I hear a click in my door.
A sliver of sunlight sneaks inside the room, just enough to alert me that its morning.
There's no clock in sight to confirm.
Time doesn't matter anymore.
No phones, no computers, no newspapers,
I need a battery controlled noise machine just to hear the rain on the rooftops. The world has shut me out.
it's almost like it stopped spinning, And it's just waiting there for you to join it again.
"What day is it?"
"Thursday."
"No, like the #."
"It's the 21st."
That doesn't happen here.
I genuinely don't know what day of the week it is.
Some of the kids didn't even know what month it was, but that wasn't important anymore.
Its not 8:30 in here, or Thursday, or January 21st, it's just... breakfast time.
I lift my head from the sack of wet sand they call a pillow, slip out from under my 900 quilts, and grab my clothes. "Biggest cell in the house" they told me, as if I needed a lot of room, as if they allowed me to occupy it. I change in the bathroom to avoid the security camera, and begin my frizzy-haired, raccoon-eye walk of shame to the front desk to receive my 'hygiene bin', every one of my toiletries locked up. I guess they couldn't trust me not to slit my throat with my own stick of deodorant.
I wasn't that dedicated.
I couldn't say the same for some of the other kids in here though..
Next, I check my schedule. music therapy. Recreational therapy. Group therapy. They think they can add "therapy" at the end of anything and that it's instantly therapeutic. There's nothing therapeutic about these 4 walls that hold me in.
It's all in our heads.
Our heads are the reason we're like this.
Just leave us alone with the one thing
That drove us crazy to keep us from going insane.
And from the look of the holes in the walls and all this fiberglass stuck in my fist, every one goes batshit at some point.
I continue my drawings, I've gotten to about 20 before the nurse comes in to check in. She asks me to put my suicide on a scale. She asks me about side effects of my meds, as if I'd ever been off them long enough to tell. I don't know if its really me she's asking or if I'm now just a side effect of my meds.
She continues to interrogate me.
I don't know if I'm me today. Just call me Prozac. All 54mgs of it. Tomorrow I'll be Saraquil, then I'll be Concerta. Just ask me my doses.
She's trying to measure my crazy.
In pills and hospital bills,
I'm just a condition that needs to be cured.
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My real experience with psych wards part 1
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Randomrants. poetry. life theories. philosophy. scraping the corners of my mind for words to put on digital paper. an informative guide. updated triweekly Most importantly, how I'm coping with mental illness and surviving the lowest point in my entire lif...
