“It’s spring now, don’t you know?”
“I guess so. Does it matter?”
“Of course it does. Aren’t you excited for all the pretty flowers?”
“I dunno. I guess I never saw a reason to care about them. They’re just always..there.”
That conversation happened years ago. I’m not sure why, but around this time every year, it just sort of resonates. It’s like an annoying song that you can’t get out of your head. The person I was talking to was my little sister, who’s all grown up now. She stopped visiting a while ago. I hope she’s doing well.
My name is Aiden. I’m twenty-two years old. Not like that’s important though. To everyone outside this white room, I’m just a number. I live in a mental health ward, for some context. Nah, I’m not insane. Never had a schizophrenic episode or saw things that weren’t there or whatever. I was diagnosed with severe clinical depression, and had a low will to live. I was put in here by my parents out of their concern for my safety.
I remember the day well. I said goodbye to my cat, who seemed more annoyed that I woke her up from her nap, hugged my mom and dad, and went along quietly with a couple of guys in official looking white coats. It was a pretty calm ride. We rode through town to the hospital I’d seen a million times when I went out for walks. It was a sunny day, with a light breeze. Everything seemed so normal, and that’s because it was.
For five years before I was admitted to the Starry Hearts Mental Health Ward, I was home schooled. I’d had to be removed from the public school system because of how much I was bullied. I never understood why that happened particularly - My mom has always had different theories. Like, they thought it was weird that I was quiet, and liked to read a lot, or that kids during that age group were just cruel because they were trying to fit in.
I never bothered to look into it much. To be honest, their reasoning never really interested me. When I began home-schooling, I didn’t ever get beaten up, and I got to read even more books. It was a win-win. I love reading, and learning new things, so it was a great experience. My mom was really happy for a while, because I seemed to improve on the outside, but I guess, as time went on, she and Dad saw just how much of an outcast I really was. I didn’t have much of a purpose in life, I didn’t go out aside from therapeutic walks in the mornings, and I didn’t have a single friend aside from my younger sister. I’d be asked if there’s anything related to what I was doing - reading, writing, playing video games - that might spark a future career for me, but I never found any interest.
I’m not sure why, really. I never found any passion or drive. There wasn’t anything seriously wrong with me. All of my parts are working. I guess maybe I’m just a dud. Maybe, if there is a God, he forgot to flip a switch or two when making me. Maybe I’m just broken. Either way, here I now sit, in a very plain white room. White linoleum tile floor, white painted walls, white bedsheets. I dunno why it’s colored this way, but at least it’s not gaudy. And hey, free cable and food. It’s really not so bad here.
I attend these weekly meetings with other non-critical ward patients, where we talk about our feelings. No seriously, we literally talk about what we’ve been feeling. I usually just pass, or say something like “I feel okay.” That’s just all I’ve ever felt. Sometimes my parents would send me letters asking me the same thing, and I’ve found it odd - why so many people seem to care about how I’m feeling - and that’s just it: I’ve never felt anything else aside from okay. Never bad, never elated. Not even apathetic. Just eternally “okay.”
I’ve been in this ward for a little over two years. My parents, I guess, accepted at some point that I wouldn’t be changing my answer anytime soon, and stopped sending letters about a year ago. That’s alright, it means I’m less of a bother for them. I hope they’re doing well.
I guess that’s it for now. One of the ward staff gave me this journal to write down my thoughts and feelings in a while back, and I’ve never put it to use till now. Maybe I’ll update it again in the future if anything interesting happens. How do I even end off one of these things? Ah well. I’ll just scribble something artsy at the bottom of the page. Later, Me. - Aiden.
Loading comments...