A place for stories about chronic illness, disability, mental health, and neurodivergence.

Conversation at Utah State Hospital, 2022

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“Good morning Don.” 

“Hello.” 

“How are you?” 

“Fine.” 

“Can we talk?” 

Don continues to stand at the window where thin wires, like hair, have been embedded into the glass. The woman takes her seat. 

“My dreams are back,” he offers.

“The one about your mother?” 

“That one.” He’s tense. “She and him. But he doesn’t have a face.” 

“And she does?”

“Yes. Always.” 

“How do those dreams leave you feeling when you wake up?” 

He’s quiet for a span, the crisscrossed pattern of the window embedding across his cheek. 

“Homesick.” 

Beyond the iron door an orderly coughs. The woman shifts, and a plastic medallion necklace — a panic button — shifts too. 

“Is that all?” she asks.

He is still again, all but a twitch on his blond temple. 

“Angry, I guess.” 

She writes this down. 

“What are you angry about?” 

“That she allowed him to hurt her.”

The woman remains quiet. 

He is quiet too, but his silence is stirring. “Angry that he hurt her.” 

She writes that down and circles with her pen.

A long inhale from Don. He places his hand on the window sill. “Angry that she hurt me.” 

“How were you hurt?” The woman’s voice is soft as fresh grass. They’ve been here before; she’s had to press the panic button before. 

But the tenseness goes out of Don. He is still looking up and out of the window. “Meth hurt me in the womb.” He says it with surety; they’ve worked on this premise before. But today he adds more. “My papa too. Her papa. I don’t know who hurt him. But he hurt us bad.” The tenseness returns. “He made us both and hurt us.” 

“How did your dream end?”

“When I lunged on him, he shrank. And his face became so cloudy until all I was holding was mist. Then I was there alone, even Mom was gone.” 

“How did it feel, being alone?” 

“Scared, at first.” And his voice falters. Blue eyes flash back at her, for strength? She could not say for certain but she takes note anyway. He looks back out the window, his brow furrows. “Then I felt okay.” 

It’s been a good week, she decides, it’s been a good month. Her supervisor is impressed with her ability, but she can only think of Don. She feels too much, they tell her. It’s a strength and a curse. Now comes the worst part of her job, the state-mandated preparation for patients to re-enter their civil suit.

“Can you tell me about your charges, Don?” 

“I can.” He tells her the charges with surprising clarity.

It is the woman who is feeling guilty. 

“Can you sit still in your seat? Can you address a judge with respect?” 

“I think so.” 

She believes him. Don has come so far from the first time she met with him.

This double-edged progress — it kills her. They’ll deem him worthy. Too expensive to keep a soul in here locked up behind safety glass. Send him back to where he came from, speak the unspeaking walls, and hope this time he figures it out before he’s hurt again.

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