At Night He Calls Me The Willful Child

At night he calls me the Willful Child

TW// Phycological horror/manipulation, psychosis, inpatient Long Journal Entry

In order to move on, I need to grieve the lost years of my life and find a way to win the years to come. I think there is still time for me to undo the damage that has been done. I may not like doctors and nurses for what they did to me, but I have to put it aside and submit to the system again. It has gotten out of hand with this thing… I’m writing this to hopefully heal from the past and put these experiences behind me, even with him.

To put this into perspective, I want to briefly mention the bouts of psychosis I have dealt with in the past. This way it’s clear that the thing I talk about later is a result of my mind deteriorating and nothing more.

It began with auditory hallucinations. Nothing big. I would be working and suddenly ‘someone’ would ‘scream’ in my ear. It was always one or two words, but so loud that I’d jump and look for the source. I don’t remember most of the words but they were always derogatory. Sometimes it would yell my name right into my ear like I was in trouble. A few times it was a very loud ‘Bang!’

This gradually evolved into things like hearing TV static in the other room, people talking just out of sight, firecrackers off in the distance… but these were all things I could easily disprove to myself by investigating the sound.

It got more serious as I aged. More delusions began to pop up. I ‘knew’ someone was in the corner of the room. I’d turn to check. No one. I’d get back to work, but feel something was there. Turn to check. Nothing. It never felt malicious only that I was being observed, that’s why I didn’t think it was a big deal, before my diagnosis.

There are more but I don’t know about their relevance. I was convinced I was being assaulted in my sleep, that there were demons in me, bugs were under my skin… There were shadow people following me and sometimes I’d talk out loud to try and get them to go away… A lot of my delusions and hallucinations are too traumatic to bring up. I’ll cry if I linger on those memories too much.

The only positive thing I did have growing up, and still now, is an overactive imagination. As a child, I delved into maladaptive daydreaming. Without getting into the trauma that occurred, I was completely isolated and left unattended most days. The imaginary worlds I created were all I had and so I welcomed anything my mind would provide to me as entertainment. While ‘daydreaming’ and dissociating separated my reality from the abuse, it also exacerbated my delusions and hallucinations.

Once I was made aware that these things were not ‘normal’ for everyone, and that the disorder I had was progressive, my life’s mission was to do everything I could to keep my mind and body healthy. Reduce the symptoms by changing my lifestyle alongside the taking the medication.

I know it sounds ridiculous. ‘How could you think everyone deals with that?!’ But when someone says ‘I’m depressed’ most people respond with ‘Oh yeah, I feel that.’ I’d tell someone I hear voices that say awful things and the response would be ‘Ah, yeah, intrusive thoughts. I get those too.’ In hindsight all of it seems obvious, but when the world is constantly reassuring you that you’re ‘normal’, you begin to think the ‘shadow people’ in the basement is just the normal fear of the dark most people have… up until your mind snaps and suddenly it’s ‘How could you not seek help?! You’re so stupid! How did you not know?!’

That began my horrid journey through the healthcare system.

I’ve been on many different medications to try and quell my symptoms and those medications have caused physical side effects that I am still living with. I gave so much trust to doctors, doing my best to be understanding and patient. Doctors and nurses are people too. However, I’ve only ever met dismissive medical staff in all my years.

Before inpatient, I always got the following: It’s just stress and anxiety. Take a self-care day. Get more Vitamin D. Are you sure you aren’t thinking about it too much? Get more sleep. Drink less caffeine. I. Do. It. All.

I lost the weight they told me would ‘help’. I ate the food they told me would ‘help’. I do the exercise they told me would ‘help’. So, how much extra work do I have to do, in order to get my life to the ‘normal baseline’ that everyone else is at?

Once I grabbed the recommended vitamins out of my bag and shook it in a neurologist’s face, after he told me that I was probably hormonal, on my period, and needed more vitamins – he didn’t even look at my chart. I went in because I was rapidly losing weight for no reason and my hair was falling out.

“How many of these do I need to take and for how long?!” I shoved the bottle at him. “It’s been years! How many more hoops do I need to jump through, before you people finally do something besides tell me that you don’t know what it could be and send me home with nothing?!”

I paid for the appointment and went home empty-handed with a migraine, feeling nauseous and exhausted as my hair fell out in clumps. Doctors don’t care.

I went into the hospital once, telling them I was suicidal and slipping into delusions. My knick-knacks were ‘talking to me’. But because I didn’t think they were influencing me or moving things in my home, I didn’t get sent to inpatient. They locked me away in a glass room with an officer outside it. They did nothing but come back in occasionally and ask if I changed my mind. When I said I wasn’t suicidal anymore, they let me go, alone, to drive home, and be alone at home. I was still delusional, they didn’t give me anything no matter how much I asked because it was ‘drug seeking behavior, and that night I had the worst psychotic episode of my life.

That’s a full-blown story for another day. I do sometimes wonder if he had anything to do with it...

All this to say, my faith in the medical field has slipped and I no longer want to communicate my issues to them beyond what I have already. That trust has been drained like my bank account. They got to take their frustrations out on me while I paid them to do it. They said things to my face that I’d never say to another human being, let alone to someone scared of themselves and everything around them.

-

There actually was a 2 month period of relief; I finally had found a medication cocktail that worked for me. The ‘thing’ by the door was gone and the mirrors were safe to walk past was beautiful!

I was living for first time in my life! I had spent thousands hopping from psychiatrist to psychiatrist, therapist to therapist, doctor to doctor. I got bloodwork done here, evaluations done there. Try this anti-psychotic, try that one. I was so miserable for so long, a guinea pig for them to mix medications together without thinking about how they’d interact in my system.

It nearly destroyed my physical health… This was why my hair was falling out, my teeth were wearing down from gastrointestinal issues, the vertigo was intense, my vision had failed for a few weeks on one prescription, another had given me such bad insomnia I was up for five days and my doctor still refused to take me off it…

But it finally felt like I was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I cried over the years that were wasted. For the first time in my life, I had the sanity to realize just how bad it had gotten.

It didn’t matter anymore, I could work on my physical health; the peace I had in my mind was worth the suffering.

...Then it started again.

Years ago, the intense stare of the ‘thing’ by the door returned. Hearing people that weren’t there when I would lay down in bed, seeing shadow people who wanted to do disgusting things to my body...

The cycle was going to have to start all over again. After knowing what life truly could be, the thought of regressing back into my old mindset was beyond devastating and overwhelming.

In a fit of mania, my wrist was slashed so deep I almost cut the nerves in my arm. There was blood splatter all around the room and it kept squirting out in bursts from my arm as my heart beat. The blood loss made me dizzy and nauseous, my vision blurred until all I saw were lights and shadows. My eyes closed and I was ready for everything to be over.

After all these years, all the fear and suffering, this was what my brain truly wanted and I was going to give it that. I know he was there and saw me do it. I could feel him. The thing by the doorway… It was a delusion, but I indulged in the idea that he could be real as I succumbed to the bloodloss. I liked to believe that he took pity on me.

There were sirens off in the distance.

I lived alone and hadn’t called for help.

-

Waking up in the ER, I was voluntold to go to inpatient for an indefinite amount of time.

They took pictures of my body to document any injuries or identifying marks and gave me an assessment. With hair that had thinned tremendously, eyes with dark purple bags, a stomach a bit distended from IBS, and fingers turned white from the cold of the ER, I was filthy from not taking care of myself. I must have smelled and looked pathetic.

I had failed. Years of trying to be good and doing all the right things, I followed all the rules and put up with anything that was thrown my way and failed anyway.

I was in the psychiatric ward.

-

When I said I didn’t like the medical system earlier… I was discussing dismissive doctors which was nothing compared to the inpatient staff. Those people not only made me feel like a burden to the system, but that I was disgusting and rotten. The staff would scoff, roll their eyes, or make fun of my memory issues. A few times the night shift staff would role play as us behind the front counter, poking fun of our symptoms or saying they’d ‘rather be dead’.

They would drug me to the point of passing out and seeing stars and then get aggravated when I couldn’t get up for their check-ins. Edward, a friend I had made, got the same treatment. I could go on all day about that guy, he and Rosaline were my two buddies. They both are schizoaffective too for similar reasons and it was a relief to casually talk about our lives together without the judgment. Maybe I’ll write about those guys later, but things got weird with them towards the end and I feel a little bad about it.

Anyway, the ER had told my inpatient nurse to put a bandage over my cut when she cleaned and dressed it, in the morning and at night. ‘Why do you need this to be dressed like this?’ She always complained. If she had read my file, she’d know why because I’m lucky I still have control over my left hand.

I was ‘uncooperative’ because I yanked my hand back when she tried putting the bandage down, but she was going to put the sticky part on my cut. I was scolded and she put the sticky edges over the cut out of spite. It pulled on the stitches and the goo from the bandage got into the crevasse of the cut.

That night, sobbing in my bed, the paper thin hospital clothes did nothing to keep me from freezing. My entire forearm was itchy and red; I realized she had never cleaned the wound with saline. It would turn bright white when poked, there was a burning sensation as it turned red again. I had tried to get help earlier but was told ‘come back when you can’t move your wrist’. Not wanting to be written up again, I was trying to stick it out until morning. My other arm was covered in goosebumps and I trembled with no way to warm myself. The blanket was useless, as thin as my ‘clothes’, but I still pulled it over my lower half.

I felt something by the door but expected to see nothing as usual. That was the first time I saw him. Eyes swollen and filled with tears, my vision was blurry, but I could still make out a figure, hunched over and peering into my room. I frantically wiped my face with my hands, hoping it was just a trick of the light.

Off-white skin glistened in the fluorescent overhead lighting from the hallway. Tinged pink in some places, yellow or green in others, deep purples resembling bruises were scattered over his body. It was as if someone had poorly sculpted a human figure from pure-white clay with messy hands, colors bleeding into the white as he was molded. There were even little dents, impressions on his skin, that resembled hundreds of little fingerprints. His limbs were curved or bent in a slightly unusual way, but not enough that it looked wrong. The off-white color of his lanky arms bled into a muddy red on his spider-like hands. His splotchy white legs were similar, leading to large, red feet.

The facial features were rudimentary, as if someone had taken a sculpting tool and sliced off what made him look human, leaving a flat surface. Large, black, marble-like eyes protruded from his face, thick pinkish-purple eyelids framed them. His large, red ears made me paranoid, like he could listen in on my thoughts as I analyzed him.

He had a shadow.

If he didn’t, I could confirm it was my brain playing tricks on me, but his shadow grounded him in reality.

Frozen in place, I didn’t scream, telling myself over and over that I’d finally fallen off the edge. My mind had unraveled. I was shivering uncontrollably, doing my best to try and stay still but it only made me more tense. My hands and feet were like ice.

I didn’t know the best course of action and I was in awe at what my mind had created – because I knew, I knew this wasn’t real.

I was not going to close my eyes. Even blinking was scaring me, but I didn’t want to keep my eyes open so long they’d dry out and I’d have to close them for longer… better for short and quick blinks, right?

A quick blink. He was still, but tilted his head curiously.

A quick blink. He seemed to be relaxing into his crouched position by the door.

I started to relax, a little empowered that I was sticking it out and not becoming the problematic screaming patient like my poor friend Edward had a few nights ago. They’d sedated him so badly he didn’t wake up for an entire day. I didn’t want that to be me. I felt strong.

A quick blink, and he still didn’t make any sudden movements. I smiled to myself and decided the best course of action was to ignore him and go to bed. Before settling in, I tried to fluff the flat, stiff pillow. Collapsing with a sigh, I vowed to not open my eyes again and delve into my imagination instead. I wanted to ‘watch’ something calm and comforting that night. Slowing my breathing, I heard a very light sound of sticky footsteps making their way to me and then there was a warmth.

The mattress dipped slightly, as if someone was leaning against the edge of the bed near my face. I was doing a good job of ignoring him, valiantly escaping into my own Wonderland, until it felt like something was prying its way into my skull.

Play the one about ‘The Willful Child’.

Unable to resist any longer, I opened my eyes to see his face inches from my own.

“Ffff-!” I instantly sat up and he pushed himself up slightly to continue to stay eye-level. There was a hollow pressure in my chest. Tears welled up in my eyes again.

The day had worn me down. My arm was screaming for attention. I tried to move my wrist and it was swollen in place.

This wasn’t fair!

“Please... I’m so tired,” was all I could muster with a sigh. I was unable to look him in the eyes, those black marbles. I opted to stare in the middle of his face where I finally noticed two little slits in the bruise-like pink splot there, like the remains of nose. He really did look like he was handmade. Smooth, dirty, white clay.

“I’ve never had a strong visual hallucination like this before.” It felt like I had to say something. He leaned in slightly, as if trying to hear the words I was thinking rather than speaking.

There were so many things I could say, my mind was racing with thoughts but I couldn’t grab a single one. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know more about where it came from or what it was… but I was scared of being hurt.

“Are you mad at me?”

Giving me a closed smile, he leaned back slightly. I nervously smiled back, ready to accept insanity until the morning. As I tried to even out my breathing, I blinked a few times and tears fell down my cheeks. The thing reached up to poke at them harshly, his nail pressed into my cheek, making me scrunch my face up. They were as clammy as they looked and his fingernails were pointed like little claws with dirt in the crevices.

It was annoying until I realized that he was tactile. Feeling his fingers prodding my face, I broke out in a cold sweat, shaking like a leaf.

What level of crazy is it when you can start feeling things? I thought.

The room was starting to get blurry because the medication was starting to kick in, nausea hitting me.

He looked at his wet fingers, rubbing them together in thought, then he reached up again. That was my breaking point.

I tried to scramble backwards on the bed and make space between us, convinced he was going to poke my eyes in. When I put pressure on my cut arm, heat surged from my arm to my brain like an electric shock, causing black and white spots to dot my vision. It was swollen, pulsing, and itchy, looking more like a stage prop than my forearm. I hissed and nearly fell backwards, off the other side of the bed.

Either he moved too fast for me to get away or I was officially succumbing to the medication cocktail, a misshapen hand latched onto my bad arm and yanked me back towards him. I yelped, slapping my other hand over my mouth.

He inspected it. Putting his thumb on the bandage and pressing down hard, he cocked his head curiously and listened to me cry out in pain.

“Stop it. Stop. Please,” I tried to reason with him. “I’m so tired. I - I made a mistake coming here and thinking I’d get better. I need sleep.” I swallowed the snot that was running down the back of my throat. “Let me get better. Please.”

His head swung up to stare straight into my eyes and lips parted to reveal its dull yet pointy teeth. Any confidence I had of it being a hallucination was long gone. I fully believed he was in front of me.

A clammy hand snapped up to grab my face, it was big enough to wrap around my head. He shoved me back down onto my bed, my legs failed and I tried to grab at his arm to free myself. It didn’t do much, he was too strong. My head was forced to rest against the flat pillow and I pulled my arms to my chest as a last ditch effort to protect myself from nothing.

Through the gaps in his fingers, I scanned the room searching for a clock, words on a poster, pamphlet, anything. I knew in dreams those things could be wonky. My vision was already bad, head aching, eyes stinging, and a dizzy spell was coming over me, so my efforts were futile. Removing his hand, he leaned over to fill my field of vision.

Shaking, I swallowed and stared back. He smiled warmly, taking enjoyment in my inebriated state, but sympathizing with it in a strange way. Unable to handle his vacant stare, I tried to make out what his skin could be made of.

His middle and index fingers were placed above my eyes and then he pushed my lids down. Eyes closed, I accepted whatever was going to happen but nothing did. His presence remained, the warmth he radiated eased the chill of the room more than the paper thin blanket ever could.

I didn’t want to picture him. So, I delved deep back into my own little world to keep my mind occupied until I fell asleep. He let out a pleased hum, as if that was what he wanted.

-

The next day, I bounced out of bed. It was the best sleep I had gotten in years. Years. In inpatient, I had the worst hallucination of my life but also got the best sleep I’ve ever had? Leaving the room and going into the common area for my medication, I found my nurse. She was the same nurse from the day prior and I readied myself for her to roughly grab my arm and tear the bandage off of the stitches she pressed it into.

I found her with her cart, engrossed in drawing on her clipboard. There was a chair positioned next to her, which was odd because everything had always been done standing up somewhere random in the ward. This was a comfortable corner by the window, undisturbed by the other patients and nurses, and the morning light was shining through to warm the area. The cart that carried her medical supplies and patients’ medication was stationed next to her.

I could still be dreaming… and could cry because this is is so… nice... I stepped into the warm and sighed in relief, rubbing my shoulders to rid myself of the excess cold.

“I, um, like your nail color today,” I tried to be as polite as possible. “It’s pretty.”

“Thank you, I wanted to try something new for a change,” she raised her hand, as if she just noticed her freshly manicured nails herself. A lovely gradient of purples and reds. “Sit down.”

I obediently sat down next to her, taking a peek at her clipboard. They weren’t notes, just seemingly random doodles.

Typical. I thought.

She chuckled and set the clipboard down.

My arm was gingerly taken by my wrist and turned over to view the cut. My jaw dropped. The redness and swelling was gone, the relief I had gotten from a good night’s sleep made me forget how much pain I had been in. The bandage was also fixed, placed down diagonal so none of the edges touched the cut.

Eyes wide, my breath caught in my throat; it had been a dream. When the realization seeped in, I exhaled loudly and any tension in my body dissipated. Just a dream.

She gently peeled the bandaid off, discarding it in a small garbage bin kept on the lower level of her cart.

“Thank you,” I smiled slightly.

“Your welcome.” The nursed tilted her head up at me. Her eyes were completely black, bulging slightly, with purple bruising around them.

My jaw was stuck parted, drying my mouth and throat out. I knew it wasn’t possible. She was being gentle and kind, the black eyes, the good night’s sleep… maybe I had died?!

“No, silly,” she chuckled, bringing out a syringe filled with saline and applied the liquid to my cut. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. ...Did I almost die?

She tutted. “Strong will. Such a small little person, trying again and again. Willful little child. They’re not kind to you, are they?”

My heart was beating erratically causing my breathing to falter. “I’m well past being a child.”

“Aw, sweetie, don’t be like that.”

“What does it matter how staff treats me? ...Can you call Dr. Kasley? I’m seeing things again... and it’s... worse.”

She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Do you think she’d care?”

There was nothing I could say because my ‘nurse’ was right. My doctor was the same one who over medicated me to the point of drooling in bed like a lobotomized patient last week, and they refused to ease up the dosage. A patient had tried to take advantage of me in my inebriated state and I was only saved by Rosaline, who came to get me for dinner.

I didn’t want to be a vegetable in bed again for the whole day.

“I can help with that for a price.”

“I need something though,” I genuinely needed some sort of medication – I wasn’t stupid enough to forego what brought me sanity at one point in my life. As much as I hated the doctors, I still held out hope they cared somehow.

“Why,” she spat. Holding the bandage over my cut, she turned it so it’d stick to my stitches.

“The-.” I licked my chapped lips, and then whispered, “the voices… I see and hear things.”

She cocked her head. “Only for the fake ones?”

“...The fake ones?” I wanted to run, something primal in me was screaming.

With a huff and an eye roll, she turned the bandage back so it’d avoid my stitches. “I can be patient.” She leaned back and pulled out a tiny clear up with my pills in it. Before she handed them to me, she plucked out my anti-psychotic and broke it in half. I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out to stop her, but her dead spherical eyes made me recoil. The mood stabilizer was also broken in half.

She offered me my reduced prescription. “This is what you get.”

Licking my lips, I decided to press my luck. “The anxiety one, the green one, it makes me feel nauseous. They give it to me just to put me to sleep and it doesn’t help. Do I have to take it?”

The ‘nurse’ beamed and plucked the green pill from the clear container and popped it in her own mouth. Gasping, a raised a hand to stop her but the damage was done.

“I didn’t like the one you played last night,” she casually said, packing up her things on the cart.

“The… the what?”

“You didn’t play your usual story. I was disappointed.”

-

I spent the day trying to draw him, as best as I could. I wanted to capture how terrified I was at the time, but the longer I spent on it the more calming and comforting the image got. Nostalgic.

Edward had come over to see what I was doing, but took one of my drawings and tore it up. It was so out-of-character for him I stood up and backed away, gathering my other drawings and retreating into my room.

That night I felt silly, sitting cross-legged in bed and facing the door. My nurse had returned to her old self and given me my anxiety medication so I was dozing off. Eventually it became too difficult to stay awake and I situated myself for sleep.

The bed grew warm and comfortable, it was so wonderful I wanted to cry in relief to be free from the cold again. ‘The Willful Child’. I like that one.

Afraid of the consequences, yet eager to please the one ray of light I had, I began to visualize the story in my head. It’s one I always liked to make my own little visuals for…A Grimm’s Fairytale that I relate to heavily.

And… and...I actually don’t think this helped at all. I’m ashamed that, after revisiting this again, I only feel sentimental and more confident I my decision. Even if he’s not real, he’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me in years, the nicest delusion or hallucination I’ve ever had… I know he’s not real though, so there’s still sanity left in me. As long as I know he’s not, he can stay.

At Night He Calls Me The Willful Child

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