This should be a catch-up post as I have been gone for a couple of weeks. The reason for my absence is that I was in hospital. Coming to that conclusion was probably not too far a stretch for anyone who checks in here regularly.
I am not going to write out the story of how I managed to evade hospitalisation on a Friday night 2 weeks ago even though I was sectioned for a few hours only to end up being admitted on the following Monday. I’m also not going to describe the people, food or surroundings that is the psychiatric hospital experience; many of you have been there and I think those descriptions/stories can wait …
For the record, I am still homeless. I have been out of hospital less than 24 hours, I am missing my dog like crazy, and I am staying with what appears to be a mid-level drug dealer who seems intent on using up the (very) little money I have on smokes and other niceties .. actually, that isn’t a fair description of him but I have the feeling this little rooming arrangement, which is to be a week or so at the most, is going to be a post of its own so, I will also come back to that.
A rather large amount of writing stating what I am not going to write about, and this is how I feel: gluggy, unsure, kinda shell-shocked and most definitely at crossroads.
The hospital has put me on anti-psychotic meds and they are doing their job – I am most certainly not psychotic but I don’t think I ever was.
The medicated me is the one who comes to accept. She accepts that the world is basically boring, ordinary, predictable, manufactured and she quietly gets in line with everybody else to do/be/have/make/know the ‘correct’ way to live and to love.
I prefer the other me, the one who screams ‘fuck that’ at acceptance and struggles to find a different way, even if she does fail most of the time.
I don’t understand myself on meds, I don’t understand how the me who rages at the banality of the world can possibly allow herself to just lie down .. to accept. Yes, my life becomes easier, more comfortable, more safe …. Is that what we should be striving for? Comfort and safety? I am terrified of losing me to the meds; of accepting/wanting … comfort and safety.
Trying to write this post even feels like a struggle, like writing through glue.
I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to be OK with this fucked-up and narcissistic, money worshipping culture that is populated by assholes.