my beat is correct.

i woke up in the psych ward, but i didn’t mind because it was breakfast time. i don’t know if you’ve ever been in a mental hospital, but this is always the best part of the day. the staff has just switched over & the new nurses aren’t ready to start the day yet, so you have free reign. granted, the only “privilege” in a place like this is getting to eat the eggs & pancakes of the people released that morning. it’s kind of like being at ihop, except no one has laces on their shoes.

this place is comforting. neutral. i’ve been in enough of these wards to know i won’t get any better or worse; i’ll just coast on this pharmaceutical high until the doctors and art therapists tire of my recalcitrance. & in the meantime, my parents feel safe knowing i can’t kill myself while i’m here. well, unless i choke to death on a pill.

when you’re first admitted, you’re evaluated and categorized based on a human saffir-simpson scale. like with hurricanes, level 5 is the most destructive. so instead of having to tell each new doctor, nurse & orderly i stabbed my admitting nurse with a pen, they just give me a red wristband. sure, i’ll have to stay longer, but on the bright side, i get my own room. which, like everything in my life right now, is useless. normally i’d love my own room because i could masturbate without worrying that my shaking is going to wake my roommate on the bottom bunk. but right now i’m on so many pills i can’t even produce the spit i need to lube my fingers, let alone get wet.

so most nights are spent humming 69 love songs. i like that even without the music, my feet still know to tap & dance underneath the covers. i know it sounds silly, but that gives me hope, makes me think that even with all this stress & sadness, my mind still knows how to be happy.