Total Compliance (Salvation Pending)
My whole life, I thought I was a broken toy. I had the official designation: broken.
Psychiatrists and therapists sat across from me, silently slipping what I’d said into boxes of their own design, failing to listen to the next sentence.
You’re depressed, anxious, psychotic, obsessive, bipolar, borderline. Severe. Treatment resistant.
So when I, from time to time, ceased functioning, I assumed it was because of these. Maybe. Desperate, I resigned myself to their labels and prescribed care regimens. I couldn’t think or decide on my own. I trusted they meant well. I didn’t see other options.
After another attempt on my life, I required higher level care. I was told my options were either an inpatient or partial hospitalization program. That was it; those were my choices. I chose a partial hospitalization program.
I sat in the circle with other broken people. They spoke, slurring, softly or too loudly. They cried and paused. They revealed trivial and foundational things. A mother spoke about her children; a man professed he couldn’t stop.
Confessions bounced into the circle—mere pebbles and crumbs—eyed with suspicion by the group leader. Each person was required to speak. So we all waited, eyes shifting from our restless hands to each other, and back to our feet. Our gaze floated past each other—rarely meeting.
Eventually, my turn came. I had held my breath until this moment. The anxiety made my bones feel brittle. I reported my mood, my medication compliance, an inconsequential detail about my life.
The leader stared me down.
‘Have you smoked cannabis?’
I nodded and shrugged.
‘You know I did.’
They—with their chin alone—told me to leave the group. I arose with agitation. I knew the drill. I didn’t bother arguing.
The same thing every day. They told me because I smoked cannabis, I was a drug addict. Drug addicts were required to attend a drug addict group in addition to the broken people group. Failing to go would result in ‘being asked to leave.’
Refusing to quit like they told me to, I could have lied. But I didn’t. I don’t know why exactly—probably out of spite.
I was never asked why I smoked cannabis, or why I drank heavily every day, or why I self-harmed. No one asked why I needed protection from the screaming in my brain. So I never tried to explain. I don’t think I could have.
I claimed a flimsy plastic chair outside with all the other drug addicts. The sun was too bright but we were not permitted to wear sunglasses. We squinted as the group began with a section of the Serenity Prayer.
I watched, dazed. Finally, we all sat. Somehow, I caught this every day. I guess my timing was always just perfect.
Again, I did the check-in. I shared my medication compliance and confessed to having smoked cannabis. Eye rolls. The other broken addicts knew it didn’t matter. They knew my face by now. They knew this was penance.
We had seen others get kicked out. We had watched as they walked to the parking lot more lost than when they had arrived. We had watched their shoulders slump, deep sighs and resignation.
Oh, you can’t work? Here’s your new job:
Work the program.
Take the meds.
Do the groups.
Stop using whatever.
Participate.
You’ll get better.
Believe.
Total compliance.
It was a job like any other. I showed up every day at 8 and left at 5. We had a half-hour lunch. We watched the hours tick by on cracked clock faces. We missed almost-friends when they left.
We sat. We waited for the healing to come. They said it would. We clung to our fragile belief that being there might fix us.
We waited for salvation.
Lost travelers in a lobby waited to be delivered.
Across the street, Dairy Queen served ice cream.
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About the Author
Nieran Vela is a disabled, neurodivergent, mad, first-generation immigrant. Originally from California, they recently relocated from Texas to Maryland, hoping to find a better way. They work as a software engineer, love to cook, listen to music, and tinker. This is their first publication apart from a blog that centers on disability and queerness. Nieran is an avid lover of learning and failing.