Postcards from the edge

Last year I got 5150'd, which means I was held for 72 hours in the crazy house so I wouldn't harm myself. It was terrifying and hilarious all at once. I really did need to be in there, and they treated me wonderfully, and they probably saved my life. Hooray for mental health workers!

There are two things you should know before reading this story. First, this hospital (also referred to as the joint) is in Oakland, near Fruitvale, which is not the best neighborhood. Second, I hate bees. They terrify me. I refuse to watch Bee Movie, and even one bee can send me into a panic attack if I'm not careful. So, onward.

We get a small amount of heavily supervised outside time in the joint. This afternoon in particular, there were 4-5 nurses and 6-7 patients out there. I was wandering around by myself and ended up near a table where a few nurses were sitting and chatting. I'm looking at some flowers when a bee flies up into my face and I freak out.

I'm flailing and twitching and waving my arms when I hear this. "Katherine, are you ok?" I look over and the nurses are staring at me. I say the only thing I can think of at the time: "I. Don't. Like. Bees." This, of course, is immediately followed by this thought: OMG, they are never going to let me out of here.

One of the nurses carefully says "Why don't you come sit with us, honey." I walk over slowly and sit down. Seconds later, I hear a loud POP! POP! Nurse A, without looking up from her magazine, says "Was that a gunshot?" Nurse B, again without looking up and with No Concern In Her Voice AT ALL, simply replies "MmmmHmmm." I am so going to die in here.