Writings: Psychiatry

It's called the dayroom and it's the common area where all the psyc patients congregate. One wall is made entirely of glass and lets in a wondrous and soothing view of the horizon. It is always bright in the dayroom even during rainy days, when the water pouring down the panes makes the glass look as if it were melting away. The room proves that there can be no man-made substitute for nature's dynamic, awesome art.

Some of the patients like to sit and look at the view, but most sit at the tables of the dayroom eating breakfast/lunch/dinner, exchanging small conversations with one another, or just staring into the air in front of them. All are sedated either by medication or by the grips of their own mental confines. Although the window is refreshing and expansive, the air smells of stale hospital.

There are many doctors and trainees walking around the room. They are usually looking for a particular patient, and when they find her they sit down gently and lean forward ever so slightly to inquire in gentle tones about her mood. They are sedated too by the room, the palpable vacancy of the tranquilized stares directed right through them.

My resident has eyes that drain out of color in the center where a pale, ringed watermark rises to the pupil edge. He smiles and the glassy blue surface of his eyes ripple with a gentle, contemplative sort of mirth. The emotion stirs the stifled air that overtakes the room unnoticed.