I'm day 9 in the psychiatric hospital. I've been talking and even laughing (at my own amazing jokes, mostly/obviously). Do I feel better? A lil' bit. However being unleashed into regular society is still not an option.
It just so happens that my favorite restaurant in Toronto (Fresh) is located across the street from where I'm subjugated. I'm allowed outside under my family's supervision & my mother took me out for lunch today. It was my first metamorphosis as a normal since my admission. As soon as we sat down, Talking Heads' "Once In A Lifetime" cantillated through the speakers and I began to violently shake and weep. Aggrieved, my mum asked me what the hell. How could I explain? I muttered something about it being too existential to get into over tofu steak. She couldn't hear me. "IT'S THE LYRICS! THE LYRICS MAKE ME SAD!" I clamored. Not a few seconds later the song switched to The Cure. So when you see me make a little joke, know that I'm basically a sad clown. Enough said.
I'm homesick. I miss the police-helies encircling the skies of Hollywood. I miss the good/real Netflix. I miss the free LA Times. I miss the Palm trees outside of my tiny bathroom window. I miss the American HuffPost as my homepage. I miss spying on my secret celebrity crush (Brody Stevens) at The Coffee Bean- acting nonchalant while having cut two eye-holes out of my LA Weekly & eyeballing him like a weirdo. I miss the concept of natural heat.
According to the always reliable Ask.com, it costs an average of $1225/day to stay in a psychiatrical unit in America. There are State hospitals, but since long-term ministration and family proximity are what I require, there's no question I'm in the right place.
I haven't gone poo in NINE DAYS. We're tried all the remedies (holistic & scientific medicine) that you will now advise my of. Today I was given an enema (I'll quit bragging). IT. DIDN'T. WORK. It didn't work. An enema didn't work. Beyond the 10LBS of bloat that I've gained, I'm obsessing over the displacement of toxins doubtlessly traveling throughout my bloodstream. Also, I'm in a diaper. So to anyone that ever disliked me, kick up your heels and rejoice knowing I'm living at the looney-bin, clad in adult diapers.
The silver lining to this day has been seeing the picture on the box containing the enema. If you get one PRx (& believe me, it's worth it for the image) or see it at the store- please take a minute to look at the descriptive sketch of the eunuch lying dejectedly on his side, then on his knees as if in the prostration position to Allah. I told the nurses I was convinced this eunuch was in fact crawling towards his death, & to reconsider their administration. We all had a good laugh before my nurse shoved the rectal bulb in my brown-eye.
It's good to be alive!