Goodbye, Just Ellie

o n e

anthropophobia \ˈanTHrəpəˌˈfōbēə \

      (n.) a pathological fear of people or human companionship

    The officer's questioning, my mother's emotionless embrace, and my dad's wife's professional recommendation of a visit psychiatric facility passed by in an agonizing blur. The frosty wind turned to dry heat as we drove from northern Minnesota to central Arizona. My mother's kiss on my cheek and my father's shoulder squeeze were nothing more then apathetic goodbye gestures before speeding away to return to their separate homes, children patiently awaiting them at home. I was ushered inside by stiff, warm hands before I could even glance back to watch the dust settle.

    "Hi, Elenora, I'm Sarah." My first judgement of Hall-Brooks is of the woman standing in front of me, with a blood-red smile, sky-high black hair, dangling earrings the size of Texas, and sunshine-colored scrubs. "Welcome to Hall-Brooks."

    "Just Ellie." I mutter. Together we walk down a long corridor, past a row of closed–and locked–doors, before stopping at the largest doorway at the end of hall.

    "Well, Ellie, glad you're here." She leans forward towards the wall and swipes her keycard. "This is the adolescent ward where you will be staying." The lock clicks and she pushes open the door. "I'll take your bags. We have to check them and make sure everything is safe, okay?"

    " 'Kay." I hand her my duffel bag and slide my backpack off my back. She disappears behind another locked door and I stand and wait. When she comes back out she has a clipboard in hand and a pencil in her hair.

    "We also have to do a strip check, so follow me. And then, I promise, I'll show you your room and leave you alone." She guides me past what I assume is the front desk and into a room that reminds me of a typical doctor's office. She hands me a gown and closes the curtain between us for privacy. However, the fact that I can hear her breathing and the sound of her picking at her nails on the other side of the curtain while I am changing suggests less privacy than I would prefer.

    "I'm done," I say and she opens the curtain and steps into the room. She goes through the motions of checking my body and I shudder when her thumb brushes across the scar on my thigh.

    "What happened here?" Sarah asks, sadness and worry laced in her tone.

    "I attempted to sever my femoral artery," I say flatly and she gasps. She stands up, takes the pencil out from her hair, and scribbles something down onto the clipboard. She continues checking the rest of my body, flitting from my back to front. Her fingers brushing over the scars and fresh scabs along my upper thighs, lower hips, and hands. Each one she writes down, the look on her face pained, but as composed as possible.

    "Alright, you can put on your clothes and then I'll show you the dayroom and your bedroom." I nod my head and get dressed.

    I follow her mutely out of the cold, sterile room and back out into the center of the ward. There are large plexiglass windows covering the furthest wall and individual, plush chairs organized in an L-shape around a tv. Underneath and beside the tv are locked cabinets, labeled books and movies. The next room over is set up with a kitchenette and a large, lunchroom-style dining table. Once again filled with locked and labeled cabinets–even the refrigerator has a large padlock on it.

    "Is everything locked up around here?" I mutter to myself, already knowing the answer.

    "Pretty much," Sarah answers. "However, it's for the safety of the patients. You can always ask for anything you want. We have books, movies, and mp3 players you can check out."