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There are parts of this story I have never shared with anyone. There are parts of this story that will remain unshared. First, they wouldn’t really mean anything to you. And second, they mean everything to me. As I have already shared, high school was a really, really difficult time. It turned out to be difficult enough for me that the state of Wisconsin eventually decided (without my consent, but I was still a minor so…) I needed to be “cared for” in a mental hospital. I think today they might be referred to as an inpatient setting, but all I knew is that I was forced to be there and I was not allowed to leave. Actually, to be fair, I WAS allowed to leave once my father’s insurance refused to pay any more money. Surprisingly, the same day the insurance refused to pay was the same day the managing psychiatrist declared me “mentally fit” to leave. That is a wholly different story altogether, and one that makes me too angry to think. Besides, it is NOT the story I want to tell. Because for some, these hospitals, whatever they might represent in my own mind, are the only place these individuals have ever had a chance to rest from a life I have no idea how they survived. It is in such a hospital where I met B.

I was a “patient” in this hospital for exactly fourteen days. Apparently, for insurance purposes, fourteen days is the amount needed to create mental health. On the first day I was admitted, I was told the rules, my schedule, and blah, blah, blah, and then I was led to my room. The room was dark and the shades were drawn and I was told to drop my bag in the corner and come back out into the hallway. I asked to turn on the light and the admitting nurse strongly said, “No.” and pointed to a desk where I could drop my bag and then told me to meet her in the hallway. She positioned herself directly in front of the light switch and waited for me to leave the room. After I left, she gently closed the door and asked me to follow her to a private room. In this private room, she then explained to me that I would be rooming with B, who was a “special client” who had special needs. There were certain things I could and could not do. There were certain things I could and could not say. And most importantly, there were situations for which I needed to be prepared. This conversation lasted about an hour. What the…? This dude was going to kill me! Never show him fire. Do NOT talk about Satan or Satan worship. No listening to certain music. Do not turn on the light when he is sleeping. Don’t try to help him when he wakes up screaming. Holy God! Who was this dude? Why did I have to be his roommate? Should anybody be his roommate? Did his last roommate survive? Jeez… Crap… Holy Shuzbut! Ok, I was ready to go home. Enough of this. I will be good. Get me the FUNK out of this place! I was scared.

And this began my fourteen day relationship with B. Fourteen days. Not such a long time, but this one person, just a boy really, who had suffered more in his life than any man I had ever known, changed my life forever. On the day I left that hospital, as I was packing up my things, B began to cry, and then he said these words, “Please don’t leave.” As I was walking out the doors of that place for the last time, I began to cry as well.

B was only seventeen years old. He freely admitted that he would be in mental institutions for the rest of his life. He could no longer function in the outside world. If he was honest, he couldn’t even really function in any setting. As a very young boy, he had been raped so brutally, by multiple offenders, that his inside organs were permanently damaged. He had been locked in small spaces, surrounded by darkness, for extended periods of time. He once told me he had been thrown in a well where there were snakes and left there overnight. He told me so many stories I have no idea what was true or not but I do know he was so terrified of the dark that he slept with multiple night lights around his bed in case he woke up. He could not sleep without drugs. He could not wake up without medications. He took so many pills he had a hard time remembering what each one was for but he knew that each morning he took them he would feel nauseous. The pills messed with his body so badly that he would often go days without using the restroom. Ironically, this is how I knew that B and I were officially friends.
It was maybe the 12th day of my stay. I had no idea what was happening. Two nurses came into our room in the morning and one immediately walked between our two beds and pulled the thin curtain the entire path of the ceiling rail so that B’s bed was completely hidden. The other nurse came around the curtain and asked me to get up out of bed, get dressed, and to join the others in the day room. I heard the other nurse, behind the curtain, sternly say, “Roll over, B.” As I got up out of bed and started to put on my clothes, I heard B say, “No. He can stay. I don’t care. I want him to stay. I would like a friend.”

B regularly had to receive enemas. His inside organs were so messed up, and in conjunction with all the medications he took, his body just did not work properly on so many levels. This was just one more inconvenience he simply had to suffer in his life. I had no idea what was happening. I still don’t really know, but I do remember the sounds of my friend suffering just one more injustice of which he did not deserve nor choose. I also remember him saying this, “Thank you for staying. I just wanted a friend.”

There are so many things about those fourteen days I will never share. Maybe it is strange I chose to share this one. I remember so vividly not being able to help B on this day. I also vividly remember walking out the doors of that hospital one last time and knowing that I would NEVER be able to help B. B was my friend and he was doomed to live a life nobody in this world could ever deserve, and I could do nothing. This is possibly one of the worst feelings I have ever felt.

“B, I know that I let you down. I left you there alone, with no one to talk to at night and no one to calm you down when your mind got too crazy. No one to listen to all your stories and no one to play you music that you weren’t “supposed” to listen to. No one to light candles and talk about Heaven and Hell (and sometimes Charles Manson). No one to mess around with the nurses and annoy the doctors. No one to share dirty jokes with and no one to try and frighten the other patients. No one, on so many different levels. I am sorry. I ask for your forgiveness. Wherever you are, in Heaven or on this Earth, I hope you are at peace. Thank you for being my friend. Amen.”