#tw mental institute

[vieramars]

Jon arfid headcanon: even before he acknowledged Martin as anything more than a nuisance, the tea Martin made was the only drink he could have that he didn't prepare himself. During season 2 he stopped drinking the tea because his paranoia got so bad that everything felt unsafe and he couldn't even eat outside his own home, but when he realized Martin had only been lying about his CV, his tea was the first thing to be accepted back into Jon's safe foods.

[thusspoketrish]

New Chapters | The Art of Getting By

NEW CHAPTERS: Chapters 5 and 6!

EXCERPT, Chapter 6:

Louis leans in then, his tone callous, and says, “Well, maybe your feelings don’t matter as much as you think.” Harry trembles, suddenly feeling nauseous. How often had he felt that way because people constantly dismissed him? His concerns were always brushed off, sometimes with dire consequences…Voldemort, Draco, Snape, Finley…it’s all rushing back to him now. It’s as if he’s reliving the same frustrating experiences, only this time, it was in a sterile, suffocating room filled with strangers. The anger, the sense of betrayal, the helplessness—all hits him at once. “Fuck you,” Harry hisses, a cold anger threatening to settle in the centre of his chest. “It’s clear you don’t care about what I think, but guess what? We would all be fucking dead had I not acted out on my paranoia! So you listen to me, Louis. You have no idea what it’s like to be in my bloody shoes, constantly being doubted and called crazy! I’ve saved lives because I trusted my instincts. And I’m sick of people like you belittling me—!” “Freeze!” Sarah nearly shouts, startling Harry. She steps forward. “Okay, let’s take a breather; try to diffuse that surge of anger. Count to four while you inhale, hold your breath for four counts, then exhale for four counts, repeat. Both of you.” Harry shifts his weight from one foot to the other, closing his eyes as he tries to focus on breathing. He goes through a few rounds before the sharp edge of his anger begins to dull. He opens his eyes, noticing Louis' expression seems softer. Sarah nods. “Excellent. Unfreeze!”

Read The Art of Getting By on AO3, here.

Please mind the tags and warnings.

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I need to give another shoutout to my glorious beta, @youknowyoudid for the phenomenal work she's been doing in triple checking over these chapters!!! Thank you!!! x

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Image Text:

The Art of Getting By

Chapter 5: The Wilhelm Scream Chapter 6: Folded, and Unfolded, and Unfolding

Written by Trishjames and Edited by YouKnowYouDid

[uncanny-tranny]

I sincerely believe that institutionalization is a deterrent for healing. The state of many institutions is incapable of handling people in acute need, and more often than not, we are traumatized from institutionalization because of this reality.

[roger-d0dger]

Roger what happened after the island

TW: Asylum imagery/mistreatment

It’s a long, long story. My father sent me off for a few years to a wretched place where they tried to ‘fix’ me. I was the only one sent to such a place. While the other boys were held tightly by their parents when we finally made it home, I was sent away without a word.

When I finally was released from that horrid place, I returned to my old boarding school. Jack was the only one of them that still talked to me, all the others were either too scared or banned from doing so. I’ve always been quiet, but I felt even more disconnected from others when I returned. I really only spoke to Jack; in return, he always spoke for me when teachers or other students would try and communicate with me.

I will always feel like I left a part of me on that island. I never felt like I was built for society. Sometimes I feel more animal than human. The island was my freedom. I feel like being back in civilization is a prison I will never escape.

The dark thoughts and urges still plague me, even to this day. The blood on my hands has left a stain that will never be washed off. I have always been, and will always be, a monster. The difference is that now, after the island, everyone knows just what kind of evil I am capable of.

[little-peril-stories]

The Queen of Lies: Her Speech is Nothing

Story Intro | Content Warnings | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Contains: outdated/problematic/ableist language, icky gender and power dynamics, asylum, death mention, lady whump, betrayal, generally uncomfortable medical setting, statements by the antagonist that allude to sexual assault and fall into both ableism and victim-blaming

Please heed the warnings!

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Word count: 3000 || Approx reading time: 12 mins

Her Speech is Nothing

Teaser: After the darkness of the carriage, it was bright outside despite the lack of sun and the still-falling drizzle, and Bree blinked as her eyes adjusted. Something twisted in her stomach when she realized they were not where she expected. “Where are we?”

Baden spoke quietly to Dr. Gysborne, and Bree didn’t listen.

He brought her back outside, and she let him.

He did not tell her where they were going when he helped her into a carriage, and she didn’t care.

What difference did it make, anyway? She knew where they were going. He would take her back to the house, and she’d be his pretty possession once again, and unless she could find another way out, everything she’d done to escape her fate as Baden Hatchett’s wife would mean absolutely nothing.

The city rolled past, grim and soaked with rain. In a motion stiff and hurried, Baden tugged the curtains closed, concealing the world outside behind a bulwark of maroon velvet. With nothing to look at, Bree leaned against the wall and pretended to sleep. The minutes dragged on, poisoning every thought with guilt and sorrow.

She tried not to think of Jamie, who had to be cursing her very name—she, the silly girl he’d worked for so many years ago, grown into the silly woman who’d ruined his life and his brother’s. And Colette and Geoff? They must be cursing her, too, especially Geoff, for she’d seen the way he and Jamie looked at each other, the way their hands entwined whenever they were at rest.

It took all her self-control not to open her eyes and peer down at her own empty hands and think of the fingers that should have been laced with hers.

No matter how she tried, she could not banish Will from her thoughts.

Will, and how he must be hurting. How he must resent her, too.

“All right, Breanna. Let’s go.”

She opened her eyes. The carriage had stopped, and Baden was holding out his hand.

With no other choice, she accepted it.

After the darkness of the carriage, it was bright outside despite the lack of sun and the still-falling drizzle, and Bree blinked as her eyes adjusted. Something twisted in her stomach when she realized they were not where she expected. “Where are we?”

It seemed for several long moments that Baden would not answer.

“We’re at the hospital,” he said, pulling her forward. “Were you not listening? Gysborne suggested I take you to another doctor. To ensure you’re well enough to…” He paused. “Return.”

“I feel fine,” she said, although it was perhaps the most blatant lie she had ever told. “I want to go back. I only want to rest. I want to go home.”

Home. Bree felt sick. Home was not that cold and draughty manor with its locked windows and doors. Home could not be found in a four-poster bed shared with a man who didn’t want to be there, either.

Home was a tiny townhouse with thin, warped windows and uneven floors. Home was sunlight streaming through too-old curtains and mingling with the earthy-scented steam of freshly brewed tea. Home was a warm hand in hers, worn books with the pages falling out, generous laughter, and happiness like she had never known before.

Home was Will.

But, she tried to comfort herself, the sooner she made it back to the house she’d once called “home,” the sooner she might make it back out.

“I am concerned, and I want you to be well,” said Baden, his fingers crawling to her upper arm. “Come along.”

The hospital was almost pleasing to look at, rather like a house: a sprawling manor with glass windows and lovely, old trees dotting its grounds, tendrils of ivy swirling up the red-brick walls. On a sunny day, in the brilliance of summer, it might have looked homely. Welcoming.

Today, in the autumn gloom, it seemed to Bree like the nightmarish, haunted building of a Gothic novel; there was something insidious about the dim light, the choking ivy, the dead leaves scattered on the ground, the bare branches scraping at the air. Something about the shadows and the rain created the impression of bars over the windows—almost as if they had not left the prison at all.

“Good afternoon, doctor.” With a curt nod, Baden greeted the man waiting for them. Behind him, in the doorway, stood a nurse in a stiff white cap.

“Where are we? Which hospital?” she pressed. A sensation like thousands of tiny legs crawling over the back of her neck made her shiver with unease. “Baden, tell me, please—”

“Thank you for being so accommodating,” Baden said to the gentleman, shaking her into silence, “on such short notice. I would like you to examine my wife, Mrs. Hatchett. I have an initial report from Dr. Bernard Gysborne.”

Now there were two of them: the older doctor with cold blue eyes and a red beard peppered with silver, and a younger one with dark hair and a pale complexion. He was silent, watching Bree with a mixture of wariness and pity.

“Of course, Constable Hatchett,” said the older doctor. “I’m Dr. Richards. Please, come inside, out of the rain.”

“Baden,” Bree said, her heart pounding, although she did not know why it protested so, “I want to go home. Please. Now.”

But Baden said, “Once I am convinced of your good health, Breanna.”

“I’m not hurt,” she said, pulling away from the door. “You heard what Dr. Gysborne said. The cut is healing. Please. Let’s go.”

He jolted her forward with an impatient sigh. “Come along.” As they crossed the threshold, the wind began to howl outside, and the rain began to fall in a violent barrage once again. “This is for your own good.”

So he said, yet this examination seemed much the same as Gysborne’s. In a bleakly lit room lined with dusty wooden panels, the younger doctor, whose name Bree had missed, checked her breathing, her heartbeat, her eyesight, and her healing arm, while Dr. Richards asked a series of irritating questions that all had obvious answers—her name, her age, what had happened to her. It seemed to Bree he might have known if he’d simply read Mr. Gysborne’s report. There were a few others, though, that puzzled her: And what is your husband’s name? Where do you live? In what country do we live? What year is it?

“I’ve already been through this,” she said when her patience was wearing thin. By the desk, the doctors spoke quietly to the nurse. She could not hear what they said. “Baden, just show them Dr. Gysborne’s report. He already did these tests. Please, I’m—I’m so tired—I just—”

A crackle of paper had her lifting her head in surprise. Baden had listened; he had done as she said. For once, he had obeyed her.

Dr. Richards scanned the report with a frown.

“This seems insufficient evidence,” said the dark-haired doctor, peering over the elder one’s shoulder. “One prison medical officer’s quick assessment hardly seems adequate reason to—”

“You don’t understand,” said Baden harshly. “It’s much more than what is written here. You want evidence? You shall have plenty.” When he looked at Bree, she quailed again, her mouth going dry when she beheld the grey fire in his eyes. “Ask anyone who has witnessed her behaviour these recent weeks. Even before she was abducted. She forged my signature to join some silly women’s society—yet never once mentioned it to me, never even asked. She repeatedly, illicitly entered the prison under false pretences to visit a known criminal with whom, as far as any of us know, she had never had any contact before. And not just to visit him, but to enter his cell and care for him like she fancied herself some sort of nurse. She was caught, of course, and could not give a single good reason for why she did it.”

“Baden,” Bree whispered, a dreadful sense of cold settling over her body. “Why are you telling them all—”

“The housekeeper reported she wasn’t sleeping and was speaking and behaving strangely. She sent a letter filled with sheer nonsense to one of her friends, feigning a need to prepare for a visit from some fictitious cousin. She lied to me and my superior. She stole a set of keys from a constable. And she helped that blasted criminal escape.”

Dr. Richards gaped at Bree in horror, while the younger doctor’s face turned a brilliant shade of red.

“She was seen in men’s clothing, gallivanting around town and fleeing from those who tried to help her, and when we found her again today—just look at this!” He took hold of her arms and wrenched them both upwards, displaying the cut and the Iustitia aecum emblem.

Bree tried to jerk out of his grasp, to no avail. “Baden, what—”

“And this!” Releasing her arms, he forcibly tilted her chin up to expose the bruise, that scarlet letter on her neck that she should have known would spell her doom—the evidence of her infidelity, illuminated for these two strange men who now would not take their eyes off her.

Mortified, Bree jerked from his grasp and leapt to her feet.

But Baden was quick and strong as he always was; he apprehended her easily. As the nurse darted to block the door, Bree cried out, struggling to fight Baden’s grip while he held her still. No one else seemed to realize that Baden was clenching her tightly enough to hurt.

“Does any of that,” Baden snarled, his grip constricting even more as he pointed at the bruise on her throat, “sound like the behaviour of a sane person? Would a woman in her right mind let such a beast defile her in this way?”

Bree’s vision went, for an instant, pitch-black.

“It is clear to me,” Baden said, letting go only long enough to spin her around and force her to face him, “that you are very ill, Breanna, and I cannot help you through whatever hysteria you are presently suffering through.”

“Hysteria?” she repeated, as black spots threatened to eat away at her consciousness again.

“The lies. The sneaking around. The forged signature. Running away. The marks that bastard left on you.” Without warning, he let go. “Everyone agrees that you have been out of sorts. Officer Lenton. Mrs. Dennison. Your friends, even the silly one married to the soldier who tried to cover for you—even she was swayed in the end. It cannot be denied that you are unwell. And dangerously so.”

“Dangerously so…” she echoed. “What are you saying, Baden?”

“I am saying…” he began, his voice tight. No emotion leaked through now; he’d locked it away behind its usual frigid barricade. “I’m saying that you need help that I cannot provide, but I cannot trust you in our home, nor can I, despite all you’ve done, have my wife as an inmate in my prison.” He swallowed, every muscle rigid, his throat bobbing. “You have left me no choice.”

It sank in.

“No, Baden, please don’t do this.” Bree’s eyes finally took in what was all around her, what she had missed because she hadn’t been paying attention: boxes and papers stamped with three letters: G.I.A.

She looked frantically around again, seeking the answer.

Greyhurst Insane Asylum.

“You can’t leave me here!” she gasped.

“I can, and I will.” He shook his head. “You expect me to leave you in our house unsupervised? What will you do next? What will I come home to? A pile of ash and rubble? A corpse? A gang of thieves planning their next heist in my sitting room? No. I can’t. You’ve humiliated me, and perhaps you did not know what you were doing. In fact, I’m quite certain you did not. But all trust between us is gone.”

“Don’t,” she begged. “I’m not—I’m not mad.”

“Then explain yourself!”

Bree shook him off, and when, to her surprise, he let go, she backed away. “You’re just going to lock me away? I’m your wife! And I’m perfectly sane! How could you?”

“Do you see this?” Hatchett said, gesturing furiously as she tried to run, only to find herself immediately detained in the arms of the younger doctor. “Do you hear this? How she denies her mental infirmity? How she defies me at every turn? My wife has completely lost her senses.”

“You can’t do this to me!” she gasped, trying to wrench herself free of the doctor. “I’m—not—I’m not—ill!”

“The injury,” Baden said, pointing at her arm. “She did that to herself.”

Time seemed to freeze.

No. No. He couldn’t be saying that—couldn’t be using her own lie against her.

“Perhaps a straitjacket would be best?” Dr. Richards mused, utterly calm while Bree’s world crumbled around her. He rummaged in his leather bag for something Bree couldn’t see. “If she’s a danger to herself? Nurse Dugford, if you please—”

A straitjacket. One of those—god, one of those wicked contraptions they made poor, unfortunate folks wear that bound their arms—

“No!”

Bree’s shriek sliced through the air. Even Baden took a step back upon hearing the terror in her voice.

“I lied,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t cut my arm.”

Baden watched her, face impassive.

“He did it to me,” she choked, letting her limbs end their struggles, letting her body surrender alongside her resolve. As she gave her husband the story he wanted to hear. The only one he would believe. “It was him. He hurt me.”

“I knew it,” Baden breathed. His eyes flashed. “Why did you lie? Why do you insist on protecting him? After all he’s done?” He took a step toward her again. “What is he to you?”

Bree began to sob. How could he ask her that? For words she could not say, for an answer she could not give?

Her legs gave out beneath her, forcing the young doctor to cautiously release her. “Nothing,” she said. The word hurt. “He’s nothing to me. I was just afraid.”

Baden flung his hands into the air. “Nothing she says makes a whit of sense. This is the third story she’s given today to explain the cut. First, it was a pair of strange boys. Then she cut her own arm. Now, she didn’t.” His breath, too, was rapid. “He means nothing to her, but she lies and lies, all to save his sorry soul from the gallows.”

Gallows.

The gallows.

“The—what?”

But Baden ignored her, as if he hadn’t shattered her completely with that single word. But it was wrong—that word was wrong. What would Will’s sentence have been if she hadn’t helped him escape? Labour. Prison. Some other miserable, drawn-out fate.

Execution was never supposed to be the end of his story. Never.

What did he do to you?

He made good on his threats, didn’t he?

Would a woman in her right mind let such a beast defile her in this way?

No matter what she said, no matter what she did, Baden would only believe that Will had taken her by force in every sense of the word. And that was a crime a man like Baden Hatchett would never let slide. Not against his property.

A crime for which Will was now sentenced to pay the ultimate price.

You did this. A smug, sneering voice sang out from the recesses of her psyche, vindicated in every accusation that had hovered half-hidden in her thoughts from the first time she and Will kissed. No, even before. Long before—but she had buried them deep. You couldn’t stay away. You couldn’t keep your ridiculous whims to yourself. Couldn’t keep your legs closed. Couldn’t help yourself, and for what? Now, once Baden gets his hands on him, he’s dead.

Dead.

“You can’t do this!” Each word burst forth as if it might rend a hole in her very chest. “You can’t. He didn’t—he wasn’t—and I’m—Baden, please, you must listen, I’m not mad, and—and you can’t—you can’t—”

Will, dead, for being a thief. For stealing her away, for hurting her, for committing other atrocious crimes Bree knew he would never, never even think of.

And she, locked up for her lies.

“You will find,” said Baden coldly, “that everything which has transpired today is well within my rights under the law.” He pointed toward the paper still clutched in Dr. Richards’ hand. “Two signatures, superintendent approval, and reasonable evidence to make a charge.” His gaze grew even colder. “Entirely lawful, as a constable and as your husband. And so you will remain here at Greyhurst until you are deemed ready to be in society again.”

“But you can’t,” she said. “I’m not insane. I’m not.”

Will, dead, for daring to look at Constable’s Hatchett’s wife. For being the only person Bree had ever seen stand up to her husband.

She, locked up for loving him from the very start.

Baden said, “Yes, you are. But you will get better. In time.”

Will was dead, and she was the one who had killed him.

Like an arrow nocked and fired, her last and most abhorrent lie had sealed his fate.

Now, Baden would lock her away, hide her treachery, infidelity, and insanity from the world, so she could never, ever make it right.

Bree could only watch in horror as Dr. Richards, who was no mere doctor but the superintendent of the asylum, signed his name alongside Gysborne’s. As he beckoned the dark-haired doctor to do the same. As Baden took the pen and added his own signature, then wrote a final name that belonged to none of them. When Dr. Richards read the document out loud, Bree found she could not move a single muscle, even as her mind screamed and screamed and screamed.

“We, B. Gysborne and A.A. Dale, certified medical doctors, attest that we are graduates and practitioners of medicine; that at the request and in the presence of Medical Superintendent G. A. Richards, we have carefully examined Breanna Hatchett in reference to the charge of insanity made by Constable B. Hatchett and find that she is insane, and by reason of said insanity should be confined forthwith to a medical facility until it is determined that her mental infirmity has been cured.”

End note: If you are very uncomfortable with the asylum/mental health setting: Ch. 27 is from Will's POV so it's only discussed/mentioned, and the last chapter taking place there will be Ch. 29, although it will be mentioned pretty regularly after that.

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Taglist (please let me know if you’d like to be added/removed!)

✨ @starlit-hopes-and-dreams | @clairelsonao3 | @gala1981 | @pleasestaywithmedarling | @kixngiggles ✨

[please-picturemeintheweeds]

Just! Yeah! Can we pls not fall into the ~old fashioned mental health care was so fucked up bc they did horrible things to NORMAL WOMEN, (not just freaks who deserve institutionalized torture)~ trap like pls I am begging!! Modern psychiatric care is also rooted in the same saneist and ableist annd racist and misogynist bullshit, just dressed up in a nicer outfit. Institutionalization is incarceration, and people suffer enormously in psychiatric hospitals at the hands of horrible power hungry staff and also approved treatments every single day. Autonomy in mental health care is not a given, and we need to be very careful about assuming that non consensual torture does not happen anymore in mental hospitals. I think it’s important we discuss it, and I am eager to hear/see more of what Taylor has to say (I think her bringing it up is suuuper reasonable and a very ripe creative world for her to explore so I’m not saying nobody should talk about it). Like. Just. The assumptions. Pls. Can’t believe this is a post I’m making on my swiftie tumblr but here we are!

[barefootbaltimore]

Aha haha my bio mom is writing on walls in blood. We're all have a very Normal one about this.

[bloodbankzz]

it is painful to learn the "normal" ways that people reasonably around my age were motivated to do things their parents wanted, ie chores or getting good grades in school. this is a pain that has built over time because, seeing it around me as a kid, i could reason that maybe every single one of my friends were just spoiled. but, eerily, every time it seems the topic of motivating children comes up in whatever conversation is bringing it up, it seems like. and it still feels presumptuous to say. but most people as children were rewarded for good behavior. the one i was most envious of as a child was that multiple of my friends got paid money for getting As, and it was actually very shocking to me to find out that that is at least kind of a little more universal than i really really was sure it was not, but that's not the big thing that causes me pause now. generally, it seems, children are rewarded in some way for doing things their parents ask of them. writing and then stepping back and reading such a sentence makes me feel like an alien trying to puzzle out the function of the human pancreas lmfao but i dont know. in the wider conversations where this happens to come up, describing these motivators is never the point, which is maybe part of the difficulty for me. it's really hard to process that not everyone was doing what their parents said to do out of cold pure fear for their life. there's so many things it turns out other kids were getting. stickers and movie tickets and candy and praise and love. i am so sad.

[vocesincaput]

OPEN STARTER: Thomas Hamilton

Having been determined to not let the institution break him, Thomas had remained as together as possible whilst at Bethlem. Putting on a positive face and not letting those who ran the place see how it effected him. He befriended one of the orderlies, Lewis, early on in his time there and Thomas was more than thankful for the friendship as he knew it helped keep him sane.

After 2 years at Bethlem, Lewis came to Thomas and told him that he could get him on a ship to take him an away from London. Not wishing his friend to endure any more of what he had been put through.

And so, after several weeks of careful planning between the two men, Lewis smuggled Thomas out of Bethlem and to the docks. When introduced to the Captain of the ship, Thomas gave the only name he had had in his mind throughout the previous two years - McGraw.

Thomas quickly learned from the crew how to operate the things on board the ship. It didn’t take long for him to realise that the crew were in fact pirates. What surprised him about the realisation was that he felt comfortable amongst them. None of them judging him for anything about who he was within himself.

They taught him multiple things over the years and Thomas quickly found that he was rather adept at sword fighting and a fine shot with a pistol.

He rose up through the ranks until he became Quartermaster. Developing a reputation for only taking a life when necessary but being cunning and completely ruthless when the time called for it.

He usually stayed on board whenever the ship came to Nassau, the memories of what the place meant tying into his memories of James. Too painful to step off the boat, Thomas would usually come up with good reasons for him to stay on board, despite being the Quartermaster.

This time, however, the ship was having to undergo repair after getting into a battle with a Spanish ship. Despite winning, they had taken heavy damage and the Captain ordered every member of the crew to leave and go into the town.

Thomas felt a sharp spike in anxiety as he first stepped onto the docks. A wave of it rushing over him like a storm and mixing with a swirling mixture of feelings that had him sway upon his feet for several moments before he managed to steady himself.

The fact that he had set foot in Nassau for the first time after everything that felt like a lifetime ago, after everything he had lost and everything that had been done to him... Thomas had to clench his jaw so tight to stop himself from breaking that his face began to ache. He stood looking at everything and everyone around him for slightly too long before slowly making his way in to town.

There were a few things he could probably pick up whilst they were docked for a while. Nothing absolutely needed but could possibly come in handy to be stocked up on. Thomas didn't intend on entering any of the establishment or meeting with members of any other crews.

But he knew it were possible that someone would want to speak to him, familiar or not, so he prepared himself to have to interact if the need arose.

[rockstarlwt28]

The Light In The Darkness; The White In The Blackness

Tags: Psychosis, Psychiatric Disorders, Mental Health, Medication, Depression, PTSD, Overdose, Addiction, Drug Substence Abuse, Institutions, Hospitalisation [to be continued]

Saturday Snippet:

'I can't imagine what you're going through. I wish that I could take away all your pain, your sorrow.'

Obscuring the symphony of colours are buildings, for miles beyond; varying in height and width. Neither match the other, almost like civilians; different in structure, internally and externally. Resemblances can be made, the human flesh signifies their being by name while the architectural structure of bricks and mortar give a sense of binding in their outerwork. Though like humans, their outer detects are visible, signs of wear and tear, behind the flesh, humans have wounds invisible to the naked eye. Buildings tell a thousand stories of its previously owned tenants, the inner workings of furnishings or neglect are similar to human kind; a destruction of each other. And while one builds walls in metaphor to seek closure, comfort and protection; a sledge hammer of words and anger can break through even the toughest of walls.

[theschizophrenicchristmasgoblin]

The Bin Chronicles

The first thing you need to know about me is that I will not be - in any sense of the word - a reliable narrator.

In fact, being an unreliable narrator is exactly what makes me so uncomfortably authentic. I’m a person who struggles with mental illness writing about having a mentally ill experience in multiple mental facilities with other mentally ill individuals.

If you resonate with what you’re about to hear, I’m deeply sorry and hope you’re getting the care and support you need. If you don’t resonate with my story and are simply reading for entertainment, welcome.

Disclaimer about the word bin*

In case you’re wondering what “bin” means in the title of the book, The Bin Chronicles, let me tell you. It is shorthand for the term “looney bin”. It’s an affectionate joking term that some people use to refer to the psych ward. If anyone asks, I made it up.

Chapter 1 - The Drive

Clutching my bleeding forearm to my chest, I tried to wade through my sandbag heavy thoughts. Were the handfuls of ibuprofen I downed ever going to kick in? Would I get charged extra if I bled out in the Uber I impulsively scheduled? Should I have texted all those friends to see if they were awake enough to convince me to go to the ER? Did I even deserve to go to the hospital for something like this?

The piercing headlights of the approaching white sedan broke through my worrying. It was decided. At 1:39 AM on August 20th, 2023, I was going to head to the Massachusetts General Hospital emergency room for severe self-harm.

I’d like to say something inspiring such as “getting in the backseat of that Uber was one of the bravest choices I’ve ever made”. But I’d be lying. It didn’t feel like a brave choice. I didn’t even really want to get help. I just knew that the voice in my head telling me that I needed to cut deep enough to require stitches needed to be taken seriously.

The only memory my increasingly painkiller sedated brain encoded was the irony of being in this particular car. Never in my life have I had a kinder driver. He went above and beyond and offered me a phone charger and water. That had never happened to me before. Meanwhile, I was having one of the worst nights of my life. His warmth made the hot tears roll down my cheeks even harder, as the juxtaposition of a stranger’s kindness compared to my own deadly self-hatred felt like too much to bear. It would have looked like a completely normal ride had I not been holding my injured arm to my chest.

Now that the anxiety of whether or not I should get into the Uber subsided, a new worry popped up. Was the cut deep enough? If not, would they turn me away? I was determined to finally go inpatient and in my deranged mind I thought the only way to get there was to have a medical emergency. As these thoughts multiplied, I remember trying to take in the city and its beautiful florescent lights. For a split second, I felt true serenity being one of the only cars on the highway. With my arm starting to throb and soak through the gauze, the tranquility didn’t last.

Suddenly, everything looked familiar. I had worked at Massachusetts General Hospital for a year as a research coordinator. I recognized Flour Bakery + Cafe, the little coffee shop with the best butter chicken sandwich around, and the old watering hole where we used to drink after work, Harvard Gardens. I got to retrace my daily commute on Staniford Street passing a Domino’s pizza that made me salivate (yes I like Domino’s, don’t turn your nose up at me!) and a sub shop I never got to try, turning right onto Cambridge Street where I could never resist the Whole Foods next to my work at lunch time. Streets usually jampacked and bustling with cars and pedestrians commuting to and from work were eerily empty. No babies crying, dogs barking, no full hands with lunches and coffee or music blaring while bicyclists rode past. As I finally reached the main entrance of Mass General, a feeling of dread set in. I knew that I wouldn’t be going home that night.

I got out of the car. Part of me thought about getting right back in. I guess in that moment I did two things: I fulfilled my mission of taking myself to the ER and I not only admitted I needed help but brought myself to the place that could keep me safe. Once inside, I talked with the woman at the front desk. Everyone there was incredibly calm and kind and I immediately felt a sense of relief. They asked me some basic demographic intake questions like my age, DOB, the nature of the visit, whether or not I had current suicidal thoughts. Unlike my previous ER visit earlier that week, the first thing they did when they saw me was stitch me up. I’ll never forget that the provider doing them said it was almost too superficial to require stitches. While many people might feel comforted by that fact, I felt discouraged. I felt like I hadn’t made the cut deep enough which in turn made me believe I didn’t deserve to be at the hospital. I didn’t see the psych triage team that morning, but I finally fell asleep in a recliner.

Before I explain any further, let me tell you how I put myself in this minacious situation.

…

The weeks leading up to Mass General and eventually McLean Hospital were not pretty. I had been going through a depressive episode for the past 6 months if not longer, but during those last two weeks things had gotten much worse. One of the things I struggle with when I’m depressed is hygiene. Usually that takes the form of not taking my prescribed pills or brushing my teeth. Graphic, I know. Sometimes it involves not brushing my hair or taking showers too infrequently. This time it was all of the above. I felt hopeless consistently and I stopped enjoying things that had otherwise brought me joy.

At that time, I really enjoyed smoking weed and drinking daily. I stopped them both cold turkey. Another source of enjoyment for me was watching TV with my partner every day. During this period, I stopped being able to pay attention to our shows. Instead, I spent most of my time watching myself from outside and above my body. I couldn’t watch TV or hold a conversation without dissociating. Dissociation is a break in how your mind processes information. Dissociation can cause feelings of disconnectedness from your thoughts, feelings, memories, or surroundings. It can also mess with identity and sense of time. It can be a natural response to trauma, a way to cope with stressful experiences, or a symptom of mental illnesses like PTSD, depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, or borderline personality disorder to name a few. Alternatively, it is sometimes a side effect of alcohol or taking or coming off of medications. For me, I either view myself from outside my body or stare blankly while being bombarded with anxious thoughts or none at all until someone snaps me out of it.

As soon as I lost interest in those aforementioned activities, I couldn’t bring myself to go back to them. I stopped eating. I struggle with a self-diagnosed weed-induced binge eating disorder where most of the time I restrict my food intake except for when I’m high. Once I stopped smoking, I lost my appetite completely. I wasn’t even restricting; I just had no energy to eat. I didn’t see the point in it anymore.

 I couldn’t keep myself up past 8:30 at night. I’d blame it on the medications I was taking, but I can’t even do that because my psychiatrist and I took the one medication that was impacting my sleep, Abilify, out of the mix. Abilify is an antipsychotic that treats many different mental health conditions such as schizophrenia, bipolar I, autism spectrum disorder, and Tourette syndrome. What it does is balance the levels of dopamine and serotonin in the brain to help regulate moods, behaviors, and thoughts. We decided to stop the medication because I wasn’t feeling any positive or negative effects and I didn’t feel like it was contributing to our goal of getting me out of my depressed funk.

Now I had nothing to blame for my change in sleep but my depression. I would later learn from McLean how important it is to change the narrative from “my depression made me do this” to “my experience with depression made me feel this way”. It might sound like a small change, but what it does is stop you from making your illness your whole identity. Personifying depression can give it a life of its own, and it can be empowering to separate yourself from it by making these small linguistic changes. Now that I have that information, I can reframe the narrative to recognize that one of the symptoms of depression is sleep disturbance and that I was at the time experiencing that symptom rather than blame my depression as a whole for the situation.

I started moving slowly. I felt like I was wading through water any time I had to stand. My energy was at an all-time low. I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed on the weekends and went right to bed when I got home from work. My bones ached. I felt tired all the time. I felt worthless. I felt like my life had no meaning, like I was merely a husk of my former self. I didn’t feel like I had any value to offer or bring to the world anymore.

I stopped paying attention at work because I couldn’t focus. I cried constantly and isolated myself from the rest of my coworkers. I had to step away from meetings because I couldn’t stop crying.  I wasn’t able to keep up with my social life. I stopped calling my friends and didn’t return their calls when they reached to check in. This may sound like I’m beating a dead horse, and it most definitely is redundant, but I want to highlight what the signs of depression were for me. I hope this helps you to identify it in yourself or in someone else.[MOU1] 

I felt like there was no reason for me to live and I fantasized about ending my life. I thought about all the ways in which I could kill myself and how to make it as painless as possible  for my loved ones. I had recurring dreams about overdosing on painkillers. To make matters worse, I promised myself that I wouldn’t fail. I knew I didn’t want to end up fucking it up like I did the last time I attempted in 2020. I didn’t want to end up in the hospital or disfigured in some way. I just wanted it all to end. 

On August 16th I cut so deeply that I needed stitches. I was on the phone with my partner Beau as he was driving home from work, and I just started cutting and couldn’t stop. The cut was actually a few days old, and it was already relatively deep. I’ve started doing this new thing where I cut in the same spot over and over again. I’m not sure why I switched from hurting myself in multiple places to the same one, but I know that this change is dangerous. It’s dangerous because it deepens the cut which can lead to needing hospital-level care.

Completely on brand, I decided to reopen this old wound and make it deep enough to require stitches. I think the reason I did this was because the other day when I made the initial cut, I called my ex roommate who is studying to be a doctor and she said that it might need stitches. Upon further inspection, she said it should heal on its own. I absolutely hated that she was right, and I wanted to prove her wrong. Welcome to my fucked up brain.

So on August 16th I reopened the wound and slashed at it until my partner came home from work. I couldn’t feel anything while it was happening, and I dissociate[MOU2] d as I watched myself deepen the cut from above my body. Before my partner got home I started rehearsing my smile and my coyness. But as soon as he opened the door, I caved. My cut was bleeding through the gauze, and it was having trouble clotting which was unsurprisingly really hard to hide.

I told him I thought I needed to go to the hospital. So off we went to Newton Wellesley Hospital. It was a surreal experience driving to the emergency room. I wasn’t in an ambulance, just a regular car. And there was that damn irony again, we could have been going anywhere. [MOU3] [MOU4] There I was, bleeding in the passenger seat, but there was no indication to the rest of the world that there was an emergent situation. No one knew I was hurting, inside and out, or that there was a wound acute enough to require stitches.

When we got to the hospital, Beau had me get out of the car so he could park. Upon entering the hospital, I was dismayed at how long the line was. I went all the way to the back and tried not to listen to other people’s conversations. I could smell the hospital: the pungent soapy yet flat geriatric scent that stops you from wanting to take a full deep breath in, the eye-watering bleach that they had used for God knows what, and the stench of stale discomfort and worry. I finally reached the front of the line and it was my turn to tell them why I was there. I strained to get the words out. “I’m here for self-harm”.

Suddenly, I’m treated like VIP. I don’t have to go back to the waiting room like everybody else. I now get to stay at the front of the line, and someone comes to check on me every 5 minutes. Finally, I’m brought back to a different part of the hospital along with a middle aged man who drank too much and took a spill. He keeps insisting that he’s not an alcoholic, and it becomes clear to me why they put us on the same unit: we were both there in a special part of the ER for those who purposefully harmed ourselves in some way. Or maybe it was that we were all dangers to ourselves. [MOU5] I was put on a bed in the hallway but I wasn’t there for long because someone from the psych[MOU6]  team came to get me before offering me medical attention. The Psychiatry Triage team at Newton-Wellesley consists of independently licensed social workers. The way it works is people coming through the ER are first evaluated by the Emergency Department clinical team to ensure they are medically cleared. Then the social workers psychiatrically assess the patient to decide what the best level of care is for them. Looking back on this, it’s definitely weird that I wasn’t medically cleared first. Anyways, a nurse came to get me to help me put on scrubs. From there, the social worker and I went into an empty room and I was told to take any seat. I picked one and then was told to find another one, which to delirious me was the first sign that something wasn’t quite right.

The social worker sat far away from me and constantly had to lean in to hear me better. I told her what was going on, and that I wanted to do an outpatient program for Borderline Personality Disorder at McLean Hospital. This is a diagnosis I received in 2021. She laughed in my face and said it would take way too long to get off that waitlist. She asked me once if I wanted to go inpatient[MOU7] , but didn’t give me any information about the process. I declined, and she asked me why I had come to the hospital in the first place. I gestured toward my arm.

What is inpatient treatment you may ask? Here’s what I wish I knew when I was asked if I wanted to go…inpatient treatment is meant to be a short time in a psychiatric hospital to keep people safe during a mental health crisis. This is the most intensive treatment option for mental health, otherwise known as the highest level of care. What this term describes is different types of mental health treatment. This level of care includes hospitalization, whereas the lowest level of care refers to weekly or less often outpatient therapy sessions. Outpatient refers to a level of care in a non-residential setting where patients can live at home while participating in treatment. There are two main types of inpatient care: hospitalization and residential treatment. Hospitalizations are designed to be short term, often an overnight stay up to a few weeks long, and residential treatment often lasts 30 days or more. The focus of inpatient care is stabilization of the patient and developing a treatment plan for continuing their care once they are discharged. Hospitalizations are often thought of as a necessary safe place for those who are experiencing crisis, while residential treatment can help someone avoid a crisis before it escalates to that level. Inpatient can be voluntary which means you agree to seeking intensive care, or it can be involuntary which is referred to as involuntary or compulsory hospitalization where the person does not want to be at this level of care[MOU8] .

For context, inpatient units often look more like a college dorm than a hospital floor. There are both single and double rooms that often have their own bathroom that is shared with the adjacent room. There are also both group therapy and individual therapy rooms where you meet with psychiatrists, therapists, and group facilitators daily. There are common areas for eating, family visits, relaxing in places such as sensory rooms where there are comfortable chairs, fidget toys, and more, there’s always a nurses station where you take your meds, and there are offices for the staff and clinicians who you meet with on a weekly if not more frequent basis. This depends on if you are in a residential or hospital setting. These units are locked or secured environments, meaning that you cannot leave the unit without supervision. On the floor are a team of professionals including psychiatrists, psychologists, social workers, case workers, nurses, nutritionists, recreational therapists, occupational therapists, and mental health technicians to name a few.

After this awful interaction with the social worker, I was brought back to my hallway bed and was told to sit tight. A doctor came over and questioned if I even needed stitches, so I showed him my arm and he quickly covered it back up and agreed. To give you a visual, puffy fat [MOU9] was visible from my open wound[MOU10] . At first the deep groove filled up with dark red blood and you couldn’t see anything underneath. When they finally removed the rudimentary bandage I had made, that’s when you could see the true damage. According to my boyfriend the cut was about 3 inches long by an inch wide. While the left side of it was thinner, the right side of the wound was gaping. Yellow fat was visible almost in the shape of a bubble drawn flower and it was protruding a tiny bit past the wound. I could see a small black spot that I later learned was a vein. The fat looked bumpy and textured. No butterfly bandage could hold together what I had done to myself.

Hospital staff came over with an EKG and then they finally put me in my own room where x ray came over to look at my arm. Then the doctor entered the room with a huge syringe. He squirted it into my open wound with no regard for my pain tolerance. Then he began sewing the skin on my upper arm back together. Oddly enough, he never asked if the numbing medicine had kicked in. I can’t quite describe the feeling of the needle, but it was strange, dull, and felt far away due to the numbness. It looked exactly like stitching clothing, a long needle with a thin piece of string except there was a hook for the stitch which entered my arm on either side of the wound. This created small holes that filled with blood too.  He told me not to look but I couldn’t help myself. I was grotesquely in awe. As he dabbed at the blood flowing from my open wound I thought I might be sick. When he was done, I had 7 blue stitches on my left arm. The doctor left as quickly as he came.

Then the nurse who had helped me undress and put on scrubs came back in. I told her that I had had an awful experience talking to the social worker. She said, “I’m sorry” and then walked out. Anothernurse overheard the conversation and said she could talk to the social worker for me. I almost let her advocate for me, but I was too scared that the social worker would come in and try to talk to me again, so I said no. She said she could look in the nurses station to see if another social worker was available. I thanked her. She came back with a list of crisis hotline numbers. I left disappointed with no aftercare plan in place. I texted my therapist about it, and she said that particular social worker was known to be a bitch. It’s still insane to me that the last thing I got that night was stitches when that’s all I went in for. It would be understandable to delay my stitches if they had properly gotten me set up with inpatient or outpatient care, but as you can tell that was not the case. I vowed to not go back to Newton Wellesley in the event of another mental health crisis.

…

When I returned home, my therapist made it clear that if I self-harmed again I needed to go directly to the hospital. Her and my psychiatrist both thought I needed to go back to the hospital regardless, but I didn’t want to leave work. I thought that leaving work for a medical emergency meant I wasn’t a good employee. That I wasn’t dedicated enough. To this day, I still feel that way.

Alas, I hung in there. For those of you who don’t go to therapy, therapists often use the phrase “hang in there” when the session is over and you’ve just unloaded five years’ worth of trauma into a fifty-five minute slot. I have always hated the phrase because I feel like it is minimizing. You’re contemplating ending your life? Just hang in there[MOU11] . Anyways, I “hung in there” for three more days.

I don’t remember what time it was on August 19th that I made my decision. In my head I suddenly had a plan. I would pretend for the rest of the day that everything was fine, that I was in a positive mood, and then at night I would cut to the degree of needing stitches again and take myself to the ER. I was actually really nice and generous that day. I bought my roommate and partner dinner and drinks. I kept up appearances. My partner commented on how good of a mood I was in and I cheerily agreed, suggesting that my depression must have finally gone away. On the inside, I was on a mission. All I wanted was for my boyfriend to go to sleep that night. I didn’t want him to take me to the ER because he had already helped me get to the ER for self-harm three days prior. It didn’t feel fair to have him take me for a second time in the matter of one week.

Somehow, I forced myself to watch part of a movie with him. As soon as he started to doze off, I got to work on my plan. I located my scissors. I went into the bathroom. I normally cut horizontally on my left arm. In perfect dissonance, I decided to cut vertically on my right arm. The pair of scissors I was using had gotten dull from years of use. I could barely cut my skin. It was also awkward because I’m a righty, so using my left hand to cut vertically was a challenge. I was listening to Call Your Mom by Noah Kahan [MOU12] on repeat. The pre chorus and chorus really haunt me.

“Stayed on the line with you the entire night

‘Til you let it out and let it in

Don’t let this darkness fool you

All lights turned off can be turned on

I’ll drive, I’ll drive all night

I’ll call your mom”

At the time I didn’t realize how much I was contemplating suicide. The idea of having someone on the phone with me who I could talk to about these feelings rather than acton them would have changed the course of my life. Having someone remind me that the darkness that I was feeling was temporary might have made me make a different decision. That night, I really needed someone to call my mom.

I took one earbud out of my ear so I could hear if my partner woke up. In the bathroom I felt too far away from my room, so I moved to the couch. I used my flashlight on my phone to see what I was doing. He stirred. I freaked out. He got up to use the bathroom and I quickly shut off the flashlight and put a blanket over the bloody scissors and blood-soaked napkins. Somehow he didn’t get suspicious and went back to bed. I started thinking about what I would take with me to the ER. Underwear is a must. Computer, computer charger. Piece of paper from work about FMLA resources. Phone charger. Scrub pants. Comfy clothes.

I got a plastic bag for my dirty supplies. While cutting didn’t hurt on the 16th, it hurt every second on the early morning of the 20th. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I packed my bag, took one last look at my room, and left my apartment. As soon as I got outside I started hyperventilating. In a very unlike me fashion, I proceeded to text a bunch of my friends to ask if they were up. 2 responded, 1 was busy. I called my friend from home and told her I needed to go to the hospital. She stayed on the phone with me until I got in the Uber.

[thusspoketrish]

New Chapters | The Art of Getting By

Chapters 7 & 8 | The Art of Getting By

Excerpt from Chapter 7:

Draco winces when the door opens, and he looks up as Oni steps in, her long braids flowing down her back. She steps aside, and Mother enters with graceful, hesitant steps. He hadn’t seen her in almost nine months, as he had been spending more time with Terence and avoiding his parents, but she was still breathtaking. His shoulders droop as he takes in her pale, anxious face. “My darling,” Mother breathes, her voice trembling as she steps towards him. Oni guides her towards the armchair across from Draco instead and gestures for her to sit. She complies, her gaze never leaving his face. “You look…so different,” Mother says, her eyes now sweeping over him thoughtfully as she gives a small shake of her head. Draco lifts his whiteboard and taps it, a bitter taste in his mouth. “More like Father?” Mother’s gaze drops to the whiteboard, revealing a look of surprise and confusion. With anger, Draco realises that she’s unaware of his mutism despite his letters mentioning it. Her chin wobbles slightly. “No, my darling. You look like me.”

Read The Art of Getting By on AO3, here.

Please mind the tags and warnings.

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I need to give another shoutout to my glorious beta, @youknowyoudid for the phenomenal work she's been doing in triple checking over these chapters!!! Thank you!!! x

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Image Text:

The Art of Getting By

Chapter 7: Running With My Roots Pulled Up

Chapter 8: Being Yourself This Side of Midnight

Written by Trishjames and Edited by YouKnowYouDid

[bltzgore]

An experimental drabble in second person from the perspective of a highly manipulative and intelligent whumper (in a mental facitlity)

Tw: language, dehumanizing language, second person, minor gore, Just manipulation here no voilence yet

Next ->

Who am I? Why am I here? Such stupid questions, people always focus on stupid questions, the small picture shit. Well you fuckers aren’t going to get off my ass 'til I tell you anyway, so lets get this shit show on the road.

The name is Casey, I have other ones but that’s the only one you and anyone else who asks is getting. As of right now I am clinically insane. My most recent residence REDACTED Hospital for the criminally insane was actually a pretty cozy place. The beds weren't bad, you only wake up ready to tear your back out half the time. The food hadn’t killed anyone in the past week, at least not that they could prove. To top it off the place was rift with overly trusting orderlies and highly malleable lunatic minds.

In short, I ran that shit hole.

Why would I need you to understand? You won’t. It isn't worth the time I’d waste showing you my grand design in all of its unattainable glory. What’s the Bible say about this shit? My ways something something higher than your ways? Yeah. That. Some creatures are just fundamentally lower than others. But that’s ok, it's like a pet. You still love your dog or cat, you just don’t discuss books with them actually expecting to get any kind of response. They can’t understand a thing, they just like that you’re giving them your attention. 

That’s you. A happy little dog who looked up at me with eyes that couldn’t comprehend the things I planned to do to you.

I never noticed you back then, not really. In the same way I don’t notice an ant unless they’re biting me. I didn’t notice you until you bit me. I was well into a game of family friendly poker. My opponents had plenty on the line, I suppose I did too, but I didn’t really. Because you only have risk if you know you can lose. 

You must have used your invisibility to your advantage, because until you walked up to the table and said it no one had known you were watching. 

“She’s cheating.” You had this shit eating smirk, like you thought you had some kind of power, like you expected me to crumble. You didn’t know much about me then.

“I am?” 

“I saw the card in your pocket!”

The other occupants at the table started to demand proof of me. Two of them got up, and the third gave me a dirty look.

I saw your neck in that moment and stifled the shutter that came over me at the thought of what lay beneath that skin. “I’m sorry. What did you- oh. I know. Yes, let me explain.” I’ve never been caught cheating, because I’m not stupid. I plan for everything.

I showed you and them my “good luck charm.”   

“My grandfather gave it to me.” I held up the card, old and worn, and torn in the corner. “I like to touch it when I’m stressed. He was a poker champ and this is the last card I have from his deck. It’s stupid, but I guess I’m a little sentimental.”

I watched the suspicion leave their eyes, but not yours. You didn’t press it, you pretended you were satisfied. Your apology was hollow, not forced, but not genuine. I know, because all the armatures sound like that. You fucked off and I won the hand.

I had already decided I wanted to make you pay for interfering in the matters of higher powers. I just hadn’t decided how yet. What I didn’t know was that you weren’t done with me either. But like the armature you are, you just up and talked to me. 

You set your hips against the wall first, then your lower back, but you wouldn’t let your shoulders against it. “That wasn’t the card I saw.” You sounded like a frustrated child.

I decided to fish, I wasn’t sure how much you understood or were capable of understanding me yet. I needed to get a little dirty and dig. “Really? That’s the only card I have in my pocket.” I’m a much better liar than you, but to your credit you were arrogant and stubborn. 

“I’m sure it is. But I didn’t want to make you strip in the common room.”

I felt my chest heat up, an engine just starting to get some fire in it. I welcomed a distraction in my down time. I let a grin slip, and made sure you saw it. “Really? I’d have done it voluntarily for 20 bucks.”

“You keep them down your pants?”

“Among other places.” 

“Stop cheating.”

“Why?” 

“Cause next time I’ll pants you.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Why don’t you want me to cheat? It’s just another way to win the game.”

“It’s not fair.”

Oh. You had morals.

“The hell would I play fair for? I don’t play for fun sweetheart, I play to win.”

You wanted more distance between us, I could feel it. I don’t like being close to people, it’s hot and sweaty, but I know exactly how it makes others feel. And I never forfeit a valuable asset. I was taller than you, stronger than you, smarter than you. And you knew it.

You sighed, your discomfort made you fidgety, and your already scattered eye contact lessened. “Just don’t do it. They have little enough as is.” You sighed and started to leave, you didn’t think your words meant a thing. You were right, but I was curious.

“Anything for you sweetheart.” I watched you leave, and waited to see if you would live up to my expectations. You didn’t look back.

Watching you walk away, I decided it was going to be you. I needed it to be you. I wanted to dissect you. Take a crowbar to your brain, pull it apart piece by shining red piece, and watch you crumble before me. I found a new game. 

[chronicalfangirl]

TW? stupid little vent🤏

Im in school and its so close to home, i just want to get up and go home, but i cant cuz I currently live at an institution :') AAAARGH i wanna go homeeeee, i never thought id end up like this bro, how the hell did i get here, why did i get sent to a fucking institution what the fuck

its alright at the institution but i still want to go home, i miss my cat and my room and my bed and my brother and my mother and everything

all the time when im at school, whenever the slightest bad thing happen i immediately want to cry and its so annoying because it makes me seem like a dramatic crybaby, but im just mentally ill and i cant do anything about it even though i hate it and would love to just be able to fix everything thats wrong about me, but its not possible, im not in a state where im able to pull myself togheter, im in a state where im uncomfortable with just my existence and in reality i really just feel like it would be better for me to just die, it would save many people so much time if i was just gone now, it really kills me how much time and people is put around me to fix me and get me to be mentally stable again, but its been four years, how come they havent given up yet? why didnt they let me die when i was so close? How come they think i still have a future?

[isurvivednewleaf]

Something I’ve had to come to terms with recently, is that every time I go to a doctors appointment, I carry with me my medical trauma of the past 20 years. So even if a doctor’s appointment goes well, there are always moments where I’m reminded of a time in the past where it didn’t go well, and it’s just an emotional complicated experience.

I’m always always having to think about how much of my medical history should I share. I want the doctor to know enough to be able to make helpful suggestions on how to feel better, but often if I tell them too much, they just think I’m wacky and don’t believe that I’m in physical pain.

I’m guessing these are relatable experiences - not being able to fully close the door on past traumas, and having to constantly reevaluate how vulnerable to be.

What I’m telling myself to keep myself from spiraling into big frustration and sads, is that I am capable, and have the skill sets to navigate these nuanced interactions. And I try to keep myself from focusing on the past *too* much. No matter how many times I go over past experiences, they don’t change and I just feel horrible. So it’s not beneficial to ruminate on it.

I’ve stopped telling doctors I have PTSD bc I thought I didn’t really qualify for the diagnosis anymore. It’s not like my trauma went away, but it doesn’t affect my day to day life as much as it used to. I’ve been reminded these past couple weeks that maybe it just doesn’t effect my day to day life when things are going well. It’s not like I’m super mega impacted by it now, but I am more impacted now than when I’m not going through a stressful time.

Hope everyone has been getting through the holiday season okay. I still check this page regularly, even if I’m not posting all the time. Hang in there friends 💖

[please-picturemeintheweeds]

Idk just yeah this will be a lot! And good but a lot! My aunt was institutionalized following the extremely shameful end of an engagement in the mid 80s, and has been in very intensive out patient psychiatric treatment ever since. There is a shroud of mystery around that time of her life. And some of the most extreme horrific cases I dealt with as a victim advocate were related to systemic abuse happening in those places. Things just are complicated!!! And misogynist psychiatric care certainly didn’t end in the 60s….