Stop Looking at Me, by Miranda Roy

the slipper feeds on our foot. then the other. we recite our birthdays like we’re scatting jazz. we take Cobain’s lithium with cups that remind us of communion. it’s fortunate that Jesus isn’t in this place. before group we watch Adam Sandler get dumped fifty-one times. mostly our eyes are on word search pages, finding sentences that, when strung together, create a meaningless clothesline. this, too, is comforting.

a longstanding admit, Shanna, smashes the hallway phone on some day of the week. we lose one of our own, Jeremiah, later in the day. gone to Midland for electroshock therapy. Jeremiah tells us this—the only time we’ve seen him really smile. we look out the windows just to see Subarus skim across the slush. our puppy nips at our arm hair, little follicles static with some kind of want. we don’t know what it is. the puppy may also sound like a person. the puppy may also sound only like thoughts, the feelings of stratus rubbing against our skull. the puppy doesn’t want any particular part of us. Winnipeg will take whatever it can.

during group we’re allowed to use colored pencils, beads, Wii remotes. healing is together and individual. we often don’t know what we are healing from. or how to heal. but we can at least bring flowers to life on a page. puppies won’t eat these. social worker Caitlin plays pop music on the stereo. eventually we learn all the songs, but don’t know any of their names, their artists. Ralph Compton and Danielle Steele fortify the tiny library. social worker Thomas teaches us positive affirmations in the key of Zesta saltines crinkling in our hands. we were obsessed with these as kids. we’re obsessed again.

we are worthwhile we are worthwhile we are worthwhile. repeat it as we stretch in the morning. repetition loses potency after a while, so we write new affirmations in our journal. 90s grunge bands seemed to know that our minds aren’t always in our heads. we are capable people we are capable people we are capable people bark bark bark yip yip yip growl growl growl

we trade ideas for tattoos to cover up our scars in the patient lounge. the nurses call the lounge “the Fishbowl.” is it because the room is circular with windows? because we’re floating about with little to do? admit Elizabeth wants to get something on her forearm about staying clean from drugs and drink. admit Ayden says he wants a cute character from a Cartoon Network show we’ve never heard of. we say we’re worried more that new scars will fuck up a tattoo after we get one. the room nods without nodding. transphobic episodes of Maury play nonchalantly in the background. sometimes, the night nursing staff let us smuggle ginger ale, ice cream, and Lorna Doone cookies into the Fishbowl. we watch Netflix there since the social workers are gone for the day. breaking rules becomes a brand of healing for us all. our slippers collectively clap a quiet eureka. perhaps such little goodnesses would transform into a great tomorrow.

the doctor is the only person who never sets foot in Pointe East. he lives in Wisconsin, a great lake away. when it’s our turn to check in each morning, the screen delay could hide smiles or empowerment. because of this disconnect, one day we eventually profess to never having heard voices before. the next day, we divulge to hearing more voices than actual people. doctors do not inform us that people are too a kind of beast. our doctor hangs his jaw low like a Boston terrier. it’s hard to conjure honesty when our nurses and social workers do most of the heavy lifting. but at least our doctor gives us pills. half the time we don’t even care what they do.