Hiding

Fear.

Fear is the first thing I remember feeling when going to the ward. It's a persisting kind, it always greets me with open arms when I check in, no matter how many times I've been there in the past, no matter how trustworthy the nurses and doctors are. I think a lot of it has to do with just how unnatural of an environment the hospital is: time has stopped, seasonal changes don't exist, days blend into each other, Yule, Easter, Juhannus are all the same. 

And they bring you to your room, have you empty out your bags, take your cigarette lighter away from you, as well as keys, ID cards, wallets, any sharp objects. If you arrive as a voluntary patient, they grant you more freedom, and you get to keep your phone, electronics, and chargers. But if you start resisting the treatment, breaking the rules, behaving in suicidal ways, they'll take that freedom away from you. As long as you behave, it'll all be a lot easier for you. 

The rooms are so well soundproof that I can't hear anything outside of my walls. You can't open the window, only the blinds. It is so quiet you could hear a pin drop, quite literally. 

Maybe that's why it always startles me so badly.

terror.

Every time a nurse knocks on my door, I jump half a meter up in the air. My entire body jolts, muscles twitch, heartbeat raises. I'm constantly on high alert, hyper aware of my surroundings and every sense stimuli that triggers me. 

The very first few days I feel threatened. I feel unsafe, overprotective of myself. I don't want to engage, I don't want to talk to anyone but my assigned nurses. I stay away from the common room area, going back to my own room immediately after eating and smoking. They always ask me to join in their board games or go watch TV with the nurses, but I just can't. I can't do any of that when I am this fucking scared of literally everybody in this facility. 

But the worst part of all of this is that there is no need for me to be scared. There is no genuine threat that I should be wary of, because psychiatric wards in this country are a lot safer than some others. The medical professionals know what they're doing, they don't abuse their power against you, they're not violent toward you. They treat you like a human being.

That's what I always say to them, too: "Thank you for treating me like a human being." There's a confused smile on the doctor's lips, communicating to me that there shouldn't be anything to thank them for. And I know that's how they feel. But I still thank them, every single time. 

Because even if I am in a constant state of terror when I check in, I always leave with the knowledge that finally, I can rest assured that there are people out there who respect me enough to treat me with the kindness I've always treated others with. That finally, there is a place where the Kid can feel safe in, no matter how scared she is at the beginning. Because that fear is temporary, and now I finally know what it feels like to understand that feelings aren't forever, and accept them as they are.

Just like they accept me at the ward with a warm smile every time I step in.

Comforting you,

ichigonya