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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1442071
Rated: 18+ · Prose · Adult · #1442071
im not sure exactly what this is, i guess just thoughts about things
you never felt bound, fully bound, until you've been in a mental institution shackled to a bed in four point restraints. even worse, are the leathers. you know you've done something wrong. but it's not your fault: your illness you claim. and that is where my story begins, or ends, or both - i really know not.

**  **  **  **  **
i twist and turn, bang my head against the cold metal bars of the institutionized bed. a nurse looks up, unamused. i position my head near my shoulder and open my jaw wide. i plunge my head forward and clamp down, biting myself as hard as i can.

"we got a biter, i need help," the nurse angrily yells down the hall, as he runs towards the bed and does his best to unclamp my jaw. a team of nurses and guards rush into my room. i smile. this is really all i wanted at the moment, to be in the spotlight, i was mad, mad to be stuck in the shackles for something i didn't feel control over, and i just wanted to cause a ruckus.

"take that you goddamn prisonguards," i yell, "you want me to shut up, keep the other freaking loonies calm, well i don't care i want you guys to have to deal with chaos. you know why??? because chaos is what i live with day in and day out!"

* *          **          **          **          **

mealtime. i'm out of the restraints. mealtime has one signifigance for me. i pocket the plastic spoon off my tray quietly, making sure i'm not being watched. then i dump the sugar and salt in piles on the heaps of unidentifiable mounds of who knows what, mix it around a little with my fork, mind you they don't hand out plastic knives, and return my tray to the food cart.

i return to my bedroom, making sure my roommate is nowhere to be seen, and shut myself in the bathroom. i sit on the floor, barracading the door shut with my feet. i pull out the plastic spoon and violently break it in half with my bare hands, creating two rather sharp plastic shards.

i undo the bandages on my arm, where some stitches had just been removed, and proceed to use the shards to methodically resplit open my skin. as the blood gushes, i let out a sigh of relief. i drop the now red plastic, as it hits the tile floor. my feet recoil, and the door swings slightly ajar.  i sit there quietly in a daze, not noticing my roommate entering the room and screaming at the top of her lungs for the nurse.

back to the shackles.

**        **      **          **      **

i wonder how i get out of this situation, out of the shackles, when in reality the restraints are nothing, they are little loops put around my wrists and ankles, pulled tight as possible, but they do nothing but keep me in bed, they do nothing to control my mind.

the real problem is in my head. yes, i act out, but i act out because my head tells me to do these things. because something just isn't right up there. something just doesn't click. and what does putting these nylon, leather, metal loops around me do for that?

the problem is, there are shackles, shackles in my brain, in my heart, in my mind that make me want to hurt myself, to die, to act out and I just can't stop them. so, that's where things come full cycle. it's ironic, i'm laying there half the time, physically in restraints, in shackles, but my whole insides are tied up in shackles and these ones no one has the keys for. these one's a nurse isn't gonna come along and have mercy on me and untie.
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