertebrae pop through the cotton.

Through the slight cracks in the blinds, I watch the horizon turn from black to ocean blue, and as the glow comes through higher I see it turn to a teal the yellow-green as it struggles to rise. I’ve learned to tell the time by the colors in the sky. It is an acquired skill that takes much practice, and I often wonder how useful it’ll be when I get out...If I ever do, that is. It’s about 5:15 now.

“Alaina?” My roommate.

“Good-morning,” I smile at her grumpy morning-face.

“Can I shower first?”

“What kind of question is that, you silly-bird?” She always showers first, yet I hear the same proposition every morning. I reply quietly, however. Friends and other patients are still sleeping. I fold my knees up on the bed and I find I’ve grown strangely comfortable. My skin has grown used to the “morning feelings” here, as we call them: Cold, weary, sleepy, yet content, hopeful, tranquil.

Our rooms must always be kept spotless. Anyone who leaves their clutter and random belongings around is noted, and their “sentence” might be made longer. There’s two beds on the long wall, and a plain, cedar nightstand between us. Near the corner of our room, opposite of our beds, lives a bathroom door, which is locked during the night. To the left of our bathroom stands a cubby-hole-type dresser, containing my few belongings and Mary’s copious amount of clothes and “get-well-soon” cards.

She returns to the room with a nurse, who smiles at me while unlocking the bathroom door. Mary sets her plastic pin full of Victoria’s Secret shampoos and body washes on the floor while she proceeds to undress.

I’ve learned to hide my face and eyes while she removes her clothing, but politely, of course. Not necessarily out of respect, but because she looks emaciated. However, each day the suitcases--not bags--under her eyes look a little less blue. Her cheekbones protrude like a confused cat underneath a blanket. “My hair is starting to come back,” she says with a slight chuckle as she whips her socks off.

“I really am happy that you’re getting better, Mary. I’m so glad that you realize recovery is the right way to go,” I don’t lie. “Remember that every--”

“‘Everyday living is another battle won,’” she mocks me. That’s been my piece of advice to her from the get-go. I’ve been here longer than she has.

I laugh with a yawn and hide my face again, turning my face towards the window. Mary goes into the bathroom with her bin, and I am left to linger in the morning sunbeams and the dim light of dawn.

The sun makes me nostalgic of the days when I had my freedoms but lacked my soul. At times I’d just stand at the window and daydream of the salty Floridian breeze and towering palm trees.

“Your turn,” Mary startles my peaceful state as she pats her hair dry with a towel. She never takes too long in the shower, it’s not like she has much “surface area” to wash or beautiful tresses to care for… Not yet, at least. I nod and smile at her.

I’m glad she, of all people here, is my roomate. Despite her brain-consuming illness, she has somehow managed to keep her kind soul and extroverted personality. We’ve grown quite used to each other’s quirks-- how I leave my socks on the windowsill to warm up, how she profusely bites her nails and spits them into a cup. I’ve grown used to her mannerisms, her humorous nature, and the illness that speaks for her at times.

I gather my things and make the three-step trip to the bathroom. It’s about 5:30 now. The other girls in this wing will be awake shortly. I undress and press the shower button a few times to make sure it’s warm enough. Mary actually transferred to my room for this very reason: Her shower was much too cold for her withering skin and tiny frame.

These bathrooms are suicide-proof. There are no locks on the door from the inside, the curtain is held up by velcro, and the mirror is made of some strange, modified, unbreakable plastic. But a mirror is a mirror, right? Water is given by a button that activates two sprouts--one for your head, one for your abdomen. We are required to shower every morning, or else that would be noted in the nurse’s log as well. The water lasts for about forty-five seconds before it must be pushed again. The water is either as cold as Dante’s frozen lake or scorching hot to the point where your skin is left a tomato-red. I prefer the latter.

I allow the water to douse my mouse-brown hair and body. My hair turns a darker shade and my slight eye makeup rolls down my cheekbones. The same start to another day of wishing, wanting, waiting. I’ve forgotten what exactly I’ve been wishing, wanting, and waiting for though. It’s been so long.

The images of God and lavender do not cross my mind. Instead, I distract myself with wonder regarding the day. Do you think we’ll get snack today? Are we going to have music therapy? For so long, for about five years in my past, I tried so hard to escape reality. But the tables have turned, as cliche as it sounds, and now I’m trapped into trying to run away from the fantasy paradise I see every night.

I let the water run out. I refuse to press the button again.

Chapter III: Life in the Looney Bin

Before we get to eat breakfast, we must wait in the “day room.” The day room is the main gathering place for therapy, yoga, and otherwise. The female wing has a large day room, while the male day room is much smaller.

The day room consists of puffy burgundy, cream and green chairs covered by a fabric that seems like plastic. The walls are the same dingy olive green and each of the corners has an adjacent black 90s-television held up by a mount to the ceiling. Below each TV, there are dozens of tissue-paper flowers and cheesy, motivational posters taped on the chipping paint. There are no blinds to cover the large windows, however, those too are almost completely covered by decade-old crafts.
The day room is the epitome of any mental hospital. When someone thinks of Girl, Interrupted, they think of young Angelina Jolie having a smoke in the day room. Although cigarettes are banned from hospitals nowadays, the rest remains the same. The neutral colors of the walls are the same, the couches are the same weird material, and the longing for the outside world is the same.
Breakfast is the holy grail of the hospital. The anticipation of going to sleep at night is only to receive breakfast the next morning. Although everyone must wait for each other's vitals to be taken, most girls in my wing are excellent at being able to wake themselves up, shower, and march right to the day room and wait while wondering what breakfast might bring us.
The food is actually delicious. But we all agree that we like breakfast the best because of all the varieties of food there are to pick from, unlike lunch and dinner. The selection is always dynamic, and it's always fresh. Fruit parfaits, omelettes, and cereal are usually the staple of the breakfast foods but sometimes we'll get cinnamon rolls or something of the sort.
We girls always bond over breakfast because we can all agree that it's the best meal of the day. For some of us, breakfast here is what we live for, because some girls have come to the realization that they’ll never get out, thus destroying the much easier option of committing suicide. On this particular morning, we have hash browns, pancakes, and various fruits to pick from.
Candice, an extreme self-harmer with tiger-striped skin asked a question this morning that wasn’t particularly directed at anybody: “Does anyone know if Trey will be our therapist today?” Trey is our favorite. He’s a light-skinned boy fresh out of social-worker college from South Africa with coffee-colored eyes and a smile that could put your eyes out in all its glistening-white glory.
Rochelle, an ex-prostitute who was caught overdosed in a van after being repeatedly sodomized, said, “Girl, you think I even know what day it is? S***, honey, I lost count a’ my days at this shithole after two months.” Few of us chuckle at our round table of shared secrets, stories, and experiences.
“Chelle! I lost count after these babies!” Mary points to her forearm, which is just as sliced-up and tiger-striped as Candice’s. “Count these tallies!” We all burst out laughing. We’re grown fond of Mary’s dark sense of humor.
After breakfast is done, we receive our medications. We must all line up like little ducklings in a row outside of the day room, separated by a window so that the social workers and nurses can keep a close eye on us. Those who have contacts and retainers receive them here as well. However, sometimes I wonder why we can’t keep our saline solution in our rooms. Do they think we’re going to drink it or something? Maybe dehydrate ourselves with the salt water mixture? Well, my motto remains, as always, “Don’t know; Don’t care.”
Typically in the morning, we wait around for our shrinks to arrive and come check-in on us. It’s a daily thing, thankfully, and we are able to change meds if needed or just sit there and complain for twenty-five minutes.My doctor’s name is Nalak, a soft-spoken, highly intelligent man in his fourties. He’s quite homely looking. He has a bald head, but with a ring of loose locks that circle his head. He has tiny stature in addition to his tiny mouth, which I would assume is a strange observation, but hey, it’s not like I have anything else to do. He claims that I have Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD, but I feel that he only thinks this way because I’m strangely comfortable talking about anything with him and thus, I tell him things I’d usually never say to someone. Not even Mary.
On this particular day, I had to go to substance-abuse therapy. Mary would enjoy a handful of Clonazepam now and then, and so she joins me every other morning for this therapy. Substance-abuse therapy is the only other time we girls get to see the opposite sex, however this is once per week, and so, many of us lie about drugs in order to get into the program. However, some of us actually need it, like myself.
Rochelle, Mary, and myself walk down to the “conference room” down the hall. April, a schizophrenic pot-smoker, joins us along with two other girls, Caitlyn and Hailey. Caitlyn is here because she has nowhere else to stay, while Hailey is here for some of the same reasons I am.
“Remember ladies: Down the hall, to the right is where you’ll get drug-insight!” Nurse Gabriella, or Ella, repeats this same song every day we march to the therapy room. We roll our eyes, just like we have so many times before, but with a smile or a chuckle.
Chapter IV: I’ll Try

Our beautiful Trey walks into the day room for art therapy just as we six line up to leave for substance abuse, surprising and pleasing us all with his presence.
"Good morning, ladies," Trey blinds us with his smile for a moment. We politely reply, well, most of us do.
"Aye, baby 'T," Rochelle attempts to flirt. It doesn't work, nor has it ever. Trey flattens his lips and gives her a stare as he goes to greet the remaining six girls, whilst struggling to yank his roll-y suitcase thing full of art supplies into the room.
As we walk, we all shuffle our feet. As I do this, I usually like to shuffle them to the melody of a certain song; It depends on my mood. Today I chose an old mellow Coldplay song, while April and Rochelle chatted about their lovers back home and Caitlyn and Mary made some remarks about the conversation from breakfast. Hailey walks in silence.
As usual, we are greeted by Tom, the substance-abuse therapist. He always sits in the corner of the room with his glasses resting on the tip of his nose like an old man reading the paper. He’s only thirty-four.
That conference room typically has its chairs up against the walls, however Tom feels that he “connects” with us better if he moves them into a seven-chaired ring of hell encircling the room. I call it a seven-chaired ring of hell because Tom is a monotonous asshole who will cast you off to the underworld if you even think about drugs.
"How was breakfast today, gals?" Tom twirls his pen in his hands. He props his elbows on his knees and looks at all of us as we chose our seating. We mumble at him. No one is ever excited to see Tom. "Well, if you guys are gonna be like that, let's just cut to the chase." He always uses clichés. "I want all of you to go back into your baked brains, and think for once. Think of why you started your self-destructive drug weapon of choice. Come on, now! Spit it out!" His tone isn't necessarily mean, however it's sure as hell annoying. We all glance at one another. Usually he's not this asinine in the morning. This is something he's never brought up before.
"We can't think right now, Tom. Let us wake up a little," Mary protests.
"Yeah, seriously. Give us a chance," it's not usual for Hailey to talk back to Tom.
"No. This is substance therapy. You guys do this every other day. Suck it up, or I'll have to give you points," Tom replies to our complaints as all of our minds draw a blank. "...And I'm sure none of us want to see each other more than we already do." Points will be the death of us, then.
The topic is harder to think about than imagined. Most of us started with something simple like pot or a beer, and so it's actually really difficult to think of why we started. Our older years and “baked brains,” like Tom said, don't help, either. I suppose most of us can think of something to blame though, for the meantime, but in reality, we all share the same reason: We all needed an escape at some point.
"Alright, I'll go I guess," Rochelle turns her head and looks up at the ceiling, with her usual "b****, what?" kind of attitude.
"I was in Tampa, I think. I was goin’ ‘m rounds, workin' the clock, y'all know. This white dude roll up in a Chevy on my block. It weren’t no old one either. It was a silver Malibu. Dis dude say ‘a me, ‘You free tonight, sweetie? There’s a party up on US-10 near Clearwater.’ I say ‘a him, ‘Ya’ll lookin’ for a good time, I’m yo’ b****.’ I drunk a ‘lil earlier in the day, and my John ain’t around, so I went. I was lookin’ forward to having my own money, ‘cuz I needed some new clothes, haha. Ya’ll feel me?” We nod with anticipation. Tom taps his lips with his pen. “Well, I went wid’ him, and as soon as I got in the car he was like, ‘I gotta stop by my place first. Is that okay?’ I say, “Boy as long as I get paid.’ He laughed. His laugh was so irritatin’ though. Oh my God. Anyway, we get ‘tah his place. Girls, lemme tell ya’ll tho, he got money!” She put a lot of emphasis on the "-ey" part. “We got in this gold-ass elevator with the white-stone s***, ya’ll know what I’m talking about?” She always asks questions in her stories; She always makes sure we understand her completely.
“Marble, you mean marble,” Caitlyn ends her questioning.
“Yeah girl, I feel you! That’s it. So, we get to his apartment on the top floor. He tell me to ‘sit down, have a drink,’ I was like, ‘Hell yeah!’ So, I made myself a drink, right? And he come out his room with this little bag. I thought it was coke or somethin’, so I was like, ‘Are you sharin’ that?’”
Mary snorts, “Only you, Chelle.”

“Hahaha! I know, right!? But then he go to his little wine-cabinet thing, and he gets this spoon. I was a little drunk, but not mellow enough. Y’all feel me? He say, ‘You ever try tar, sweetie? I was hoping we could relax a ‘lil before the party.’ I say to him, ‘S***, dude, you know how ‘a party!’” She laughs more and re-adjusts her ponytail. “Anyway, he cook it up for me and puts the rubber thing aroun’ my arm. I swear ‘a God, the moment he started to push down that syringe--I was sure that was the best decision I ever made. It felt, literally, so good. I drooled so much and I got really tired, though. I ain't up for a party after that so I let him have his way with me and the next day I bought me some new shoes. Some of y’all know what I mean, haha.”

“That’s not appropriate, Rochelle,” Tom interrupts.

“Psh, whatever, Tom. I’ll stop then. I’ll tell ya’ll the rest later. Y’all ever f*** a white dude while on heroin? S***, you guys,” Chelle says while I laugh and stare down at my feet.
“Alright, I’ll go next,” April says quietly. She folds her feet under herself and sits back down on the burgundy chair. Her larger figure fills the puffy chair quite well, "The first time I tried cocaine, I was fourteen… And I’m now twenty-three. My schizophrenia was flaring up, but due to my ignorance and dumbass-ness, I thought it was because of all the weed I smoked. The voices were so bad, they’d tell me to kill my cat and s***. So instead of taking downers, I wanted to take an upper. I started with Adderall, but that don't do s*** after a while. So I went to a rave and tried coke. The end." She’s a very blatant girl.
"What's it like?" Mary is ever so curious about hard drugs.
“I don’t know, I mean, I wasn't addicted to it or anything. But I just started doing it occasionally. It’s really strange, you wanna dance and you shake a lot, but you feel numb at the same time, and it’s just...I don’t know. Oh, and you’ll forget to eat. Your nose will bleed though, that sucks,” April tries to explain herself, but she doesn't do very well.
“Thanks for sharing,” Tom smiles at April as if we were at an NA meeting. “Alright. Who’s next?”
“Don’t get any ideas, Mary…We don’t need you to forget to eat,” I don’t mean it in a rude way; I try to make a joke.
“Ha-ha, ‘Laina,” Mary smirks at me. I’m glad she understands. “Anyways, I’ll go. So basically, my doctor prescribes me Klonopin for anxiety, but I figured out that if you take eight at a time, you won’t kill yourself, but you’ll sleep for a long time. And when you wake up, you stumble around as if you were drunk. And that’s another reason why I’m here. L-O-L,” Yeah, that’s Mary alright. She still says L-O-L as if it were 2008.
Hailey’s turn is next. She looks as if she were sleeping the entire time we were sharing our stories. Caitlyn goes after her, holding fond memories of her drug use. This disappoints Tom's efforts.
The next one in the circle was me. I froze at that realization; I had no desire to share my story, especially to Tom. I didn't need anymore s*** from him. They all stared at me simultaneously whilst re-adjusting themselves to face me. Hailey laid her face on her palm, while propping her elbow on the arm of the chair. Rochelle crossed her arms but had an itch on the back of her neck. It’s a story, a long, strung-out “fairy tale,” that only those close to me, like Mary, that knows excerpts of. Despite my horrific fairy tale, or for a better word, nightmare, I still maintain the mentality of a sixteen year old girl. I think that I must remain perfect in the eyes of everyone around me. It’s a terrible thing to realize that despite being off hardcore drugs, your f---ed-up mentalities of mental illness come back. In the split few seconds they stare at me, I have this epiphany: I wasn't trying to escape the subject of death; I was trying to escape myself. Those five years, I had blamed the condition I’m in now on my mother. I start to choke up.
“My- my mother, my best friend…” I’m tearing now. “...She died when I was fifteen.” I suck in my breath, I hold in my tears, I wipe my mascara on the sleeve of my henley. Even after ten years without her, I blame her. I lie to my friends and Tom.
Therapy lasts a half-hour, however it feels like it lasts as long as the Civil War. But the difference is that the war in my brain bears no blood. Only remorse.