On Being Admitted
I can’t believe I’m sitting here. On my bedroom floor. Surrounded by the contents of my wardrobe. I’m packing. I’m choosing what to wear. I’ve just come home from an appointment with my psychiatrist. He’s told me to go home and pack my bags. He wants me admitted to the acute psychiatric ward for adults. And I’m sitting here deciding what to pack.
Instead of freaking out and panicking that my health has gotten to such a serious state, my treating doctor thinks I need 24-hour care, I’m oddly calm. I’m relaxed. I know I’ll be sedated. And that warms me. It’s a chance to rest. To shut off the thoughts. To stop the pain I feel.
The last twelve months I’ve tried to manage my condition with medication. And some days it worked. I have avoided attending my regular counseling and psychiatrist appointments. I thought I could manage it alone. With the help of my boyfriend. Little did I know I was slowly slipping down a huge black hole.
After he found me in the bathroom cutting the look on his face broke me. I knew I needed to get back into treatment.
The first phone call with my doctor was straight forward. I was told to come in immediately. My doctor assessed me and my current state of mind. I was almost hoping for the answer I heard. To be hospitalized. Sedation. Help. Care. Silence.
Once upon a time I would have been terrified if someone suggested I was to be admitted to hospital.
But now I sit here. Packing my bag. Choosing my clothes carefully. I’m being admitted.
I can finally rest.
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