There is one hour left in May 19th. I don’t really have much to say, but I feel like I should make a note of it. At this time one year ago I was probably trying to sleep in one of those hospital beds with the crinkly mattresses.
I was dual diagnosis. That meant I had mental health issues and addiction issues. The day before, on May 18th, my therapist had faxed some paperwork over to the hospital so they would be ready when I drove myself over.
“This feels really weird,” I had told her.
“You’re checking yourself into a mental hospital,” she said. “It is fucking weird.”
That’s why she was the best therapist I’ve ever seen.
I don’t really have anything wise or inspiring to say about the last year. I met a lot of people. Most of them were really good people. None of them have become close friends, because that’s kind of the nature of treatment programs. You do group therapy and share all these secrets and get to know these people, and then the program is over and you probably never see them again. It’s a really close kind of friendship, but one with an expiration date.
I don’t know if I’ve changed. I guess I’ve changed a couple of habits. I’ve had some stretches of real productivity and even happiness. I still feel like the core of me is, well, what it’s always been. I still feel like I live in a little cage.
I finished college in the last year. I never seriously considered self-harm or self-destruction, for an entire year, which is a record I haven’t set since I was twelve years old. I’ve written more than I have in the last few years combined, I think.
I think I’m doing okay. I want to end this on a “recovery is possible!” kind of note, but that might be too hollow or too cheesy. I don’t know. Honestly dwelling on the last year is making me somewhat uncomfortable. Maybe I don’t need to commemorate it at all.
Maybe I can just keep looking forward.