Dirt Witch Records

Before you start, I present to you a couple of ways of reading this. It’s pretty long, so aside from being posted here I’ll post a PDF link.

Foreword: The End

When I first got out of the mental health facility the last thing I wanted to do was talk about my time there, and I didn’t for a while. I’d tell the people I was close to where I had been, but rarely provided much detail. I would have told you there wasn’t much to talk about. Sometimes I still feel that way, but it does no good to anyone comparing trauma, and designating which trauma is entertaining enough to share. What I have learned (kind of) is that it helps to share. It helps me, and it helps anyone else going through something similar. So share I will.

What follows is some journaling I did during, and directly after my brief stay in the St. Joseph Mental Health Unit (or whatever it’s actually called). I tried to leave most of the text alone, and do most of the editing to the structure, presenting it as a sort of unrhymed free verse poem. I did make a few editorial decisions for clarity and impact, and I’m sure I let my biases of now slip into then. I hope you can forgive me.

As for the title it’s admittedly a bit melodramatic, but that feels appropriate to me. I was inspired by some of the apocalyptic poetry I had been working on, and it got me thinking about how endings are rarely the end. Life didn’t end like I thought it might it that time, but I can’t say I’ve been quite the same person since. Plus, it sounds good.

So, some context. I had been working at a charter school in Benton Harbor, ironically called “Benton Harbor Dream Academy” teaching 9^th grade Biology and 11^th and 12^th grade Chemistry. It was, to say the least, a rough school. I had some awful shit said or screamed at me there, mostly by the students. The principal was a barely literate, unkind man, who showed others how to fail by example. I handled things ok at first, but throughout the half a school year I worked there I began to unravel. Around winter break issues hit a peak and I began to consider suicide. My attempts to hide my depression at work were also no longer working, which ironically made my time with some of the students a bit easier. I would wake up weighed down by the dread, and at some point, I just stopped showing up. I called in for a while, but eventually I didn’t bother with that either.

I felt so incredibly lost at the time. Most of college I had wanted to be a teacher, and when it no longer felt like I could do that, I sort of lost the confidence that I could do anything. Be worth anything. My depression and anxiety cohabitated and spiraled until I wrote up a plan to kill myself. I drank, and I sat in my bathtub staring at a razor blade until eventually calling the Suicide Hotline, talking to someone, and remembering just how selfish and stupid the thing I was planning to do was. That following Monday I went to the doctor, and well, the rest will follow.

I would like to reassure you, before we begin, that I’m in a much better place now. I don’t think I’d have the strength to share this if I wasn’t. I’ve had a lot of help getting better, but the most important person in getting myself to a better place was me. As my favorite podcaster Marcus Parks says

“Your mental illness is not your fault, but it is your responsibility”

1/27/16

I

I haven’t quite figured out what I will do with this notebook yet,

besides,

This.

I feel a little guilty writing in it actually,

as my handwriting is atrocious,

and this book is very nice.

This notebook has started as I was committed,

technically on a voluntary basis, to

Lakeland Hospitals Psychiatric Ward.

It was given to me early,

originally intended as a valentines day gift, or part of one,

from my girlfriend K.

It’s quite lovely, and I’m happy to have it.

Seeing her and my parents in so much pain over my being here has been heart wrenching.

I look forward to getting out of here,

seeing them feel better.

Also it kind of sucks.

II

I suppose it would be useful,

if I decided to share this,

or read it later,

to explain the events leading up to my admittance to the

Psych Ward,

which I now find capitalized as if it were a proper title.

It certainly feels as if it could be one.

It’s a haunting and damning label to the world outside,

or

I suppose.

I digress,

however,

which I will continue to do at later points with some certainty.

As I said earlier,

it

does

suck.

III

I will start with the events immediately leading to my admission,

or admissions,

counting all this.

The 26^th of January

in the year of our lord, 2016.

I went to the doctor at 4 p.m.

Her, N.P.

in red

light brown skin and freckles.

A very warm woman,

I was in quite a poor state, and

she prevented my chest from exploding while we waited

for the ambulance to come and get me.

The ambulance she called.

We talked about chemistry,

I always liked to talk chemistry,

to someone who wants to listen.

I always liked to talk,

to someone who actually wants to listen.

The opportunity is rare.

Perhaps this is why I find myself here.

K was with us too.

I was reminded of how terrible titrating is.

I would explain it here,

but I am already tired,

and do not wish to sing myself the lullaby of

drip,

drip,

drip,

drip,

FUCK!

I have to start over.

IV

A couple of police officers stopped in.

To check me for weapons.

The link between suicidal

and homicidal is thinner than I believed.

They were friendly enough.

As reassuring as they can muster to a stranger.

The E.M.T.’s arrived shortly after.

There was an older, larger man,

short crop gray hair,

and a younger man,

medium brown hair.

“Pilot”

“Flight Attendant”

I was strapped to a gurney at the legs,

with full control of my arms.

A mechanical people-table

covered in a cream blanket swaddled around me like a

half baby,

half failing man.

Like suddenly the world was terrifying and new.

sidenote

I feel as if I am not qualified

to write something I will share on this,

as I expect my stay will be short,

and I feel low,

but not quite sober in thought.

Perhaps this may give me some greater insight,

however,

and in the end,

someone ought to.

Not that no one has,

but it’s unfamiliar to most. And

I feel some guilt over not being worse off.

It’s really quite a silly thing.

Probably

attached

to the general stigma

attached

to depression.

I do realize I am,

though an odd thing for an agnostic to say,

blessed in many ways.

I am loved,

I am educated,

I am creative,

I am charming,

And I am capable.

All of this somehow just makes me feel guilty.

Then I feel guilty about feeling guilty.

V

K drove behind the ambulance.

It didn’t have the sirens on,

disappointing,

but understandable unless it showed up in the bill.

I had watched some show,

and was secretly hoping my life

would suddenly become like TV:

funny, light,

and able to be contained within a 40 minute time frame.

I was met with reassurances during the ambulance ride.

It was very warm,

but I refused to acknowledge or complain.

My “flight attendant” relayed to me a message,

he told me the story of the time he almost took his life.

Stories more brutal than tragic without context.

Violence without empathy.

Like peeking through someone’s window.

Even if they opened the curtains,

you feel like a shameless pervert for

watching,

without trying to hide the reality.

He had held a knife up to his neck

and started cutting,

until his dog rubbed up against his leg.

The thought of it still makes me rub at an invisible wound

as if it were my own.

I’ve never been found of sharp objects,

my saving grace.

VI

We waited in the E.R.

for an exhausting amount of time.

Four hours.

K,

and eventually her mother waited with me until my parents came.

Substitute mourners.

Two hours away from the hospital at a good drive,

an inconvenience I often feel guilty about.

I fluctuated between periods of

extreme stillness

and unbearable agitation.

I tapped my hands or my feet.

This always seemed to unsettle the substitute mourners.

1/28/16

I

I don’t know how many times my vitals were taken that day. How many different nurses and doctors I had passed through.

I felt as if there was something profoundly wrong with me, like I was about to die and everyone was trying to figure out how to stop it,

or maybe just making funeral arrangements.

My blood pressure, heartbeat,

bloodwork, pisswork,

weight, height, favorite color.

So many questions asked of me.

Me, who is without any answers.

I remember feeling so desperate

to figure out what was going to happen to me.

It was strange to feel so out of control, yet

So fully aware I could do nothing about it.

Terrifying and relieving.

II

Four hours before I was moved to the psych ward.

I remember

signing some voluntary admission form,

but I had signed so many things by that point,

it was hard to keep track.

I was wheeled over by an older nurse

with strange speech patterns.

Parents following behind.

My saving grace that night,

talking to me as I cried in my bed.

He brought me food,

and something to help me sleep. I did, though I

eventually went out to find a book that night.

Some trashy murder mystery,

James Patterson, I think.

The kind of book that felt like

a poorly worded summary of another,

better book.

Stiff and rehearsed.

Still I was happy to have it.

A token of escape,

and normalcy.

III

I woke up the next morning confused,

too confused to be scared.

I was asked if I wanted to take a shower.

It took me frighteningly long to say yes, but I did.

I was given a small hand towel and wash cloth.

I thought to grab the bottle of

wash

I had been provided.

The shower was covered by a medical looking green curtain. The water came out alarmingly cold,

But eventually warmed.

The effect was still strange, like washing in a gym shower.

I tried to dry myself as thoroughly as possible.

I had the t-shirt I had worn in,

and a pair of one size fits all stretchy pants,

medical blue.

IV

I went back to my room, or

at least where I was sleeping

and set down my old clothes.

They had finally checked my clothes late last night and I was able to put on a pair of real pants,

brown corduroys,

which one of the other patients later complimented me on.

A wiry blonde,

must have been in her mid-30s,

but had the energy of a child.

She had dreads and beads in her hair.

It gave her a presence that

did not seem welcome among

the downtrodden flock.

V

It doesn’t seem so far from real life,

to feel like the sanest person in the room.

I remember slumping down into the rec room.

It felt so bright,

and lonely.

Hard furniture,

everything so clean,

decorations calculatedly un-calculated.

I was waiting for breakfast,

I think.

It seemed like hours before any other human being

chose to reside in that space.

There was an air of uncertainty that whole time,

like no one knew where they were truly supposed to be.

I sat alone.

I was served rubbery eggs and wet oatmeal.

I ate slowly and cautiously

like each bite might cause some atrocity.

I didn’t speak to another patient until

the first psychotherapy group at 8:15.

Before that,  

I was pulled into the office by the psychiatrist.

I missed goal setting.

Oh no.

1/30/16

I got out Thursday the 28^th,

I think.

Ended up skipping a day in this thing.

Tired of writing.

In there, I think

I almost did it out of some kind of survival instinct.

Trying not to die of overwhelming boredom.

It’s rarely something I have a problem with.

Hell, I could just do the same activities

at home

and be perfectly satisfied,

but something about having no other choice.

The farther away from the events that happened

the more likely fiction is to creep its way in.

I’m ok with that,

we all write our own histories.

1/31/16

Where I left off.

Psychiatrist office.

Dr. G.

A reserved man, black slacks, and a white shirt

with close cut gray hair.

He spoke as his outfit would presume.

Honestly,

he spoke as if he might have been

as doped up as the patients.

The first thing he asked me was to take a seat.

I don’t remember specifics.

Talking about my terrible job,

him agreeing with me.

He prescribed me some Prozac,

and then I left.

2/01/16

Seems like the post-depression happy high is

starting to wear off today.

This means I’m gonna have to get back to trying at it

like a normal person.

I still feel blessed,

and my mental state gives me a little vacation.

Not that I’m getting paid for it.

I got denied FMLA or short term disability.

That means that I get to resign earlier.

I’m sure that will be a fun time.

I’m still damn emotional,

I’ll cry at the drop of a hat,

mostly about good things.

Still, hard to be like that out in the real world,

so hopefully,

I figure that out.

Still happy to be alive.

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