The Horrors That Hide by Julianna Rowe. Chapter Eight: The Waverly Mental Aslym

 

Chapter Eight:  The Waverly Mental Asylum

 

I figured Adam and John were not losing any time filling in the tunnel from the West Wing to John’s garage, and repairs to the hole I fell through to my supposed death. Although Hell wasn’t over yet considering my new living quarters.

On Sundays, Adam would visit me at The Waverly Mental Hospital. I had begged and pleaded with Dr. Regents to not allow him to see me. I told anyone who would listen, my story, but no one believed me, rather they thought I had lost my mind. I would sit and stare when Adam visited. I was afraid he might be recording me, so the less said I felt was the best way to handle this. Adam would laugh at me trying to break my silence. He knew if I got angry or emotional, the orderlies would tie me down again. He would say horrible things to me like how ugly I was, how his family was so happy I had been put away forever. Every visit was the same unkind rhetoric, but I continued to stare. When I returned to my room, I would write down everything I could remember Adam said to me.

Adam had also gone to medical meetings telling the doctors, nurses, and staff how I fabricated stories to gain attention. How I would claim I fell into a dungeon under our home, then crawled through a tunnel that came out a block away. How I thought he was trying to kill me. How I badgered him daily, never cooked for him, nor kept myself clean. That I would let our dog, Finn, outside with the gate open just to upset him. He told his family if anything happened to him, they should investigate me as the number one suspect. The list continued with how I believed Finn was my dad reincarnated, and how I talked and had sex with dead people. He told them I wrote notes to him saying I wanted him to die. That he had kept this all a secret for years, but since it had gotten so much worse, he had to get his wife, Jayne, help. 

Dr. Regents asked him why he never sought aid from their local General Practitioner. Adam wormed his way out of that one by saying it would upset his business, and her episodes were almost nonexistent before. Dr. Regents inquired as to what Adam might think triggered the severity of this last episode. 

Adam relayed that I had gotten worse due to my going through the “change of life.” Dr. Regents folded his arms over his fat belly, pursed out his bottom lip with a grunt, and a mere, “Ah, I see.” Like that solved the entire twenty-five hundred my life puzzle. Dr. Regents shared most everything with me Adam told him. He was one of those believers in total transparency. After several sessions with good old Dr. Mel Regents, I came to realize he fitted the description of a conservative male who if he could elect himself judge and jury smiling secretly as he sentenced every woman he came across to hard labor under his rule. 

During our so-called talks, he slipped up a few times, letting it leak out of his noble arrogant brain that his mother was a very cruel woman. I caught his fat eye tweaking and twitching each time he spoke of her. If I ever got out of this place, I would write the book about the crazies that tended to me in the crazy house at Waverly. It was all about money, and those that worked there were not evolved human beings at all. They were strategically placed there to maintain the system put in place to earn the owners their magnificent lifestyle. 

Adam fitted right into the groove of people they used to make it all work smoothly. I had to find a way to break this hellhole wide open. I had to become the therapist, not the patient. The kingdom cop, not the needy little woman. I would stand up alone and pull this ghastly brick Auschwitz out of its pit in Hell. 

As my adrenaline high left the building, my Mariska Hargitay, Law and Order delirious mental script left with it, and I sank back into depression. I lay there asking myself who did I think I was anyway? My mind answered swiftly, why I was little Jayne, the housewife who fell through the floor into her husband’s self-made dungeon of death. Why? Years of taking care of him, loving him, dusting his damn furniture, washing his dirty underwear, laying out his clothes for church where he obviously didn’t listen, smelling his stinking breath every morning, doing the dishes he ate off, cleaning the toilet he excreted his bodily waste into and for what? To end up in a dark dungeon with no food. It wasn’t just murder, he wanted me to suffer from no food or water, until my body withered up like a wasp caught between the window and the screen, no way out. Buzzing up and down and back and forth in the frantic motion to find an escape, but there was none, so it finally gave up and settled down in the bottom corner of the window and allowed itself to die. It had exhausted all its earthly physical efforts to save itself.

Was that where I was, at the bottom of life in a corner waiting to die? I sat directly up from the undesirable lumpy mattress of my new home, looked at the discolored paint chips each hanging in a different direction, almost causing them to appear to speak to me if stared at long enough. They hung from the ceiling as though someone or thing were perched there, waiting for me to speak. And so, I did.

“God, or Buddha, or my dead Cousin Jake, I need guidance. I am not dead or even close to it. I am a loving, kind, strong woman who has been greatly deceived on this earth. I am in a position where I cannot find my way out. Every road has a dead-end from where I sit. I see no earthly escape. I am asking for spiritual help from every avenue available. I am asking the Universe to open the gates of mental awareness, to grant me the spirit of Mariska Hargitay to crack this mental institution, and watch it burn to the ground. I am asking and believing I will receive. Amen.” 

And then just before I fell asleep, my mind went to Finn. Anxiety set in and tears flowed silently.