Stories
Eight days in the mental hospital felt like a lifetime and when I left I was full of stories that you really shouldn’t tell in public because people get nervous when you start a story with “In the hospital-” but I’m telling them anyway because they’re mine to tell.
In the hospital, my best friend came in with cuts all down her arm. We mostly just sat together, didn’t talk much except to say “at least they’ll heal clean,” and that was enough.
In the hospital, one of us called someone “crazy” and we all laughed till we cried because- look where we are.
In the hospital, there was a woman who could find a four leaf clover barely looking, and she gave one to each of us because we needed all the luck we could get (or was it love?)
In the hospital it was so cold I wore a blanket as a cape and it caught on as a fashion statement, the newest trend for the mentally ill.
I am telling stories about plastic pillows and crying in front of rainy windows and snuck hugs and dear god- the blessed sun and how there are some faces I”ll never forget and some stories that still sound in my soul,
but my heart still screams my story the loudest. It says, “I could have done it. I could have jumped off that roof, could have taken those pills, but I didn’t. I did the much braver thing, I lived.
Even thought I was scared, even though I saw no light at the end of the tunnel, I lived.
And I’m glad.”
