Friday Morning
Waking up. Through my sleep laden eyes, I begin to sense the artificial light of the psychiatric wing. Slowly my ears become aware of the hospital's morning rhythm, once a foreign sound now a comforting murmur. My hospital sheets no longer emit an unfortunate disinfectant odor; they smell like me. I taste morning in my mouth. And my skin feels: stiff white sheets, cool morning air, slight throb of healing self harm scars, a book I fell asleep with.
It is November 2, 2012. 11/02/12. 02 November 2012. Friday.
I am alive.
Darkling I listen, and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, called him soft names in many a mused rhyme to take into the air my quiet breath.
but
Thou was not born for death immortal bird.
Lying in bed, I surf the waves of equal but opposite emotions. Gratitude. Disappointment.
My parents will be here to check me out around 10:00 am. I float through the morning with a sort of giddy anticipation. Both anxious and excited. Pack up my things. Last group. Exchange mailing addresses. Say goodbye to my nurses. Sign some paperwork. Retrieve my cell phone and "dangerous" items.
With a click and a buzz, the locked doors to the psychiatric unit are open. This new freedom is my second chance.
And I am not healed. I am keenly aware of my violently swirling thoughts, always on the verge of losing control. The fogginess in the corners of my vision. The darkness waiting to descend--suffocating. The Sadness with a capital 's'.
But I am healing.
Before my hospital stay, I felt like I was stranded in the middle of the ocean, drowning. Desperately trying to swim back to shore but using all my energy to just keep my head above the water. Today I take my first strokes back toward dry land. Some days I may only tread water. Some days I may swim closer and closer to solid ground and health. Some days I may feel like drowning again. This is my process.
It is November 2, 2012. 11/02/12. 02 November 2012. Friday.
I am alive.
Darkling I listen, and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, called him soft names in many a mused rhyme to take into the air my quiet breath.
but
Thou was not born for death immortal bird.
Lying in bed, I surf the waves of equal but opposite emotions. Gratitude. Disappointment.
My parents will be here to check me out around 10:00 am. I float through the morning with a sort of giddy anticipation. Both anxious and excited. Pack up my things. Last group. Exchange mailing addresses. Say goodbye to my nurses. Sign some paperwork. Retrieve my cell phone and "dangerous" items.
With a click and a buzz, the locked doors to the psychiatric unit are open. This new freedom is my second chance.
And I am not healed. I am keenly aware of my violently swirling thoughts, always on the verge of losing control. The fogginess in the corners of my vision. The darkness waiting to descend--suffocating. The Sadness with a capital 's'.
But I am healing.
Before my hospital stay, I felt like I was stranded in the middle of the ocean, drowning. Desperately trying to swim back to shore but using all my energy to just keep my head above the water. Today I take my first strokes back toward dry land. Some days I may only tread water. Some days I may swim closer and closer to solid ground and health. Some days I may feel like drowning again. This is my process.
I inhale. I swim. I hope.
Hold on to hope-magnificent hope!
ReplyDelete