Drool, Piano, If-Only's
I was thinking about explaining a little more about the hospital. It's an unusual experience. There's an intake time where they take your clothes and make you sign forms. I think they say that in some cases when you cannot be responsible for yourself, it's recommended to write and Advanced Directive, which means your care is entrusted to another person who will have essentially power of attorney over you. The problem with this is that I didn't have someone who I trusted to do that. Docs always tried to push this stuff towards my parents and only release me into their care. It was always trading one hell for another (back then anyways).
Once you're in the hospital, you wear a gown or scrubs and those little footy socks. The rooms are barren, much like a prison. It's set up so there is not way to harm yourself. At night there are checks every hour or so to make sure nothing is wrong. Sometimes there was a flashlight. There's basically a group of rooms with a center room that is like a communal space. There's a cafeteria type space. There's holding cells that function like solitary confinement. It really feels like jail. But they are also allowed to dope you up.
They put me on heavy heavy meds so I couldn't even close my mouth right and drooled a lot. A few family members visited me like this. It was rough.
Occasionally there were moments of peace. I remember enjoying some art therapy. I would mess with the piano and try to learn (one of my lifelong dreams). I would tell my parents I was going to become a great composer. (I still believe this). Sometimes talking to people helped. Sometimes the people who worked there were sort of kind. But mostly it was techs and people dolling out meds who roll their eyes and just keep offering a certain amount of ativan.
It's all hell really to sum it up.
I think one of the hardest parts in the aftermath of this wake was dealing with the rejection from the roommates and battling to get my things back. I remember them talking to me and being upset, like why didn't you tell us you were this sick (crazy). They felt jipped like I didn't give them the whole picture. But I had told them my story. And none of that made a difference.
I think back on this sometimes. It is true that in most of life we cannot be the person for someone else to lean on. And in this case there were not up to it. They cannot imagine how deeply it all hurt me, but more than the pain of rejection is the fact that they were putting me in my parent's care - sending me to what felt like the lion's den.
If ever you cannot be the person for someone to lean on, don't just shove them to the easiest taker.
And never ever tell someone that they owe you an ability to see the future. It was like they were saying I misrepresented myself as stable, when that was never the case.
Yes they encountered strangeness, but I also learned a new level of coldness from friends.
Once you're in the hospital, you wear a gown or scrubs and those little footy socks. The rooms are barren, much like a prison. It's set up so there is not way to harm yourself. At night there are checks every hour or so to make sure nothing is wrong. Sometimes there was a flashlight. There's basically a group of rooms with a center room that is like a communal space. There's a cafeteria type space. There's holding cells that function like solitary confinement. It really feels like jail. But they are also allowed to dope you up.
They put me on heavy heavy meds so I couldn't even close my mouth right and drooled a lot. A few family members visited me like this. It was rough.
Occasionally there were moments of peace. I remember enjoying some art therapy. I would mess with the piano and try to learn (one of my lifelong dreams). I would tell my parents I was going to become a great composer. (I still believe this). Sometimes talking to people helped. Sometimes the people who worked there were sort of kind. But mostly it was techs and people dolling out meds who roll their eyes and just keep offering a certain amount of ativan.
It's all hell really to sum it up.
I think one of the hardest parts in the aftermath of this wake was dealing with the rejection from the roommates and battling to get my things back. I remember them talking to me and being upset, like why didn't you tell us you were this sick (crazy). They felt jipped like I didn't give them the whole picture. But I had told them my story. And none of that made a difference.
I think back on this sometimes. It is true that in most of life we cannot be the person for someone else to lean on. And in this case there were not up to it. They cannot imagine how deeply it all hurt me, but more than the pain of rejection is the fact that they were putting me in my parent's care - sending me to what felt like the lion's den.
If ever you cannot be the person for someone to lean on, don't just shove them to the easiest taker.
And never ever tell someone that they owe you an ability to see the future. It was like they were saying I misrepresented myself as stable, when that was never the case.
Yes they encountered strangeness, but I also learned a new level of coldness from friends.
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