Free Crossing the Line by Dianne Bates

aimlessly or park themselves in chairs in the central courtyard. Some are dressed oddly. Some walk as if in a trance, and no wonder: they’re all on meds, doped out of their loopy brains. The demented, religious woman is no longer here, thank goodness.
    For the most part I hide out in a deserted chairs-and-whiteboard-only room. For once I have something to be thankful to Marie for. She dropped off some exercise books at the office this morning so I can use one as a journal. It’s my magic cape. I twirl it around, and disappear inside it.

    In my life all seems frail ,
    precarious ,
    emotions fleeting ,
    relationships fragmentary . . .

    ‘Hello.’ A young woman with short, ragged hair stands in front of me.
    She gets a cursory nod but I keep writing.
    ‘My name’s Lola and I’m on the Patients’ Committee. I just wanted to welcome you.’
    I don’t respond. She takes this as a cue to continue. ‘I’m supposed to see that you settle in all right, and if you have any suggestions on how to improve the place.’
    ‘Okay.’ I don’t lift my eyes to her. Some people can’t be fazed, though. And she’s one of them.
    ‘I’m here because I wasn’t taking my medication so I had a psychotic episode. What are you here for?’
    Now I look at her. ‘I’m mental.’
    She scarcely draws breath. ‘No you’re not. We’ve all got problems. Group Therapy’s on soon. I find it very helpful for dealing with my troubles.’
    I swivel my seat around so that I almost have my back to her, and keep writing. It’s rude, but with someone like her, it’s either rudeness or a brick.
    ‘Okay then,’ she says. ‘Well, it’s been nice meeting you. I’ll see you at Group. Bye for now.’
    At last she goes. Great! I can’t stand nosy do-gooders. And Group Therapy – I know I’m going to hate that even more.
    Twenty minutes later a nurse arrives with bad news. ‘Time for Group.’
    Fann-tastic!
    She ushers me into the Day Room where I become part of a circle of patients – including Lola – who are supposed to talk to one another about whatever is on their minds.
    I push my chair back so I’m as far away from the others as I can be without some nurse hauling me back into line. I don’t want to be part of their precious games.
    Rachel, a young red-haired nurse, is the Group leader. I keep my eyes focused on the floor as she introduces me to the others. Like trained parrots, they chorus, ‘Hello, Sophie.’ The floor continues to fascinate me.
    The rules of engagement in a group session are simple but she recites them at caterpillar pace, as if she’s a pre-school teacher and we’re the backward class. One person speaks at a time. No interjections. And most importantly, Rachel declares, ‘What is said in Group stays here.’
    Yeah, yeah; heard that one before.
    Theresa’s the first guinea pig. Sallow skin, Coke-bottle glasses. She goes on and on about another patient, Mark, who she says keeps bugging her. ‘I don’t want anything to do with him. Tell him to leave me alone!’
    Rachel looks at Mark.
    ‘What’s been happening?’ she asks.
    He’s a stutterer. It’s painful to listen as he tries to force out the words. She obviously already knew that before she asked him to speak. She should never have put him on the spot.
    With great effort, and humiliation, he says, ‘I’m just trying to be friendly.’
    ‘Not with me!’ Theresa jumps up and shoots a finger at him. ‘Be friendly with someone else – you freak!’
    The others don’t seem to mind this exchange. Apparently it’s common.
    Rachel doesn’t blink. ‘How do you think we can support both Theresa and Mark with this problem?’ she asks the group.
    I can’t help myself. ‘Take a pill,’ I say. ‘We should all take a lot of pills. That would help.’
    My chair goes flying out from behind me and I rack off before anyone can say a word.
    I’m left alone after that. They must have put me on the Watch-Out-She’s-Trouble list. Cool. No one tries to