TW: mental health crisis, suicidal ideation, hospitalization, psychosis
That first night in the mental hospital broke something in me…
To say the least.
My memory of it isn’t a video playing but instead a series of quick snapshots and short reels…moments of time all strung together to tell the story.
I remember bits and pieces of the admission.
My first one.
My first time having to resort to this.
I don’t think I will be able to accurately paint the picture of what it truly feels like to check yourself into an emergency room because it’s your last option.
Because if you don’t walk yourself through those doors right this moment and get help… well, there won’t be another chance to.
I don’t think I can possibly describe the feeling of total desperation that sits heavy in your chest, threatening your ability to breathe.
And soon you realize it feels like the desperation has actually invaded the spot where your heart used to be, this desperation. This awful agony that is a massive swirling ball of everything you hate about yourself and this moment and everything unfair in life…
I don’t think I could even begin to describe that.
The loneliness.
Sorrow.
The self-loathing.
The emptiness.
The nothingness.
It’s quite the cocktail of emotions, that sit heavy in your stomach like lead weights while you slowly drag yourself up to the check-in counter.
But your emotions are too much to carry anymore. They are pulling you down, threatening to knock you off your feet. It’s hard to stand, your knees are growing weak…
And then…
Look! There- on the wall!
What is that?
It’s a smudge.
..But it’s not.
It’s a caterpillar? …Slowly wiggling along.
This is where my brain pretty much…broke. Where it said, “Yeah….no.” We have had enough. We can take no more.
Time to check out.
✌🏼
And from that point on, for weeks that turned into months that turned into years…
I lived my life like a drugged zombie.
An experiment.
An animal in a zoo, something to be studied.
Learned. Categorized.
And then, adjusted.
I’m sharing this now not because it’s easy, but because I know I’m not the only one who’s been there, or is there now.
That night didn’t define me.
But it did become part of me.
Back then, I didn’t have a name for why the world felt so sharp, or why my brain spiraled the way it did. It seemed sudden, all consuming, and terrifying.
I didn’t know I was neurodivergent, had cptsd, and another half a dozen diagnosis on the way…or that I was likely autistic.
I just thought I was broken.
But I’m not broken.
I’m a human being who went through hell, and lived.
Now, I’m finding footing again. I’m learning, healing, recovering, and basically just…figuring it out along the way.
I still carry those memories, but they don’t own me anymore.
If you’ve ever felt like that…like the hospital is your last option, or your mind is turning on you, I want you to know:
You are not a lost cause. You are not alone.
And your story is still unfolding.
You matter.
-the mom with the forehead tattoo
Also – I’ve been slowly working on a series of writings about my experiences with psychosis, hospitalization, and coming into myself as a neurodivergent artist.
Eventually, I’d love to shape them into a book. For now, I’ll continue sharing here. If you’ve connected with these pieces, I’d love to know what’s resonated most for you. That really helps me know what stories matter to share.
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