The Eden Express_ A Memoir of Insanity - Mark Vonnegut [82]
“I believe in you.”
Well, that’s just fine, mighty nice, but what, just what is it about me you believe in? Is it that I’m some sort of messiah or simply that I shouldn’t be shot or simply that I’m still alive? That I’m very special or just one of the guys? That I can perform miracles, that I’ve got a direct line with God, that what I’m saying and doing is right, or simply that everything will come out right in the end? That I’m not acting this way just because my parents broke up or Virginia balled Vincent or I’ve sinned somehow and am being punished? That I’m a racist sexist fascist chauvinist pig? Or that even if I am it’s OK and you still like me? That I shouldn’t be committed to a nut house? I mean, believing in me is swell but could you be a little more specific?
“We believe in you. Yes, we believe in you.”
That’s real nice, but just what does this belief entail by way of implication for action? Are you going to just sit there believing in me or are you going to do anything about it? Does it just mean that you won’t sell me down the river or that you would sell your mother down the river for my sake? Would you sacrifice an arm or maybe just a little finger?
“We believe in you. Yes, we believe in you.”
I’m not sure believing in me is such a hot idea. I think maybe you ought to consider the possibility that anyone who really believes in me might end up having to go through what I’m going through.
“We believe in you. Yes, we believe in you.”
I think maybe you ought to look into the possibility that I’m being used as some sort of Judas goat. Something built me up as believable in and has now taken over my body. I’m not really in charge any more. I think maybe you ought to consider that maybe killing me would be the best thing.
“We believe in you. Yes, we believe in you.”
HOPE. If there hadn’t been so much hope I might never have gone nuts. If we hadn’t all believed and hoped that the world could be a much better place. That pain and suffering was unnecessary. That there really was a way.
AND CHARITY. Maybe if everyone hadn’t been so polite, so reluctant to make any sort of judgment.
MICKEY MOUSE. One thing I noticed about the lag between being trustable and being trusted is that the doctors are always the last to catch on. The first to realize you’ve gotten better and start to treat you accordingly are the other patients. The realization flows up the hierarchy rather than down. After the patients catch on, then the maintenance staff and the lower orderlies realize you’re OK, and so on through the various orders of nurses until the news reaches the doctors.
It works the same for relapses. Doctors and nurses continue to treat a briefly recovered patient as well days after the other patients realize the poor joker’s completely out of his mind again.
The doctors and nurses seem to realize some of this more or less consciously. They take their cues from other patients and the less professional staff. As soon as they see patients willing to talk to and treat another patient as improved, they check it out.
Most of how you’re treated in Hollywood Hospital, and I suspect most others, is determined by how you are dressed. If you have on a suit and tie, there’s no such thing as a locked door. With nothing but a sheet, there’s no such thing as an open one. I started at ground zero. I didn’t even have a sheet. Moving up the ladder was painfully slow. Slippers are the first goodie after the sheet. If you continue to be good, you get the most ridiculous, ill-fitting pajamas you can imagine. If all goes well after that, you get better-looking pajamas and more mobility. Then come ridiculous pants, and so on and so on till you start getting some of your own clothing back, and then the big day when you get shoes. Shoes are the