A Fantasy I've Been Having of Late. Or, What I Think About When I've Accomplished Nothing on a Sunday Morning

There's a particularly optimistic saying that goes something like this: everyone is the best in the world at something. Though I may never realize this dream, I think I know what I would be best in the world at. I would make an awesome patient at a mental health facility.

Hear me out.

I think what go me started thinking about the idea was several years ago when I was talking to a good friend of mine. That good friend had recently spent several days in jail on account of an unfortunate drinking/driving decision. When we showed up to pick him up (or, as we called it at the time "spring him") from jail, he detailed his several days of captivity. The majority of his time he spent reading and working out and laying in bed. He explained that he found it to be incredibly boring, but the entire time he was thinking "you know who would like this? Nick Gregory."

And it's true. His description of jail almost made me a bit envious. One week to spend away from work, away from the world, to read and write and think and have all of your meals prepared and served to you. There was certainly something appealing about the rigid daily structure and the odd sort of freedom that jail had to offer.

And so, in theory, I'm pretty sure that I make a perfect inmate. There's just one hitch, the prospect of jail/prison is terrifying. I've seen those "inside the slammer" shows on A&E, and I'm not sure that's the kind of nurturing, life-affirming environment that I'm looking for.

So, if I were to create a list of the benefits and drawbacks of penitentiary life it would look something like this:

Benefits: structure, food, reading time.

Drawbacks: shankings, gang violence, race wars, feces throwing and perpetual fear.

If, god forbid, I was ever sent to prison, I would request to be placed in a room by myself and have zero contact with the other inmates. Though the reading time would be great, I still need interpersonal contact with other humans. Despite the obvious upsides of the institutional life, I just don't think I'd be able to thrive in that kind of environment.

Luckily penitentiaries aren't the only heavily structured institutional settings that America has to offer. I quickly ran through the list: the Army? Too much yelling and hierarchy. The monastery? Too much assigned reading from one source. And that's when it hit me: I would make an excellent patient at a mental health facility.

In my mind, I would take to this kind of environment like a fish in water. It's the perfect fit. I was thinking about this fantasy the other day while studying, and I'm pretty sure that if I ever lived in a mental health facility my life would look a little bit like this:

I wake up at the crack of dawn. On the "outside" I had always been a late-riser, but on the inside, with no late night distractions, I finally become that child of the morning I always knew I could be. The sun is just peeking into my locked-from-the-outside room. It takes little time to dress because I have chosen to wear the scrubs that are provided to all the patients. I like the simple garment because it takes the guessing work and st res out of part of my morning. No longer must I hand-wring in deciding whether to go with the sweater or the button up-shirt. The choice is made FOR me. I love it. For some reason it seems like a very democratic way to go about things. I remember in high school writing a persuasive paper in favor of school uniforms. I still believe that, in institutional settings, a uniform dress code is the best way to go.

Next I knock lightly on the locked stainless steel door that leads to my room. I like this stainless steel. It makes me feel protected and special. A man's home is his castle. And my castle is impenetrable. Or at least inescapable. Which for me, is probably better. I remember on the outside, sometimes someone would call up and say "Hey you want to go have some beer?" I would have loads of homework and a paper due, but setting aside my better judgment, would agree. Now, if I get that same call, it's easy to do the right thing because, once again, the decision is made FOR me. I've finally found a way to protect prudent, far-sighted Nick, from impulsive, short-sighted Nick.

Gary, the morning guard, opens my door. As is our morning ritual, I say "Howdy captain," and give him a high five. He responds in kind and shoots me a grin from ear to ear. I know I am his favorite because I have never once tried to urinate on him.

And even when people do try to urinate on Gary, Gary does not, like a penitentiary guard, get angry or vindictive. Instead, he is understanding. That's the kind of place we're in: a nurturing, helpful, gentle place. We're here to help each other out. And that's why I love it.

I proceed to the cafeteria, where, like every morning, I am the first to arrive. The food smells incredible, and what's more. . .it's ALL FREE. Throughout my life, I have been an ardent defender of high school cafeteria food and those who prepare it. This is no different. I shamelessly praise the quality of the food and watch as the cooks pile extra hashed browns onto my plate and wink at me.

I read the morning papers from cover to cover as I eat and watch my friends shuffle in for another day of self-development and evolution. Throughout the day I read and work out at the physical therapy center. There is a gym there, and I am one of the best basketball players at the facility. I play enough every day to be in excellent physical condition.

I have successfully lobbied the board of supervisors, through an elaborate power point presentation, to purchase a ping pong and a billiards table. There are a number of patients who spend a great deal of their time doing nothing but playing ping pong. The tournaments are intense and like everything else, accompanied by inappropriate yelling. My overall record at the ping pong table is 563-94. I collect statistics and publish monthly data on records and have created a complex formula for deciding power rankings within the institution. Each month's winner of the power ranking wins a gold trimmed certificate, also paid for ($2 a piece) by the board of supervisors. Many of the psychiatrists have attributed the progress of their patients to their newly-acquired obsession with ping pong.

For those patients who have difficulty with the game, I help teach them the basics and spend hours mastering the simple, zen-like back and forth of the game. I experience all of the fun and camaraderie that Jack Nicholason found in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," but without incurring the ire of those in charge of the facility. In fact, I actively try to ingratiate myself into their good graces. I think that currying their favor will give me the best drugs and most smiles in the hallway. They treat me gently and encourage my various pursuits and over-rejoice in my triumphs.

I usually meet with my psychiatrist once a day. My psychiatrist is a bit like Robin Williams from Awakenings, or if you prefer, Robin Williams from Patch Adams. The cinematic reference is fitting, because, as it happens, these therapeutic meetings play out a bit like clips from Woody Allen's most beloved films. I explain my deepest thoughts, and obsessions, and my psychiatrist often encourages me to superimpose my own psycho-analysis onto his. It is this kind of productive partnership that produces the most successful and rewarding sessions. I honestly believe that the psychiatrist enjoys these sessions and, though he would never admit it, considers me something of a friend. He has to fight the urge to invite me to dinner with him and his family because that would be a gross violation of the doctor patient relationship.

The bill for these cathartic analytic sessions? Zero dollars and zero cents. While Woody is paying hundreds of dollars an hour for his outlet, I get my own personal, daily psychiatrist to help me work through the perpetually mysterious and confounding pathways of the human mind. No thought goes unspoken, no behavior unanalyzed, no feeling undissected. In fact, I am as fit mentally fit as I am physically. During the day, basketball for my body, in the evenings, therapy for my mind. My entire existence has been nurtured and encouraged and I am finally approaching something akin to a Nirvana on earth.

And, having finally reached that Nirvana, having climbed to the top of Mt. Nicholas and looked at the view, I feel as if I am ready to face the world. I decide to be discharged (I have voluntarily committed myself) and a huge party is thrown in my honor. People messily eat cake and dance awkwardly to the chicken-dance song. My friends, the staff and the patients offer me hugs and cards and drawings for the road. Gary unlocks the door to the outside world and bids me farewell. A single tear can be seen dramatically rolling down his cheek. "Good bye" captain, I say. And he smiles and gives me one last high five for the road.

That Saturday night, February 24th, for the first time in years, I stay up all night watching movies. Specifically, I watch High Art and I, Robot. I get up at around noon and begin writing a blog post. At 1:15 I still haven't finished the damn post as it begins to take on a life of its own. I think: "It's nearly 1:30 pm on a Sunday morning and I haven't accomplished anything today." And then I realize what my life is missing:

Just a little bit of institutional structure.