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#i have an appointment with a psychiatrist tomorrow bc i have to start taking medication lmao
quietplaced · 3 years
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anger----issues · 4 years
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Okay so, last Thursday I had to leave school because of an anxiety attack, I have a certain classmate who triggers me now apparently (verbally abusive classmate I mentioned in the last ask)
We had a big psychology project where we had to do surveys, write reports and all kinds of fancy stuff, it was super exciting. Until my classmate decided, even after I had done the majority of the work since she had been sleeping away 2 days of the 4 days we had to do the project, that she’d blame everything on me, it was my fault we were behind, my fault there were flaws in the data, my fault that the other’s work were better than ours, my fault that our schedules didn’t match ect. ect...
And first I was just annoyed considering we were behind because she just really loves smoking weed and being asleep all day because of it. But then it really started to get to me, I knew it wasn’t my fault, but it was the repetition, the guilt-tripping, and constantly telling me that even though I worked really hard, it just wasn’t good enough for her, that really started to hit me.
So for 3 days I stayed home, I tried going some of the days, but as soon as I got myself out of bed and thought about school, it felt hard to breathe.. then I went that Thursday, saw my classmate, and she began her criticizing again... and I just had to get out. I went to the library when I got off the train bc it was too early for me to be home and I didn’t want my mom to question me, so I thought “might as well do some of that homework for tomorrow” I pulled up the assignment and the anxiety was back, my entire body was filled with fear and my head was a mess..
So Friday I get an appointment with my doctor, I tell him that I think school might be stressing me out, and I let him know that I won’t be starting up with a new psychiatrist before in March (finally got new psychiatrist btw yaay), so he tries calling her to see if she has an earlier appointment, sadly she doesn’t take phone calls on fridays, so my doctors tells me that he will call me if he hears anything. Two hours later I get a call from my doctor, and apparently he got in contact with my psychiatrist who gave him permission to prescribe me medication.
So I get to the doctor again, blood tests, urine test, heart electrolytes test?? (Urine test part was super awkward bc I had my blood test taken in a room with a very cute person and the nurse handed me a cup and asked if I could pee and I was like “uhh idk but I’ll try”, but me and the cute person both had to wait for the heart test thingie and we sat next to eachother and I was just thinking “how tf am I supposed to go pee in a cup when this really attractive person knows I’m about to go pee in a cup”) I have a short chat with my doctor, about side effects, dosage ect. He writes my prescription, I immediately go to the pharmacy to pick it up, very nice pharmacy lady tells me more about how the pills work, the side effects I’ll definitely be feeling, how to make them less terrible ect. ect.
So very long story short, I’m now 5 days on antidepressants!
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Survey #230
“this is where i wanna grow old, so i’m just praying i don’t make parole.”
Has a movie ever made you cry? Yeup. Do you smile open-mouthed or closed-mouthed? Usually open. I look higher with my mouth closed, lol. What gaming systems do you own? A PS2, Wii, gaming laptop, DS Lite, and a GameBoy Advance. Do you know anyone else with your last name other than family? Not off the top of my head. Is your favorite band still together? Yeah. Any movies your looking forward to seeing? I want to see both Joker and IT: Chapter II. Where do you see most of your concerts? Only been to one, which was in Raleigh. Have you ever had escargot? No, I NEVER will. Do you like chocolate popsicles? Hell yeah. Do you save seats for your friends in class? I don't have real friends at college yet, just like a couple acquaintances. Back in high school and younger, I did occasionally with my purse or something. Depended on where we were. How many people do you know with red hair? I don't care enough to count, honestly. Three off the very top of my head. Have you ever wondered what you look like when you’re sleeping? Yeah. Are your parents proud of you? I mean they say so, but I doubt it a lot. Would you ever be your schools mascot who wears that costume? NO. Those sound so gross and hot. Have you ever had a pet fish? Multiple. What age did you start staying home alone? Idr. Would you rather see the Great Wall of China or Big Ben? Big Ben appeals to me more, but the Great Wall would probably impress me more. Can you do a handstand? Nope. What’s a brand of shoe you like, but wouldn’t buy a pair? I like studded and spiked high heels like, A LOT. Are you reading any books right now? Not currently. Sara sent me the first Wings of Fire book because I'm interested in reading it, I just normally read at school when I have no work to do, and for a looooong while now I have always been busy doing schoolwork while I wait in the library for Mom to finish her classes. Any plans for tomorrow? No. Who did you last take a picture with? My kitty. How do you like your chicken? Breaded, typically. Like as nuggets and such. What’s your favorite fast food restaurant? Sonic. What song are you listening to? I've been binging the "I Don't Wanna Be Free" song from AHWM since it came out man. It's not even biased, Mark's voice has just gotten so fucking GOOD and I'm so proud and in love- Do you have any bruises? No. What’s the last thing you googled? How to make a rounded border of a square in Photoshop bc I forgot while making stuff for Sara. How often do you use a real dictionary? Never. They're pretty much obsolete. When you were little did your mom ever sing to you? Yeah. What’s the reason you last laughed really hard? Um idr. Who do you sit with at lunch? I don't go to the school cafe, so. How long have your parents been together? They were together like... I wanna say 18 years? Somewhere around 20. What’s your favorite kind of Gatorade? EW none. Out of all your friends, whose house have you stayed at the most? I really don't have any current friends whose houses I've gone to. So Sara, if you count her. Who is one person you couldn’t imagine life without? My mom. The idea of her dying is fucking terrifying beyond possible words for me. What’s your favorite Disney movie? The Lion King. Are you camera shy? Yes bc I hate my body. Just let me be behind it. Are you politically correct? It really depends on what the subject is. We've become too politically "correct" if you ask me. I'd honestly say I'm mostly not. Eh, idk. Again, it depends. Speaking of politics, do they tend to overexcite you? Quite the opposite, they bore the hell out of me. Are your parents Democratic, Republican, or neither? I'm quite sure Dad is a Republican, but I'm really not sure; Mom, meanwhile, I think she leans more towards Democrat, but fits the "Independent" title well. My stepmother is ANNOYINGLY far-right. I almost regret adding her on FB. What’s the worst household chore? When you don't have a dishwasher, hand-washing dishes. I fucking hate it. Do you get along better with boys or girls, and why? I only say girls because I'm afraid of men. I can befriend a man perfectly fine, just I am going to be VERY paranoid and anxious in the early stages of knowing him. Do you love dreaming? Honestly, I'd almost prefer not to dream, I think. I barely remember mine anyways, and I like the feeling of waking up after a DEEP sleep. Maaaany of my dreams/nightmares involve Jason anyway, so I'd just rather not deal with 'em. Do you have any conditions that you need medication for? I refuse to come off my bipolarity medications. They're the reason I'm not a suicidal tragedy anymore. I could survive without my anxiety meds, but I'd sure prefer not to. What’s a recurring theme in dreams? (I often dream about rollercoasters.) Most of my nightmares/terrors involve me getting into an altercation of some sort, and I'm always unable to defend myself. Should everybody have affordable health insurance? Fuck yes they should. You shouldn't have to go fucking bankrupt to stay alive, goddamn. This subject gets me heated as hell. Creation or evolution? Evolution. Do you have terrible memory? My memory is so incredibly bad I've had borderline anxiety attacks that I have early-onset dementia lmfao. What do you think is the most peaceful religion? I'm not knowledgeable enough on this, but off the top of my head, Buddhism? If you’re feeling frightened, what thoughts tend to comfort you? I am such a baby. It helps me in a lot of situations if my mom is with me. What year were you born in? 1996. What is the best decade for music? '80s, maybe. Or 2000s. Are you prejudiced against anybody? (Other races, gays, etc.) No. Are you a licensed driver? No, but I have my permit. I'm too scared and inexperienced to get my license because I'm too hesitant to drive enough. Do you have any regrets? Yeah. Is there anything you wish you could say to someone right now? I'm going to wish I could tell Jason I'm sorry 'til the day I die, probably. There's things I wanna tell Megan, Hannia... a few people. What time do you normally wake up? If I don't have my 8 AM class, it can range from like, 6-9 AM. Is there anyone not in life anymore, that you wish still was? Plenty of people. What’s your favorite type of bird? Barn owls. How many friends do you have on Facebook? 112. Have you ever gotten back together with an ex? No. How far away is the closest store to your house and what is it? Uhhhh. The actual town-town I live in is like three minutes away or so, so there's a large amount. I guess the closest is... a dollar store, probably? When was the last time you made out with somebody? A long time ago. What TV show(s) have you been watching currently? None. How many apps do you have on your phone? Just six, but I can't even update one because my phone has such little memory. What pet names do you use with your significant other? Besides the normal ones like "hunny" and stuff, "pretty woman" and then (THEY'RE JOKES/REFERENCES OK) "Bubblebutt" and "Candyass" lmfao. Do you have to wear a name badge where you work? N/A Do you have a dress code or have to wear a uniform where you work? N/A Have you ever dated a smoker? If not, would you? For less than a day. I wouldn't date one now, no. What is your mother’s first name? Donna. Do you share a middle name with any of your siblings? More like I share it with every white female on Earth. Have there ever been any bushfires/wildfires in your area? Small ones. How would you label your sexual orientation? Bisexual. Have you ever been a member in a band? No. What’s your favorite kind of accent? English. Do you have separate emails for personal and business? No. Well, I have a separate school email. Have you ever missed a flight? Yes. None of us anticipated the airport would take so long. Are you someone who always needs a coffee before you can function? No. Have you ever seen a lunar eclipse? Yes!! Do you know your significant other’s passwords? No, and I don't need to. I have a respect for privacy. What’s your favorite type of salad? Just lettuce with dressing, really. Cucumbers in there is okay, though. Lobster dip or crab dip? Ew. Do you shop at Goodwill? No. Do you make grocery lists? I don't do the grocery shopping, so. When is your next doctor’s appointment? I see my psychiatrist uhhh next week I think, then my main doctor is referring me to a dietitian per my request as of a couple days ago. Do you own a pair of feather earrings? No. Elephants or lions? Visually, lions, but as animals themselves, elephants. What color do you want to dye your hair next? Silver. Do you decorate for Easter? Not anymore, really. We don't decorate for almost anything at this point. Do you have a car? I don't have a license, so why even. Are you the same size you were ten years ago? Bitch I fuckin WISH. Do people mistake you for a teenager? No. Do you know what you want to do for your next birthday? Get a tattoo and have that gd heavenly drink Sara's dad made me once that Changed My Life. Do you know anyone who’s started a business and been successful? I have an old real photographer friend. Strawberry or watermelon? Strawberries. I'm actually not a big fan of watermelon; it's typically too bland to me. If it's sweet, then hell yeah. What new hobby are you thinking of starting? What's a "hobby." Were you ever a team captain of anything? No. Something I find boring is… TV, usually. If I could give my mother an award it would be for… Her dedication and hard work that's probably unmatched. The most memorable costume I’ve worn is… Idr. My personal hero is… Mark. M-A-R-K. Mark. Markiplier. Fischfuck. Have you heard of Mark Fischbach? An author whose work changed my life is… None. Are you happy with yourself on the outside? (explain) No, but just because I'm overweight. Otherwise, I guess I'd be. Are you happy with yourself on the inside? (explain) Mostly, at least. There're things I hate, things I want to change, all that. Do you take responsibility for your actions? Yes. Do you treat yourself well? Eh. Is there something nobody knows about you (& what)? Yeah, and I'd prefer for it to stay that way. If in a relationship, do you feel you could "do better"? No. Feel like I don't deserve her half the time. Do you have any mental disorders? lol Have you ever stolen from a friend or family member? Wow, no. Money or love? Love. Have you done anything to make someone dislike you (& what)? Not on purpose. Multiple things. Mostly making ridiculous opinions I've had in the past known. Would/did you cheat on someone for revenge? Or if they wouldn’t find out? No and no. Would you rather be remembered for something bad or forgotten? Forgotten. Do you boss around your friends, or give in to what they want to do? The latter by far. Do you donate or volunteer as much as you could? I don't have money to donate. I don't have transportation or time for volunteering. Do you believe in a god (& why or why not)? Yeah, 'cuz the Big Bang Theory just doesn't make sense to me. Compacted nothing exploding into everything. But by this point in my life, I really don't care if there is or isn't. Are you spoiled? No. How do you ease anxiety? Deep breathing, music, talking to Mom or Sara... Do you avoid physically unattractive people, even before knowing them? Oh my god. Does your family have a secret? No. If single, would you knowingly be who someone cheats on someone else with? NO. NO. THE GUILT WOULD BE FUCKING ASTRONOMICAL. Choose one living person you’d like to meet. hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm oh y'know I don't have a clue it's not like I love one (1) male homosapien- Are you over-protective of anyone? Maybe Sara. I'm not sure if it reaches the "over" level. What do you think of the name Xiomara (zeo-marah)? Cool as hell, man. Who did you receive your latest notification from? On Facebook? Uhhhhh *checks* my childhood babysitter liked something. How do you know the last person you were in a car with? I came out of her lmao so I mean- Do you support PETA? They are WAY too extreme. Do you honestly hate anyone? My old doctor that fucking destroyed my body. Do you go to church? No. Have you ever been depressed? I've had chronic depression since the 7th grade, so- Or are you a generally happy person? I'm usually just content. Do you think you are a good friend? Yeah. Usually. What is your usual username on sites? "Ozzkat" (rarely with a "0" if it's somehow taken) almost everywhere. Celeb crush? HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM Non celeb crush? My girlfriend. /v\ Bad habit you are trying to fix? Procrastinating on homework las;djfa;weiraweawer Would you rather go to school or have a job? I'd rather have a goddamn job that I can actually do and enjoy. What is your major? Organismal biology. Favorite cookie? Chocolate chip. Favorite flavor? Strawberry, chocolate... depends on what we're talkin' about. Candles or incense? INCENSE. Would you ever have an abortion? Probably if I was raped. Idk. What do you want for your birthday from your bf or gf? It'd be amazing if she could be here. Favorite flavor of milk? Chocolate. Something you like to do alone? Watch YouTube, draw, write. Something you like doing with friends? Vidya games, go out to see a movie or bowl or something, just hang out and chat. Thick or thin blanket? T H I C C Do you walk around barefoot in your house? Who wears shoes in their house????? tf??????????? u ok?????????????? Do you have a ring on your ring finger? No. Do you know how to type home row? Yeah, that's how I type.
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learn-tastic · 6 years
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Studying with Depression (Part 1)
Hi, my name is Depression, and I have jasmine. Just kidding, but that’s how it feels sometimes, like depression is who you are. It’s not. And you can’t let it take over your life like I did last semester.
I stopped going to class, doing homework, leaving my bed, and eating sometimes. I did essentially nothing all day. I hated my life. Ironically, my depression was caused by bad grades, which of course worsened. And I also have anxiety, so even when I was motivated to go to class again or to talk to/ email a professor, I was petrified to talk to them, to have a confrontation, to reach out. Through the help of a campus therapist, my academic advisor, my sister, my friends, and eventually my mother when I told my her about how bad I’d gotten (which pissed her the fuck off for the longest time but also she was worried about me), I determined that I should apply for a medical withdrawal for that semester (basically I got all W’s for my classes so my GPA wouldn’t drop. And wasted a semester’s worth of tuition). It was hard. I don’t recommend letting it get to that point. I actually ended up making mostly C’s, but my GPA was like a 1.5 I believe. For comparison, my GPA in highschool was a 6.6/ 6.0 (weighted).
TL;DR: Don’t be depressed it sucks for your GPA
Anyways, here are some tips for that bc I don’t really like the other posts I’ve seen on this sorta stuff.
1) Seek help.
The first step that helped me was to start seeing the campus therapist. If you don’t have one, see your advisor or go on your insurance’s website to see if they cover therapy/ to find someone who takes your insurance. Or if not that, tell a parent/ guardian/ sibling/ friend/ old teacher/ literally anyone who can help. I’ve even seen a lot of adds on instagram for counselors that you can text. This is the first most important step. 
If you think you may be medicated, see your regular doctor, that’s where I got my prescription. Eventually try to see a specialist (psychiatrist) but this helps you get back on track. It helped me to sit down and schedule my eye exam, dentist appointment, yearly check up, gyno appointment. I was taking care of my self. Which brings me to my next point...
2) Take care of yourself.
You are babysitting yourself. Kids have school, a bedtime, snacktime, homework and chores after school.
EG) When you wake up, wash your face, brush your teeth, take your meds/ vitamins (I actually got vitamins before I took antidepressants bc it helped me feel like I was actively taking care of the problem). Get dressed, shower if you have the energy or at least use dry shampoo or put your hair in a tight ponytail. Put effort into your appearance, whether this means getting a haircut you badly need, doing a facial, or doing your nails. You can do your brows, beat your face, or buy one new outfit/ jewelry/ whatever makes you happy (1 only bc I developed a bad shopping habit while depressed). Make sure you eat at least 2 or 3 times a day, and drink at least 1 glass of something with each meal. (of course eating 3 main meals with lots of fruits, veggies, fiber, and proteins and having snacks and drinking pure water and teas are recommended but people are assholes it’s hard for us sometimes and have small goals and then work yourself up). Kids like juice and dino- shaped nuggets and goddamn it so can you (but also don’t overeat bc that makes you feel like shit too don’t eat just garbage)Don’t drink or do drugs, bc depression and drugs/ alcohol do not fucking mix I STG. 
It helps to pretend like you have somewhere to go that isn’t school in the morning. Just roll out of bed, don’t log on, and just get ready whether it’s bare minimum or dressed to impress, but just do it and eat and go out
3) Go out
Go to class, or even if you don’t go to class get out of your damn room. Go to the smoothie place, the student center, the library, the campus park, anywhere on campus. get out of your room. Do something with friends. Change and deviate from your normal depressed state of dissociating into the void in bed or being online too long out binge watching. Or at least do it with a friend. Working out is great if you have the energy, especially as it scientifically helps with your mood and motivation.
4) Get a week long plan
You can’t fix your depression and school in a day. You need momentum. One thing I hated last semester was I felt like I never had enough clones to do all my things. I still agree, but I’ve gotten better. Do one day of light cleaning (putting things away- ish), one for actually cleaning (wiping, sweeping, mopping, vaccumming, scrubbing), one or two for laundry ( can either wash clothes or put them away, I never have energy for both), one for hella self care (take a shower you really need it, maybe a bath, mani- pedi, skincare, shave if you like, lotion, deodorant, perfume, sunscreen, floss and shit, light a candle, wear comfy clothes), one day to figure out a game plan (download apps, find websites, find tutoring services/ study groups, look at the syllabus and see what you can do to raise your grade, email teachers if you’re up for it, look into study strategies) and then maybe one day try to focus on MWF classes and another do TTh classes, or break it down however you like. Once your room and yourself and your clothes aren’t so nasty, it’s easier to keep it up. What’s hard for me is feeling overwhelmed.
5) Little goals, little wins
What helps me long term is the little wins. Focus on what you did right and how to improve, and don’t dwell on how you messed up. Going to 1 class is better than none. Or maybe you skipped classes but at least you worked out. Maybe you still didn’t shower but you called your sister and remembered to eat. Maybe you slept in late but now you went to bed early. Maybe you failed an assignment but at least you did it and got higher than a 0. Maybe you didn’t go to class but you went to the store. It’s a process and you start small but it gets better. Once you build up a momentum/ streak and start tackling little problems it’s less overwhelming and easier to stick to it and most importantly...
6) Forgive yourself
You will fuck up, it’s okay, literally it doesn’t matter, keep trying. Rome wasn’t built in a day; your life won’t change in a day either. Every one has bad days. Just work to make tomorrow a good one.
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i want to keep my original long draft for an essay abotu my Psych Ward Expirience somewhere so i’m post it here under readmore bc its super long
When most people hear the phrase “Psych Ward,” they think of settings in horror movies. They picture 1800’s sanatoriums, dark and crumbling asylums full of dangerous murderers. I don’t know if hollywood or a general societal ignorance towards mental disorders should be blamed more for that, but living with a serious mental illness is one of those things that “outsiders” never really seem to understand. That misunderstanding extends to treatment as well.
    Therapy comes in many shapes and sizes, different types and intensities. There are different amounts of work expected from the patient, different ways the therapist can try to work through their issues, but the biggest range of differences is probably in the environments these sessions can take place in. One-on-One appointments with a therapist, Group therapy that meets once or twice a week, specific support groups, and anger management classes are all things that we in the business would call “outpatient” treatment. Some programs are dubbed as “intensive outpatient” or “semi-inpatient” programs, for when they want to hospitalize someone but aren’t allowed to for whatever reason (usually because they can’t pay for it, or the family in charge of their affairs won’t allow it, or they're actually a good and understanding doctor that sees the problem with taking a mother away from her job and kids from three days to three months depending on the program.)
Group homes, halfway houses, and stays in mental hospitals would all be on the “inpatient” or residential side of things. Some places are specifically “Crisis Hospitals,” a place where suicidal patients go for one or two days until they aren’t considered an active threat to themselves anymore. Depending on the hospital and how much they actually care, the patient may run out the clock of their stay and can sent to a different center or dropped back into society while still in the middle of their crisis. Every psychiatric hospital has protocol for patients on suicide watch and many have specific rooms for it, open cubbies in a big long hall with no doors or front walls, so the staff can be watching you at all times.
When someone’s in treatment for any mental issues extending beyond mild depression or anxiety, being hospitalized is a kind of vague threat always looming on the horizon. If they say something a little too dark, or they fly off the handle a little too often, the question comes up asking if they’re in need of more ‘intense’ care.
Most patients that have been around a while know how to quickly deflect a nervous doctor. We get told our own horror stories; tales of prisons with heavily medicated inmates, friends recounting abuse from their nurses, being locked up in a place that claimed to help them but in actuality just held their lives/times for ransom until they stopped complaining.
I’m asked about my safety every time I see my psychiatrist. I sit in Brian’s office once every three or four weeks and discuss how much of a failure I am at pretending to be a human being. Every time, near the end, he looks me in the eye with an uncomfortable grimace and asks me how safe I feel. We both know it's a strange and impossible question. I could say no for so many different reasons. Realistically I will probably hurt myself before our next appointment. There will definitely be at least a few times I think of dying, go over the details in my head. I could point to my paranoia, or my childhood, and tell him I haven’t felt safe in a long, long time. But he knows all of that, and he knows my honest answer, and we both know that him asking how safe I currently feel is just secret code for whether or not I want to be sent to a hospital. So I shrug and tell him I’ll be just fine.
I guess I was having a pretty rough time at fourteen. I say “I guess” because I can’t remember most of it, but what I do remember wasn’t particularly any worse than two years before or the year after. It was mainly just that when I was fourteen, people were noticing more, and feeling more guilty, and I was saying some wrong things at the wrong times.
I’d already been in regular therapy for years; I’d been through one group until my therapist got transferred and an “intensive outpatient therapy plan” after that.     Every two weeks or so one of my parents would dig me out of bed and drive me to the one small therapy office in my town. I would wait for at least forty minutes past my appointment and then be called back to see the nurse, Mellisa. (Her name was spelled with two L’s and one S; I know about that because she would get very upset with the other staff for spelling it wrong.) Every time I went to that office, Mellisa would have me take a pregnancy test, no matter how many things about me made its results obvious, because when you’re a kid medical professionals will never trust a single word out of your mouth: especially if you’re crazy.     My mother and I would go and sit in an uncomfortably warm room waiting for my psychiatrist go come online. I would study the boring, mass-produced ocean painting on the wall, finding anything to look towards but my mother.     My psychiatrist at the time was an attractive nigerian man that I was only ever introduced to as Dr.O; one time I asked Mellisa what his full name was, because I felt disrespectful not knowing it, but she’d brushed it off as too hard to even try pronouncing. Dr.O lived somewhere else in the state and would see me for our appointments through a computer monitor, setup on a cheap wooden coffee table across from some chairs. My parents always complained about having to drive all the way to the office just to have a skype call; I always just wondered why they bothered setting up the fancy room, since you could hear what everyone was saying through the walls anyway.     Dr.O mainly saw older patients and I could tell that he usually thought I was being overdramatic. I would keep my head down, trying my best to speak up so he could hear me through the microphone on the table (and often being chided by him and my mother to move closer to it when he still couldn’t hear me.) I would stay silent as my mother talked the whole time, giving half of the story with none of the context. I would stiffly and awkwardly be made to stand up and show a man on a screen the words carved into my arms, motion to where the cuts went on my legs. I would look at noe one and try not to think of the mostly-screamed “lecture” that was waiting for me once we were done there, where both of my parents sat me on my bed and stood there with crossed arms, telling me they weren’t angry, they were just frustrated, telling me they just didn’t understand why I did these things to myself. They didn’t understand why I couldn’t just come talk to them.
Dr.O decided once, while my mom was in the middle of telling him her version of what I was going through, that I needed to be hospitalized. I snapped back to attention, stopped picking at the scabs on my arm, asked what I did. I barely remember what the real reasoning was: something about how I was already suicidal and they were going to take me off my anti-depressants which were making me more depressed on top of causing me to gain weight, and I would probably feel even more suicidal when I was in the withdrawal from those so I needed to be monitored, or something. That’s a series of events that I’ve gone through about five or six times with five or six different drugs, and that one (paxil, for anyone wondering) wasn’t the first. I’m still not sure why that time it was any different...maybe those reasons were an excuse for some kind of psychic doctor vibe he was getting from me.     My mother was, of course, completely furious for all the wrong reasons. I was calmly sent out of the room to wait with Mellisa while she screamed, asking if he was really about to lock up a fourteen year old girl with a bunch of “violent drug addicts” because I was having “some issues adjusting.” When I was younger my mother would often refer to my ‘adjustment issues’--i was never sure what it was I was trying to adjust to.
My mother called my father and I thought to myself that this was a really bad way to make me not want to die. He entered the building crying and confused, probably having only been told a vague three word explanation by my mother, leaning down at me chair, caressing my face like I was dying or like we would never see each other again. For all I knew, we wouldn’t; for all the information I’d been given, I was about to be shipped off somewhere for life. We spent probably another hour in that office, me sitting in my chair, watching everyone else argue and talk and come and go and give me weird looks for split seconds and then continue on talking about me like they’d already sent me to the terrifying gate of hell that a mental hospital apparently was. Mellisa tried to comfort me and pointed out that I was crying.  She put a hand on my shoulder and I accidentally, involuntarily, blurted out for her not to touch me. My mouth says a lot of things I don’t want it to. That’s one of the times I’ve most regretted it.     I was eventually told I would go home, pack my things, and drive to the hospital that night. That had set my mother off again right when she’d started to calm down--     “Tonight!?” she’d barked at Mellisa. “We can’t even wait til tomorrow?!”     Imagine what a dinner that would’ve been.     I assume I did as I was told. I remember packing the stuffed animal my internet boyfriend had hot-glued together for me, and a (paperback) Robert Louis Stevenson novel that I was trying to read and pretending I understood more than half of. You aren’t allowed to take a whole list of things with you to the hospital; anything that could possibly be considered dangerous to you or to anyone else is prohibited. No shoes with laces or pants with drawstrings. No mirror, hair brushes, toothbrushes, or soaps either, because the hospital would supply those. At one point I bitterly argued with a nurse that I could shove a sock in my mouth a choke on it if I really wanted to, and she threatened to take all my socks away. I decided to stay quiet on the realization I had that if I got really desperate I could just try to bite off my own tongue.     The drive was two hours long and completely silent. My mother spent the first twenty minutes determined to squeeze as much as she could out of the time we had left til arrival, but I was in a confused haze and she was tired from screaming at doctors...or tired from dealing with her defective daughter. She tried to comfort me, assuring me that this would be good for me, that maybe this hospital would straighten some things out and set me on the road to true recovery after all this time spent struggling. I looked at the moonless sky outside and chose not to tell her that she had finally admitted something was wrong with me. It was almost midnight when we actually reached the hospital; we passed it once on accident since we could barely make out the sign. My body was working on its own again at this point. I took mechnical steps, looking straight ahead, hand held in my mother’s because she needed the comfort.
The sterile white walls and fluorescent lights in the front lobby were blinding coming in from the night. I squinted at the woman who came up to meet us, shook my dad’s hand, my mom’s, glanced at me for maybe half of a second. A man named Jesus took and searched my things while we were guided into a more traditional room for this setting, corporate representations of calming moods. Light blue or green walls, wicker and tweed furniture, mass-produced ocean paintings. I focussed on how much I hated paintings of the beach while my parents filled out forms, until the woman finally turned her attention to me. I was comforted and assured, again, that this would be good for me, and then assured that they legally weren’t allowed to use electro-shock therapy. I was told I would do regular groups and that the security wouldn’t use force unless I posed a violent threat. She explained expressive therapy to me, as if I’d never heard of art, while I signed a form saying I consented to being medically sedated if need be. I asked how they would sedate people. She asked if I was afraid of needles.
After signing my name a hundred times, with one of my parents signing after each, it was time for us to say our goodbyes. I’m sure I cried, but I can’t honestly say I remember.
Jesus reappeared without my belongings, telling me before I could ask that they were waiting on my new bed. He led me about three steps out of the conference room to a set of wooden double-doors, like the entrance to a school cafeteria.     “This is the Ad Ward…’Ad’ stands for ‘Adolescent.’” he told me, shuffling out an ID card to unlock the doors. He quickly ushered me through and it the first door on the left before I could nothing anything other than a hardwood floor. Jesus handed me a paper hospital gown I never noticed him holding and instructed me to put in on, pointing at the spot on the floor on the small empty room where I should put my clothes. He said a woman would come in shortly to search them and me and then took his swift exit before I could ask any questions. I did as I was told as quickly as possible, nervously trying to make out the muffled voices right outside the door.     The second I’d put my clothes in their neatly folded line the head nurse came into the room, making good on Jesus’s word. She went down the line of clothed I had made her, picking up and shaking out every part of my outfit without saying a word. When she was satisfied with them, she turned to me.     For those of you that have never been strip searched, please know that it is every bit as strange and mortifying as you would expect, and that no matter how many times you’ve been through it, it’s going to stay just as weird. As my mostly-naked fourteen year old self squatted and coughed before the eyes of a stern older woman with a clipboard, I wondered again how this place was supposed to make life seem worth living.     After that, and her metal detector being set off by my braces, I was regifted my clothes (but not my shoes) and handed off to my last stop for the night before bed. I finally got a good look at the Royal Oak Hospital Adolescent Ward: one long hallway with a nurses station near the exit, an elevator, and a long line of almost closed doors.     A younger nurse took me into one of them, again completely different from the others I’d been in, and sat me down on an expensive medical equipment looking chair. The girl’s name was Rebecca, she told me sweetly, in the first actual human conversation I’d had in hours. She tried at mostly one-sided small talk with me and she gave me some kind of vaccination or shot. I remember being told it was just a precaution, but I can’t remember what it actually was. The second she was done with the mysterious syringe, though, Rebecca turned on me, bringing out a clipboard and a volley of emotionless questioned that seemed routine to her, but invasive and a little nerve-wracking to me. Asking if I ok with having a roommate or if they had to move my stuff to a different bed was one thing, but at the time I was tired and scared and every question after seemed to strike just the right nerve. She got about halfway down her sheet and asked, casually, what my sexuality was, before I started sobbing. She went back to the good Rebecca and sent me off to bed. We could finish the questions tomorrow.     I wouldn’t get to really get a look at my new room and roommate until the morning, as all the other patients on ward were already asleep (or were pretending to be). I slid into the bed, noting the plastic covering on the mattress and the starched, motel room feel of the blanket. Jesus peaked in the doorway to tell me it needed to stay open at night and that he and another man would keep watch on the hall. He said if I couldn’t sleep I was allowed to come sit out there and talk with them; there was usually at least one kid that took advantage of that at some point in the night.     I thanked him but chose to stay where I was, holding my handmade stuffed animal so tight it hurt my wrists and staring at the cracked door. I listened to Jesus and the other man talking quietly for hours until I finally passed out. I finally drifted off some time after Jesus lamented about how little time he was getting with his daughter after his divorce.     Morning Routine in the hospital was as follows: wake up at 8 a.m. and line up in the hallway for Checks. Roll was taken and an always different nurse that didn’t know our names would check our blood pressure, temperature, and pulse. People who took meds in the morning were given their pills and some water in two small paper cups, and David, the nurse that later became my favorite, would ask everyone who they wanted to call on the phone that day. (Phone time was allowed during a break after lunch; we could only ask to call people on an approved list of phone numbers written during admission.) Then, and only then, were we allowed to cram into the one elevator that led from the ward to the basement, and eat breakfast in the cafeteria. After that our daily routine mainly consisted of therapy, one-on-one conversations with a psychiatrist, and school, if it was a weekday.     My first morning I was greeted with a great enthusiasm by the eight other kids on the ward. Most of them were older than me by a year or two and I was quickly taken under their collective wing as a newbie. My roommate introduced herself (I’ll call her L) and wasted no time in getting to the stereotypical “what are you in for” conversation. Since my answer was pretty much a vague shrug she made up the difference, telling me a fabulous story embellished highly in her favor about how she punched her school’s superintendent in the face and was given the option of juvie or the hospital. We agreed that it was stupid of the school to give her that choice.
L loved to see how far she could cross the line before she got in trouble, but in the middle of testing people’s limits she would get angry and fly off the handle. She bragged to me that by the time I got there she had been restrained twice and medically sedated the second time. Eventually I had to change rooms when she started an altercation with Jesus and had to and was put on restrictions.     There’s an immediate air of understanding and camaraderie between patients on a ward, even between people that kind of hate each other on a personal level. I think it makes perfect sense given the environment, and the fact that in a short time there everyone is going to learn a lot of deep and personal things about everyone else. I remember most of the kids I met there well:     M was a small blond and the youngest on the ward at thirteen. He was extremely proud that he was old enough to belong with the teenagers. He was one of the most adamantly alive people I have ever met. He was very upfront about the fact that he had anger issues. I think I was the only one there who didn’t.
G is a girl that I think about very often, fondly and worriedly. She was such a genuine and lovely person, a heavy and pretty girl with long curly hair that was always smiling and talked with her hands. I worry about her because I was never able to contact her once i was out of the hospital; she didn’t give anyone contact information because she wasn’t sure where exactly she was going to end up after her stay there. Knowing what i did learn from her about her family...I still worry about her. But i also worry that trying to look her up now would be weird, but also only make me sad no matter what i found, even the best answers would feel bittersweet. I think that for now i prefer to just remember G fondly as a very dear friend i only got to spend a precious little amount of time with.     R was nice but was also the most actively angry about being there, and none of us could blame him. From what he told us (looking back on it now I’m still not sure which side was truthful) his parents had forced him into his stay after blowing an argument completely out of proportion. R as I gravitated towards each other magically, drawn by our innate ability to Tell. from my experience there were always two or three kids on the ward or in the group who aren’t straight, and we would always find each other and group together as quickly as possible.     D was the third or the two or three gay kids. I was told she made advances at me but I don’t remember noticing any of them. She really liked naruto and would tell me dramatic stories that I knew were mostly lies but listened to anyways because we were friends.     J was a surprise in a lot of ways. He showed up very suddenly and had the staff scrambling. He was tall and wide and older than most of us, with gauged ears and angry eyes. I feel guilty for the amount of time I spent compulsively strategizing self-defense plans against him before we got to know each other. J had been in juvenile detention before coming to the ward as a way to ease his transition back out into the “real world.”     The only person I didn’t really get along with was K, but I wasn’t the only one; she sat on the ‘normal people’ side of the social rift and didn’t particularly want anything to do with the rest of the group. Her choice.     The rest I don’t remember by name anymore; the teenage mother who got transferred to a different hospital, a boy who would not talk talk about anything other than weed every time I heard him speak. A quiet boy who’s name started with a D and had a nurse communicate things for him.   
The usual length of a stay at Royal Oaks was around a week, so people were usually coming and going every other day, making a rotating list of patients for David complained about because it complicated his job and phone call cataloguing. L left on day four, the weed guy the night before her. We vaguely celebrated when someone was left; we could have done more, but it would have meant celebrating almost every night, and jesus didn’t have enough change for the vending machine. We would say our goodbyes before we went to sleep, and part ways at breakfast. The new kids would be greeted with stories of who they replaced, and would be taken under our collective wing, and the cycle would continue.     I never personally got to see them, but there was a ward for Adults somewhere on our floor and one for “Pre-Ads” (children under the age of thirteen) downstairs, with the classroom, cafeteria, and ET room. The full layout of the Ad Ward wasn’t much more complicated than what I had observed the night before; one mysterious room was the “Lounge,” a baby blue nightmare where we spent free time, and another was a shower--yes, the whole room, that was it. A twelve-by-twelve cube of brown tile from floor to ceiling, with a small drain in the middle of the floor and a sad faucet with the water pressure of slow falling tears on one wall. About a foot in from the door there was a haphazardly installed shower curtain, and right below the faucet was a wall-hanging soap dispenser, like same kind you find in most public bathrooms. I’d heard of 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner before, but never All-in-1 general showering goo.     Every other room in the hall was a bedroom, and most of them looked identical. Blue walls, two beds set in wooden box frames, and a strange storage-shelf-table-sink hybrid on the other wall. Each room also had a small closet with a toilet in it (two of the rooms had actual bathrooms with their own, normal shower, but most of us weren’t as lucky.)     Bathroom doors weren’t allowed to be closed unless they were actively being used. We could only close the door to our room if we were changing clothes, or “with permission,” which meant we could only close the door when we were changing clothes. We were each given a plastic basket of toiletries with our name on it, given it us from a locked space in the nurse’s station after break and before we went to sleep.     At some point in the afternoon we would each be called away separately to go meet with a psychiatrist for a bit; a rotating door of short indian men that usually didn’t introduce themselves. The psychiatrists were nice but impersonal, concerned but not well-informed about your situation, fitting with the general theme the hospital seemed to have going. Once one of them took me outside to have our talk, in a little fenced in area with a basketball hoop but not enough room to really try playing with it. I don’t remember anything we talked about other than how I was feeling, how I felt about the hospital, same old thing again and again.
Every night after dinner, two patients that behaved well were allowed to order 1 soda and 1 candy bar from a vending machine outside our reach in the ward. I got a twix and a coke on my first full day, and all the other kids were simultaneously very jealous and proud.     The art therapy room was, like all walls in my world at that point, blue, but now with past patient’s art hung up and painted onto them all over, which was a welcome change. Art therapy only involved making art about three of the times that I went. Other times We’d have another group therapy session, or try and fail miserably to play ping pong, or be forced to watch the movie “Freedom Writers” and then talk about our feelings on it. My feelings were that it was a bad film with a nice idea.
The hospital had a Classroom right beside the cafeteria that the ad and pre-ad patients had to attend for three hours every school day. We went separately; the wards weren’t allowed to mix, especially after it turned out that a girl on our ward was the cousin of a kid on the pre-ad. Every week a new sweet older lady would be our teacher, a good samaritan volunteering her time to the hospital. Most of us were old enough that we would just work on our own homework from our school; i was lucky enough that my high school didn’t want to work with the hospital at all, and was unwilling to give me any assignments but the one’s I had brought with me. When I finished those halfway through the first day of class I was given general middle school level work packets and left to my own devices. When i finished those i started trying to help the others, usually M with his science worksheets, or I would spend as long as possible with one of the medical student interns going over a graded french test. I told G how to pronounce her name with a french accent, and she excited told every member of staff about her new name for the rest of the day.
The food, unless you were on suicide watch or “Finger Foods.” Finger Foods was the general terms for when someone had their privileges taken away after an outburst or trying to hurt themselves. You could only use crayons to write, couldn’t handle any sharp objects, were out of the running for a night time candy bar, and obviously, good only eat food with your hands in the cafeteria. Suicide watch Included all the rules of being on Finger Foods but with an added element of direct surveillance at all times; there were some people on suicide watch who were still allowed to be rewarded or participate in activities with supervision, because the restrictions were meant more for their protection than as a punishment. For my first two days at every meal a bulimic girl on my ward would be light-heartedly threatened with a feeding tube if she didn't eat. She and the nurses all seemed to think it was funny, so i just accepted it.     At one point we were promised a pizza for our good behavior. We never received that pizza. I’m bitter about that to this day.
Group therapy came in two flavors: there was actual group therapy where we would do therapy, but in a group, and then there was what group normally meant, which was “a nurse is going to come talk about some topic no one cares about for a while.” riveting topics covered in our sessions included personal hygiene and the importance of not doing drugs if you don’t already do drugs, which half of us did. Actual group required more emotional effort but at least I wasn’t going to be bored to tears by the end of the hour. The ward’s main therapist was a nice guy that happened to look exactly like sigmund freud. He also happened to not enjoy it very much when i blurted out that he looked like sigmund freud.     We were told multiple times a day by various nurses that shoes were a privilege and you would earn back your shows after you showed staff you were deserving of them. I never saw a single person earn their shoes, and not for lack of trying.     This was a problem because if a single person on the ward was without their shoes, we weren’t allowed to have time outside. Every time I’ve ever recounted this to someone they’ve seen the Immediate flaw in this system, but it apparently slid past all members of staff on a daily basis, despite continued incredulous whining from a dozen barefoot teenagers.On the fourth or fifth day, I was whisked off with no explanation to get an EEG (a test where they part sticker attached to wired attached to a machine on your head and listen to the electricity in your brain.) i was never told the results on that test or why i was getting it done. The lady washed my hair afterwards, which maybe up for the fact that i had to miss breakfast but didn’t make up for the strip searches before and after i left the building. At the very least it made G jealous i’d gotten to wash myself with anything other than the suspicious shower goo.
At some point i started routinely being woken up about a half-hour before everyone else to a nurse that would take my blood pressure. Then i would lay there, tired and confused, until we all had to wake up and get in taken as a group anyways. I asked about this every time they did it and was never given an answer as to why this was necessary. Honestly I think they might have just been messing with me.
We were supposed to refrain from asking for personal information about each other, and told that if we wrote down another patient's email or phone number whatever it was written on would be thrown away if found. Obviously we all worked around this; one girl secretly wrote names on her stomach an hour before she was processed for release, another kid wrote phone numbers in code. For me it was as simple as just remembering people’s last names so I could find them on facebook.
The hospital existed in a kind of twilight zone half in and half out of reality, where a crisis would occur every other hour but in the between times we were all bored to tears. Surrounded by such an intense atmosphere, staff trying to force an understanding of our lives being in our own hands, and we would just sit there, nodding our hands and coloring with our crayons. In a way the hospital was a sanctuary; no family to get into screaming matches with, no classmates to end up in a fist fight with. An environment meant to be scrubbed clean of all the stressors of day to day life.     Visiting hours happened twice a week; kids with visitors would go down into the cafeteria while everyone else hung around in the lounge. Usually it was just me and M waiting down there for our families; the visits were always entirely uncomfortable. My parents wanted to be sure I was being treated right, and held my hand with a guilty sadness that I didn’t really want to acknowledge. Free time didn’t offer very many options. We would play cards and coloring mandalas printed out on copy paper. I finished coloring about six of the things before a decided it would no longer be a helpful part of my mental healing journey. Our card game of choice was called “BS,” initially because it was the only game everyone who wanted to play cards seemed to know. BS became a highlight of our day, because of M. The hospital had a lot of rules about how to conduct yourself. We weren’t supposed to yell, run around, or touch each other unnecessarily. We also weren’t supposed to curse.     The name of the card game “BS” is short for “Bullshit.” the rules of the game are very simple--cards are passed out and someone decides to go first. In turns, everyone goes around, putting some cards face down on the pile and announcing what value those cards supposed were (someone put down two cards and says they had two jacks, etc.). Multiple cards have to be on the same value, if you think someone is lying, putting down more cards than they had to win faster, you point to them and call out that you think they’re lying. The challenged player turns over their cards, and depending on if they were telling the truth or not one of the players in penalized.     Usually the thing you yell out when you challenge someone is “Bullshit,” but we weren’t allowed to say that and were told to call it something else. M thought that this was a personal affront to him and everything that he stood for as a person. Every single free time, two or three times a day, we got into the routine of playing this card game solely to see this scene play out. We would start out normally and do as we were told, politely pointing out lies. M wouldn’t say anything. We’d go on for as long as we could, before someone would make an obvious play, putting down three jacks after someone else put two or saying they had five aces. Then, ecstatic, M would heave air into his lungs, jumping up and pointing at the other player and yelling as loudly as he could: “BULLSHIT!!”
He stopped being scolded for it around the fifth time because most of the staff thought it was hilarious. We’d stop playing the game immediately after that, our point achieved, all of us having got what we came there for.     We sat in the hall and shared stories about when each of us had lost our virginity, or the first time we’d been punched in the face. He giggled at Jared as he mimicked grasping at his bleeding nose. The nurses didn’t seem to find it as funny.         There was a general, noticeable disconnect between us and them, even the nurses we all likes the most. Not  really because of age, or because they were on the job. It was a feeling of disconnecting, not quite meshing with normal people, that all of us already went through life with separately-- and here, where we had community, that only intensified. For many of us this was the first time that our abnormalities had really been accepted and even admired by others. Being with the other kids in my ward was a time i felt freest, even in our restricted and controlled environment. None of them cares if i’d twitch and fidget, none of them minded my shiness or were caught off guard by the things I’d say. While the nurses would squint at me suspiciously if i repeated that they said or spiralled into babbling from our conversations, my new friends had all accepted these things by the third time they came around. I was allowed to express myself and allowed to not be able to, and it felt effortless to return the favor, because who was i to judge. Little outbursts, conversations that trailed off into blank stares, people needing to go walk around or cry or smack their seat five times before they sat on it, these things were all easy to look past. It was hard, however, not to notice the trouble staff still saw with them, and not to turn on them a bit for that. My friends accepted that i spoke weird, while the nurses would roll their eyes if i stammered. G would nod understandingly when I confided in her about the past while staff would react uncomfortably, their only help in offering to make police reports i didn’t want made. If I told the others i felt like hurting myself, they would show sympathy and talk with me about it; the one time I told a nurse i was “having urges,” like we were supposed to, I was put on finger foods.     This tension culminated in one particular group session. A thin older woman replaced our usual freud impersonator, loitering outside to chat with the nurses as long as possible before having to deal with us. We whispered to each other; no one had met or before, or seen her around the building. That was probably a bad sign. She told us to call her Olivia, I think.     Olivia was the worst therapist I have ever seen in action, and that should be frightening.     She commanded direct eye contact between her and the patient speaking, and that no one else speak until directly spoken to (interruptions are one thing, but discussion is just about the entire point of doing therapy in a group.) She gave us all a question she assumed would be simple enough for our tiny broken minds. “What do you think is keeping you here?”     I started echoing the hard way she said “What” and clamped my mouth shut as soon as possible. Usually I could keep the parrot in my head around doctors, with some effort; being open with my impulses around the others made it hard to start shutting up again. She took my weird reflex as volunteering to go first, and looked to me expectantly.     Its honestly the most stupid and annoying question you will ever be asked in a therapy setting. I never heard it asked in a tone other than condescending, and it's never failed to be ignorant; ‘Why do you think you’re here?’ is therapist code for ‘why are you messing up your life, and can you convince me it isn’t on purpose?’     I had a routine for this question that seemed to be shared with the others; attempt to answer honestly, listing all the things in and out of your control, your life and environment and symptoms, the fact that you are a complex human being with feelings and a past. Then, try not to sigh at your doctor and list some rehearsed line about how you guess you’re just a disrespectful child acting out for attention. I ran through it as quickly as possible, feeling restless and trying not to avert my eyes from hers or change my position too much as she would impatiently observe every movement. Usually I’d have something in my hands to funnel my stress into, but this had to be the one time I forgot to take one of my hoarded stress toys from the pile in my room.     Three more kids went after me, in the same routine, with varying degrees of sass. Then Olivia set her eyes on G. The rest of us shared a silent realization and looked to each other with worry, straightening up, thinking up ways to deflect Olivia onto something else. It was too late when G shrunk, laughing nervously and not meeting the womans eyes.     G’s home situation was truly heartbreaking to hear retold. I love and respect her too much to retell the details of it here, but Olivia spent what seemed like unending years of punishment pulling this story out of the girl, giving us a demeaning hush if we objected. It was surreal and we didn’t know what to do, stuck in a room with one authority figure under threat and tranquilizers, watching the friend we all openly adored the most be forced to recount such a cruel thing in such complete detail. Obviously she was crying, most of us were too. J sat alone on a couch beside Olivia’s, hands in fists, and I focussed on my fear for him instead of my fear of him. I was sitting beside G, being shushed at every concerned whine that forced its way out, unable to think of an escape plan because I couldn’t turn off my ears. It was when she reached a specific point of the story, G cut herself off and let out a sob and my hand automatically went to her shoulder. Olivia barked out, in the coldest tone I think I have ever heard, “No Touching.”     The room exploded, every one of us reacting at the same time with a vicious intensity. The others jumped to their feet, protectively leaning towards G. M pointed and yelled a few choice words hand selected for our doctor, R went for the door to get other staff, someone else just cried out at her hysterically. J lunged at the woman as G slid into my arms, looking away from what was happening and sobbing into my shirt. I put my hand on her hair half to comfort her and half to make sure she didn’t look back.     A dozen staff members crowded around the doorway of the room but only three actually entered; I don’t remember how it felt watching my friend try to choke out an old woman and be pulled away by security, but the picture of it in my head is crystal clear. A nurse, Cecily, had her arms out low but wide, making a barrier between us and the gasping doctor. Everyone was yelling, us at staff and staff at us. The intern that helped me with french came to guide Olivia out of the room and M screeched that he was a traitor, throwing a stack on coloring sheets in their general direction. Olivia said something under her breath as she left-- something about how we were terrible demon children, or how ‘never in all her years in the field’ something like this had happened, I think I forgot because her words aren’t worth remembering. We locked eyes for a split second before the slid out of the room, and I muffled “Occupational Hazard” into G’s hair.
For an hour after we were forced to sit and have alcohol poisoning explained to us until Freud Jr. Appeared. We were happy to see him but still furious, all on the same side against Olivia once we were finally asked what had happened. Everyone recounted the same story, agreeing loudly with each other, stopping to comfort and apologize to G and ask if she was okay. We stayed in that room for another hour, giving our testimony and demanding J shouldn’t be punished, or more begging they didn’t send him back to juvenile. Freud nodded solemnly as he listened to us the way only he and Jesus and two of the nurses did, meaning at all. He told us he’d see what he could do. We didn’t see J for the rest of the day and come morning, Jesus was his new shadow. He was on some kind of reverse suicide watch, with all the restrictions, but the league of nameless psychiatrists and hospital directors had agreed or been swayed to agree that J’s only real crime was being physically violent with staff. After dinner that night, I asked if he could have my candy bar, and threw it in the trash when I was refused.
    I was discharged after nine days on the ward, feeling no more or less suicidal, no more or less recovered, not more normal but not more different. I remember Rebecca calling me into the hallway to ask if i was afraid to go home. Of course I was, I told her! I was leaving friends I had connected to more in a week than I had with anyone in years. I was returning to a town of people like the staff, strangers that didn’t understand and only pretended to want to. I would be returning to my second month of high school, gone for the last week of September, though I’d barely showed up at all before then. I asked her what I had not to be worried about, but then dropped it, because I knew we were only having this conversation in case my answer alluded that my parents weren’t safe to go home to.
    The goodbyes I was given before 8 o’clock lights out were short and sweet and always, turning our attention back and forth between them and “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou!” playing on the television. I only slept an hour through that night, feeling about everything I could think to. In the morning, I was given my shoes while the others were lined up, in the middle of Checks. I waved silently at them and heard M call out “Bring a better book next time!” Before Jesus closed the double-doors behind us.
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applecherry108 · 7 years
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i’ve been horrifically suicidal for so long now and i finally had my psych appointment but my psych just gave me The Look and spent most of yesterday crying in her office unable to communicate bc i’ve been Numb and disassociating but my point is, no i haven’t made all the fucking calls she wanted me to (it’s fucking bullshit that i have to wrangle my own therapist wtf) bUT i am on day 2 of calling out from work and i actually have tomorrow off and HOO BOY four days in a row of no Retail Hell? i am feeling fucking better already.
“what would you tell your friend to do in this situation?”
“bitch how many times do i have to tell you that my best options for Getting Better are either to flat out get a different job or get some kind of supplementary income but u ain’t supporting my interest in disability so you’re the one causing an impasse stop pinning this on me damn”
tfw ur psychiatrist nurse practitioner just wants to give you Pity Looks and scold you for being honest about not making calls (”you have to put effort in here” “bitch have u not been listening? putting in effort i don’t have is what got me here why do u think i have spoons left?”) and keeps suggesting bullshit plans. “hang out with friends” don’t got anything asshole. “exercise outside of being on your feet for 5 hours a day!” no. since calling out of work i am giving myself multiple days to not only rest my feet and rest my shoulder by not wearing my bra. i got a dislocated collar bone and giant tiddies what part of my existence ISN’T pain? she keeps pushing a drastic med increase too but like my stomach has been jacked for days and honestly? flat out not going to work is doing more good for me than any* (*increase lmao i need my meds) amount of medication. and my roommatee when i said i was probably going to call out yesterday (which i did) said i should go in if i’m depressed bc “at least you’re not just sitting at home”
oh. my. GOD. i fucking love??? sitting at home??? doing NOTHING?? hanging out with my cats watching some movies finally getting around to doing the dishes, doing some dumb crafts?? replanting that onion i accidentally forgot about until it started sprouting???? and most importantly not being on my feet. not dealing with asshole customers and asshole management or Middle School Mean Girl coworkers. how do these people not get that i love having time to myself to just do Nothing bc it’s goddamn relaxing?? i can’t remember the last time i even had TWO consecutive days off!! let alone FOUR!!!! four that i didn’t have to spend 18 hours on planes to get to and from ohio bc let’s be real the only time i ever take ANY time off i have to fucking go visit my family. i am so!!! exhausted!!!! CONSTANTLY!!!!!! just being able to chill is a GODSEND. i actually feel recharged enough to job hunt!! or not be suicidal!! to not really want therapy anymore because god DAMN!!!! “what are 3 things you’re feeling? “.............does numb count?” “sure” “okay so numb, uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh angry? and uhhh///////////................ does anxiety count as a feeling/’ what’s the point in therapy if i’ve been totally divorced from all feelings emotions or everything really??? “why” “my job.” boom. done. problem goddamn fucking solved. “what stressors--” “my job.” “situations--” “my. job.” “if you could change one thing--” “MY FUCKING JOB HOLY HELL”
like oh sure i still have major anxiety and depression on a normal day but my meds manage that extremely well. what drives me to full fledged suicidal ideation is my. god. damn. job. “the bar for disability is very high--” “how much higher do i have to get than ‘i need income so i won’t be homeless but literally my job makes me want to kill myself. ‘are u nonfunctioning?’ only when i have to be at this shithole retail job!!!!!!!’“ like i looked it up. i meet every single requirement for depression disability ESPECIALLY when i’m at work. i just. need SOMETHING to pay the rent while i actually get a less stressful job that is, prefereably, not going to the job that makes me want to kill myself every single day.
i am looking. i’ve been applying. but lord almighty this job market sucks and i am a tall unattractive female who doesn’t wear make up so surprise surprise! guess who keeps getting shafted in interviews for bullshit reasons.
u know, if i had gone to work today i’d be balling my eyes out while typing this but guess what!! i’m  not!! i am 100% fine right now!! WOW!!! the miracles of NOT being in a stressful degrading environment!!!!
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