March 1st -- Day Before The Dreaded False Discharge Incident(names changed)
In the middle of the night I woke up very sickly-feeling and finally I vomitted over the side of the bed. After that I went back to sleep -- when Nurse Lucy came in this morning to tell me to get up, I told her I was sick last night. She didn't ask if I was still sick now, she just told me to clean it up. I would've gone down for breakfast but as soon as I got up I was overcome by nausea again and I went back to bed and missed breakfast. At nine o'clock Nurse Lucy told me to go downstairs. The feeling of nausea seemed to be there only in spirit as I decended; later Nurse Karen took my temperature and it was only thirty-six degrees. I still felt out of sorts so I lay in an armchair listening to the T.V. until ten o'clock. Then I got back to my normal routine. What do you make of such a short lived sickness. Thought it might be psychological in origin. The vomit is still there, a yellow stain on the carpet. My legacy to the ward.
Today Evil Nurse Arleen had another talk with me, and so did Doctor Dustin. It became clear that they're not going to change their minds about this discharge thing. The news that I'm going to wander the streets didn't have the shock impact that I expected. What's the matter with them? Don't they know I'm going to starve to death out there? I must admit I had a few butterflies in my stomach for the rest of the day, because I never expected I'd have to put my plan into action. Nevertheless, the plan goes ahead unchanged. Shortly after arriving at home, I shall leave, who knows where, and the streets will be my home until I die or until someone does something about it. Yes, I'm a little nervous. What I want to know is, how will my parents respond? They won't be able to stop me, unless they tie me up or something, but won't they go into panic mode knowing that I'm in this homeless, foodless situation? What are the head doctor and his Minions of Misery expecting? It's illogical. I wonder if my stomach will get painful when I get hungry. If I die of starvation, I'll die in a hospital waiting room so they can all see it happen. That way, of course, they'll feed me something -- and I shall again be an in-patient. So this is a pivotal time for me, is it not? Everything is going to revolve around tomorrow. March 2nd may well be almost as important as January 24th. I was thinking I might hitch-hike up north to where it's warmer and I won't freeze to death at night, but I'd better not stray too far from home -- that's where the mail comes. Mail from the patient Ruth, for example. It's times like this I wish Ruth was still here. Her name's still on the patients list in the nurses' office, but I don't know.
We had a community meeting outside for once. Geraldine has a new hair-style, it's more free-flowing -- I guess I could get used to it, if it were not that I won't see her after tomorrow. Rumour has it that Donald will be discharged tomorrow, too. How ironic -- I was so looking forward to staying in a room without him. After lunch I cleaned my teeth and had my final shower. After 2pm I thought about the future and wrote an extra middle-section of my story and Geraldine asked me why I didn't go to Arts Access. Yes, she spoke to me -- but now that I'm leaving, it seems irrelevant. At quarter to five I had my final dinner.
So now I'm in the dining-room writing this. A guy just gave some helpful friendly advice to Gwen who is a recovering alcaholic. The guy sounded like Stanley -- I wonder what Stanley would think if he knew I'm going to wander the streets. He was a patient who always seemed to be under the delusion that I'm a dangerous psychopath-serial-killer and that I ought to be in the locked ward. This time tomorrow I will be one of a growing number of homeless people. An aimless wanderer, drifting here and there. I hope it will be a dangerous life; if something happens to me out there, it will teach all these lame-brained doctors and nurses a lesson they won't forget. Stephen Bartholomew Clark is not sane! It's eleven to seven.
It's now ten-thirty-six and I just watched theoretically the last piece of television I'll ever watch. Earlier I ate The Last Supper, and it was something of a morbid celebration as I washed each piece of sandwich down with Fanta and made believe it was alcahol. It was the first and last time I bought a can from the drinks machine. Yes, I am about to lose it all, the food, the beds, the armchairs, the mental patients -- everything. So you can imagine I'm a little bit resentful towards the head doctor and his Minions of Misery, even though I tell them I don't care.
While writing this I observed some of the best conversation ever between Bea and Geraldine, and then between Geraldine and another suicidal guy. They were discussing suicidal matters and I felt like I was part of their conversation, even though I didn't say anything. Appropriate that my happiest moments were crammed into this last little sliver of time. It's ten fifty-eight and I have that "end of an era" feeling.