The Riot Inside Us

 “I got paranoia, baby

And it's so hysterical

Crackin' up under the pressure

Looking for a miracle”

- Green Day, "Father of All"

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It was a bitter, cold January morning and the year 2020 was already off to a bad start.

JC sat in a cheap, wicker patio chair outside, allowing the stinging, cold air hit his skin. He wasn't wearing a shirt but he also wasn't concerned with getting sick. He was already fighting with another type of illness in his head, and today he was losing.

He was alone. He hated that he was, but he was alone. 

Perhaps not entirely alone, as the staff of Christ Hospital in Jersey City had been very, well, hospitable. Very charitable in their approach to treating him. They put up with his outbursts when he first arrived and they came in 'round the clock to make sure he was taking his medication and going to group therapy. 

But there would be no group therapy today. 

Today the voice was strong, the dark passenger echoed violent thoughts at him and he knew a change in medication would be forthcoming.

He picked at the wicker and pulled off a tiny strip, flicking it to the side. The sky was overcast, grey and dead. Not a cloud to be seen but no sunshine either. Otherwise, he might have actually enjoyed the view.

Instead he just cursed the futility of a treatment that didn't seem to be working. He wondered if, perhaps...

Perhaps you fucked up? Maybe you let things go too far this time and there's no way back.

"Shut up," he mumbled bitterly, and pulled out another chunk. He flicked it out over the rail and it flew into the grass, lightly covered with the morning's frost. It made no sound. 

Part of him wished he were higher up, but he knew why he wasn't. 

He was improving, but his doctor still considered him a threat to himself and/or others. 

Not that he'd ever given any indication of suicide. No indication, but plenty of thoughts.

You should, you know. You failed. You lost everything. 

"Shut up," he growled, more forcefully this time. It's not like his words would change anything, but perhaps just a bit of will would force it back until he could tell the doctor all about it.

Another piece torn off and tossed aside. He glanced down and saw he'd produced a sizeable hole. He could afford to buy them a new one. 

He couldn't remember when he started coming here. Truth be told, when he wasn't on his regular medication and therapy schedule, he spent much of those early weeks sleeping. Sleep was an escape, if however briefly. It didn't stop the nightmares or the sleep paralysis induced by fatigue, but when he did sleep soundly he preferred unconsciousness. 

There was no way a dose was missed. There were people taking care of that for him, getting him back on a regular schedule. So it must be the medication wasn't as effective as believed. He wasn't even sure what he was taking or what the side effects were. He just took them. He did whatever he was told.

For her. He could lose everything else but he wasn't going to lose her. 

Maybe, just maybe, that visit was the last time you'll ever see her. 

And all you got out of it was a hug. 

So sad.

"Goddamnit, I said shut up."

The voice in his head prattled on, and what happened next came in such a blur. He balled his hand into a fist, and rather than aim it at someone who didn't deserve it or destroy property, he turned it inward. 

He threw his own first right into his temple and briefly, his vision went black and then flashed back. 

The pain didn't come immediately. It was like it needed a moment to register. Then, as the nerves lit up again following the shock of it all, the side of his head throbbed. 

For a moment, a fleeting moment, he found something that shut up his inner demons. However it was indeed fleeting, and his own demented Jiminy Cricket was whispering thoughts of self-loathing at him yet again. 

Joe was never quite able to actually explain to Lucy why he did what he did. Why he willingly let himself go as bad as he ever was. Why his self-doubt crippled him. He couldn't come up with a good enough explanation that she would go along with. So instead he pushed her away.

"Stupid."

He struck himself again. The knuckle caught the eyebrow and the bone on bone hurt far worse. 

It's not that he had any great desire for self-harm, as much as he felt like he deserved it. His doctor would describe it in cold, clinical term as "negative behavior." Joe would later wryly laugh at the implication that it could be anything but negative. 

"You got yourself here, Joe,"  his assigned therapist had said. "That's a start."

But a start was all he had. And nothing was moving along as quickly as he wanted. He was frustrated and felt helpless. Nothing else was working, so why not try it his way? Why not strike someone that deserved it. 

So he hit himself again. And again. And repeatedly. He lost control in the moment and began to pound away at his own skull, hoping to beat the demons into submission. 

After getting to see her and feeling so guilty, he didn't need things to stop working. 

He just couldn't take that. 

He couldn't take it..

He couldn't...

He...

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He needs me right now. 

At least, that's what I tell myself as I drive up to the visitor's entrance, where my boyfriend is staying. Yes, my boyfriend, who went completely crazy and has voluntarily committed himself to the psychotherapy and behavior health center of this place. 

I only saw him yesterday. I'm still mad at him for Christ's sake, but I keep telling myself that he needs me and we can sort out our issues once he's better. His own brother hasn't spoken to him. He really has no one right now.

And I still love him, although several people have told me I shouldn't. I might have even said it to myself a time or two while I was alone in the hospital.

They sign me in at the door to what is basically the psych ward and I pop inside, hoping that if I keep showing up, he can get out of here. It's a perfectly normal place and people here are getting the help they need, but I've had enough of hospitals. I've been in them so much, they kind of give me the creeps.

The only reason I'm here is because they called me. He didn't call, they did. They told me he was "in crisis." I was his emergency contact. They needed someone to talk him down.

I honestly have no idea if I'm ready to be what he needs right now. I should probably focus on taking care of myself. 

But he needs me. And I need him, even though right now I'm so pissed at him I'd rather just scream in his face about how he abandoned me. 

The nurse nearly grabs me by the arm to lead me to him before I jerk it away out of habit. Either way, she explains what the situation is.

"We don't really know," she says, being more honest than I would have expected. "He was fine just yesterday, and now he's having an..,episode."

"What kind of 'episode?"

I ask that but I don't know if I really want an answer.

"Miss Wylde, has Joe ever taken to hurting himself before?"

What?

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Well we've managed to sedate him a little bit," she tells me, although she seems unsure the situation is completely safe. "But he's still not letting anyone near him. He stopped hitting himself, but..."

Her voice trails off and I don't need to hear any more. 

It doesn't make sense. Is it that easy for an episode to come on? Can he be fine one day and then, be like this the next? Or was he just faking it?

I quickly shut that down but pull at the bottom of my jacket just the same. It's stressful as fuck and I'm still mad at him. But he's trying to get help. He's making an effort. I should too. 

I'm led inside and the room is a mess. Everything's thrown everywhere and he's sitting in a chair that looks like it went through the wringer itself. The first thing I notice are his hands, which are gripping the arms of the chair so hard his fingers are white. Then I see his busted up knuckles. Then I look up and see that his face is red and swollen, a small trickle of blood already dried up on the side.

"Jesus, Joe," I start. "What did you do?"

The nurse backs out and leaves me with him, but I notice the security guards out the corner of my eye ready to charge in if something happens.

Except he wouldn't hurt me.

Except he did. 

"I..."

He tries to talk and instead just shakes his head. He stutters over his words, like he's on a first date and trying to make a good impression. Except we never really had one of those. We just...started being a couple. 

Adult relationships are weird.

"I don't know."

I slowly begin to make my way to him. He looks so vulnerable right now. So small. So unlike himself. 

He turns his face away from me and I can see he's already feeling guilty. 

"I told them not to call you," he begins, then gestures at his face. "I didn't want you to see this."

"Why not?

"I was..."

He stops. He knows what he wants to say. I know what he wants to say. I just want to hear him say it.

"I was scared you'd turn right around and leave."

There's nothing really available to sit on near him, so I just move closer and crouch. He's taller than me again and I have a better look at the damage.

All I can really do is sigh. I also notice that he's been rocking himself a bit this entire time. To calm himself down, I guess. 

 "Joe.. you've seen me at my worst.  Why would I do that to you?  You didn't leave when I was..." 

My voice trails off. No need to bring that up right now, but he knows what I mean. Last year wasn't the only time I almost died.

"That's different," he broke in. "After what I did? Left you in that hospital?" 

"Okay, I'm still pissed off about that. And..."

He won't want to hear this but it needs to be said.

"Honestly, I haven't even really forgiven you yet."

He turns to face me for the first time and I see one of his eyes is bloodshot. A broken blood vessel. Christ, he really did a number on himself.

"I couldn't let my problems become your problems. But it broke my heart every day I left you in that hospital."

"It 'broke your heart', but not enough to actually be there.  What if I would’ve died?  What if, Joe?  What happened to us helping each other through our problems?"

"I know. I..."

He looks away again. I gently reach up and pull his face back, making sure to lay my hand on the side that isn't busted up.

"Fuck, Joe. Why would you do this?"

"I don't know. I really don't. I was thinking about everything I did and the voice was back and I just blacked out." 

As worrying as that is, I try not to let it show. I need him to know how I feel about the way he acted, but I also need him to worry about himself and not me.

"Joe...I needed you. And you weren't there."

He opens his mouth to interrupt me but I shush him.

"I know why you think you did it. And I know you weren't yourself. But it doesn't change how I feel. I'm not okay. I'm not going to be okay for a long time. And that's your fault. And..."

I really don't want to forgive him. But he knows he did wrong. And this is the first time he's actually listened to me in months.

I stand up and take his hand in mine, and make sure he's looking at me when I finish what I need to say.

"That's something we're both going to have to live with."

I see tears coming out of his eyes. I don't know if he's crying or if it's because of what he did. Maybe both. I want to hate him so much, but I can't.

I just can't. 

Instead, I hug him. Because of course I do. I wouldn't be me if I didn't put others before myself. I feel him sigh against me and I realize it was crying after all.

"We need help, don't we?"

"Yeah, Joe. We really do."