smth i wrote abt my experience in the mental hosp. by ives

TW: hospitalization, self harm, eating disorders

“You’re going to get better.” they tell you, as they unstrap the restraints and seat belts on the stretcher.

They shove needles into your arms, draw blood from your veins, strap you up to machine after machine. Vital checks every four hours. They bring you into a room, empty except for the two beds, and the door that only locks from the outside. Room rounds every fifteen minutes. “It’ll help you get better.” they tell you.

Then, you're naked.

They take your clothes, bra, underwear.

They analyze every patch of skin on your body, before tossing you scrubs and telling you to put them on.

“You’re here to get better.” they tell you.

Time for group. Group five times a day, everyday. In group, you do yoga and color and say what you're grateful for.

Quiet time next. An hour a day. You stay in your room, alone, no access to games or markers or crayons. “

Why aren’t you getting better?” They ask.

New people roll in on stretchers while you're asleep, Some of them sobbing, some screaming, some trying to throw things and hit people. You can try to talk to them, bond with them. However, the only thing you guys have to bond over is how fucked up your minds are. I listen as people compare self harm, compare weights, talk about their suicide attempts, and teach each other the new things that we’re here to forget.

“You need to start trying to get better.” They say. You cry to the doctors, beg them to let you out. But you can’t leave, because of those papers you signed while you were half asleep in the emergency room.

The papers that make it seem like you're not here against your will.

“You can’t leave until you're better.” they say.