My Stay at Seven East: Day One

by Noise Pollution

You guys may have noticed that it’s been over a week since I’ve posted anything, and that’s because I just spent some time in the mental health wing of my local hospital. It was hard in some ways, easy in others, but I thought I’d share the contents of the journal I kept while I was there. I broke it up into sections when I wrote it, and I will do the same here.


 

I think it’s Wednesday, June 4th, 2014

[Yes, that’s how I actually wrote the date, as it was true at the time. You’ll see that I continued to use it for the rest of the week, and that’s because I liked the way it sounded.]

I don’t think I belong here. I’ve made a big mistake. I have problems, but I’m worried that I’m making a big deal of very little. I’m taking up a spot here that someone who really needs it could use. I fucked up. I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up, and now I’m stuck at Seven East.


 

The meds they gave me are strong. I feel a little bit like I’m underwater. On the plus side, I don’t feel very stressed or down, which is new for me.


 

An insect bats against my window

and I am insecure

inside my room, outside of you

and I bat against it too.

 

I take my hand and trace the scars

seventeen years I’ve had

inside my room, outside of you

and I have had it too.

 

A spider crawls beside my head

and I am so afraid

inside my room, outside of you

but I am crawling too.

 

I walk in circles

and breathe the air

there’s nothing here for me

and then I choke and cough up blood

for everyone to see.

 

It’s simple to stay

but not to wrap my hands around the cup

I drink and spit it up.


 

I’m tired and I’m nauseous. I could almost speak to someone. But oh god, am I nauseous.


 

Not nauseous anymore.

Also, the food here isn’t bad.

There’s a guy here who claims to be here for issues with his stomach, but he’s crazier than all of us.


 

There’s a girl here who I feel pretty sorry for. She’s here for anxiety, and she’s clearly got it really bad. I see the look on her face, and I know a little bit of what she’s feeling. I’ve felt something similar, at least. Anxiety is different for every single person, but when I see her panicking face, it reminds me of myself, but even worse. I hope she gets the help she needs. She is a very kind person, and deserves to feel better.

Well, that actually applies to almost everyone here. I hope things become okay for all of them.

Maybe for me, too.


 

Over and over

the need needs food

will human weakness…

And as I act, I hate myself.

-Trouble, Lisa Germano


 

I am currently taking  five different medications every day. That’s fucking nuts.

 

 

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