meet me in montauk

by inomedelpadre

Summary:

"I know what I want, and I think it’s you.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying. I…you’re too vulnerable, it’s not real.”

or franthony slow-burn mental hospital au

(completed, all chapters will be uploaded in phases throughout the month of september)

Chapter 1: author's note

Content Warnings:

• Suicide Attempt / Suicidal Ideation
• Substances
• Overdoses
• PTSD
• Depression
• Anxiety & panic attacks
• Eating disorders
• Bipolar Disorder & Mania
• Emetophobia/vomit
• Flawed images of God
• Referenced abuse
• Explicit Sexual Content
• Hospitals/Psych Wards/Medical Discussions

This work has an Unreliable Narrator, especially in the first half. 

 

Chapter 2: chapter one

Notes:

let's get this party started. godspeed. see ya on the other side.

Anthony wakes up disoriented and a little panicked. His head is fucking killing him, and there’s an awful swirl of acidic bile in his stomach, nausea tickling the back of his throat. He screws his eyes shut as he groans. Questions flash like camera shutters behind his eyelids. He can’t quiet the screaming in his head enough to hear any of them. 

He raises his hand to scrub furiously at his face. Or, at least, he attempts to; he realizes fairly quickly that he’s unable to move his right side. His eyes snap open. The room he’s in is painfully bright, and it’s hard to force himself to focus as he looks downward. 

Both of his arms are bound to the bed railings at his side with restraints. Padded foam and tightened straps leave him unable to move. If he had more energy, he’d thrash around and try to free himself. He feels weak, tired in his very bones. 

Fluorescent lighting. The scent of isopropyl alcohol tickling his nose. Railings on the bed. Restraints. Solid blue clothing that he’s almost certain he doesn’t own. Stickers on his chest. A needle in his wrist. Melodic beeping in his ears. 

Fuck, is he in a hospital ?

He’s not helping his vertigo when he whips his hand around, furiously scanning the room. It’s hard to make out any distinct features without his glasses, but there’s surely another person in the room with him. She appears young, maybe in her twenties, sitting in a chair in the corner with maroon scrubs on. He thinks she’s smiling at him, but he can’t be sure. There’s a paperback book resting on her lap. Anthony wonders what she’s reading. 

“Good morning,” she says. Her voice is light and airy, but it still slices like a hot knife through Anthony’s aching brain. 

Anthony groans. “What the fuck?”

“You’re in the hospital,” the person in the corner says. “My name is Annie; I’m your nurse. I’m going to sit with you until the doctor comes in later today.”

Eyes screwing shut, Anthony tips his head back onto the mattress behind him. He doesn’t think he’s felt this physically awful in years. His brain scrambles for answers, piecing together fragments of memories in hopes of developing a full picture. 

Images flash in his head. None of them make much sense. 

“Where’s my girlfriend?”

A sigh from the other side of the room. 

Right. His girlfriend. His girlfriend that broke up with him last night after he came home drunk from the bar again. His girlfriend that kicked him out, telling him that she just couldn’t do this anymore . Right. That girlfriend. 

Danielle gave Anthony a warning weeks ago, telling him several times that this was it, this was his last fucking chance . He didn’t believe her. He’d been given ultimatums before, promises that she never followed through with. He figured so long as he wasn’t back on heroin, she could handle the alcohol and the pills and the nicotine. He knows he shouldn’t have pressed his luck. It’s too late now. He’s gone and irrevocably fucked it up. 

He vaguely remembers leaving their her apartment in the early morning hours, far before the sun was in the sky, nothing more than a backpack containing a change of clothes and his meds accompanying him. His meds. His meds. His meds that he emptied the bottles of onto a picnic table in Washington Square Park. His meds that he swallowed down with bitter vodka, the aftertaste of whiskey still clinging to the roof of his mouth. 

He wonders who found him. It’s not like he knows anybody else in Manhattan. He followed Danielle here from Doylestown years ago, promises of a better job in the city drawing her away. She had been successful, developing a career in sales that would’ve allowed them to raise a family together if Anthony hadn’t gone and fucked it up. 

He’d experimented with pills in his youth, but it had been more out of necessity than addiction, something he was confident he could handle on his own (despite how incorrect that thought had been). That was until the move. Isolated in a new city, with nobody in his corner, he started hanging out with the wrong crowd. Secretly socializing in gay bars in Chelsea led to casual ketamine use with men he didn’t know the names of. Casual ketamine use led to lines of cocaine taken off sink edges in bathrooms lit by neon signs. Lines of cocaine led to pills labeled “Percocet” that could have been anything. Hypothetical Percocets led to tourniquets tied tight and heroin in his veins. 

He was in a downward spiral of substance abuse in the time it took to blink. 

Over the years, his family and friends from Doylestown drifted away, until it was just him and Danielle in the city. He stopped going home from the holidays. His parents only reached out on Christmas and his birthday. He doesn’t even know where his brothers are at this point. 

He has nobody to blame but himself. 

Loving an addict is hard, to say the least. He knows this. He’s attended enough AA and NA meetings in his life—you know, before he decided they were useless and stopped going altogether—to see firsthand the impact addiction has on families. Too many divorcees sat around tables drinking coffee and dwelling on failed marriages and losing their children. Anthony never thought that would be him, but that’s his own ignorance. 

He knows the answer will be no , but he asks anyway. “Is there anybody here for me?”

A deep sigh and a sympathetic look are the only answers he gets. 

There are tears in his eyes as he settles back against the mattress. He wishes the pills had done their job. It surely would’ve hurt less than the sting of abandonment. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Anthony is tired of questions. Everyone should know less about each other, he decides. Once the doctor comes in, he’s subjected to a list of questions that make his head spin. His requests for pain medication fall on deaf ears. He wonders if this headache is enough to kill him. 

They ask him if it was on purpose. Anthony doesn’t know why they bother, because they don’t believe him when he says “no”. Maybe leaving a note next to his body was a bad idea. He wanted Danielle to know it was her fault. That’s wrong of him; he knows that. He tells himself it doesn’t matter anyway because she’ll never know.

She’s done with him. That’s what she said when the hospital called her. Anthony’s incessant begging had finally gotten them to cave after nearly two hours. He wasn’t allowed to speak to her, but his nurses very tenderly told him that she’d held firm on the boundaries she set last night. Anthony’s near-death experience hadn’t changed her mind. Clearly, nothing would. 

When Anthony woke up, he didn’t understand the use of the restraints. Anthony isn’t a violent person. He certainly didn’t want to hurt others. No, he only wanted to hurt himself. 

He’s grateful for their presence mere hours later when they prevent him from grabbing the nearest object and hurling it at the wall. His efforts and primal screams earned him a heavy dose of Ativan. On second thought, spitting on the nurses probably didn’t help his case either. 

He can’t help it. He feels untethered. All of the normal things keeping him tied to this earth have dissolved. With nobody left to care about him, he wonders what the point of existing at all is. 

His chest is a numb void, deep and cavernous. He hopes it swallows him whole. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he felt emotions organically. Manufactured happiness from opioid use and anger fueled by dysfunctional relationships doesn’t feel like real emotions. Anthony wonders if there’s anything in this world that could fix him. He doesn’t think there is. 

Talk of being medically stable and medication names float over Anthony’s head, immediately rendered unimportant. The words “inpatient psychiatric care” draw a response from him, though. He sits up straight in bed, vehemently shaking his head. 

“I don’t need it,” Anthony says. “No, I don’t wanna go.”

“It’s not a choice,” the hospital psychiatrist explains. “You’re not in a position to make decisions for yourself right now. New York state law says we’re allowed to keep you here while you’re a danger to yourself. We want to keep you safe, Anthony.”

Anthony huffs exasperatedly. “How long?”

“At least 72 hours.”

He groans. “As soon as you let me out of here, I’m going to fucking kill myself, and I won’t let it fail this time.”

Saying that won’t get him out of here any sooner. It flies out of his mouth unrestrained anyway. Frustration bubbles in his chest. He wonders where all this anger is supposed to go. He wishes his hands were free; he wants to hit himself. He knows that is exactly why he’s restrained, but logic doesn’t help him feel better. Pain might help him sink back into his own skin, keep him inside of his body when he feels like floating away. 

He settles for digging his nails into his palm and cussing out the doctor. It doesn’t make him feel better at all. 

They leave a different nurse with him. Anthony doesn’t ask her name. Instead, he begs with tears in his eyes for someone to give him his glasses. It’s confusing not being able to see. It’s also contributing to his dizziness, which is surely not helping his headache. 

He gets them back with the promise to not use them to hurt himself. Anthony blinks the monochromatic world into focus. He feels a little more human when he’s able to see. There isn’t much to look at, but it’s nice to have the option. 

He wonders what inpatient is going to look like. They told him he’ll be transferred in two days, once he finishes detoxing on the hospital’s observation floor. Detox isn’t fun; he’s been through it enough times to know that. But it’s better to suffer with one person’s eyes on him than an entire unit’s. 

Anthony doesn’t think the psych unit will be particularly pleasant, but he supposes it’s not meant to be. He’s done this to himself. These are the consequences of his actions. He’s rightfully earned this. 

“I want my Mom,” he says. 

The nurse nods sympathetically. “I can call her if you want.”

Anthony agrees, even though he knows there will be no answer. 

Notes:

i do expect comments of your every thought as you read this btw

Chapter 3: chapter two

Detox is a fucking nightmare. Anthony doesn’t remember it being this bad. The first thing he does when he wakes up is puke over the side of his bed. It lands on the tile floor with a horrible splash that makes him retch again. 

He hasn’t eaten in days. It’s straight bile and acid, leaving a foul taste in his mouth. He sobs as the wave of nausea passes. He forgot how fucking awful the withdrawal medications make him feel.

They finally take pity on him later that morning. The nurse (yet another new face) tells him that if he has breakfast, they can give him something to make him more comfortable. Anthony is quick to order some eggs and toast with jam. Anything to make this slightly more bearable. They loosen his restraints in order for him to eat. Anthony takes note of the fact that they don’t tighten them again when he’s done. 

He doesn't get anything stronger for the pain than Tylenol, but he doesn’t care. He’s desperate for something, anything to take away the headache he hasn’t been able to shake since this all began. 

They give him something for nausea, too, and a second medication to wash out all the toxins from his system. It’s going to be a long twenty-some hours until this nightmare is over. He’s shaking under heaps of blankets as he tries to sleep off the poison he’s filled himself with. Filling himself with more medications to rid himself of other medications…the irony is not lost on Anthony. 

He’s allowed a few hours of sleep before they wake him up for lunchtime. He orders a chicken sandwich with fries and watches as they write down how much he leaves on his plate. He wonders if his anorexia diagnosis will follow him forever. 

They diagnosed him with it years ago in rehab. He tried to tell them that they had it all wrong, but nobody would listen to him. It was like he was screaming into a void, the echo of his voice only falling on his own ears. 

Not eating hadn’t been an intentional decision. Anthony has never had much of an appetite, even when he was young. There were times when eating was more of a chore, where he’d have to force himself to eat out of necessity rather than hunger, but that was often due to mania more than anything else. Sure, there are a few stubborn pounds around his hips and love handles that he wishes would budge, but who doesn’t feel that way about their body? Maybe if the hospitals had better food, he would be more inclined to eat. 

After lunch, he asks if he can have some paper and a pen. Idle hands are never good, and an unoccupied mind is even worse. Drawing has always been therapeutic for him. It gives him an outlet for the thoughts that he can’t quite put into words. Sometimes Anthony writes poetry, words that he’d turn into songs if he were a better singer, but it’s been a long time since he’s done that. 

The young nurse watching over him tells him no. He can’t be trusted with a pen—what if he uses it to stab himself, maybe when he’s moved to the psych ward, can they interest him in a book instead? 

Anthony’s reaction to that results in his room filling with doctors and nurses, an emergency alert sounded at the push of a button. It earns him another bolus of Ativan and his restraints being tightened once more. 

He doesn’t know why he does this to himself. He doesn’t want to be so angry. He’s just full of frustration that he doesn’t know what to do with. He’s notoriously bad with change, and this situation is rife with it. He’s upset with himself, too, for doing this. He’s not upset that he tried to kill himself—no, he’s upset that he let it fail. None of this would be a problem if he had followed through. He’s never succeeded at anything in his life; death is apparently no exception. 

The only thought in his head as he drifts off is how much he fucking hates himself. 

Chapter 4: chapter three

Anthony wakes up early the next morning, sunlight just beginning to poke through the blinds. It’s warm on his skin, yellow dancing over his features. He can hear the birds singing on the other side of the glass; he thinks it’s a cardinal. He used to birdwatch often when growing up in Doylestown. Memories of riding his bike around with his brothers, suckling nectar out of honeysuckle plants, and writing the names of various birds in his notebook rush through his head. It’s comforting for a brief moment. He would give anything to go back to that time. He had so little to worry about back then. Once he started using drugs at fourteen, everything changed. He wishes hopelessly that he could go back to riding bikes through small-town America with loved ones, the wind rushing through his hair, a youthful laugh pulling from his chest. Anthony thinks he might go back to Doylestown when this is all over. There’s not much waiting for him there anymore, but that’s okay. There is something healing in the nostalgia, regardless. 

He’s on a high enough floor for the lively sounds of New York City to sound like muted background noise. He never quite got used to just how loud the city is. It’s been noisy since the day he and Danielle moved into their tiny Greenwich Village apartment. On good days, it was irritating; on bad days, it was downright overstimulating. Anthony was rarely seen without something in his ears—whether it was earbuds or his custom-fit pink earplugs that he got himself as a birthday gift three years ago. It didn’t take it away, but it made the sound of horns honking, people talking, and boomboxes pumping out trap music slightly more tolerable. 

He orders oatmeal for breakfast and eats it all just to prevent them from writing finished 70% of meal in his chart again. They give him a toothbrush and toothpaste and allow him to finally rid his mouth of the layers of acidic grit that have built up over the last few days. A nurse watches over him while he brushes his teeth, but he doesn’t snap at her. He’s aware that he needs to be on his best behavior. He’s still groggy from two straight days of Ativan doses. He doesn’t want to earn himself a third. 

The birds are done chirping by 10:00. Anthony lets out a heavy sigh as their song stops. With nothing left to focus on, he forces himself to sleep. Allowing himself to think himself into spirals will only make things worse. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The young nurse from yesterday is watching over him when he wakes up. Her eyes lift from her cell phone when he stirs. The clock on the wall reads 12:07. He knows they’ll be asking him for his lunch order soon. Words fly off his tongue in quick succession, desperate to get them out before they ask him any more questions. 

“You asked me if I wanted a book yesterday,” he says, receiving a nod in response. “Does that offer still stand?”

She sends a smile in his direction. “Yeah, we can get you a book,” she says. “Are you going to make me regret it if I take you to go pick one out?”Anthony shakes his head. He hasn’t gotten out of bed more than just to walk to and from the bathroom since he arrived. The thought of getting to stretch his legs is appealing. His wrists are starting to get sore under the restraints; a break would probably do them good. 

“I’ll be good,” he promises. 

There’s a small clicker in the nurse’s hand that Anthony knows will call security if pressed. He saw them often in rehab. Most of the time, he was the reason for their use. Not today, though. If he behaves himself, he’ll be granted more freedoms. A good report to the psychiatric ward might make them give him some grace there, too. He can hope anyway. 

“What’s your name?” he says as the nurse unlocks his restraints. 

Her eyes lift to meet his. “It’s Mia,” she says. 

Anthony nods. Names make people more real, identifiable. It makes Anthony feel slightly more real, too. Different faces, different names, different people make each day feel unique. There’s proof that he’s not found himself in some Groundhog Day situation. This is his reality. The rise and fall of each sun proves that. Mia proves that, too, in the way that she is different from Annie. Anthony feels slightly more human as he’s brought to his feet. 

With his restraints unhooked and not just loosened, Anthony gets a look at his arms for the first time in days. They’re red and irritated, likely from the result of his thrashing, which keeps getting them tightened. He turns them over, trailing his finger down the inside of his wrist and feeling his nerves come to life beneath his touch. Alive. Anthony is alive. Despite his efforts, despite the fact that he wishes he wasn’t…he’s alive. He’s not sure how to feel about that. 

It’s only a short walk, but he takes it slow. Mia allows it, and he’s thankful. He needs a second of freedom, even if he isn’t really free. Seeing something other than the white walls of his hospital room is refreshing. The hallway is painted with bright swirls of orange and pink that zig and zag across the drywall. Anthony wonders why they couldn’t have painted the walls in his room something other than migraine-inducing white. 

The books are hosted in a converted storage closet. The space is small, but tall white shelves against all walls give lots of space for hardcovers and paperbacks alike. Fiction is to his left, with a small section of comic books to start it out. They look like they were once ordered from newest to oldest, but the system has all but gone out the window now. The back wall has a section of classic novels, names like Jane Austen and F. Scott Fitzgerald jumping out at him. To his right is an assortment of non-fiction. There’s everything from memoirs to books on the history of New York to travel guides to cookbooks that Anthony doesn’t really see the purpose of. Nonfiction has never been his thing, so he’s almost immediately uninterested in everything the section has to offer. The only reason he looks at all is to confirm that no fiction books became intermixed. He turns to focus on the fiction section. 

“You can take a minute to look,” Mia says. “We can’t stay here forever, but there’s no real rush.”

Anthony nods. “I get to keep the book?” he clarifies. 

Mia hums affirmatively. “Yeah, it’s yours. You can take it to inpatient with you and home when you get discharged.”

That’s good, Anthony decides. That means he doesn’t have to pick something small, like a comic book that he would have to finish by tomorrow afternoon. His eyes trail over the books’ covers, some colorful and some plain shades of black and white. He runs his fingers across the spines. Dust swirls in the air, disturbed by his touch. He tracks it with his eyes, watching how it seems to gravitate to the light like a moth to a flame. It’s hard for him to tear his gaze away and focus on the books again; after all, he was told he can’t stay here forever.

Anthony ends up fully inside the closet, standing in front of the classics section. He considers choosing something familiar, something he’s read a thousand times before—perhaps To Kill A Mockingbird, or maybe Fahrenheit 451, which he has a well-loved copy of lying somewhere in Danielle’s apartment. He worries that something he’s already read won’t be enough to take him out of his head. He’s meant to be looking for a distraction. A book he already knows inside and out isn’t much of an escape. 

A copy of Animal Farm ends up in his left hand, The Catcher In The Rye in his right. The anger likely to be invoked by Animal Farm may not be a good idea. However, to be fair, the existentialism brought on by The Catcher In The Rye is likely not going to be helpful either. Although maybe what he needs is a thinkpiece. He’s been given a second chance at life (whether he wants it or not is a different conversation), so maybe he needs to change his perspective. Appreciate what he’s been given, learn, grow, heal himself, et cetera. 

He doesn’t think it’s going to work, but he’ll try. 

His copy of The Catcher In The Rye is tucked under his arm as he meets Mia in the hallway. 

Chapter 5: chapter four

Anthony is dragged out of his room and into an ambulance while it is still dark out. The people whirring by him pass in such a haze that he has no time to ask questions. He’s fifteen minutes into the ride, noticing the lack of sirens above his head, when he realizes what is going on. 

He turns to face the EMT beside him—a young man writing down Anthony’s heart rate, clearly displayed on the screen. “Which hospital are we going to?” he asks. 

The man lifts his eyes to meet Anthony’s. “We’re headed to Eastgate. It’s gonna take us around two hours; you’re in good hands.”

“What the fuck?” Anthony sits up, startled. “Fucking Eastgate? That’s all the way in Montauk.”

“All the inpatient facilities in the city are full. That time of year, you know. It was Eastgate or Valleyview in Princeton,” the medic explains. 

“Fuck, I would rather be in Jersey,” Anthony complains. “I fucking hate the beach, and you’re going to send me to Long Island?”

A shrug from the man beside him. “They said your insurance doesn’t cover care out of state. Sorry.”

Anthony groans, slumping back against the bed. “Can I at least read my book?” he asks. 

The EMT nods. He leans down to rifle through the bag of Anthony’s scarce belongings. Anthony’s paperback is placed safely in his hands a moment later. He opens it to his last dog-eared page, picking up where he left off. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Anthony wishes he had earplugs about halfway through the drive to Montauk. 

With every bump in the road, he’s jostled about, bouncing on the gurney in a way that is less than comfortable. Anthony already has a headache. He tries to close his eyes, but the incessant beeping from the monitors and the constant clink of rattling medical equipment on the walls make it impossible. 

He settles for blinking away the tears in his eyes. Or, he should say trying to. It proves to be futile in only a few moments. Big, fat, salty tears roll down his cheeks despite his best efforts to keep them contained. He brings his hands to his face. They don’t muffle the sounds, but they manage to keep him hidden from the outside world—or, moreso, from the EMT beside him desperately searching for his eyes. 

Anthony hopes the other man doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think he has it in him to be nice anymore. Aggravation and downright sadness take up space in his chest, leaving little room for his lungs to expand. 

He realizes too late that he’s having an anxiety attack. All of his coping skills are rendered useless, too far gone to think rationally. Anthony pulls his hands away from his face in haste, desperately trying to force himself to breathe. 

“Hey man, it’s okay,” the medic beside him says. “You’re alright. I’m just gonna grab you some oxygen, okay?”

Anthony shakes his head, but it’s no use. A cannula is hooked over his ears, double-pronged ends filling his nostrils. He chokes on the first intake of air he tries, throat burning with artificial oxygen. 

“No meds,” Anthony pleads. “I fucking hate them, please-”

“Then you gotta breathe, man,” the EMT says. “Come on, deep breaths, it’s okay.”

Anthony tries, but it’s no use. Before he can even attempt to feel better, there’s Ativan in his bloodstream, ensuring he sleeps the rest of the way to Montauk. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The Atlantic Ocean rises up to meet the beach just outside Eastgate Hospital’s doors. It’s less than half a mile from the iconic lighthouse that towers over the small Long Island town, a staple on postcards and Windows wallpapers. The sound of waves crashing against the rocky shores and seagulls squawking overhead swirls above him. The EMTs have a tight grip on his upper arms as they walk him up the paved path to the large double doors. 

The hospital itself is inconspicuous. It looks like every other mental hospital and rehab Anthony has found himself in over the years. White paint decorates the outside. It blends in with the oceanside background. Ten stories seem to go on forever. Anthony has to crane his entire head upward to see the top of it. 

He can see a garden, too, maybe a courtyard. It’s a fenced-in area in the back of the hospital, green shrubbery that is probably fake, appearing out of place given the setting. There are several benches and chairs about, and a larger-than-life chessboard that two patients are playing at right now. He can practically see himself sitting at the picnic table now, thumbing through a copy of a paperback book. He wonders how long it will be before he is allowed outside again—if he’s allowed outside again. 

The inside of Eastgate Hospital is at least slightly more colorful than the outside. The walls are a light blue shade, stucco begging Anthony to run his fingertips over it. Frames hung on the wall contain pictures of the beach, white sand and crystal blue waves likely Mexican in origin. Anthony wonders what the point is when he can see similar scenes out the window. 

Intake takes a lifetime. It always does. They ask him questions that he already answered a few days ago in the Emergency Room. They take a detailed history of him and his family’s mental health. Anthony tries not to pay attention to the fact that it takes up three pages. He already knows his bloodline is fucked up—himself included. 

They write down the names of his medications: Abilify to keep him stable (it’s clearly not working), Remeron to help him sleep, and Klonopin when nothing else seems to help. Anthony isn’t looking forward to pills in small paper cups that a nurse watches to make sure he takes. He knows it’s his own fault, but he’s still allowed to complain. 

A nurse takes his vital signs, and a doctor checks him over to ensure he’s medically fit to be transferred upstairs to the ward. They make note of every mark and blemish on his skin: healed-over self-harm scars on his thighs, cigarette burn marks on his wrists, open wounds on his fingertips where he can’t help but pick at his skin, various surgical scars from where plates and bolts had been inserted. He misses the time when the biggest things he had to worry about were childish concerns like scraped knees and bruised elbows. His mother would always kiss them better. It was usually accompanied by a speech about how he needed to be careful and how she didn’t like him skateboarding, but she knew she’d never be able to stop him. Anthony could never stay still for long. He misses her. 

They take him to the seventh floor. There’s a directory on the elevator wall. Seven is called Coral. He doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t really care. He wonders if they have access to his previous inpatient records, if they know that he’s a flight risk, if that’s why he’s on such a high floor. He’s only managed to successfully escape once, but it hasn’t stopped him from trying. It was the hospital’s fault he got out anyway. They left the door unlocked in the first place. He was just proving that their security system was outdated. That’s all. 

Anthony didn’t get far. The cops picked him up less than half a mile from the hospital. He had been kicking stones down a nearby road, sneakers dancing along the blacktop. Fields of wheat and corn stretched for miles on either side of him. He wanted to run through them, but it had been too long since he had eaten, and he didn’t know if he had the strength to do so. He probably wouldn’t have been able to help himself if he came upon some farm animals, but all he found were crops that, while peaceful, were much less interesting. 

He went easily into the squad car. He didn’t know why he ran in the first place. Maybe he just wanted a taste of freedom. Maybe he just wanted a change of scenery. He’ll never know. The act got his stay extended by a few weeks, but he never regretted it. The hour of clean air and road signs and the wind in his hair was worth every consequence. 

He takes a deep breath of stale, hospital air and wonders how long it will be until he feels that way again. 

These walls are a different color from the ones on the first floor. The drywall is painted in salmon, and there are no picture frames to be found. The hallways are long and winding. They stretch so far that Anthony loses sight of them. He’s certain he’ll get lost at some point. He’s never been good with direction. 

A young nurse with a kind smile shows him to his room. It’s private—well, as private as a room in a psych hospital can be—and he’s grateful. He’s spent too many nights in hospital rooms with roommates who kept him up all night talking to themselves. There was one roommate at the Doylestown hospital who got removed after threatening to kill Anthony, and another roommate at a Philadelphia rehab who picked his xylazine sores open until their entire room was covered in blood day after day. A bit of solitude will do him good. 

There’s a stack of donated clothes on the built-in shelves. They look like they might be a little big on him, but it’s good enough. He doesn’t have much to show for himself, and he certainly doesn’t have anybody to bring him clothes, either. He’ll take what he can get. 

Anthony’s few belongings are added to the empty shelf on top, and his shoes end up tucked underneath. He keeps his copy of The Catcher In The Rye out, placing it on his nightstand. He wonders if he’ll finally be allowed to have some paper and a pen. He misses drawing more than anything else. 

“Somebody will be by in a little bit to talk about next steps,” the nurse says. “We’ll draw some labs and go over your treatment plan. You missed lunch…are you hungry?”

Anthony shakes his head. She must not have read his chart. If she had, she’d be forcing him to eat regardless. “Can I go to sleep?” he asks. The Ativan still clinging to his red blood cells has him feeling groggy. He knows the only way to clear the brainfog is to simply sleep it off. 

She nods. “For a little bit anyway.”

It’s good enough for Anthony. He tucks himself in, snuggling up against scratchy sheets and a blanket too thin to hang himself with. He ends up on his stomach with his head pressed against his arms, trying to shield himself from the bright lights in the hallway. When they come by for rounds in fifteen minutes, they’ll undoubtedly tell him to move, reminding him that they need to be able to see his face. For now, he allows himself the moment of respite. 

Chapter 6: chapter five

His social worker’s name is Courtney. She’s younger than him, and that makes it harder to take her seriously, but he’d never say as much. He’s trying so hard to focus. It isn’t working very well. He holds his hand up to get her to pause. She allows him a momentary break. He forces himself to take a deep breath, blinking rapidly in an attempt to recenter himself. Anthony shakes his head, trying to clear the cobwebs of dissociation from his skull. 

Three papers are laid out on the table between him and Courtney. One of them is labeled Treatment Plan, another says Safety Plan, and the third has a long list of words that he doesn’t care enough to distinguish right now. The bullshit administrative paperwork like billing agreements, HIPPA notices, and Consent for Treatment were already signed downstairs. These feel more important. He needs to pay attention. 

“Okay,” Anthony sighs. “Okay, yeah, I’m fine.”

Courtney smiles at him. “Do you want to start with safety planning?”

He nods. He’s done this before. He knows what to expect. It came with every new therapist, every new psychiatrist, every new inpatient admission. He writes out goals that will end up being meaningless as soon as he’s discharged. He never keeps up with them. Most of the time, he’s too scatterbrained to even remember them. After his first admission, he pinned the sheet to his bedroom wall and almost immediately forgot it existed. 

They fill out the section labeled Warning Signs first. Coping Strategies follows. Anthony has given the answers so many times that they’re practically muscle memory at this point. Warning signs include not sleeping (yet somehow also include not getting out of bed), dissociation, impulsiveness, and agitation. Forgetting to eat is another one, but he doesn’t mention it. His anorexia diagnosis will make things at mealtime difficult enough. He doesn’t need to add to it. 

Coping strategies are where Anthony always struggles. Drawing is the first thing that comes to mind. Listening to music is the second, but that’s significantly harder to do in this setting. He falters after that, his mind going blank. He’s never been good at dealing with his emotions. It’s why it was always easier to fill himself with drugs and artificial euphoria than actually process anything. He doesn’t particularly like feeling things. Both sobriety and this setting force him to reckon with things he’d rather keep shoved down deep inside of him. 

Courtney coaxes him through it. “You have a book in your room,” she says. “Does reading help you?”

Anthony nods. It’s not the first thing he usually goes for, but yeah, it helps. It especially helps if he’s manic, but he has to be careful to stay away from thriller books in those episodes. Reading forces him to slow down, to center his focus on one specific task. He can add reading to his coping strategies. It’s good enough. 

“How about journaling?”

Anthony shrugs. “I write poetry sometimes.”

Writing is scribbled down on the line next to Reading. Anthony watches the social worker’s hands as they move across the page. 

“Exercise?” she offers.

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t really work out. Sleeping?”

“Excessive sleeping can be a sign of a depressive episode.”

“I didn’t say excessive sleeping, I said sleeping.” he scoffs. Courtney still doesn’t write it down. 

“Do you meditate?”

Anthony snorts. “Do I look like someone who meditates?”

He shouldn’t be mean. He knows she’s only trying to help. This is her job, and he should let her work in peace without verbal harassment. He inhales sharply. “Sorry, I’m just…not feeling good.”

She nods sympathetically. “I understand. Thank you for apologizing. Do you think you can give me one more coping strategy, or would you like to move on?”

Anthony takes a moment to rack his brain. He’s been in therapy since he was a teenager, for more than a decade; he should be better than this by now. “I don’t know,” he says. 

“That’s okay,” Courtney reassures. “Here, let’s keep going. Do you have anyone you can call in an emergency? Any friends or family you rely on for support?”

He sees Danielle in his mind. He sees his parents. He sees his brothers. He sees his friends from high school whom he lost touch with. He sees dead grandparents. He sees drug dealers. He sees associates he doesn’t know the names of whom he only ever saw in bar bathrooms. He sees police officers and smiling nurses and disappointed clergy and white hospital walls and needles in his veins and bile in his throat and—

There are tears in his eyes as he says, “No, there’s nobody.”

Courtney looks at him. “Nobody?”

A hiccup accompanies “No. Nobody.”

Professional Resources is written down instead of any names. 

“Do you need a moment before we start going over your treatment plan?”

Anthony declines. He doesn’t want to make this last longer than it has to. More than anything, he’d like to go hide out in his room for the remainder of the evening, but he knows he’s not going to be allowed to. After this, he’ll be taken to another room where they’ll take vials of his blood to study god knows what, and then it’ll be dinner time, and he’ll be forced to swallow food from a kitchen that he swears doesn’t contain a single spice. Everything will blur together soon enough until each day is as boring and monotonous as the last. 

“These are our social group offerings,” Courtney says, passing the long list of options over to him. “I need you to pick two. They’ll go here,” she pauses, dragging over the treatment plan and pointing at the gap in the middle of his schedule. “On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.”

Anthony has to restart the list three times. The words on the paper seem to meld together into one giant mess, until he can’t tell where one line ends and another begins. He tries to categorize them in his brain: maybes and absolutely nots. Yoga is a strong no, and so is mindfulness. He doesn’t have the willpower to focus long enough for either of those. Beach walks are a maybe, but he doubts he has the energy to handle that on the regular. Trivia sounds fun, but exhausting, and he doesn’t even know what Mah Jongg is. 

Two offerings, listed towards the bottom of the page under the Creative Arts section, jump out at him immediately. “Writing and art,” he says decisively. The third makes him hesitate. Nothing else sounds particularly interesting, but he knows he needs to pick something. “Uh…gardening, I guess,” he says. 

Courtney nods, jotting his decisions down in the empty spaces on his schedule. Art comes first, and writing comes second. Anthony would’ve put them in the opposite order, but it’s whatever. He can’t be picky. 

He bitches about the Substance Abuse and Eating Disorder groups, insisting that he’s fine, he doesn’t need it, he doesn’t have a problem, please don’t make him. The tone of Courtney’s voice and the determination in her eyes make it clear that he does not have a choice. He scuffs his shoe against the tile floor but doesn’t complain further. It won’t get him anywhere. 

“Do you have any questions?” Courtney asks. 

He has a lot of questions. Instead of asking anything important, he says, “Can I keep this to put in my room?”

She smiles and nods, passing the sheet of paper over to him.

He looks it over. He forces his eyes to focus on the words, even as his brain skims over most of them. 

Monday:

Morning: DBT Group

Midday: Therapy

Afternoon: Gardening Group

Evening: Recreation

Tuesday: 

Morning: Substance Abuse Group

Midday: CBT Group

Afternoon: Meeting with Social Worker

Evening: Recreation

Wednesday:

Morning: DBT Group

Midday: Therapy 

Afternoon: Art Group

Evening: Recreation

Thursday:

Morning: Substance Abuse Group

Midday: CBT Group

Afternoon: Writing Group

Evening: Recreation

Friday: 

Morning: Eating Disorder Group

Midday: Therapy

Afternoon: Meeting with Psychiatrist

Evening: Recreation

Saturdays & Sundays:

Recreation/Excursions 

He lifts his eyes to meet Courtney’s. “Can I go back to my room now?”

She nods. Anthony is out of the room in an instant. He feels sick.