All in my Mind

V.

I don't like the cafeteria because of the whole poison in the food thing, but also in part because it reminds me of a school. Actually it reminds me specifically of the trigger event. I'll get into that later probably. Maybe. Who really knows?

But if you've ever been in a cafeteria, then maybe you know what I'm talking about. The floor is that same horrible tile that never looks clean. The tables are that same mix of attached benches on long foldable surfaces. The ceiling is high. It echoes and nobody ever just wants to sit quietly to eat. There's yelling and laughing and incessant chatter. It's a fucking nightmare of over stimulation. The foods even served on trays like in prison. Do we really know how well they even clean them?

I do this thing every time I get a new therapist where I start taking my meds. I give a real attempt at trying not to suck at life for a bit. It's like the smallest of small futile attempts, but really it's refreshing to have a few semi alright days in a row. So I went to the cafeteria for lunch a day or so after meeting with O'Conner again, and I tried to pretend I wasn't completely put off by the entire place.

At least I wasn't alone, right?

"This is great," the boy was saying as I grabbed a tray from the stack. "You're totally making progress Alex!"

As a general rule, I don't reply to hallucinations in a public space. I wasn't the only one in the cafeteria. It wasn't as full as normal because I'd held off until most people had already left lunch, but there were still like two dozen stragglers spread out across tables and I didn't really want to make a scene out of talking to hallucinations infront of anyone. That's just humiliating.

But I weirdly liked the company. The boy was one of the more constant ones, but he exclusively said nice things to me. I stupidly, desperately, needed that. I could go on for hours about the psychological details of needing validation from a figment of my own mind, but I'm sure you can deduce that it's really just depressing.

With the tray in hand, I walked over to the row of food options and attempted to will myself into wanting something. To their credit, the facility did a good job of accommodating a diverse palette. There were sandwiches and pastas and fruits and veggies; all the things they needed to serve a well rounded little psych patient his food pyramid.

When I stared at it, the delusions and whispers started up immediately.

"Poison."

"Glass"

"They're going to kill you."

It's was so stupid. I knew it was stupid. Why did my brain have to send out these random cryptic impulses? Why couldn't I just stop them? What was the juxtaposition of being suicidal while also not wanting to eat the death food?

"Breathe," the boy reminded me. "Don't listen to them. Just grab something to pick apart. You don't actually have to eat it."

That sounded like a nice compromise, but wasn't it just kind of pathetic that I was compromising with myself already?

He had a good point though. I grabbed a sandwich without really looking at it, and then bee-lined it to the nearest table before the tightness working it's way into my shoulders could convince me to leave. The room was so full. The distant chatter of actual voices just melded in with the voices in my head. With so much happening around me it felt impossible to sort through.

It was just me (and my invisible companion) at the table I'd chosen. The other tables were patterned full with the other residents in pairs and groups. I had to tell myself they weren't looking at me at all. I had no idea if I was imagining the quick stolen glances my direction. I figured it was best not to linger on the thoughts.