Girl Sort of Interrupted

In February of 2018 I was admitted into the Washington Adventist Mental Facility for a 72 hour hold. I needed to write honestly, to survive. To stay sane (as sane as one can be in a psych ward). So with a fat red Crayola marker and a wide ruled standard composition book, I recorded what I could. This is my first entry.

2/21/18

Day one in the psych ward. I think that's what they call it. It's nothing like Girl, Interrupted or Sucker Punch so that's disappointing. I guess it's because it's not all ladies. Men ruin everything. Basically it's just boring here. But I guess for people whose minds are ruining their lives and making everything difficult and chaotic, boring is probably for the best. I wouldn't mind being here if I had prepared for it. Maybe brought a bra, a cuter top, my skincare routine, my Lil Hazelnut teddy bear, a book. I also would've planned to be here when it wasn't so damn nice outside. They have these windows that are all fogged up so I know it's all gorgeous and sunny, but I can't actually see outside. I feel the warmth of the sun, but I can't get a tan. It's a huge tease. The food situation is much better than I imagined. I was picturing more of a "grool" situation. Or is it "gruel"... They have a menu that has the word saffron on it so that's impressive. They also have fries thank God. Ideally the place would be catered by Chipotle but it's ok I guess.

Essentially I feel like I'm in a dream, which is how I always feel after I cut myself. It feels like that was a weird bad dream. I can remember it but I remember it like I'm remembering a movie. I'm not in my body remembering what it felt like to be me. Cutting myself. Crying. I think back and it all plays like a movie that I'm watching from above. I'm watching a person who looks like me but isn't thinking or acting like me. Because the “me” I know wouldn't do something that irrational and frankly... stupid. So I'm dealing with the fact that there's a "me" that isn't me, and that feels very trippy and dream-like. I also feel like the nurses always ask the wrong questions. Like they should get by now that I don't know why I cut myself. Who in their right mind would do that? Who would have a rational reason for doing that? It's not a "this happened so this happened" kind of scenario. Seems like it should be obvious that it's caused by my mental imbalance. Like, I'm not choosing to be this way or end up in this place.. Physically and mentally. Obviously I wish I could be super normal. Like the way I usually am. I wish that was me all the time. I wish my emotional fluctuations were minor like most peoples'. Where sad means you can do something to feel better. Sad has a solution. I wish my emotions had off buttons. Or at least a volume down.

I feel like I'm floating. I'm not really here. And this place doesn't help that feeling. With its muted windows and beige everything and its bizarre rations of soap and toothpaste. Nothing is really yours. Nothing smells like you. Everything is generic. You start to feel generic too because you're just a piece in a puzzle that always looks the same. The nurses and doctors are used to people like you. They're used to feeding you. Answering your questions. You're not new. They've heard your problems before. Some other girl has had them. I also feel like I'm floating because I don't know where to go from here. I never know what to do after cutting. But I really don't know. Do I stay in here more than 72 hours? Do I need that? No clue. Do I need new meds? Stronger meds? I don’t know. Do I need more therapy? A different form of therapy?

Am I ever going to have the life I want to have? What if I'm just fooling myself and this will always be my life.

Things I miss:

Music

Instagram

Netflix

Oreos

Koki and Ham

Camille

Other books/mags

I kinda want a brownie..

Cute clothes

Fucking SHOES

Chips

Honestly I want a beer but probably shouldn't

Could also use a bubble tea...

My skincare

The outdoors

Feeling normal

. . .

This is my second entry in wide ruled composition book given to me by a stubborn and dismissive nurse. Written again with a fat marker, because anything thinner than a hot dog could be used to harm. But we did get plastic forks at meal time so there’s a little disconnect there. There were a couple safety discrepancies like that. The phones had no cords, if we wanted to make a call we had to ask to for the cord and connect it to the wall. But the awesome napkin fabric pants had drawstrings that could be removed and used for bad stuff. Anyway here we go.

2/22/18

I was going to say I lost track of what day it was (which I have) but that's just normal me, that's not because I'm in this place. Although being here definitely doesn't help. I'm learning how much I depend on my phone. I don't know the day or the time. I can't Google random unimportant questions. I'm lost. Also I now officially hate markers so that's sad. This place ruined that one special joy. It might also ruin apple juice for me, but I'm really going to try not to let it.

I mostly just feel stupid. Having depression makes me feel dumb. Like my emotions aren't very smart. Like they have a 1st grade reading level. They're nice and all but kind of... behind. Emotional school should actually be a real thing. Before emotions become a problem. Pre-therapy. I can't wait to take my kids to Emotional School: School for Feelings. They're going to be such sweet hippies. I didn't even have such a bad childhood and still don't have a bad life yet I can't wait to have children so I can give them all these experiences I wish I had. Some of the things I want for them are things I had too. Because in many ways I do like how I turned out. But there are still a few key things I would tweak.

I'm still not used to this place which feels like a good thing. I can't tell if the days are really long because I wake up earlier than usual or because I don't do anything with my day. Because there are plenty days when I'm home doing nothing and those days don't feel as long. Honestly maybe it's not having a TV to watch. TV makes the day whiz by. It's actually kind of terrifying. But I want that now. I want to press fast forward and be done here. It kind of feels like a bubble in here. I can't imagine what the world is doing. It's like time is standing still and when I walk out the door time will resume. I should probably write down the stuff I'm learning.

1. Ups and Downs are life. Neither last forever. Pills help the downs be less down.

2. Learn to be more authentic and honest with yourself.

3. To motivate: think about just taking one step in the direction of where you want to be. Put just one foot in the door. Don’t try to throw your whole body into the room.

4. Maybe collect nice things people say about you so you can reflect later. Maybe put them on Post-Its and paste them around your room.

5. Art therapy? And also group therapy. (Find one for cutters.)

6. Get a better jump on med refills. Put a reminder on your phone a month in advance.

…

2/23/18

Of course the day I'm leaving is the day I don't feel great. Not awful but certainly more down. Drained. Like a lump. "A potato with ideas", like Novak puts so perfectly.

This lady Cristina feels like my responsibility. I'm the only one who makes her feel heard because I speak her language. And I know how silenced and crazy us depressos feel, even without a language barrier. She's so sad and misunderstood and she deserves respect and attention so I want to make sure she has that. Just like everyone else here. I feel so responsible for other peoples' feelings. I feel like if I'm here, if I can do anything that would help even a bit, then I absolutely have to. And that often means feeling like I can't share my darkness with anyone. I don't want to be a burden. I shouldn’t be any extra stress in anyone's life. It’s not fair to put that on them. And I really don't see why they would care. I don't know why I feel like people don't care or aren't interested in how I feel.

I don't feel chipper and funny and energetic today. But I'm starting to realize that's ok. I am depressed but not at my lowest place. I feel ok today. And that's ok.

It's ok to just be ok.

I always feel like I have to be a lot. I have to be a lot of personality, wit, smiles, and laughs. I feel like if I'm around people I have to be somewhat entertaining and if I don't have it in me I must fake it. Faking it comes easily though, I don’t notice I’m not actually ok until I’m alone. The only time I feel like I can take my mask off is when I'm alone. I get to take a break from being on display Being alone doesn't always work out though. I was alone when I cut myself. I need to just exist in this "ok-ness" and not make a big deal about not being so exhaustingly amazing. I don’t need to be anything more than ok.

This is a collection of three journal entries. They were written in the three day span of my stay in the Psychiatric Ward of Washington Adventist Hospital after an episode of self-harm. It is a mix of the comical observations of being in such a uniquely peculiar place, reflections of someone who has hit one of the lowermost points in her struggle with depression and anxiety, and the random thoughts that arise in times of immense boredom. I decided to journal during this time to remember my experience but also to sort of keep in touch with myself while I was I going through a period of a lot of change and an inability to recognize myself or my actions.