Quote:
Originally Posted by shattered sanity
not like being a patient in the hospital, but miss it in general.
their are some nights I get really emotional because I'm not in hospital, and I don't know what's going on their
what are the nurses doing. what are they eating for food on the ward?. what are they watching in reception.
it's almost like I wish I was a robot, and could somehow connect to the hospital to see what's going on.
has anyone dealt with this and how do you cope with it?
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Good gawd,
NO!
I have a literal MORTAL FEAR of returning to a psych hospital or psych ward. I withered away for a total of eleven years combined in one or the other.
The nurses are doing as little as possible, if they’re not busy trying to undermine anything
good that may have accidentally occurred.
In the midst of anhedonia, I could not taste the food and it only served to fuel the constipation caused by two-thirds of my meds. I do not wonder what artificial meats or ersatz vegetables are being served.
I get overly emotional when told that I need to go through the ER in order to get a bed on the psych floor - I would rather go through another open-heart surgery, wide awake, than spend 24 hours in a psych hospital or ward.
If I sense any reality in depictions of psych-dungeons on television or in a movie I throw up. I also throw up when hearing or reading the word combinations of ‘school shooting,’ ‘assault rifle,’ and, more recently, ‘bump stock.’
I have hurled at many words or word combinations since 1963... ‘assassination,’ ‘assassination,’ ‘Detroit police,’ ‘assassination,’ ‘assassination,’ ‘Mayor Daley,’ ‘Chicago Seven,’ ‘Richard Nixon,’ ‘Kent State,’... and on until the current ‘bump stock.’ Had I been in Hawaii during the ‘missle launch,’ I would have required five changes of clothing.
I will not be hospitalized again. When I think of what might be going on in those horror shows I think of the padded rooms on the upper floors and the heavy-duty canvas of the straitjackets and how you can still draw blood whilst so constrained. I think of pretty pale girls in thin cotton shifts who cannot stop weeping and pretty pale boys trying to steal my shoes and old men, beaten with cinder blocks, liable to bleed out if not soon given care.
And old women who cannot recall their names.
Finally, I will ask myself if this confinement means that I will lose everything again and if there is any use in cooperating with those in charge or if I should just be quiet again.
For some of us, hospitals aren’t temporary sanctuaries.
Maybe ya just gotta try ‘em for a decade. Are you that interested in knowing what’s up?