Poetry: A bunch of unsolicited advice on Mental Health
Desperate enough to get yourself to a hospital. They give you Ativan and a dry cheese sandwich (maybe) while 3 doctors ask you the same questions about “why you’re here today," as you progressively get drowsier. After three or so days in a room with grey walls and Ativan-naps, someone will say that if you’re no longer suicidal you can leave. You choose to leave. There’s talk of an “action plan," but at least you’ll commit to the 30-day supply of Ativan.
I think the real plan is to make you see your real doctor before they run out. Successful transition.
You’re going to try drinking a lot of tea. You’re going to try essential oils. Yoga, excercise, mindfulness, mindless sex with strangers, some strain of weed that’s “good for depression," a face mask, a chocolate bar, a walk after a bad day. selfcareselfcareselfcare
You’re going to try it, is all.
Oils smell nice. Wine tastes good. It’s fine really.
Hobbies are great until they bore you or cost too much money or you realize you’re not very good at them or don’t like them and they don’t fix the emptiness inside (like, there’s only so many scarves a person could need)
Sex makes you happy but it makes you cry afterwards or it makes you very tired and kind of empty in the way that it feels when a thing that feels good is over.
Saying, “I don’t know why I do it," or “I don’t know why I feel like this," over and over and over and hoping someone doesn’t hear “suicide” in that sentence ‘cause you’re not in the mood for another hospital trip.
“People are fucking dying here and I just can’t stop crying."
And there’s your bed, always your bed.
always, your bed.