No one would diagnose “trauma.” Not at intake. Not when discharged. Maybe acknowledging it would’ve kept me there longer and they had to keep the doors revolving.
I’ll never know if my therapist lied on purpose. She said they’d let me keep my phone. My paper and pens. Zines and herbal tinctures.
Nope. My bag of goodies turned out to be full of danger. Pens could be used as weapons. I might self-harm with the staples in the zine, apparently. And they do take your shoes. The best part of the loony bin is wearing socks and pajamas all day. I couldn’t believe I got free underwear. Two pairs! Blue and pink.
I didn’t recognize my hypervigilance. One of the aids convinced me to take a shower. It would be safe. What a relief to finally be alone! I would’ve stood forever under running water. Count my veins and scars. Blue and pink.
I learned which staff members would give me pens, and which would take them away again. But I couldn’t argue back my tinctures. I’d been using them for months to regulate my mental health. St. John’s Wort and Valerian root. The alcohol base rendered them illegal. So they kept my botanicals and put me on pharmaceuticals.
When you’ve been depressed for decades, you can’t know what you look like on the other side. How it would even feel. You try SSRIs and MAOIs and the whole gauntlet, always reporting back to your doctor, “I guess they’re helping?”
This time, the little fuckers worked. Maybe too well. I hardly recognized this energetic person. The ward turned bright and hard. I used the hospital phone to quit my job. Instead of sleeping, I read YA novels and made up plays. I’d been resigned to spend the rest of my sorry life here, but now I burned for freedom.
When you’ve been depressed for decades, you can’t know what you look like on the other side. How it would even feel. You try SSRIs and MAOIs and the whole gauntlet, always reporting back to your doctor, “I guess they’re helping?”
This time, the little fuckers worked. Maybe too well. I hardly recognized this energetic person. The ward turned bright and hard. I used the hospital phone to quit my job. Instead of sleeping, I read YA novels and made up plays. I’d been resigned to spend the rest of my sorry life here, but now I burned for freedom.
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