I feel like I've been admitted to a mental hospital for ages. When was the last time I spoke with someone? Call it PTSD if you may, or whatever you want to name it. It's THE incident that I haven't mentioned, the main reason I'm here. I shuffle around this ward's hallways for that reason.
Was it a bomb? Was it the recent earthquake that wiped out three-quarters of our city? Perhaps it is connected to the nine mm projectile that was discovered in my shin? Any of these would be grounds for admission.
My therapist wrote in my file that I may have PTSD or major depression.
I'm ushered into a tiny conference room following lunch. My psychologist and a young CNA
(Certified Nurse Assistant) enter the room. My doctor is seated, but the CNA stands.
My brain somehow records that they entered, and their location. I don't acknowledge them. I'm sitting there, what do you call that, catatonic? Well, anyhow...
Hearing is supposedly the final sense to persist in a non-responsive person. Listening and hearing, however, are very separate activities. My doctor is babbling, but it sounds more like birds squawking.
I glimpse the CNA moving out of the corner of my eye. Is it time to leave? My eyes fixate as I move in the direction of the entrance. The CNA slowly unzips her shirt.
I pay closer attention as more of her skin is revealed.
I'm shocked to hear myself, It feels like grainy sand in my mouth; "I" pause; "I don't understand."
My first words in a long time.
Both my doctor and the CNA seem to be filled with excitement and enthusiasm.
My doctor grins and says, "Mr. Brown, this is Nurse Green. She is participating in a really unique therapeutic session.
She identifies Nurse Green by pointing with her open palm.
When I refocus on her, I notice that her cheeks are starting to glow slightly pink.
Nurse Green has finished unzipping her blouse. She holds it closed using one hand. Her top is slid down off her shoulder with her other hand. She exposes her other shoulder after exchanging hands.
