My ability to write fiction has deserted me. Or that is, it seems burdensome like a car I’m not use to driving. The concept of scene, conflict, change, and resolution, as well as the structural integrity of my fiction has come to a sudden halt. I believe this is due to the fact I have confronted so many difficult things within my life lately. Suddenly dwelling on existential issues isn’t something I have to pretend to do.
Last night I committed my roommate to the psych ward. I woke around 3am to her screaming and wailing.
“Make it stop,” she screamed.
“Get out of my head!”
“I fucking hate all of you!”
I called the Crisis Line and spoke to someone about the options we could take. The lady on the other end of the call wasn’t very helpful. The main thing was, nothing could really be done against my roommates will unless she was a danger to herself or others–at the moment it sounded as they was a danger, but I couldn’t be sure. When I hung up I saw that my roommate Sean had texted me three times. He didn’t want to go out and face her alone. We did together.
When she first saw us she was scared–like she’d forgotten we existed. Then she said she needed the key–but the key was lost–Nexus, her dog, knew what she was talking about. Nexus could go and get it from the void.
“Go get the key Nexus,” she said. “We can’t burn it without the key.”
I asked her if the knew what time it was. She didn’t. I asked her when the last time she slept was. She didn’t know. She continued to talk about something she needed to burn.
“Would you like to talk about someone with this?” we asked her. “Someone who might be able to explain?”
While sitting on her bed, she nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good,” I said. I called the Crisis Line again. This time a man answered. I can’t remember his name. It was short and started with either R or D–but I can’t recall. I told him my roommate had been yelling in the night. Screaming, talking to herself and her dog.
“You can give her the phone now,” he said.
I gave her the phone and at the point could only get half the conversation. At one point she said, “Yes,” and then, “Nope. I won’t do it. I won’t kill them.” Then she said something about burning documents and she named Desolation Angels by Jack Kerouac.
Then all of a sudden, she said, “You did it. You opened it! How did you do that. You just scrambled my brain!” She was visibly scared of the man and gave me my phone back.
“So it sounds as though she isn’t aware of what reality is,” he said.
Okay, I’m not a doctor, but I could have told anyone the same thing.
“What it sounds like, is that she hasn’t slept for a long time, so she’s suffering from sleep deprivation, also.”
I agreed that that seemed to be the case.
“Is she taking any drugs?”
“She smokes a lot of pot,” I told him. “And I’ve noticed that doesn’t help anything.”
“The main thing is that she needs sleep, so if you can get her to do that and not smoke marijuana right now, that would be good.”
I told him we would try.