“What’s that in your hand?” He asked.
“Anise tea.” I responded
“Of course!” He screamed as he facepalmed. “That’s what was missing all along. Some Anise Tea!” He then proceeded to place seven anise packets into a hot cup. We both started laughing hysterically. He was the only person around my age in there. He instantly became a very close friend of mine. We prayed together. We vented to each other. We told our life stories to each other. We compared our medications with each other. Then, it was the time for my final electroconvulsive therapy session. It was the sixth session I had to undertake. The doctor came into my room and beckoned me to follow him. My friend had assured me that everything was going to be alright. As I followed the doctor, I could feel my heart racing and my hands growing sweaty. We arrived at a big door which the doctor scanned with his card to open. I proceeded to walk behind the doctor, watching things to my right and to my left. What a huge place I thought.
We then arrived at an elevator. I asked if I could use the stairs instead but the doctor politely declined. Another safety precaution I assumed. I unwillingly stepped into the elevator and kept glaring at the numbers go from four to three to two to one. The elevator finally opened up, and we steadily walked into what seemed to be an area designated for operations. I heard some patients screaming and laughing, and I instantly became anxious and worried. The doctor suddenly stopped and urged me inside a room. He asked that I close the curtains and wait for him to return. I started counting sheep to make the time pass. Sheep number twenty-six was interrupted by another doctor and three nurses. They all walked into the room in a playful manner, laughing as they held me down and placed all kinds of medical equipment on my body. That was the sixth time I do this and still wasn’t used to all the laughter or bleak anticipation of the general anesthesia. I don’t have a fear of needles. I have a fear of pain.
The doctor slowly administered the anesthesia into my right arm. My heart started pounding faster and faster. I waited and waited for someone to talk me through the process until I fall asleep, but to no avail. They just laughed and conversed while I was in a pit of anxiety and restlessness. I fell under in about twenty seconds. Suddenly, I found myself in a big green field running around with a woman who had silver hair. We had our hands tied together and we giggled like children as we plucked yellow flowers. We were playing spot the thing. The woman went first. She said “I spot the sun.” I pointed at the sun. We both smiled. “I spot a puddle of water.” I said. The woman pointed at the puddle. The woman suddenly turned pale and said “I spot pain and humiliation.” As she said that, I looked at her again and realized her beautiful silver hair had vanished. I was perplexed. “Where did all your hair go?” I asked in a concerned manner. “It doesn’t matter where it went. As long as you’re with me, I’ll always have long, silver strands of hair.” Then the green field collapsed in an oblong fashion and I found myself on a couch.
There were many people around me. I wasn’t sure where I was. Or who I was. I looked around for a while, unable to move my body very well. There seemed to be a lot of nurses, and I payed close attention to their outfits. What about the others? Were they patients? Was I a patient? Shortly after the haze passed, I remembered who I was. I slowly got up and asked the nurse where I was. “You’re in a mental hospital.” Replied the nurse.
“Why have I been institutionalized?” I asked. “You stopped taking your medication abruptly and went into psychosis.” Answered the nurse. “Why is my memory foggy?” I asked.
“You’ve just finished undergoing a minor procedure and we placed you under anesthesia, That’s why. It’ll wear off soon, don’t worry” Answered the nurse. Then I remembered. The last thing I remembered was chucking down a handful of pills into the toilet and flushing. Why would a man in his early twenties need so many mind-numbing, mind-altering pills? Can’t a man grief his mother’s death? Can’t he grief the pain she went through. The constant retching and vomiting. Her constant cries and screaming. “When do I leave?” I asked while holding every ounce of my anger and distrust back. “You’ll leave very soon. In the next few days.” Responded the nurse. “What section am I in?” I asked. I remembered the hospital was split into sections according to the severity of the patient. “You’re in section two. You’ve just spent three weeks in section five.” Answered the nurse. I suddenly became infuriated and said “They physically abused me in section five. The nurses hit me. The doctors ridiculed me. I was mistreated. I was mis-prescribed an antidepressant. That was the reason I went manic in the first place. Not all of this is my fault.”
“Those were just delusions and hallucinations.” Said the nurse in a nonchalant manner.
“Not they weren’t!” I screamed, and as soon as I did that, I was administrated a high dose of valium to calm down. I kept my mouth shut the next couple of days, impatiently waiting to be discharged. I wanted to write all of this down. Ever since I was ten years old, I felt drawn to the idea of scribbling words down on a piece of paper. This passion grew with me as an adult and manifested itself in a very strong manner. I had to write my emotions and feelings down on a piece of paper. I wrote in the hospital. They let me have a pen and paper. In my final days, the doctors asked if they could read what I had wrote. They told me it was nonsensical and that I had to dispose of all my writings. I obliged with fury in my heart. It was the same fury I had felt when my parents were going to get a divorce when I was twelve. The constant back and forth they had. The constant exchanges. The screaming kept me and my sister up at night.
I was ultimately able to hold my anger in. In my final two days, the doctors asked me to come to the meeting room so we can discuss my situation. “Can you please tell us why you’re here again?” asked the doctor. “For stopping my medications abruptly. I thought that they defined me previously, but I now realize that isn’t the case.” I said. “That’s correct. You’re lucky to be alive.” Said the doctor.
“Where’s my mom and dad?” I asked.
“We’ve been over this before. Your mother passed away two years ago.” Said the doctor.
“How’s the chemotherapy going? I heard the doctors were quite optimistic.” I said while jerking my right leg up and down nervously. There was a long pause in the room.
“Just a couple more questions to get through and you can leave soon.” There was something about those doctors that was quite unsettling. Callous is the word. A mental illness isn’t anything to be ashamed of. The sickness of the heart, however, is. That was the moment I realized certain things were completely out of your control in life. What’s within your reach is not always within your grasp. Or perhaps your immediate grasp. I figured that a writer needs solitude to practice his craft. So, I put my passion aside for the time being. The hospital was not exactly an appropriate or creative space. I finished answering the doctors’ questions and mustered up every bit of energy I had left to smile. The morning of my dismissal had come. While we were relaxing and having lunch in the outside area, one of the patients came to me and said “You think you’re leaving? No chance buddy”, as he proceeded to push me. I quickly remembered my father’s face. The beautiful streets of Amman. My grandmother’s wrinkled hands on mine while I kissed her forehead. I remembered freedom. I remembered what it felt like to be completely sober. I quickly deescalated the situation and stirred away from that patient. After about ten minutes, I was asked by one of the nurses to get ready as my father was about to pick me up.
I packed my things and got ready to leave the hospital. As I walked through the hallways, I remembered the many tears I cried over the last month. In my room alone at night. In the shower. When I was experiencing psychosis that stemmed from my subconscious. I would hear my mother’s voice at night. Then it would distort into a very violent and disturbing sound and would leave me trembling in my bed. All the fear and hurt I experienced. Now back to the day of my dismissal. I finally arrived at the exit. A door I haven’t seen before! I saw my father. I quickly ran to give him a tight hug. I felt a huge burden lift from my shoulders. We proceeded in the direction of the parking lot and I finally saw the sun from a new angle and perspective this time. It looked beautiful. I never felt more alive. As we left the parking lot, I had a newfound appreciation for life as we roamed the streets of Amman. I asked my father if we could drive around for a little bit longer and he obliged. I looked at the people. The cars. I counted the cars. I feel liberated. “Can I drive?” I asked my father.
“Don’t you remember the accident you were in? I think it’s best not to.” Replied my father. It was miraculous that nobody got hurt. I looked back outside the window.
“I’m a late bloomer. Remember at school when I was in special needs’ classes until I reached ninth grade? And how I suffered from depression and dyslexia during that period as well? How I turned it all around? I know my friends have surpassed me in every way imaginable, but I am still in my twenties and I have a lot of time to prove myself. I want to become a writer. I want to write dad. I want to write about everything. I want to write about the things people can’t say or don’t know how to say. I want to write about the human experience. I want to write about God, and the beauty of life. I want it all. And from this day onward I’m going to do just that.”
“I’m going to start exercising and writing daily. I’m going to follow my dream.” My father smiled and said “I’m behind you all the way.” Although it took me a while to realize this, I am my own hero. Sure, I’ve also had some amazing people along the way who’ve helped me in more ways than one. But, I know my own story inside out. It resonates with me. I’ve shared all my vulnerabilities that I went through with the readers today. I have been holding this inside my heart for years. I’ve experienced everything from delusional grandiosity to crippling suicidality. I nearly lost my life to substances over a dozen times. I’ve experienced a complete detachment from reality, repeatedly slipping into psychotic episodes and coming back. I lost my mother to cancer while I was in the epitome of my madness. I didn’t have the chance to tell her goodbye or how beautiful her silver hair was.
Finally, this is my story. I have endured a lot in my life. I have learned how to love myself and be at peace with myself. I have found my faith and feeling in life again. I’m happy I didn’t let the pain get to me. I’m happy I found a way back from the dejection and gloom. I’m happy I’m chasing my passion in life right now and that is to write every day and produce material that I would hope to have an impact one day. I’m happy for my sobriety. I’m happy that God has given me this opportunity to tell my story while also practicing my craft. Every human voice deserves to be heard and I value and respect all other heroes in this competition. I’d like to conclude with a Quranic verse that says: “So, surely with hardship comes ease. Surely with ‘that’ hardship comes ‘more’ ease.”