journey not recovery

Sometimes at heart I feel institutionalized, meant to live in institutions. That life is partially ingrained in me deep down. Whether the circumstances are good or bad, it is my comfort zone. The second I'm admitted anywhere have a flock of patient friends and there are staff who come in to chat and catch up. There are people who like me and seem to care. There are also adversaries and power issues that play out and I am constantly repeating and fighting. This cycle feels inescapable at times. It feels to be at my core. I feel like an emergency, a walking crisis stitched up strangling on my words. Strapped down screaming. I am always snatching failure from the jaws of victory, perpetual patient wandering the halls hidden in hospital clothes. I was told early on I would either die or live out my life in a state hospital. When I got to a state hospital it seemed fulfilled. It still seems wrong that I forced my way out of there, lying and battling and flying under the radar, ...

Hospital roommates, unlikely pairs thrown together, laying across from one another. "I did not choose him/he did not choose me/we have no chance/of recovering/sharing hospital joy/and misery" (Hospital Beds- Cold War Kids).  I have had so many roommates throughout the years that I can deal with almost anything, including the day and night rumbling snorer, the late-night eater with crinkling chip bags, the girl who read my diary. There were women who struggled as much as I did, like when I woke up to my roommate choking out my name, a pillow case tied around her neck. The older woman I told stories to, read picture books, who wailed when staff talked to her. I have also found friends and saviors. Michele, sitting beneath the Christmas tree crying in the Eating Disorder unit group room, named me Punk. She was spunky, sneaking Splenda packs slipped into her sweatshirt for us. Flipping the nurses off behind their backs to make me laugh. Crocheting us scarves, Mother to ...

What if a hospital is the closest thing you've ever had to a home? Where do you end up? When I started getting admitted to McLean Hospital's PTSD and Dissociative Disorders Unit on a regular basis, it became this place I finally felt safe and loved for the first time in my life.  Why there ? You may ask. Seems like an odd place to find yourself to be at home, especially when hospitals have historically been a damaging experience for myself, stripped of rights, power, and sense of personhood. Proctor 2, however, was something special. Staff were kind, gentle, and uniquely trained to deal with individuals who had experienced major trauma, both men and women, though usually there were mostly women. When I was walked up to the unit for the first time, the first thing I noticed was the silence. Unusual for a psych ward at night. What is a home? A place one feels safe, like their physical and emotional needs are met. Family. Silent girls stalking hallways, whispers. a...

I haven't yet survived my life. What is survival if it hasn't been exactly voluntary? In mental health we speak sometimes about "resiliency." To me, that word means getting through something difficult and coming out on the other side. To me, it's not the same as strength. Instead, for me resiliency has not been a choice. I haven't made it this far because I have wanted to necessarily. I have endured pain, trauma, life-altering grief while being forced into hospitals against my will, hooked up to feeding tubes involuntarily when I wanted to starve myself to death, stitched back together when I cut an artery open, and had 911 called on me other times I've tried to end my life. Good luck? Rotten luck? Sometimes I can't be sure. But what I do know is that after all these years I don't feel like what people call a Survivor. I don't feel strong or really yet that I have chosen life. I feel I am living halfway, in a kind of Limbo. Alive but not ...