Dig and plant. Dig and plant. Dig and plant. He focused so hard on digging and planting. He had to. He wasn’t allowed to think about the dirt working itself into the crevasses of his fingerprints and fingernails until it was so ingrained that no amount of washing would ever make them feel clean, not even after his skin was cracking and bleeding from so much scrubbing. If he thought about it for even just a moment… DAMNIT! Now it was all he could feel, and he had to get it off!
But he couldn’t. Couldn’t. Couldn’t. He had to dig and plant. Dig and plant. Dig and plant. But he wasn’t because of the feel of the dirt. The plants were untended at his feet. Instead, he was vigorously trying to wipe the dirt off his hands and onto his “Healthy Mind Farm Approved” overalls. An Overseer would notice soon. They always did. He couldn’t stop though. He HAD to get the dirt off. He could FEEL IT everywhere!
In that moment, for a brief flash, he remembered the before times and how much easier it was on his meds. He had never been on a lot because he had a lot of supports and didn’t need a lot of medical management, but he missed them so much right now. It had just been Prozac daily and a small dose of Xanax for the full-blown panic attacks, like the one he was having now, that’s it. Nothing hardcore. Part of his mind was quite coherent and knew this would end badly for him, but there was nothing that whispered voice of reason could do to stop the sheer horror of the feel of the dirt. He didn’t know why the dirt set him off so badly today. He’d managed to keep from drawing the Overseers attention for weeks now. The inside of his cheeks bore wounds in various stages of healing, dug out by his teeth as he forced himself over and over to pretend that nothing was wrong in order to avoid their attention.
During intake, they had given him a piece of paper with his diagnoses on it in large print: Autistic, Anxiety, possible OCD. Then, during introductions, that piece of paper was torn from his hands and ripped to shreds in front of him. That Overseer, clearly a good Christian citizen with blond hair, blue eyes, and a chiselled jawline, barked at him that he was none of those things, that he did not need meds or supports of any kind. The Overseers made it clear he’d better not forget that because he wasn’t going to be leaving the Farm or having any contact with anyone from the outside until he recovered from the woke mind virus he was infected with.
That was after they had stripped him of everything that was his, including his name (he was now Patient # 25937), forced him into the brand new, stiff, scratchy overalls that made his skin recoil, and shaved his head (supposedly to prevent lice). He’d been off his meds for about three days at that point because as soon as someone was sent for placement on one of the Healthy Mind Farms all psychoactive meds were stopped, cold turkey. All of that had, of course, caused him to meltdown the worst he had in decades. At the Farm though, they weren’t allowed to call them meltdowns, here they were tantrums or disruptive emotional outbursts and were viewed as intentional misbehavior. It had taken weeks for the bruises from the “correction” that “emotional outburst” had earned him to fade. However, the Overseers found any chance they could to layer on more bruising consequences for any and every possible infraction, so he hadn’t been without bruises since before his arrival. The Overseers say all of this was to get the patients “detoxed” from the “poison” of the medications that treat “psychiatric conditions” because those conditions don’t actually exist. All mental illnesses and developmental delays are, in reality, just moral failings. That was the whole point of the Healthy Mind Farms.
On the Farms people with moral failings were supposed to have time to reconsider their choices, get good, healthy exercise out in the sun and fresh air, and renew their connection to God. It was supposed to show the patients the error of their ways and teach them to be good, upstanding citizens. He supposed it was a good goal, but in the before times, the meds had worked, and here he was, after weeks at the Farm, scrubbing his hands on his pants hard enough to rip skin while convulsively crying over every single sensation he was experiencing. The funny thing was, since he had been here, he couldn’t remember anyone being sent home because they “got better,” not even the people who he had never seen show symptoms, not even the exemplar workers who were the pets of the Overseers. The only people he knew who had left were the ones the Overseers “corrected” too strongly for the capabilities of the on-site infirmary. Those patients had left in what looked like ambulances. They never came back.
The blood from his hands was starting to smear over his overalls, and still the dirt wouldn’t come off. In between wailing sobs that he didn’t remember starting, he started coughing and gagging because he couldn't get enough air. He was vaguely aware of the hardworking patients near him trying desperately to shush him. He hoped they would stay away. He didn’t want anyone else getting in trouble on his behalf, although most probably just wanted him to shut up so the Overseers wouldn’t pay them too much attention.
On cue, enter stage right, the Overseers, two of them, always in a pair. The stable part of his mind giggled; he couldn’t be serious even now. Through his cross-wired mind, he recognised one of them and realised the worst possible future was playing out. It was HIM. The Overseers had no names, just Overseer or Sir, but this one was known to all the patients. The gleeful gleam in the Overseer’s malevolent eyes as he realised which patient was acting up kicked in Patient # 25937’s flight response. Sobbing and coughing, he ran while still scrubbing his hands on his overalls’ legs, trying to get rid of the feeling. Even as he ran, he knew it was not just futile, but the worst possible thing he could be doing, but he couldn’t stop himself.
It was mere seconds before he was tackled to the ground. In the before times, he had some martial arts training, but it’s hard to fight or even fall safely with a 250 pound wall of muscles hellbent for blood, pummeling you as you are panicking and haven’t had enough food or sleep for weeks. He heard and felt his arm snap as he landed on it at the wrong angle under the man’s weight and screamed at the pain, struggling uselessly to get away, the dirt getting all over him now. The Overseer roared, “I’ll give you something to scream about, you fucking useless pansy!” as his meaty fist snapped Patient # 25937’s head to one side, the patient’s jawbone and consciousness giving way with a crunch.
