Princess Part I

This is a serious departure from what I normally write about. I have hesitated talking about having bipolar disorder because...well...just because (for lack of a better explanation). I went through the wringer back in my 30's, struggling with an illness that has taken me to the brink and back.

I did a lot of writing whenever I was hospitalized. I usually found a kind nurse who would allow me a pen or pencil and not worry about me harming myself.

Suffice to say this is not a story, but based on true events.

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During intake on the psych ward, she had answered a series of questions that irritated her. A man—probably in his forties—had sat across from her with a clipboard and asked the usual inane questions.

“Are you suicidal?”

“Do you have a plan?”

Whenever she was asked that question, she always thought back to the time when her husband had accompanied her to the ER during a mixed episode she was having. Yes, he had told the nurse, we do have a plan—we do have health insurance. The nurse had given him a long stare and asked him to leave.

Did she have a plan? As though having a goddamn plan to kill herself would ensure her a room on the psych ward with some psycho roommate and all the decaf coffee she could drink.

“Look,” she said. “I already went through this in the ER. I’m suicidal and I do know how I would off myself. Does that satisfy you?” She looked at him defiantly.

He continued scribbling on his clipboard.

“Please place the contents of your purse on the table.”

She reluctantly dumped the contents of her purse onto the table: A wallet, miscellaneous coins, breath mints, a bottle of Ativan, pens, a small notebook, a tampon, hand moisturizer, a black eyeliner, and a small pocket knife. He confiscated most of the contents of her purse, diligently recording everything—including the few dollars she had. He left her with her coins (“for the soda machine”), the tampon, and moisturizer.

“Please,” she implored. “Let me keep my eyeliner.”

He looked at her in amusement.

“I promise I won’t use it as a deadly weapon. It won’t even sharpen to a point. “

Even in the condition she was in, she wasn’t willing to give up a small item that made her feel feminine…human.

He hesitated for a moment, but left the eyeliner with the other offending articles.

“Please remove your shoelaces.”

She bent over, unlaced her shoes, and handed the shoelaces to him. He turned away for a moment and she seized the opportunity to palm the eyeliner, slide it across the table, and shove it into her pants pocket. She was relieved that a female attendant had patted her down before she had entered the intake room.