Grace

Grace

Finally. This had been the longest journey that I have ever taken. I was sweating from every pore. There in front of me, lay my destination. My legs had almost collapsed in sight of this beautiful residence. The weakness did hit me, so I decided to sit down on a near-by bench, which was surprisingly well made. My sense of time seemed to slow down as I sat there, staring at what I’ve been waiting for, for so long. It has been at least ten months that I fought to come here. It was my only choice. I pondered my life during these moments, and how different it is going to be once I walk through these doors. Suddenly doubt rushed over me, I thought to myself ‘is this what I really want?’ but I had come this far. Horrible memories of the past came to mind. My decision was made; I got up, took a slow breath straightened my shirt and walked towards the beautiful gates marked heaven.

“Hello Gracie” I heard a familiar voice say.

I knew who it was, but I didn’t want to believe it. I kept my eyes shut trying to convince myself that this wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. Not now, not again. But reality had sunken in, and I opened my eyes to see Nancy. The disappointing truth had hit me by seeing her right then: I had just had a very familiar dream, the recurring dream that I had dreamt many times, at night and during the day. If I were to have one wish, it would have been for that dream to come true, and for me to stay behind those doors forever.

I believe that everyone goes to heaven, and that hell does not exist, except for here on this earth. The concept of death never bothered really, but the things that people told me about the ‘after life’, heaven or hell, reincarnation, what ever you want to call it. It all was bullshit to me. So I believe what I want to. I’ve never been the kind of person who believes anything they hear.

But there I was, at my current headquarters, 1483 Elmsden Street, or the Port Hood Institute of Youth Psychiatrics. From day one I had no idea why I was there, I just woke up there, and no explanation was provided. I had no choice but to do what I was told from there on in.

“Here are your meds dear, take them with your water now.” Nancy had told me, in the very polite tone she always had.

“Yeah, okay.” I replied, not really wanting to though.

“Alright dear, well I’ll see you in the morning, sweet dreams hun.”

Dreams, oh boy, I’ve had my share for sure. Where I am in my dreams is my second reality, where I escape to even. My sanctuary. I’ve always dreamt about things that concerned me. I would dream about my thoughts, my parents, my essay on global warming due next week, everything. It was great; I could never lie in my dreams so I figured out a lot about how I feel about towards my problems or my fears.

I really liked Nancy. She had been my nurse for about a year and a half then. She was always kind to me, no matter how unhappy I was. She knew when something was occupying my mind. And would always try to help me with it. She could read me better than anyone could. But that’s not really saying much. Considering no one ever knew me that well. But she was family to me. Well, the only family that I had left.

Nancy had been the one who kept saying that I can do this, and that it could only get better. Even though we both know they were blatant lies, they helped me get through the rough times. She was the only person I ever trusted, I knew I could tell her anything and everything about myself, knowing that there would be no judgment from her.

I do think that Nancy liked me more than the other patients at the institute. She would stay longer in my room to discuss our favorite episodes of Friends, or play another round of Trivial Pursuit. On special occasions she would sneak me some McDonalds or some chocolate bars, cause she and I both knew that the food provided here was wretched, and caused postliminary nausea. But even though Nancy brightened my days greatly, I was still particularly unhappy. Strange kids surrounded me, who all made me feel uncomfortable. They all had horrible hygiene, and could not take care of themselves what so ever. They needed someone there to follow them around to clean up after them, its like they had personal servants. The kids were kind of like dogs that could not be trained. It was ridiculous. Everyone was different from me there. I was the odd one out of the mental hospital, kind of sad when you think about it. This concept darkened many of my days.

This hospital provided me with pretty much everything I needed to get by. Every morning an ear-piercing bell waked all the children up at 7:05. Throughout my 2 years there, I never got used to it, it alarmed me every time. We ate the same disgusting eggs every morning at 7:30 once everyone had gotten dressed. Schooling was from 8: 30am to 3:00pm except on Thursdays, it was from 8:30am to 5:00pm they never really told us why, and it always pissed me off.

Few children in my hospital went to schooling. Because only few were mentally capable of schooling. I understood everything that was taught to me, and excelled at science especially. Science was my always favorite, I found it fascinating. It was especially interesting because Nancy taught it to me, and she knew how I learnt best. She knew that when I grew up I wanted to be a scientist, and work in a lab with a lab coat, and special glasses that protect your eyes from chemicals. The schooling hours were my favorite times of the day. Because what came after I dreaded, tremendously.

After the schooling hours, we were given a half an hour break in which we may do anything we wish that was within the rules of the floor of the hospital. So in my words, you had the right to do nothing. I usually would just go and lay down in my room; occasionally I would draw a picture, or write in my diary. This time would never go by quickly, because I’d just be waiting to go to the one thing that I never wanted to: psychiatric counseling.

Dr. Anderson was by far the worst doctor I had ever had. I had to see her every day for a year and 10 months and 3 days. That’s 674 sessions of agony. I have a line count on my wall like people in prison do. My first session was probably the most awkward thing that has ever happened to me.

I was to drop off my belongings in my room and then I was to proceed to Dr. Anderson’s office right across the hall from the dining hall. But of course, being myself, I got lost. Everything looked the same to me; every wall being white there was no way I could find my way out of the dorm area. I started to run in any direction, I tried to make a run for it, I just wanted to get out, I didn’t really care what was going to happen next, I just didn’t want to be there. I turned a corner quickly and ran straight into Nancy, who was carrying a tray of food. Obviously, knowing my luck, the tray flew up in the air and the food went all over the place. I knelt down to help her but she pointed me down the hall and said that they are waiting for me down there. I thanked her and tiptoed through the messy state of the floor.

As I entered the office of Dr. Elizabeth Anderson, I felt the atmosphere change. Outside in the hall it was uncomfortable, but in this office of hers, there was so much tension in the air, I knew that it was going to be bad. I sat down in the rigid wooden chair, which over the many times I had sat there had gotten decreasingly comfortable. I sat up straight, crossed my legs and kept my hands to myself like a good girl. I still had no idea what I was doing there. I still was scared as hell. Dr. Anderson started off by asking me why I thought I was there. I answered honestly. I was clueless. So she had me explain what I did in the past 24 hours or so. So I obeyed. I revealed to her my every activity.

And so began the first day of the rest of my life. Beyond that point my days became routine. Oh, how the days were long. Some times they were so long you couldn’t tell whether you’ve had breakfast or lunch yet. But the days always did managed to come to relieving ends of florescent lights and white walls. Although my surroundings stayed the same in the institute (which could be argued as a negative point, nothing ever changed at all, AT ALL. I just wished they would put pictures up on the walls or something, who likes looking through mazes of white? How are you supposed to find your way back if everything is white?) Throughout my stay there I could feel myself gradually slipping away from myself, I began acting out of my character. I became less and less conscious of my surroundings. I began to imagine things and create people. The odd thing is that I knew what I was doing, and as hard I tried to stop, there was nothing I could do about it. Everything in my mind was more defined, colors became blinding, so objects like Nancy’s colorful, floral print dresses caused many headaches. I couldn’t talk to Dr. Anderson about it; I couldn’t talk to her about anything really, so I had to deal with it on my own, the way I’ve done everything all my life, so it couldn’t be that bad right.

One might have compared that place to a prison; I’m kind of undecided on the topic. I guess it might be for a person life me, who was completely normal, maybe besides the mad drugs and ass-rapes. I was always ordered when to do what, how to do it, how to dress, basically the only thing they never told me what to do is think.

The one thing that they couldn’t take from me was the one thing I couldn’t stand to do. Oh, irony, my best friend, you love to follow me around don’t you?

Around the time where I first arrived at the institute my thoughts were light, such as: wondering what my parents were doing, how come my left big toe is crooked but my right one wasn’t. I developed the habit of doodling when I thought, nothing special, still the same old girly thing, hearts with the initials CD in it. His name was Chris Douglas. I’ve liked him since the third grade. He has been the class clown since then, he is just the cutest thing ever, and he’s only person I’ve ever felt emotion towards. Well, him and my cat Albert, but I guess he doesn’t count.

With time, I guess I used up all my somewhat happy or pointless thinking topics. Which lead to debatable and more depressing affairs. I didn’t comprehend why my parents hadn’t come by to pick me up, but finally realized that they were not going to come. By that time I had started to enjoy drawing more, it was a new found release of mine, with the emotion I had going on in my head, my drawings and paintings became more and more realistic and enjoyable.

One night, while reading Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice an epiphany came to me. The Walls. I’d been complaining to myself about the walls ever since they affected my vision the first time I laid eyes on them. There was such a foul atmosphere that came off those white walls, it was appalling. But there were white, the color of canvases. It was perfect; I had found myself just the thing I needed. A project.

I decided to start on my own, without any permission, to paint little images on my giant wall. If someone saw (which I would highly doubt because I was a ghost there), what are they going to do about it? Throw me out? Gee thanks!

On the wall that I face when I sleep at night, I put representations of people whom I loved in my past. Things that reminded me of them, and of course the centerpiece of the whole was my fat cat Albert. It wasn’t the most flattering portrait of him, but it is how I remember him best. It’s a picture of him asleep in my bathroom sink, don’t ask me why he liked it there, that still remains a mystery to me, but he sure was cute. Maybe it was because he liked how his beefy butt conformed to the smooth porcelain, or maybe because he didn’t have to carry around the extra 4 pounds for a while. Who knows?
But it was his favorite spot, and my favorite memory.

Proceeding to the ‘memory wall’ if you will, I decided to do a full mural, of one sole image. I thought since I’d been having this recurring dream of the heaven, that maybe I’d paint a set of the golden gates for myself, so I could day dream at any part of the day I wanted. It wasn’t that easy, I’d never really done anything of the sort before, so I resorted to the oversized and underused library at the south end of the institute for images of god like gates.

It was better than I imagined, it was my best work yet. I heard rumors here and there of some calling it sacrilegious and offensive. But I liked it and Nancy liked it, so I couldn’t care less. Nonetheless, no one complained about it, or if they did I got no word about it, so I was delighted and took a two-day rest from painting.

After that I made a decision. I needed to go to art school, it was decided in my mind, nothing could change it. It was clear in my mind that it was destiny; I was to be an artist. My time was up, no need to be confined and held back in that awful place any longer. So the day I had brought myself to that conclusion, I decided to have a little discussion with Dr. Anderson, my arch nemesis.

I’ve always loathed the small talk that doctors always felt the need to start an appointment with. It’s just a nuisance, and everyone knows that they probably hate it more than we do. Nevertheless, this particular session with Dr. Anderson started like any other, but definitely did not end the same way. She just had to mention how I had a grin on my face when I walked in, this didn’t surprise me, but it sure did annoy me. Couldn’t she just keep her mousy little comments to herself, I knew I was grinning, but I’m sure she was just making sure I knew. I hate it when people are like that. So I became forward with her.

“Dr. Anderson, why am I in this institute?” I asked her, almost as if I was interviewing someone for the local news channel.

“Um, pardon me Grace?” she stuttered.

“Why am I here at the Port Hood Institute of Youth Psychiatrics, centre for the mentally unstable and challenged? You and I both know that you I am a normal child, and I do not deserve to be here, why the hell am I in this place Dr. Anderson?” I continued with my sarcastic tone.

“Grace, you’re not acting like yourself, maybe you should go back to your room and cool down.” She began to appear quite uncomfortable, she shifted her weight back and forth in her chair.

“Not acting myself? Ha! You don’t know me; you don’t know how I act! All you do is run your little tests, take notes on what I say, or ask me ‘how I feel about that?’” The inner actress in me bloomed; it was perfect, if only she could just let me go see my parents. “Just tell me, why do I have to stay here?”

Dr. Anderson did not respond. All she did after that was rise from her perfectly rigid chair tucked her hair behind her ears, and led me out her door. This was the most peculiar thing I’ve ever experienced, Dr. Olivia Anderson, the arrogant doctor who always had something to say, walked me out her door in silence. I took in the moment, for some reason it was actually special to me. Once the distinguished moment came to a close, I realized what just happened. There was something I did not know. This self-assured doctor wasn’t telling me something, I just had a hunch, and my hunches are never wrong.

I crept out of my room late that night, or early the next morning, I’m not quite sure what day it was, and I walked down the pitch-black halls. I decided to just start walking towards a light that I saw was turned on, hoping to run into Larry the janitor who works nights at the institute. I really do pity this man, he has no one to work with at night, and he’s always alone. I used to visit him every once and a while. He had told me about his pet cat Boots who had claimed royalty of his favorite armchair. Not quite the bathroom sink, but we had a few laughs.

I finally reached him, sitting in the staff lounge watching Saturday Night Live, another one of our things in common. I sat and joined him hoping something that I would find funny would come on, but ever since Ashlee Simpson made it clear to the world that she can’t sing, SNL will never be the same to me, nothing could ever be that good. I sat there thinking for a while, if I should ask him, or if should just take it. I doubted he would let me; he does like to follow the rules. So I stood up and bit him goodnight, shook his hand and took it.

This specific card key granted access to the whole building, I could get everywhere, well, except out. A power rush came over me. I didn’t know it was that easy. I had seen Matt Daemon do it a thousand times in Oceans 11, but I never knew pick pocketing was that easy. Just like that, I took it out of his front pocket

I had to be sleuth. The theme music to Mission Impossible was running through my head. I walked slowly and calmly through the door marked Dr. Olivia Anderson, after swiping the key, and entered forbidden ground. I had so much adrenaline. I walked over to her filing cabinet; luckily it was unlocked, because I didn’t think of it before.

I opened it; I was hoping to see something to laugh at, possibly some German porn or something. There was no German porn to my dismay. So I began to look through the files that were perfectly alphabetized and orderly. My name Grace Bradford was always easy to find because it was close to the beginning of every alphabetized list. But going thorough the whole draw that was marked “Patient Files” my name was not there. It wasn’t until the third time I went through it was when I saw I file marked Gordon, Katie/ Bradford, Grace.

I ferociously snatched the file from its place in the drawer, doing so I upset many of the others and paper went flying. I cleared her desk throwing staplers, post-its, hole punchers, etc off the desk in violence. I placed the file slowly on her desk, trying to keep my hands steady. I opened the file. Words literally were highlighted before my eyes, police report, teenage murderer, and Dissosiative Identity Disorder. That one hit home, not usually do I take things personal, I usually blow things off but this one pretty much killed me on its own.

Once I realized what was going on, I read the whole file through. It explained my every wonder and curiosity ever since I arrived. The first letter read the following:

November 2nd, 2000.

A few days ago Frank and Nicole Bradford of Bayfield, Cape Breton were murdered. It is rumored that eyewitnesses spotted their daughter Grace Bradford, running from the house soon after they heard gunshots, but nothing is for certain. No other person was to be seen near the crime, and no evidence leads to anyone else but Grace Bradford. That very same day a young lady of the same description by the name Katie Gordon was sent to me by the police, with blood stained clothes that admitted to the crime. Today, this girl claims to be Grace Bradford, and is insisting that she would be released. I have diagnosed her with Dissosiative Identity Disorder. And I am going to observe her here until her symptoms go away.
Olivia Anderson.

Anguish, utter anguish. That moment in my life could not be described in words. In that moment, I lost all my dreams. There was no hope left in me. I finally understood the meaning of tragedy. I had nothing left. Misery paralyzed me. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t think. Then everything went blurry.

I rose from Dr. Andersons chair with the same manner she did earlier that day. With no guidance, no energy, no drive. I walked as though I was going nowhere, still horrified. Holding out my hands in front of me I thought of how that pair of hands could destroy lives, murder my own flesh and blood. The word murderer echoed in my mind. This thought made my stomach lurch, and I collapsed to my knees. For the first time my life, I didn’t have to be strong, I no longer had anyone to be strong for. A knot grew in my throat, and the tightness in my chest increased quickly. I tried to stop them, but the tears just started to flow, and could not stop. I just wanted to be in my father’s arms, just for him to tell me that everything will me okay, but he can’t because I killed him.

I lifted my tired body off the ground, and returned to my room. The letter is all I could see, whether my eyes were open or closed, Dissosiative Identity Disorder, could it really be? So many unanswered questions but there was no need to answer them, well not now.

I crawled into my squeaky cot and pulled the bottle from under my pillow. They were sleeping pills; I took them from a trolley around 4 months ago. I only took them if it was past 3 AM and I couldn’t fall asleep. Not even a debate went on in my mind; there was no other choice. I emptied that bottle into my mouth and swallowed it with some water from my milk box nightstand. Fear never stuck me. I just relaxed thinking about my parents, and Albert. I fell into a deep sleep, peaceful and pleasant. Suddenly I was walking, a slow and agreeable walk but with my eyes closed. I heard the sound of smooth moving hinges. I opened my eyes, and there in front of me, was my aspiration, my desire. There lay the glistening gates of heaven. They invited me with wide-open arms, and I accepted, and walked right in.