Conversation with a patient at St. Mary's Psychiatric Hospital, Fayetteville, on May 26th 2007

   I didn't mean it.
   Honest.
   It wasn't, like, a joke or anything. I was trying to make a point. A valid point.
   Points are … pointy.
   What?
   God, man, it's the drugs. Wired up to the eyeballs. Can't hardly think straight. Coming off 'em's the worst. Shaking and puking and pain like needles all over. Needles. Sharp. Pointy.
   Yeah, I had a point. It was just after, y'know, the shootings. I watched 'em on the news. I got a cousin there, y'know. She's okay. Nothing happened to her. She was home that weekend.
   I wanna go home. I miss my mom.
   Is it lunchtime yet? I don't want the meatloaf here. It sucks. Sucks. Like those shootings, they sucked. I watched them on the news. He was sick to do that. I tell the doctors that, that he was sick, but they keep putting needles in my arms. They think I'm sick too. I'm not.
   I didn't mean it. Honest. I was being sharp.
   My mom's meant to visit today. I hope she brings food. I'm hungry. Hungry. That means I'm coming off the drugs. I remember this from before. They keep taking me off the drugs to assess … Um. Assess. Assessssss; it'ssss a tesssst of my mental health.
   Feels good against my teeth.
   I wish I was in pre-med at school. Then I'd know what they're doing to me. Why they're doing it to me. I'm not pre-med though. Blood makes me puke. I'm Politics and English, double major. 3.7 GPA. Not bad, huh? Too busy out partying to study for the big 4.0.
   God, I feel sick. Could you, like, sit still? I'm trying to tell you something important here. I got a point to make.
   I had a point. In class. To write what I did. It wasn't, like, a warning. I didn't mean it. Honest. I wasn't copying or nothing. I got friends, lots of friends. We were talking one day in class about the shootings. They were poi- p-oint p-poingnant. Poignant. And we were talking about the news. And how they kept saying if we'd read his plays we'd've known what he was gonna do, y'know? And I was like what the hell, that's crazy talk.
   You have to let me know if I shout. There's a weird noise in my ears. It's cos they're bringing me off the drugs.
   So, like, I was thinking about it. Cos I knew that all the schools in the country would start to look at students' work as if they can tell what's going on in their heads. And I was thinking that you can't do that. I thought I'd prove it to 'em, y'know? So for creative writing class I wrote this really … grotesque story. Violent and just nasty. I didn't like writing it at all. But I did. I wrote it, and I submitted it. And now I'm here.
   Well, it's more complicated. I wrote one piece, but my professor didn't grade it or give it back. So I wrote another. And another. And then he called the cops, or he told someone else who called them, cos they arrested me. Patriot Act or something, I dunno. Point is, my point got taken exactly the right way. Funny that.
   I've explained it to the doctors a hundred times. I didn't write those violent things to vent my feelings or whatever. I wasn't trying to copy him. I didn't mean it. I had a point. But they don't understand that, or they don't want to understand. When they want to believe you're crazy, they'll pin anything on you. My last doctor said I was schizophrenic. The one before that said I had some kind of post-traumatic stress thing.
   Whatever. My point is, I'm here now, and I'm sorry I ever tried to outsmart the system. In my politics class we have anarchists and communists and libertarians and nationalists and everything in between, but they all function in and around the system. Even when they're revolting, they're still in reaction to it.
   Maybe I really am crazy. They've got me on so many drugs here I don't even know what day it is. I hope it's not lunchtime yet. I feel sick now, cramps and cold sweats and charlie-horses to come. Must be nearly time for more tests. See if I'm well enough to reintegrate with society.
   Christ, I am batshit. You sit there with my face, lips moving as I move mine, but you don't speak a word. Are you real? Am I?

Nicola Edwards