I’ve cried 3 times since I’ve been home, but I’ve mostly hidden it because it doesn’t seem like something I’m supposed to do on the day I’m released from the psychiatric hospital.
That’s probably not what you were hoping to read. It’s certainly not what I was hoping to write.
I know they expect some regression when they release us back into the wild, but I was kind of hoping I might be some sort of rare creature who simply learns from the experience and moves forward.
What? A girl can dream.
I feel oddly discontent. I can’t put my finger on it, but I just feel…off. Like I want to walk around the block or go for a drive or maybe just curl up in a ball and cry. I just don’t know what.
When I got home I took a nap, but not a long one, because they tell me the bed is not my friend. I’m trying to remember that. So when I was sad and I started to cry, I did breathing exercises to regain my emotional control and I didn’t throw myself into a sobbing heap on the bed.
This is progress, yes?
The Gs were playing Minecraft today (the gist of their conversation: “Don’t put the chicken in the waterfall! You’re going to drown the chicken! Look at all those chickens!) and Little G said to Big G, “Go to water if you’re on fire.” It reminded me of a quote one of the psych techs wrote on the board at UNI: “When tempted to fight fire with fire, remember that the fire department usually uses water.”
So. Deep breathing. I will not heap sadness upon sadness. I will remember that I have hope.
And I will listen to the Dove chocolate wrapper, which commanded me to sleep late tomorrow. I took a picture of it so I could prove I’m not just making that up (and also just because I can do that now that I’m out of the hospital), but my phone is being a jerk, so no chocolate wrapper picture for you.
Now you’re going to cry, aren’t you? Don’t worry. I can teach you some breathing exercises.