One Gook Over the Cuckoo's Nest
At Least I Didn't Have to Take the Exam
Like any total badass, I've been locked up in a mental ward before.
It happened in my junior year of college when I had come up with a plan to get out of taking an exam. I didn't want to take the exam out of sheer laziness, but I was one failure away from being kicked out of school.
I decided to do what all the other successful asians were doing at Northwestern, or at any disgustingly competitive top 20 university for that matter. It's actually very simple: all you have to do is go to the university health services and claim to be too depressed to take your test and they will bail you out. Only one out of a hundred of these assholes are actually in need of help, but the administration can't take the risk of calling anybody's bullshit.
If health services mistakenly thinks somebody's lying and then forces him to take the exam, and in turn he fails and then kills himself, the university is royally fucked. It's a nice set up that we have; one which career driven asians can benefit at the expense of the boo-hoos who actually do knock themselves off.
I figured this plan should be perfect, especially because unlike these other emo-wannabe pussies I've got some badass racing stripes along my wrists. Unfortunately, the doctor at the health services wasn't as thrilled about this as I was. The meeting was actually really uneventful as it seemed she was asking some basic questions, such as "why are you so sad?" and "what did you use to cut yourself?" Out of nowhere a cop came knocking on the office door. Turns out that sneaky little bitch tricked me into thinking that these were all routine questions, but in reality she was distracting me while the cops came to detain me to take me to the hospital. Apparently, in situations like this, health services is supposed to call the cops.
The cop drove me to the hospital and took me to ER. They ran a couple of tests on me, and then some old fart in a white coat came in.
Old Fart: We've determined that you are a danger to yourself, and possibly to others.
Me: That's not good.
Old Fart: We recommend that you voluntarily sign yourself into the mental health ward.
Me: Uh...I don't want to do that.
Old Fart: If you do not sign, then we may possibly have to hold you against your will.
Me: What do you mean by "may possibly" ?
Old Fart: Do you want to come quietly or not?
I couldn't believe that fucker actually said that. I sat there for a minute and then I realized that they really think I'm nuts. I know that my deck's been shuffled out of order but I didn't want to get fucking locked up with all those other crazy sons of bitches.
I pictured myself being in a room with padded walls, eating apple sauce with a plastic spoon, bouncing around in a cell right next to Hannibal Lecter. Something about it seemed oddly enticing. I didn't really know what choice I had here. Plus, I really fucking dig apple sauce.
Me: Can you guys take me up there in a wheelchair? I've always wanted to be wheeled around.
Old Fart: Uh...yes. We can arrange that Mr. Chuck.
Me: Sweet.
In all seriousness, I recognized the gravity of the situation. But at the same time, something about the entire thing seemed like a huge fucking joke to me because all I wanted to do was get out of an exam and get back to my drinking, but before I knew it I was locked up in a nut house.
The subtleties of craziness
The crazy area of a hospital is a locked down wing where they put anybody who's, well, fucking crazy. You know, it's really interesting the way people treat you when you're crazy, and the subtleties are fascinating.
The first thing they asked me to do as I checked into the Hotel de Loco was to remove the draw strings from my sweats, presumably so that I can't hang myself with it. That was pretty reasonable and straightforward to me. However we still got into a small dispute because I refused to take out the one thing that was holding my sweats up. Nurse wouldn't budge so I illustrated what would happen by letting my sweats drop to my ankles. While exposed, I started scuffling around the hallways with my best crazy face on. The nurse threatened to lock me in my room if my behavior did not improve, so I had to concede on this point and keep my pants on.
The nurses taking away the drawstrings is pretty straightforward, but the other things you have to pick up on your own. For example, they don't have a single pen or pencil in the entire wing. Everytime you want to write something, you have to use a fucking crayon like back when you were in 1st grade. Me and some of the other crazies would joke about how it's because you can't stab yourself with a crayon. The only way to do yourself in is to eat all 200 crayons in the box - but they happened to buy the non-toxic ones. Those fuckers thought of everything.
Another case where the subtleties of craziness could be seen was during something called Music Time. Music time was really weird, but also my favorite time of the day. This bitch in this nasty ass gaudy green dress with all these crazy african beads around her neck would arrive with a whole set of instruments for us to play with. The premise was that this was therapeutic and helpful...somehow. Our music band of crazy people consisted of bongos, triangles, maracas, tambourines and other retard-proof instruments that you could not fuck up playing even if you tried. The one instrument that may have required skill was the xylophone, but all the keys were part of one chord. No matter how you bang on the instrument everything sounded like the right note.
Because god forbid anybody hit a wrong note...they might just fucking kill themselves. Be not afraid my fellow crazy people. Hope is on the way, as evident by your success in playing percussions with ten other nut bags in the room. These are the subtle things that are creepy in its own right. Some dick head out there who's never been crazy himself figured, "I know what! I'll invent the Xylophone of Hope for crazy people who need to distract themselves from the anguish of depression!"
At music time I went into straight up kindergarten mode. I'd start going apeshit on my triangle and start head banging and see how much ridiculous noise I could make. After the 3rd consecutive day of this they wouldn't let me come to music time.
As a side note, I wonder how badly you had to have failed as a music major to end up teaching crazy people to play the tambourine?
Menus, Mealtimes and Jello for the Bitch
In order to receive your meals, everybody had to fill out a menu of what you want for all your meals for the following day. After filling it out, you'd drop it off in a box next to the nurse's office. The menu looked just like those continental breakfast menus you get at hotels. It looked something like this:
___ Chicken
___ Beef
___ Pasta
___ Grape Juice
___ Orange Juice
___ Apple Juice
___ Milk
___ Brownie
___ Cookie
___ Jello
___ Tomato Soup
___ Chicken Soup
and so on and so forth...it was a pretty big and decent menu.
Taking note that this is the crazy area of the hospital, I figured they would be extra careful with the orders, lest somebody here goes crazy. I wanted to see what would happen if I checked off every single box on the entire menu. Surprisingly, they actually followed it perfectly. An order of chicken, beef, pasta, 3 juices and a milk, and all the deserts and soups. I checked off every single box on the menu for every meal for a few days, just for kicks. Eventually the nurse told me to stop doing this.
Now that I knew that they would follow the orders to a tee, it opened up some lucrative opportunities for fun...and revenge. There was this lady in the ward who I came to absolutely fucking hate. My professional diagnosis for her being locked up was that she was dumb-fuck retarded, but it also may have been emotionally related because she seemed to cry like a little baby all the time. One day several of us were eating lunch and she decides to start a conversation with me.
Retarded crybaby bitch: So Chucky, are you from Japan or China?
Me: I am Korean.
Retarded crybaby bitch: You are Korean? So do your parents own a convenience store?
Me: Oh no not at all. They own a dry cleaners. Because that's all Koreans are good for. One day I hope to take over the business. Maybe I can dry clean your shit one day.
Retarded crybaby bitch: I don't appreciate your sarcasm. Look, I'm a minority too and I've had to suffer the indignities of stereotypes as well.
Me: Ok, well, everything makes sense now. So tell me, what minority are you and what has anybody ever said to you?
[this was a genuine question because she had an indistinguishable accent and for the most part looked pretty white. my initial guess was she was one of those smelly europeans.]
Retarded crybaby bitch: I am Brazilian. And people say that all Brazilian women are whores.
Crazy guy at table: I've never heard of any stereotype like that before in my life.
Another crazy guy: Yeah, I don't know about that.
Crazy guy in the corner: Chucky I liked your dry-cleaner comment!
Me: Are you sure people calling you a whore doesn't have something to do with just who you are?
Retarded brazilian crybaby bitch: I DON'T DESERVE THIS! I DON'T DESERVE THIS!
She got up and left the room. She looked pretty upset, so one of the nurses actually followed her to her room. She was probably going to start crying like a bitch again.
Later that day, BringIt, a good friend I've known for a very long time came to visit me to make sure that I was okay. BringIt is generally the angriest man I've ever met. He is about four and a half feet tall which also medically qualifies him for "Chihuahua Syndrome."
On the other hand though, BringIt is usually the first to point out what might be considered right and wrong. Beneath it all he actually has a soul unlike me and the rest of my friends. BringIt is the moral compass amongst my group of friends, although on second thought, that isn't saying shit...as evident by what we proceeded to do.
I was relating to BringIt the incident regarding the Brazilian bitch, and told him what a ridiculous fucknut this lady is. I mean she was practically baiting me to talk shit to her and then suddenly she flips out like the whole thing was my fault. BringIt politely reminded me that this is in fact the crazy ward. In spite of that, we decided that we still need to get back at her.
I tip-toed by the nurse station and got to the box where everybody turns in their menus. I found her menu and I snuck it back to my room. BringIt and I made a new menu for her to better suit her needs. It was unfortunate that BringIt had to leave and wasn't able to see her reaction the next day.
Next morning, I got up extra early and waited in the dining room for her.
She brings her tray over to her table and sits down. She lifts the tray cover. Under it is one lonely cup of jello. She sighs heavily, throws her fork to the side and leaves the room. I'm assuming she didn't break down because she just had her morning valium.
I'm there extra early at lunch too.
She sits down, lifts the tray cover. This time she yells, "WHAT THE HELL! WHAT THE HELL!" She throws the fork and the jello cup against the wall and stomps out of the room. Everybody else at lunch is a bit confused.
I didn't even bother leaving the room after that. I sat my ass down and started a 500 piece puzzle. I wasn't going no where because I couldn't afford to miss her at dinner.
Finally around 5 PM, she enters the room with her dinner tray. She lifts the tray cover. Again, the jello cup on the plate. This time she just buries her face into her hands and starts sobbing. I run out stumbling and laughing, before the nurses could take notice of me laughing maniacally at her.
The last thing I hear before I close my door is: "But your menu says jello for every meal! Isn't that what you wanted?"
"NO! NO! EVERYTHING IS WRONG! MY LIFE IS WRONG!"
Fortunately, if you get up in the middle of a half finished puzzle and sprint down the hallways laughing like a fucking idiot while in the mental health wing, that's actually pretty normal compared to the other crazy shit you'd see there. I hope she enjoyed her jello dinner. That bitch.
You can't use the word 'Crazy'
One night, somebody was having some kind of mental break down in the middle of the night. I wasn't sure who it was other than that it was a woman. She was just screaming obscenities in a constant stream for like an hour straight, which is actually an impressive feat if you think about it. But I did not find this amusing at 4 AM.
I kicked my door open and started screaming back:
"SHUT THE FUCK UP! HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT? YOU LIKE SCREAMING? AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU CRAZY BITCH!"
A nurse runs over to me.
Nurse: How many times have I told you, you don't use the word "crazy"!
Me: She's going to wake up all the other crazies and we're going to go crazy on your ass if you don't shut that crazy bitch up.
There really are certain things that they "discourage." Like you're not allowed to compare scars with the other patients (an actual weird practice that many patients do anyways), or use words like "crazy" and "insane."
Nurse rolls her eyes and stomps away. She goes to the office, and I see her walking back out with a syringe and she's filling it with tranquilizer juice or something. She goes into the crazy screaming lady's room, and then suddenly there's pure golden silence. How awesome is that? It was like somebody hit the mute button. And they say that drugs never solve anything. I gave the nurse a standing ovation but she only glared at me.
I ask her, "Can I get some of that if I start screaming too?"
She stopped for a second and I think she actually considered this as an option. I tell her, "uh...nevermind I'll just go back to sleep."
Released to Group Therapy
Eventually I got bored of everything in the mental ward and stopped bothering people and fucking around. I spent all my time reading books in my room with the curtains drawn. They figured this must mean I'm no longer depressed, and thus, let me out.
They forced me to enter group therapy shortly after. Group therapy, though for the most part really useless, was actually from time to time very interesting. It was also really awkward in its own sense because normally, you don't go around telling people how fucked up your shit is. But here in group therapy, everybody already knew. There were always slightly suspicious glances at each other; curious, and questioning and trying to guess what your story is. It was like a room full of people where everybody farted, and everybody knew it but wouldn't say a thing until somebody else talked first.
I generally had an okay time.
Not to mention the anorexia/bulimia chick group met down the hall and some of them were hot. Not the no-titty skeleton bitches though. But the plain skinny ones looked pretty good. Lunch time with them was always funny because all they eat is yogurt and an apple and they look like they just ate a buffet. And I'd sit one table down and scarf down my lasagna and burp loudly. "Ahh...another fulfilling meal!"
One of my last sessions was a pretty memorable one. There was another kid from Northwestern who showed up. It was his first day, which means the counselor would probably get him to spill his beans. He was a fat asian kid, and I actually recognized him because I'd seen him a couple of times around campus. I don't think he recognized me though. Anyways, I was eager to hear how this kid ended up here. The room got quiet as he began his story:
Fat kid: Well, you see, I had met a girl. We had dated about six months. Things were going...going...s-ss--s-so well. I told her I loved her.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Sad fat kid: I don't understand what happened, but well, one day...
I slouched down in my chair and rested my chin on my hand. I gave him the boredest look I could muster. Fatass continues his story.
Sad fat kid: ...she just doesn't want me anymore. And I know in my heart she was the one. She really was. I've never been more sure about anything in my life. You know, I've had a girlfriend before this, but this was different. It all started when we first met...
I felt somebody push my shoulder. Startled, I snapped up to attention and looked around. A couple of the guys were staring at me. I had fallen asleep. The entire room was dead silent except for this fat kid sniffling in his seat wiping his snot. There were balls of used up tissue all around him. I kind of felt bad that I slept through his little sob story. Actually, I was more embarrassed because I know that I snore. That means at one point the only sounds in the room were him crying and me snoring.
However to put things in perspective, to the left of him was this lady who had been married for 17 years and her husband left her for some other bitch. She and her 11 year old son were left to fend for themselves. To his right was a guy who lost his father to cancer. He had a one foot long gash along his right wrist that he carved with a fucking butcher knife. He did that to himself after swallowing half a bottle of pills.
And fat boy here can't get laid.
Isn't there a minor league therapy group for pussies or something? He'd probably fit in better with the eating disorder group down the hall. I was pretty pissed this kid was wasting everybody's time with his bullshit summer fling story and how he's so fucking sad that shit didn't end up like "Titanic." Oh wait. That movie kind of ended badly. Nevermind.
That was how one of the last sessions ended. The people there actually kind of liked me because I had much more interesting things to say than most other crazies there. And I started a fight with one of the schizophrenics once. Despite popular belief, schizophrenia has nothing to do with multiple personality disorder (which it is commonly misinterpreted as.) When you meet a real schizo you'll know. Somebody was sharing their story about the pains of being bipolar, and this kid kept scoffing like this entire session was a waste of his oh-so-precious time. We ignored it the first few times but after a while everybody in the room was getting pretty worked up because of him. Finally I told him, "Why don't you shut the fuck up before I kick your ass and make you take some pills to calm your crazy ass down?"
Ok, it didn't sound that cool. But basically I started shit with him, and the counselor broke it up and sent him out. Later though the counselor said to me in passing, "I'm not actually allowed to make people leave unless they have trouble getting along with the other patients. Luckily that just did it and we got to send him out. He was being very uncooperative. Thanks, really." I got a pat on the back for threatening a schizo. Neat.
I can't say that locking me up in the ward actually did anything to actually help me; there were times where I felt like I was going to go fucking nuts just from being locked in there. Overall, they said I seemed significantly less depressed and a lot less crazy at the end of all this shit. Which was, for the most part, true. It was a really hilarious and overall interesting experience in its own right, although mostly in retrospect. I wouldn't recommend it for most people, but it will seriously open your eyes in a very...different way.
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