Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > You're not in this alone.

They're gonna medicate your lives.

by pandavamp 3 reviews

Gerard's life wasn't always this way...

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG - Genres: Angst - Characters: Gerard Way - Published: 2012-05-13 - Updated: 2012-07-17 - 1356 words

A/N Hi, hope you all enjoy the update :) R&R and all that jazz

Chapter 4
And every little one
Does it’s job.
Until you can’t live without them
Oh, it’s only just begun
[Gerard’s P.O.V]

I sprawled out on the cold floor, exhausted. Once my eyes were closed, the video-like images passing through my vision were so vivid it was almost as if I was back in the psychiatric ward.

I stared at the beige wall, wondering for the millionth time why they would colour a place full of depressed and mentally unstable teenagers so blandly. Surely bright colours would bring us a little more happiness?
I knew they were watching me. When weren’t they? Everything I did now labelled me as ‘crazy’. I would tell them to stop watching me; Paranoid. Become so bored and lonely and starved of real human interaction that I would talk to myself; Multiple Personality Disorder. Sleep all day and not talk to my therapist; Unipolar Depression. Punch the walls in frustration, making my knuckles bleed; Self Inflicted Injury. They locked me in a padded cell for a few days after that one.

Everything I did was abnormal to them. How did they expect me to act? They’d taken me away from my home, away from all I loved. I was allowed to be angry. I was allowed to feel lonely and distanced from the world. Well, according to them I wasn’t.
They didn’t take you. You were sent here.
Shut up.
Your family sent you here. They don’t love you. You should be angry at them.
They do love me. They visited last week…
If they loved you they would take you back home. But you’re too fucked up. They don’t want you.
Shut up. Shut up SHUT UP. You’re the reason I’m here. Go AWAY!
I sighed. Maybe they were right, I was fucking crazy.

A nurse opened the door holding a tray with a meagre portion of food, a cup with my medication, and a glass of water. She quickly put it on my bedside table and scurried out of the door. She didn’t need to stay to make sure I had eaten and taken all the pills, they were always watching.
I looked into the pill container, the colourful tablets staring back at me. They still weren’t sure what was wrong with me, no proper diagnosis, although they were beginning to tend toward schizophrenia, seeing as I stupidly told my therapist about the voice in my head, the things I’d sometimes seen, how I had often felt I was being watched before I was put in here and actually watched. Because of this, they switched the pills depending on how I had been acting that day. Little green ones which would help me to sleep. Grey to make me more awake. Yellow ones should stop me from seeing things, they had told me. I’d had one of those every day since I’d mentioned my hallucinations. Red ones help me fly, and the blue ones help me fall. I think the white ones are supposed to stop self destructive thoughts; they only started giving those after I’d made myself bleed. I’d managed to work out what each did by comparing how I felt from one day to the next depending on which combination I’d had. I had a lot of time on my hands.
Today I had two grey, one red, one white, and the yellow. Apparently I’d looked depressed and tired today, and they were trying to make me more exciting. How I loved being their little freak show experiment.

I swallowed them all at once, used to having to take so many, and started on what looked like it was supposed to be chicken, potatoes and peas, except with a bit of the colour drained. Funny how everything here was so bland and boring except for the pills.
I could feel the pills beginning to kick in, I already felt more alert and… bored. Sitting around and doing nothing had suited me fine all day, but now I was alert and eager to do something; but there was nothing to do. All I had in my room was my bed, a wardrobe and a bedside table, and there was nothing fun which could be done with only those, I’d tried. I banged on the door, asking for my guitar. A few times they wouldn’t let me have it, worried I would smash something with it. That was before I went ape-shit crazy at them for not giving it to me. Now they allowed me to play whenever I felt like it, so long as one of the nurses was in the room to control me. Control me? They could try… If they had their way I would be in a straight jacket and a padded cell permanently. I wasn’t exactly free, but I had managed to get my way on more than a few occasions, way more than any other patient. A friendlier-looking nurse came in, holding my guitar case. My source of music. The only thing keeping me sane. Well, obviously not completely sane, but not suicidal.

I thanked her and sat on my bed with my guitar, quickly tuning the strings. I played anything, everything, singing along, feeling a little bit more like myself again. We were allowed to go to the day room whenever we wanted, to talk to the others, but I much preferred being alone with my guitar. They probably took that as me having some sort of social disorder, but I couldn’t give a shit.
After about two hours, the nurse told me she’d have to take my guitar, and that I should maybe go watch a film with the others. Every week at 3pm on a Monday they would show some Disney crap or something, and almost everyone would stare transfixed at the screen. I was one of the ‘odd’ ones because I never joined them. I asked the nurse if they would be showing a horror movie, and she informed me we’d be watching ‘Finding Nemo’. I had nothing personal against Disney, but fuck that.
The next couple of hours were almost torturous, the pills had made me so awake and alert, and I had absolutely nothing to do. I entertained myself by making up stories in my head, mentally writing songs, until finally I gave in and did what they wanted. I sighed as I walked into the day room – what a stupid name – and sat with a handful of others who didn’t want to watch the movie, who were just finishing a game of monopoly.
They started another game, including me without even asking. A couple of them smiled at me as we started, and I made a mental note to talk to them more.


After a group dinner, it was therapy time. Seeing as I was still an ‘unknown’, they’d just handed me to a cognitive behavioural therapist. She seemed nice enough, but she was constantly trying to worm her way into my mind, and I didn’t feel like anyone should do that; it’s my only sanctuary. She kept telling me to write down every negative thought I had about myself so she could try and help me turn them into positive ones twice a week.
I didn’t feel much like talking about personal stuff that day, I rarely did, so I just wasted the hour and a half moaning that I don’t get my guitar for long enough, and that I should be allowed to keep it in my room.

It took hours for me to get to sleep that night, I was far too alert.
Damn pills.


I woke up as the sun rose, the light blinding, and rolled over on the hard floor, wondering if this life was better than what would have become of me if I'd have stayed there.
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