Bad days and Freedom

Sometimes, the things that need to be said are unpleasant to hear.  Sometimes we need to know someone else is feeling those same desperate thoughts.  Frustration and anger cave in and direct the words that are sometimes frightening for those who love us and sometimes just writing them out is cathartic and lets us breathe long enough for it to pass.   I’m posting this because of that.  It was a bad day, and this is how I felt.

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What is freedom?  Is having it the driving force behind why we enlisted?  Is it what we wrote that "blank check" to defend?  Is it not being incarcerated? Please tell me, I want to know, because freedom is a little more than a fleeting thought to me as I am trapped in this prison that is my head. 

We really don't have "freedom" in the literal sense.  We're NOT free to go to the mall naked.  We're NOT free to punch the people who really deserve it.  Hell, we're not even free to smoke a cigarette in a restaurant that sells food that has been proven to contribute to all sorts of health problems.

But I will tell you what freedom isn't.  It isn't something you have once you take that step and ask for help.  Especially if you were serious about your attempt to end your life.

It's quite the opposite actually. The very moment you seek help and admit that you have had the notion of hurting yourself, your freedom is GONE.  Completely.  Shit, they even take away your clothes. 

They dress you up in maroon "look at me I'm nuts" pajamas and medicate you well beyond the "jello" state.  And once you get used to the medication, it's MANDATORY that you go to the day room for a few hours throughout the day.

Ah, the day room.  Where the old Vietnam vet is talking to himself whilst shuffling his slippered feet until he hits the wall, staggers back and repeats shuffling into the wall for hours.

The day room.  Where you're free to play checkers...  With yourself.

The day room.  Where the puzzles are all 100 pieces or less.

The day room.  Where the air smells like medicine, urine and feces.

The day room. Where the condescension from the staff runs rampant as they hand out plastic model kits of cars and airplanes that are not snap together. Oh, and don't even ask for glue because then, you know, they alert the doctor because they think you want it for huffing and not for its intended purpose. 

You're at their mercy and if they're having a bad day, you are too.  They look at you with their judgmental eyes not knowing what you've seen, what you've smelled, what you've caused. And as they stand there with relaxed yet guarded body language, you know in your heart that they have never done anything but take a few classes and a civil service test.  You hate them.

You hate them so much.  Your inner destructiveness turns to images and thoughts of knocking them down or holding them against the wall, wrapping your hand around their trachea and squeezing until the life in their eyes fades. You hate them until the newest round of mandatory meds kick in and you fall off into a subconscious fog.  Minutes, hours, days all go by without solid memory and it feels like time has betrayed you.

Once they feel comfortable enough to let you go, they then monitor EVERY aspect of your life.  Yup, you my friend are under the microscope and nothing is left to secrecy not even your finances as they tell you how and when to spend your money... For the rest of your life.

Freedom my ass!  Those Soviets had it good compared to us my friend.

I'm not free.  No sir, not me. I'm forever stuck in that god damned day room... the only difference is, it's in my mind now.  Every day I'm a prisoner to this sick, twisted, demented side effect of giving a shit and trying do something worthwhile.  My only crime is, I cared.

But there is one tiny sliver of "freedom" I have.  I am not incarcerated by the VA currently.  And I'll be god damned if I EVER allow them to lock me up again.  One tends to learn the "correct" responses to the questions they ask, even if its all a lie.  I've always been honest, it's the way I was raised.  But, the VA has made me into an outright liar at times.  I know exactly what they want to hear to keep me off that ward and out of the "real" day room.

I looked it up once...  The word "freedom".  But, I have a different definition than Webster.  Freedom is locking yourself up to keep others safe.  Freedom is within the safety of your own personal compound. The only thing that has changed in my mind is that it isn't me that I want to do harm to anymore. It's the stupidity that is allowed to openly graze upon the earth. 

Everyone is safe as long as I stay self-incarcerated in my own personal day room.  And they don't know how lucky they are.