Two steps forward, one step back

After two weeks in a residential treatment center, I had to return to the acute inpatient hospital.

From my writing perch—a small circular table with built-in checker pieces—I can count 54 bright fluorescent lights. Time here feels like sitting on a plane that’s been delayed, the captain unsure when it will take off. Waking up is painful: another slow, motionless day stretching ahead. Ironically, falling asleep is the best escape from my nightmare. Fatigue settles in with the first hint of sunrise, as thin slits in the windows let streams of light drift inside.

My shower shuts off after five seconds. (I’m still not sure why.) Meeting with the psychiatrist is its own kind of battle.

“What medications have you been on?”

“Are you sure you have bipolar disorder?”

“Prove it. I’m not convinced you do.”

My stomach settles heavily into the back of my throat.

I consider myself one of the “easier” patients for a psychiatrist to work with. I’m prepared, coherent, and deeply committed to getting better. I ask questions about my medications, and I take them—every single one, every single time. Still, I can’t help but wonder where I “went wrong” as I watch hospital staff move through the halls with their credentials, directing patients to vitals, breakfast, and medication.

We learn coping skills, complete daily check-ins, and create artwork that’s supposed to help us explore the depths of our feelings. But if I’m honest, I’m mostly envious. Envious that they get fresh air. Envious that they go home to their families at the end of the day.

I don’t know how long I’ll be here.

The low hum of mechanical noise hangs constantly overhead, reminding me where I am. I wouldn’t call myself particularly wise in the outside world, but in here I can often explain to other patients what medications they’re taking and why. Not as medical advice—just enough to help classify them: a sleep aid, a mood stabilizer, an antidepressant. Sometimes even that little bit of understanding seems to help.

I’m rambling now because my mind is muddled. Writing is therapeutic for me because it lets me see my thoughts in front of me. Reading them back forces me to acknowledge the reality of where I am. And, of course, I’ll keep rereading them—sitting with the anxiety, unable to look away.