Psycho- A Poem

You wanna know what it’s like?
They made my bed.

I got up each morning at seven; check my vitals, piss, eat and go back into my room.
And voila, my bed was made. Like magic or clockwork or other forces that may exist.

In group therapy, nobody spoke until Nora whined so much that our
fragile glass brains would crack.
“I hate my body.”
“I need nicotine patches.”
“The voices tell me to hate you.”
“Psycho. Psycho. Psycho.”

There’s something about crawling into a perfectly made bed.
Pulling back tucked in blankets and sheets offered a sense of routine.
It almost convinces a person that they are normal.

Don’t believe in the bed. If you were normal you would make this bed yourself. Struggling to get the sheets straight, get the blankets smooth, fluff the pillows.

They encouraged us to create art.
Draw, paint, collages.
They scrutinized when I snipped out magazine pages with safety scissors.
They warned me to be careful, with the dull edges not sharp enough to cut paper, never mind my skin.

If you were normal, the blankets, the sheets, the paper bags they give you to keep your belongings in would not be so fucking white.
White is natural. Pure. Hospital sickly.
They want you to be clean.

No.

If you were normal you’d be home with your blue bedding, your yellow towels, beige walls.
If you were normal, the only things you’d put in paper bags are groceries and old newspapers.
Not your toothbrush and clothes and hairbrush.

Family meetings were dreaded by all.
All of us had parental issues.
My father handed me a bible. I cried. Dr. Tarnoff asked if I wanted him to leave.
Julia was the only one who looked forward to seeing her mother.

If you were normal you’d be in school.
You’d be with friends. You’d have a job. Your parents wouldn’t have restricted visiting hours you’d be able to see your younger siblings. You’d be able to use a phone when you want, a computer, a pair of fucking scissors.
You’d be able to wear jewelry. To smile. To hug the people you like, to flirt, to high five your peers.

But we can’t get involved with the world. Can’t use or be or touch.
You and I…we’re just Psycho…
Psycho. Psycho.