Right, so, a lot has changed. For most of February I was an inpatient in the psychiatric ward at the hospital.
I got admitted late some Monday evening because I was planning on killing myself.
I had it all worked out and I was so ready to follow through, it was terrifying. Things have been so fucked up for so long. I think I constantly forget that it's not normal to think of suicide every single day. Staying at the hospital was such an experience. I loved it, in a way. I had professional help available to me 24/7 for 3 weeks. There were no crazy expectations or pressure or any of that day to day shit. The only goal you really had was to get better. Make it through the day without being tempted to down every pill in sight. Go a week without dragging one sharp object or another across your wrist, thigh, whatever. There was usually between 8 and 15 other patients. I think the youngest one was around 9 years old, and I was among the oldest. They had depression, anxiety, eating disorders, psychosis, schizophrenia and I'm sure a whole array of other issues. We were all fragile and so incredibly close to falling apart in the most permanent way possible. There was no judgement, no harmful words, or bad intentions for the most part. Everyone in there knew they were fucked up, and they knew everyone else was too. I felt comfortable in a really weird way there. Just focus on recovery, focus on feeling better, focus on coping with life. Every single day.
I'd wake up in my sterile white hospital room usually around 7:30 when a nurse would come in. I'd get dressed and go to the dining room where everyone would eat the food that arrived on their pre-ordered breakfast trays. Hospital food isn't too lovely, but it was a comfort. I liked how much control I had over what I ate everyday. I only ate healthy food and as a result lost 5 pounds while I was in there, and obliterated cravings. I also fixed my sleeping schedule! They gave me my sleeping pills at 9pm and at 10:30 it would be lights out. The nurses shined flashlights through the windows in the door to your room every hour or so to see if you were sleeping or crying or pacing or whatever. There was no point in staying up late. Anyway, after breakfast, on weekdays we'd go down the hall to "school", two small rooms where we'd work on assignments that our actual teachers sent in, or work on things that the "teachers" there would assign, or if things were a complete confusion between your real school and that "school", you could just read or work on a crossword or something. It would go from 8-9:30, half hour break, 10-12, hour long lunch, 1-2:15. Or something like that. I mostly just worked on sketches and wrote a short story for Writer's Craft while I was in there. After school it would be "quiet independent time" until 4 to work on school stuff or read or meet with your therapist or doctor or just watch tv or whatever. At 4 there would usually be group therapy which was normally okay. It was never really that therapeutic, but it was beneficial one way or another. They taught me magical incantations to push away the suicidal thoughts, ways to cope with daily bullshit, how to improve your "sleep hygiene", how to give a great compliment, how to set reasonable goals, etc. At 5 we would eat dinner. Visiting hours were from 6-8, I think. Most nights my mom visited, and if she didn't, friends did. My mom and I juggled and played cards mostly, because there's not a lot to do. My friends and I played cards or just sat and talked the whole time. It's funny how rarely people show that they love you until something big happens, i.e. getting hospitalized. No one misses you until the fact that you're gone is blatantly thrown in their face.
I was in there for 3 weeks and there were a lot of positive things that came from the whole experience. I am by no means cured, I still have suicidal thoughts everyday, I still self harm, and some times I could swear I'm more screwed up now than I was when I got admitted, but those times pass. I'm well aware of the steps I have to take to feel okay, it's mostly just a matter of wanting to feel better. It'd be stupid to say I like feeling sad, but the sadness I feel gets overwhelming and downright blinding sometimes. It sucks you in and swallows you whole, and when you get that low, it's very difficult to break free. I've just been trying to take things one day at a time since I got out. Getting back to reality was a difficult transitition, but obviously it had to happen. My main concern is that if I ever get really significantly worse, I don't think returning to disneyland would benefit me at all. The hospital did all it could for me, and the rest is in my hands. It's just difficult, really. I wish I had connected with people there, though I'll never forget the individuals I did meet.
But, yeah, that's kind of been life lately.. I've been keeping busy ever since with work, art projects, poetry and short stories and a ton of excersize. I don't know. It's just been so long, I figured I should post something. Yep okay bye.
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