The morning started like every other day: the routine, breakfast, then nothing until group therapy. I was sitting in the day room, staring into space, when the social worker called me into his office. He asked several questions without even looking up. He just kept typing into his computer like I was invisible. When he finished, he “excused me” from his office — dismissed, really. His questions were pointless, the kind that tell you nothing and help no one. He didn’t care about anything except whatever box he needed to check on his screen. Ya, that was effective.
Two days later, I was summoned by the doctor. Another joke. He was cold, detached, and managed to make me feel genuinely unhinged just by the way he phrased things. Then he told me about the three‑day release policy. If I signed it now, I could be released Monday.
I was furious. I started to cry. Why wasn’t I told this when I arrived? I had already been there for 8 days already.
He claimed he’d “looked for me several times” but couldn’t find me. Really? One corridor. Twelve rooms. Twenty patients. He couldn’t have tried very hard. I signed the release and stormed back to my room, blind with anger. Crying, sputtering, pacing — everyone on the unit knew exactly how I felt.
I hid in a corner until a med tech found me. I vented about being stuck there five more days, insisting the place just wanted more money. I grabbed my journal and started writing every mean word I could think of. I went through the alphabet, finding a new insult for each letter. I did it several times until I switched to my intake workbook. I filled every page with angry, unfiltered garbage. I wrote that I wanted to die and didn’t care anymore. I ended up hiding it under my mattress. If anyone had seen what I wrote I was going to be locked up for life.
If they were going to hold me there, then fine — I’d act like someone who needed to be held. Hospital red tape at its finest. None of it was fair. I didn’t think I belonged there anymore, and I was done pretending otherwise.
So behaving stopped being a priority. If they wanted “unstable,” I could give them unstable. At least then someone might finally pay attention.
K.
Read more about the mess I’ve been trying to survive, →