A life on the inside of an inpatient psych ward is a claustrophobic one. All the small, broken pieces of many lives are suddenly together, separated only by doors, connected only by a hallway and lack of hope. This blank, white, hospital space kept me confined tightly with no way to avoid the close questions I kept finding next to me, about why living can hurt for so many people. Part of the reason, I think, at least for me, is that taking up space is a real challenge. Thinking about that hallway, and all the lives that led people there made me realize just how much I doubt my every movement and sound. Some people in that hallway will never get to tell anyone what led their lives to that place. A lot of people never get to be loud about feeling silenced.
I find it really hard to think and write about myself. But, at least for a little while, I think I’m going to need to do just that. I’m going to need to find out how to listen to what I’m saying, and find a way to become comfortable having other people listen to what I’m saying. To do that, I’ll need to fight everything I’ve ever thought was acceptable, and battle to a place where I can accept myself, my words and my struggles.
I’ve always feared my own words and direct statements so much that any echo of them me leaves me feeling shattered inside. But actually, maybe that’s okay. The truth is, something probably does need to shatter inside, maybe then I can break down some walls and find a larger comfort zone that allows space for me and my words.
Originally published, here on October 16th, 2016