“Turn, turn away
From the sound of your own voice,
Calling no one, just a silence”
“Turn Away” – Beck, Morning Phase.
—–
Life is getting easier. I don’t feel so miserable this morning. I’m up since 5.00 and there have been no tears so far. It’s an improvement. That’s not to say I can get complacent. I might feel good today and wake feeling shite tomorrow. It’s early days.
Hospital is like a cocoon. They build a scaffolding around you to support and protect you, they erect a force field. There is nothing to be worried about except your recovery. Everything else is taken care of for you.
But they do treat you like a baby. Over the sink in my room is a little sticker on the left reading “Caution – Hot Water”. That drives me mad. But then I remember that the poor bastard next door might not be able to remember which is the hot tap. It’s sobering but I know I’ve scalded myself on previous admissions.
You need a sense of humour to survive this place, a twisted black sense of fun. The other day, one young man was complaining that there wasn’t enough activity for men in the hospital. He asked another patient’s opinion. He answered that he would like to do woodwork. I thought that seemed sensible. He asked me what I’d like. Is said lap-dancing. I’m still smiling. I’m thinking of starting a petition 🙂
Routine is mandatory. I wake, eat, take medication and sleep according to predictable timetables. It’s easy to become institutionalised. But routine is important. It reduces anxiety. I wake early these days and try to establish my own patterns. Shaving is important – quintessentially masculine. Washing, brushing your teeth, just remembering to use aftershave. All these little actions, little victories, serve to make me feel more human. They help me face the day.
But I also need to maintain an element of control. I skip a meal every now and then or turn up late for my medication. I like to mess around a bit, fuck with their heads. I’m depressed, no one said I was dead.
I’m lucky. There are plenty here in worse condition than mine. But, I have to accept that I need to be here too. No one sends you in here for a holiday (it would need a pretty awful travel agent). You have to earn it. I think we all fight our demons differently in here but the suffering is just the same.
The ward is quiet. Many of the patients are on weekend leave. But I don’t mind. I have my music and enough sparkling water to supply the ward. My eldest son is coming to visit soon. I want to be in good form for his arrival. I want him to know I’ll be okay.
