October 6, 1947

[Continued from the previous entry]

I’ve relapsed a lot here at the Eloise Psychiatric Hospital in Westland, Michigan. I’m in a room with three beds, yet the other two are unoccupied. So this small room is my own private enclave at least for the time being.

I thought I’d get better with the passage of some time, whatever “time” has become now, but I found my episodes getting worse. Maybe it’s those strange drugs they’re giving me. Or that it’s really sinking in that This Is It. I am somehow in a different era now, and this ain’t an elaborate dream. Or maybe this is the dream. Or my 2015 life was the dream. Once I try to make sense of it, I simply go around and around in circles and my mental stability breaks into pieces.

I barely eat. I haven’t shaved since I “arrived” here, so I’ve got myself a scruffy brown beard on my cheeks and chin. I cry, sometimes long enough to where my tear ducts are completely drained. I babble to myself and at the wall, joining in the chorus of the lady across the hall from me. I haven’t yet rocked back n’ forth and banged my head against the wall.  At least I don’t think I have, as I do get this recurring headache.

I heard two guys talk about Game 7 of the World Series tonight between New York and Brooklyn. I’m sure a large group of my fellow co-patients will be watching on that tiny black and white television screen in the lobby area. All leaning in toward the television, sitting on those rather uncomfortable wooden chairs. Evidently a pitcher that goes by “The Naugatuck Nugget” will get the start. If I had my smartphone with me, I could Google it, tell them how it all goes down and spoil their excitement. But even if I could, I wouldn’t. Too nice of a guy to rain on others’ parades.

It’s nice and warm for October 6th, in the high 70s. My simple room’s window is cracked open letting a summer-like breeze in. For a moment I’m reminded of that July evening where I went missing from my real life, and wound up here. Then I start wondering where my physical body is, let alone my mind, in that era. It’s been a couple weeks now since whatever happened to me. The police are probably looking for me.

Unless I’m dead there, and alive here.

Am I buried six feet underground in some cemetery in 2015?

This is the train of thought that helps drive me to some crazy episodes. If I’m gone, then my wife is a widow, and my children orphans. Either my body disappeared altogether, or it was found as some lifeless lump in that 2015 version of the park. Or what if it’s a duplicate of me, and I awoke having no idea who or where I was in that era?

Again, if I think about this too hard, I begin to fidget, and I must restrain myself from going off the deep end.

Therefore, I just refocus on the warm breeze blowing in from outside.

 

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