The memoir I’m writing focuses upon the subject of depression and mental institutions. A big chunk of it will be about my arrival to the hospital and what occurred afterward: my deployment into the psychiatric ward and what happens there. I decided to focus mostly upon the days I spent there. What I did. How I was treated. How the food was. And maybe an appearance of a “colorful mixture of vomit” done by my roommate. The only thing I see in my writing that could be taken as maybe untrue would be the dialogue. Each person that spoke to me said almost the same words, but I’m positive it isn’t word for word – my memory isn’t that good. I have phrases floating around in my mind, but I connected them to make them sound more appealing. Is that fabrication? I remember my brother talking about the Turkey sandwiches and the 40 year old man stalking the hallways and the nurse telling me to swallow the charcoal in big gulps, but don’t remember their statements word for word.
The way my memoir goes is just a boring stay at the mental institution. I had my journal with me at the time and I documented most things that happened. Just not word by word sayings that people said to me throughout the day. I remember the waiting and doing nothing. On Sunday’s it was quiet – no groups to go through and all we did was either wait in our rooms, watch television, talk to whoever on the phones, wait for cigarette break, or play cards. I learned how to play Hearts there.
This all happened three months ago. Things are getting a bit fuzzy around the edges. I’m forgetting people names and some of the situations that happened. Or maybe I wanted to forget. That’s what happens to me sometimes. The memories that I want to forget drip away to the point where I think “Did that really happen?” Those memories I try to go around writing about. But sometimes, they slip in.
What I have so far doesn’t seem to include those memories. I remember them concretely. I see my roommate’s matted hair and dazed eyes. The boy’s 25 or so cuts that line the inside of his right arm. The Spanish language darting from one mouth to the other. The book Dry by Augusten Burroughs I read while being there. The art class and Amy. The woman who always carried a bag stuffed with her belongings everywhere with her. The woman that had a drug problem and had her two little ones taken from her. But I might not write about those people.
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1 comment:
Sounds like your boring stay at a mental institution is pretty good material. And it sounds like you wrote and remember what was important. We always forget part of our experiences - and I suppose it would be interesting if we could remember which parts we forget and which parts we remember - but that is kind of hard.
Though sometimes - when I talk to my sister about when we are small, she remembers an event or a story completely differently from the way I remember it. And most of the time I just think she remembers things wrong. But of course that can't be right.
So yeah. Truthiness is definitely everywhere.
I wonder if that is a good or a bad thing?
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