Earl Richardson

The Shepherd’s Forgotten Flock

If there was a list of universal truths that everyone could agree with, it would probably it would probably include five things: being a teenager is complicated, jumping out of a car going 35 mph isn’t a good way to convince your mother you’re sane, being abandoned by your father is unpleasant, panic attacks are inconvenient and mental hospitals aren’t fun.  Unfortunately for me, I happened to be a teenager who suffered from panic attacks that went to a mental hospital because he jumped out of a car going 35 mph to prove that I was sane and could make my own decisions shortly after my father abandoned me. In other words, it definitely wasn’t the high point in my life.

I must say though, the experience wasn’t a complete loss. In the end, I learned how to separate myself from reality and practice rational thinking whenever a panic attack starts to happen. Now whenever I start freaking out, I just laugh about how irrational I’m being and suck it up. I saw a lot of wild stuff in the loony bin and, even though it was terrifying at the time, it most definitely has changed the way I view this planet and the people that populate it. Oh, and forgive me if I sound like I’m making fun of these poor kids because I’m not. I just try to remain unattached when I recall these memories because they aren’t very fun to remember. I’m also not going to supply any real names so don’t worry about me giving away any personal information. That would be terrible. Anyway, now that that’s all cleared up, I’ll get back to the story.

When I first arrived at mental hospital, I was told five things: give me your shoelaces, hand over your belt, pee in this cup, change into these scrubs, and you are now on suicide watch. After I was given my warm and wholesome welcome, I was brought to my room. My roommate was already awake, ready to greet me.

(I can’t recall how the conversation went verbatim, so I’ll try and summarize it for it you.)

“What you in for?” he asked.

“I’ve been having panic attacks,” I replied, “Apparently, I’m a little unstable. What about you?”

“I pulled a knife on this kid.”

I didn’t know what to say. I’d never really heard someone say something like that so casually.

“He was a faggot though. I fuckin’ hated that kid, he had it coming, Always making fun of me and shit”

Despite his foul mouth, he was incredibly calm. It was like talking to a fourteen-year-old version of Trent Lane from “Daria,” that just happened to be completely delusional and have a “spree killer personality type.” In retrospect, it was probably the antipsychotics keeping him from bouncing off the walls but whatever.

Anyway, we talked for about an hour that night before going to bed. He generally led the conversation and I must say it was rather intriguing. I learned a lot of interesting stuff. The most interesting of which, most likely being what ghosts looked like and what time they usually choose to come out at. Turns out his bus driver had told him all about ghosts, ultimately sparking the kid’s interest into being an expert ghost hunter.

*  *  *  *  *

At about six o’ clock the next morning, I was awoken by a huge male nurse that looked like he could use me as floss and taken to the doctor to figure out what was wrong with my “loony white ass.”

I received a TB skin test, which I turned out to be allergic too, and had my vitals tested. I was then told to take a seat in one of the chairs that were in the lobby and prepare for morning group.

Group was incredible. If there were a hall of fame for interesting life stories, I would’ve been in the presence of legends. Every single person there had a biography that was a shoe-in for the Oprah Winfrey Book Club.

It’s truly amazing how a simple thing like crack cocaine or heroin can make your life exponentially more interesting.

Once group was over, it was time for breakfast. Everyone got in a single file line and began the journey to the cafeteria, everyone that is but me and a seventeen year old girl, who I’ll call Sally.  We were both still on suicide watch so we had to eat our breakfast in the lobby. Sally had been there for months and she really didn’t like to talk. In fact, she hated talking so much that she hadn’t said a single word for a month.  She was incredibly frightening to me because I had never met someone that was a legitimate schizophrenic. According to my fellow patients, she believed that she could talk to Aaliyah’s ghost. She would prove that a couple nights later.

When everyone got back from breakfast it was finally time to start treatment. I was brought into a room where a young doctor was waiting to evaluate how crazy I really was. I went through a long drawn out written test filled with questions like “How valuable do you see yourself on a scale of one to five?” and “How do you feel when you hear the word (Insert word here)?” I then talked to a psychiatrist and got prescribed to numerous antipsychotics I didn’t need. Antipsychotics that would later prove themselves to be completely useless against the real problem, the hormonal shit-storm that is the teenage brain. Anyway, after all was said and done he told me that he’d get back to me later on in the day and would most likely deem me as suitable to be taken off suicide watch. This was great to hear.

When I got out of my evaluation, I was given a welcome surprise. An acquaintance from my past was in the middle of checking in, which gave me someone familiar to converse with. I’ll call him Mathias. Unfortunately, Mathias had gone into a slump lately. In the past few months he had tried to kill himself a few times, mainly by trying to overdose on meth and/or cocaine. Luckily, he had a strong tolerance for someone well over six feet tall and he weighed about two hundred and forty pounds, so he probably couldn’t afford an adequate quantity to kill himself with.  In all honesty, he never really seemed that suicidal around me. Actually, I found him to be easy going and upbeat. He made my stay much more tolerable than it would’ve been if he wasn’t there.

After Mathias, Sally, and I ate lunch, the psychiatrist gave me the results from my evaluation earlier that day. I was taken off suicide watch and given permission to wear shoelaces again. I was also told that once they got my meds right I would be allowed to leave, which would be in approximately five days. In other words, I was pretty lucky.

Dinner in the cafeteria was much better than it was in the lobby. The food was much better than I expected it to be. I know it may seem odd, but West Oaks had some of the best spare ribs and mash potatoes I have ever had at a cafeteria. It was definitely a decent meal.

Once dinner had ended, I had to go to drug counseling (with basically everyone there) because I failed my drug test for pot. I was probably the only one who had only smoked pot. All of the patients had a grocery list of drugs they had taken in the past month, even the extremely young ones; and, by ‘young’ I mean nine year olds. It was one of the most depressing things that I had ever seen. Overall, the LCDC (drug counselor) there was pretty nice but no one really seemed to recognize that. They generally called her Ms. (insert obscenity), but, even though I didn’t find it very nice, I wasn’t going to be the one to correct them.

After counseling was over, we were allowed to watch the movie Life. I remember this well because the nurses had made it especially clear to everyone how rarely they let the teenage patients watch a movie with adult content, which is crap. I had heard things more obscene and controversial during my dinner that evening than any studio would ever allow to be in a script. For example, I seriously doubt a major motion picture starring Eddie Murphy would ever include a fourteen year old talking about eating out their d-boy’s asshole for tweak.

*  *  *  *  *

The next day was really just the sequel of the day before. Nothing I found worth writing about at least. Well, maybe there was one thing. Throughout the second day, it became extremely clear how sexually active these kids were. It was unreal. It was as if everyone there was looking to get laid. No one seemed to get that picking up sexual partners in a mental hospital was a terrible idea. I mean, if I was going to try and find the most dysfunctional and self-destructive relationship possible, West Oaks would be on the top of my list of possible places to look.  Other than that though, it was a rather uneventful day. The next day though, well that’s just a completely different story.

At about nine o’ clock that night, all hell broke loose. We had basically been given the right to roam freely about the building and visit with each other in the lobby. Everything was going fine at first, but then I heard one of the nurses yell “What the hell do you think you’re doing” and rushed to Sally’s room. That’s when everything fell apart.

Sally was in her room with a circle of salt surrounding her. She had slit her wrists with a shank she had made from some piece of plastic and was essentially performing a séance to summon Allyah’s ghost. It was like The Exorcist on crack. I didn’t see Sally again after that. She was sedated and kept in the “Dolphin Room,” which was basically nothing more than a room with wallpaper that had dolphins mating where they isolated uncooperative patients.

I left a couple days after that and, along with a prescription to antidepressants, antipsychotics and a rash where I had received my TB test, I had a whole new wealth of information I didn’t want or need to know. For instance, I probably never needed to know what a thirteen year old looks like when they’re going through heroin withdrawals and I certainly never wanted to hear a vivid description of what it’s like to get your salad tossed on ketamine. In fact, the only good things that really came from the whole experience was an incredibly strong interest in psychology, about a million reasons why I should never do hard drugs, and a whole new understanding of humanity. Regardless of whether the experience was bad or not, though, it was certainly life changing.

Tranvestite Park

(A little something to hold you over as I finish writing “The Real Shit.”)

“The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.”

-Joseph Conrad

The fall of 2003 was a truly unique time of my life. The tree’s rich with autumn’s Midas touch, the malls resonating with the fervent songs of holiday consumerism; the jovial spirit of the holidays had infected the people of Houston like a plague of newborn puppies. If anyone were to witness such a spectacular period of love and prosperity as this particular Equinox, it could be easy to see how they could come to believe that the rabid bear, that is the inescapable darkness of the human mind, had finally fallen victim to the deep slumber that is winter hibernation. In fact, I would imagine that they would be completely horrified if they knew the truth. For evil had not slept that season and it’s acts of depravity were witnessed by no other than my own eyes.

Allow me to introduce myself….

Prelude: (Unless you really give a shit, I’d advise you to skip this and go straight to “The Real Shit.”)

I’m not going to lie to you. I enjoy creating chaos. Not in some “wannabe-Heath-Ledger-Joker-kind-of-way,” I just like making people believe things that aren’t true (Kind of like Glenn Beck or a celebrity Scientologist.)  For example, every time I’ve given a presentation for class, I’ve always chosen something completely ridiculous and/or under researched, altered the little supporting evidence I’ve gathered by manipulating the context it was written in, and fabricated massive amounts of plausible but unproven information. Ever since I acquired this academic tactic, I have yet to make less than a B on any research paper I’ve ever done. Keep in mind, I’ve never done this for a class that really mattered or interested me and I don’t intend to deceive anyone on this “blog.” My acquired love for deception is really nothing more than a personal coping mechanism for surviving the inane monotony of higher education. My more challenging/interesting classes haven’t required me to entertain myself in such ways and I’d much rather speak honestly when expressing myself.

Now that I’ve most likely bored the fuck out of you. Let me give you an autobiography.

The Real Shit

A few years ago on a cold Christmas night in Houston, I, like most other children, was rescued from the most traumatizing environment any normal human could possibly endure… The inside of my mother’s vagina.

As you could expect, the experience was psychologically devastating. Too this day, I can’t remember a single thing about the seven months I spent incarcerated within my mother’s genital prison. In fact, the dissociative amnesia that followed this tempestuous period of my life was so traumatizing, that I can barely remember the five years that followed. Of course, if you were to know the bone chilling events I experienced in those years, I imagine you’d understand.

After I was rescued from the personal hell that is the depths of my mother’s vagina, I’ve been told that I suffered from a disorder that left me incapable of breathing on my own. Of course, this was clearly a severe case of circulatory shock, a common reaction to high amounts of psychological/physical stress. Understandably, the terror I had just experienced could easily induce such a reaction. Especially since the first thing I experienced once extracted from my mother’s body was a painful slap to my cold, frail, and naked ass. Of course, the terror and abuse didn’t end at the hospital.

Once I was deemed healthy enough to be released from the hospital, I was brought my mother and some obnoxious man to a small town home by the astrodome. The torment I would endure there, still plagues me to this day.

Everyday, I was treated as if I were “less than human.” My mother and her male counterpart would lock me in a wooden cage that was elevated dangerously high above the ground. They would rattle obnoxious dolls inches from my face, shaking them violently, refusing to address me in any other way than speaking insultingly puerile and often incorrect english. Often, I would start crying in solitude, merely attempting to remove some weight from the heavy shoulders of my tormented soul, only to be rudely interrupted by my mother’s constricting grip and involuntarily pressed against her nude breasts, still disoriented by the nauseating sway of her rocking arm motions. It wasn’t until l first gained the courage to speak out against her tyranny, that she realized she would no longer be able to prey on me as she had been…

I’m sorry, I’m going to have to stop here for now. I’m emotionally exhausted, and I think I’ve provided you with enough information today. i promise I’ll pick back up on this later.