No shoe laces. No belts. No essential oils because they come in glass bottles. No dry shampoo because the can is aluminum. No phones. Your door doesn’t lock. Yes, you can have your books. Here’s some socks. It stays cold up here.
Being an inpatient in the psych unit is like being on a different planet. Most of the rules that guide our every day lives don’t apply. There are no alarm clocks to push you out of bed. There’s no reason to worry about what you look like. Someone makes sure you eat and take your meds. No one expects anything of you.
There is no producing. There is no performing. No one is pretending here. We all know we are broken. Nobody asks “How are you?” Because nobody is going to respond, “I’m fine!” We are all just trying to get back on our feet.
Continue reading “Hospitalization: Umh, Can I just stay here?”
I don’t think anyone ever imagines themselves ending up as an inpatient in a psych hospital. I know I certainly didn’t.
If you look at my life objectively, it would seem that by most standards, I am a successful adult. I am (almost) 24 years old. I have a well-paying job that is relevant to my college degree. I have been happily married for almost two years. My husband and I own a house. We have a savings account and an emergency fund. We have good credit scores, two happy dogs, and a lot of great friends.
For the past year, I have also been really honest about my mental illness in person and via social media. I post about anxiety, depression, attempts at self compassion, hard days, grief, etc.
I did not see this coming. Continue reading “The Last Place I Expected”