The smoke blows outside my window from chimneys on a nearby roof. I’m here again, cocooned within the mental health ward. It’s funny they name the ward after something we currently don’t have.
Once again I started out in group (this time psychotherapy) wondering how much I could admit before having to be admitted. Once again I was over that line and escorted to emergency to get involuntailrily committed.
It is lonely here, despite the people. My soul aches for colour, some flowers, sunshine. Each hour is a lifetime, each minute spent looking for something distracting. I find myself craving sleep. It is known as the little death and the best escape I can find.
Escape is an illusion. I can’t hind from my mind or my thoughts.
I was given, and turned in, a plastic knife on Saturday. The guard was young and cheerful, smiling each time they saw me. I didn’t want to cause them trouble. Could I have hurt myself with that knife? I don’t know. Did I regret turning it in? Yes.
Yesterday I cut myself with a peach pit. If you’re reading this and suicidal, I wouldn’t bother. It left the wimpiest of scars, although not as wimpy as the orange juice container.
Now I stsnd, both feet firmly in despair, straining to see hope in the future. And I wait.
**Posted by Emma.**
As a side note, I would like to mention that my mother is still in the hospital, and as such, will not be able to reply to comments right away. I will read her any comments left though, and if she asks me to, will post replies and/or updates.