… and your therapist is threatening to send you to IP (inpatient), what’s a nut to do? Get the hell out of dodge like someone set your ass on fire. No, really. Therapists will call the mofuggin cops on you if they don’t think you’re safe. RUN!!! (Yes, the wise and mindful catch is coming. But really. RUN.)
Yeah, I was faced with that choice this past week. “Are you safe” “Ummm… I don’t know…” “Do you need to go to the hospital?” “….don’t send me there please.” “If you’re not safe, I have to.” “….ohmygod thiscan’tbehappening”
I have what could be considered a legitimate case of PTSD from the the psychiatric ward. To be far to all psych wards and terribly unfair to others, it was in Yuck-Town, South Carolina. (I’m sorry, Yuck-Town. No one sees your charm for at least a few months.) It was awful. If anyone there knew truthfully what they were doing, I’ll eat my computer. If sticking needles in your arms while you’re asleep is legal, I’ll eat my couch, too. Yes, the whole fucking couch. I haven’t been able to sleep alone in silence for nearly two years now– either someone else has to be in the room, or I need music/Netflix, visit a hospital without nearly flipping a nut, or be in similar room layouts. It’s ridiculous.
Hell, meet the psych ward and hide in shame.
Nonetheless, I discovered on Monday that one of the best friends I’ve had betrayed me in the Breaking Federal Law kind of way. I swore up and down that it wasn’t her and verbally bitchslapped anyone who suggested she could do such a thing to another person. Stupid, stupid me. Retrieving the opportunities she cost me has not been looking promising in the past week or so. The despair of an empty future and the grief of betrayal nearly did me in. My therapist told me that I could figure out how to Not Be Alone this weekend, or I could go to the hospital for the time. Um. Fuck. No.
With AMAZING luck, one of my closest friends–yes, much better than the aforementioned PoS that I still love and forgive for some reason–called me up. Within hours, she’d paid for me to fly an hour or so south and stay at her house for several days. I returned home this afternoon. I won’t explain everything, but I came back having helped out a dear friend with countless tasks, having gone skinny dipping in freezing cold water, having given and received moments of genuine compassionate care, having scored a freaking job only someone like me can do effectively, and having consumed my body weight in gourmet cooking and tea. The tea was most important.
Essentially, I’m making a ridiculous and cliched point: when things are falling apart, change your circumstances and then your perspective. It’s easy to say that the present catastrophe Will Always Be, but everything changes. It’s easy to say that you can never be fixed having fallen apart, but maybe you don’t need fixing. It’s easy to believe you’re this:
When perhaps the full picture looks more like this:
In taking me in for a week, C gave me moments where things were okay. Maybe life wasn’t okay, but Right Now And Right Here things were actually kind of okay. Maybe I’d vomited up half my meals, but here was a gorgeous yet simple honey sandwich made specifically to make me feel better. Maybe I couldn’t work out my life, but I could work out all the knots in her shoulders. Maybe someone had broken my heart all over again, but here was a dear friend holding my freezing and shivering self close with all her strength.
Eventually, when I fall apart, at some point I realize that things can be managed in a very specific moment even if they cannot be borne in their totality.
Blah blah mindful of the present blah.
For the Love of Metta,