Talk Shows

Sick-yellow hospital walls and the smell of sterility. The waiting room to be evaluated before being moved to the mental ward is twice my body head-to-toe in one direction, three times in the other.  

I watch a talk show where they spin a wheel to decide which man to paternity test.  

I watch a talk show where a man spent all his wedding money on strippers.  

I watch a reality show where a mother tells her daughter that she doesn’t love her.

I am not allowed to have my crayons yet, or my coloring book. They bring me yellow paper from a pad and dried markers that make a sound like sidewalk chalk in the Summer when I try to drag the pigment out of them.

I say that I won't let them take my blood until I get a Klonopin.  

“Im afraid of needles” I explain.

The hot nurse says, “But not of knives?”  

He looks just like my favorite actor. I don’t want to take off my clothes and have him see my flabby white body. When he rubs ointment over my gashes he says to himself “these are nice ones.” and I don’t think a doctor is supposed to say that but maybe nurses can say whatever they want. He is so handsome that letting him put his hands on my carved limbs feels like cheating on my boyfriend. The ointment stings.

I watch a talk show where a woman is addicted to getting abortions.

I watch a talk show where a cheating husband marries his mistress on set.

I watch a talk show about a mother who’s five-year-old killed their dog.

I am used to hospital food. It comes on a plastic tray with a little blue dish cover meant to hold in the heat but it fogs up underneath and makes everything soggy with condensation. Canned carrots cut so small they they’re almost a liquid. I puncture one side of the juice cup, then the other, and drain it into my mouth. Im always thirsty here. On the tray is a floppy hamburger that looks like the ones I used to get from my high school cafeteria. I inspect it for mold. I eat it without the bottom bun, which is sort of chewy. I pick off the rotten parts of the banana.

I watch a talk show about a new kitchen product.

I watch a talk show about caring for rodents.

I watch a talk show about daughters of murdered mothers.

This is all a useless exercise. They will keep me down here until a woman with a clip board comes in to look at what I have done to my arms and legs and she will ask me to say out loud, for the hundredth time that day, that I am suicidal. She will mark off my injuries on a little paper and fill out “disposable razor” in the appropriately marked box. It takes hours to tell them what they already know.

I watch a talk show about a new invasive species of frog in Florida.

I watch a talk show about punk kids getting professional makeovers.

I watch a talk show about the difference between breeds of dog.

Sometimes they ask me why I want to kill myself. The answer should be easy: ninety days later, here I am again, still miserable. Why won't I be just as miserable 90 days from now. Sometimes I am really honest and I say “I don’t want to live in a world under capitalism” or “I hate politics” or simply the truth that there is no future for me free of exploitation. I explain that, if I’m not going to win, I will take my ball and storm off home to heaven. They don’t like those kind of answers. They want something they can solve with pills and skills and group therapy talks.

I watch a talk show about survivors of a suicide bombing.

I watch a talk show where a woman claims she was molested by a politician.

I watch a talk show about violence in video games.

The hot nurse comes back and apologies. There was a fight on the ward and they can’t move me without clearance. He isn’t really apologizing, though, because there is the undertone of “not that you have anywhere else to go.” And I don’t, I'm trapped until a lady with a clipboard says I can go home in a few days. 

I watch a talk show about getting the most out of your weekly leftovers.

I watch a talk show where little people fight in a vat of grease.

I watch a talk show where my favorite childhood author gives an interview.

Instead of killing myself, I kill time and wait to die. They cannot stop me from doing that. I count the tiles of this cell and compare it to my measurements from the past. Its not as big as the one i was in last time, but bigger than the one they put me in back in October. I am still not allowed to have my crayons.  

I watch a talk show about a woman who says she hears angels.

I watch a talk show where a child actor gives an interview that falls into the uncanny valley.

I watch a talk show about exotic pets.

I think of throwing a fit so they’ll give me the hard stuff and let me sleep for a few hours. I decide that, if I'm still here when the hot nurse changes shifts, I will start screaming until they shut me up just to have something to do. I pick at my scabs and get blood on the thin, rough blanket. I think of hanging myself with the bedpost.  

I watch a talk show about cooking savory dishes with pomegranate.

I watch a talk show where people are angry about a cartoon.

I watch a talk show about survivors of the atomic bomb.

I turn off the talk shows and silently watch my reflection in the black glass.