My Mental Hospital Experience!

This was surely not any agenda of mine, being nullified in expression and seemingly nullified physically.   Near midnight,  I started to have these monstrous seizures.  I probably should have waited this out.  But destiny had other plans in mind. But as I arose to pack for the ER,  I fell.   Many items came down with me.  My corpulent cat was hiding behind the dresser and came out to see how I was.

She has an innate ability to discern disturbances that are emotional and physical.   Her support was at a safe distance.    Alternating paroxysms further enhanced my trepidation and Paramedics offering commands that I could not execute.  When I was aboard, the screaming sirens and ministrations of First Responders, further causing my bafflement.

At the ER,  I was given Atavan to diminish my distress,  moved to a triage area, which must be a kind of waiting room. for the insane,  I guess.   As I arrived there, I became a bit more lucid and a lot more dubious of my condition.  Long story short, the Doctor sent shivers down my spine as I was advised that I could volunteer or be induced too, with athe involuntary fate, much worse for the wear.

Arriving at the hospital,  I remarked to the person at the desk,  that this is surely a jail and he consolingly implied,  that it was not.   I was in fact,  diminished,  limited and just wondering what had happened.

After my entrance,  into the umbilical tether of mental health,  I felt lost.  Like Air Force Basic Training, sans shoe laces and a shave.   Once the skin check,  non-invasive but no less obtrusive, I donned medical garb,  we all have the grasp of that situation.  Flowing rhetoric and mindfulness.

I am sure that my consternation did not make my accommodations any less Bohemian.   A full-sized bed,  with a relatively thin mattress.  The rooms were bare but really clean and er, safe.    After making the bed sleep worthy,  I fell into a fitful sleep,  garnering about 40ish minutes of more slanderous slumber.

Then at 6:30AM,  I thought I was reliving the aforementioned basic training.  One guy in the food line,  kept raising his hands (one-at-a time) high into the air.  His bunk-mates seemed to pay him no mind,  but new admit-tents were a bit shocked .

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Okay the food was decent and rooms clean.  Groups were fairly well run, and actually did gather some useful tips,  with ersatz coffee,  blended and roasted.  As the days passed,  my bewilderment slackened and it was kind of fun.   However, at each crisis, I was becoming more aware at this dichotomy of egress and a curfew of 11PM.   Felt like something didn’t quite fit and yet,  helping others muddle through.

I guess the therapist’s notes, saying my intelligence was very high, was a temporal aphrodisiac,  in a place where spoons doubled as knives and shoes strings were sublimated into lashes.  I did all that I needed,  in the first day.  I actively participated, and read books like a magic carpet ride.  I negotiated around the titular gendarmes and picayune rules meant for us all.  A few dust-ups and a litany of users, getting methadone and other meds.

In the end,  my regular Psych was baffled why I was in there, in the first place.   I pleaded with the ER,  that the information for the Epilepsy and so-called Bi-polar (Manic) congealed and morphed into a misdiagnosis.   When freedom rang,  I pushed for expediency,  with shoes tethered tight,  my personal belongings that were sequestered, in twin bags.   In the words of Kurt Vonnegut, “So, it goes”.   Inside,  we were lodged into a Miasma, with my name on  it.  Now,  I was emancipated with croons and cries and a  bit of dishevelment to boot.

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