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[The hospital is far out of state. In some ways, this is a blessing. In others, Jay feels as though he left a story unfinished, the whole affair hanging precariously off a ledge, a sentence ending with a comma, not a period.
The accommodations themselves aren't terrible. Meals are provided and he's allowed to keep his regular clothes, although shoelaces are prohibited. He stays in socks mostly, or wears standard issue canvas sneakers on the grounds. No sharp objects, of course. No iPhone, and no computer either, to eliminate distractions.
No camera.
His doctor is kind, but she keeps asking questions Jay doesn't want to answer, because he knows how it sounds. She can weasel responses out of him fairly well, also, which doesn't help. This leaves him feeling foolish and slightly panicked, his barely coherent descriptions of a tall faceless man in a suit hanging in the air between them as she takes notes. But other people have seen him, he insisted the first time. It's not just me. I can show you, if you let me onto YouTube.
Maybe later, she said, and wrote him a prescription for an antipsychotic.
He's in the waiting period now, the seven to fourteen days that it supposedly takes for the medication to take hold in his system. The pills do look suspiciously like the ones Tim takes. They're supposed to help the positive symptoms, but the negative ones will take longer to treat: the tendency to socially isolate, the inability maintain the order of his life. He might be here awhile, they said, to help him unlearn the behaviors of the crisis mode in which he operated for four years.
He spends a lot of time sleeping (they give him separate pills for that), but when he's awake, he wanders, looking out windows, studying possible escape routes, remaining vigilant. He doesn't speak to many of the other patients, although he watches them, looking for the signs.
He knows it can't all be in his head.]
The accommodations themselves aren't terrible. Meals are provided and he's allowed to keep his regular clothes, although shoelaces are prohibited. He stays in socks mostly, or wears standard issue canvas sneakers on the grounds. No sharp objects, of course. No iPhone, and no computer either, to eliminate distractions.
No camera.
His doctor is kind, but she keeps asking questions Jay doesn't want to answer, because he knows how it sounds. She can weasel responses out of him fairly well, also, which doesn't help. This leaves him feeling foolish and slightly panicked, his barely coherent descriptions of a tall faceless man in a suit hanging in the air between them as she takes notes. But other people have seen him, he insisted the first time. It's not just me. I can show you, if you let me onto YouTube.
Maybe later, she said, and wrote him a prescription for an antipsychotic.
He's in the waiting period now, the seven to fourteen days that it supposedly takes for the medication to take hold in his system. The pills do look suspiciously like the ones Tim takes. They're supposed to help the positive symptoms, but the negative ones will take longer to treat: the tendency to socially isolate, the inability maintain the order of his life. He might be here awhile, they said, to help him unlearn the behaviors of the crisis mode in which he operated for four years.
He spends a lot of time sleeping (they give him separate pills for that), but when he's awake, he wanders, looking out windows, studying possible escape routes, remaining vigilant. He doesn't speak to many of the other patients, although he watches them, looking for the signs.
He knows it can't all be in his head.]
