My room in the Psych Ward

My room in the psych ward is white and clean. It is my temporary home. It is blank – a basic chair, table, bed and lamp. Throughout the stay, it grows. It becomes messy, with reflections of my own inner catastrophes, but the mess then sorts itself, as I heal. It is adorned, with signs. A drawing from art therapy. A glass bowl I painted in craft. A piece – my last written piece, printed, minted and ready to share with the Dr. The room is a sealed space, my own private corner, that held me as I healed.

On day 1 of my admission, my room in the psych ward, felt like a cage. I was scared to be in it. Impossible. Angry. Defiant under my attempts to clean it. My room was wild of objects and unwashed clothes. My room was disastrous, a sign of my mental state. It felt confining, and somewhat accusing. My room was a place I didn’t want to be. I pace nervously in the smoker’s courtyard or by the nurse’s station. I am scared to just sit.

My room in the psych ward is now orderly. There is a blue corduroy pile, my favourite jacket strewn out over my bed. Cozy. My Birkenstocks on the floor, my notes from the classes piled up in a stack, my clothes in my laundry basket. Somehow, it is now a safe place to be.

My room in the psych ward is sometimes peaceful. My bed feels restful now, dressed in cozy greens of my heavy bedspread. I throw my clothes in colourful layers over each other. My laptop perches on my lap as my pale fingers create sentences and meaning. I have even made my bed, and it appears clean and welcoming, because I care that I sleep in a safe space. Because I care.

The smoker’s courtyard is a small hut under the sky. It rains above us. We sit on black benches, huddled by the ashtrays. Some of us have no energy to even sit on the benches. We sit on the floor. We drink Gatorade, smoke and scroll our phones. Then wordlessly go back to our rooms. It’s a community of hurt souls and I am okay to declare membership. I return to my room smelling of cigarettes.

My room in the psych ward is home, if for only a day or two longer. I am discharging on the weekend. I feel cleaner, somehow, and like a burden has been lifted from my back. I have smoked out my pain in the outdoor courtyard. I have cried out my wounds in the corridor as I speak to my Dr.. I have removed my hurt and fear as I let my body gently sleep, after weeks of insomnia.

My room in the psych ward is fleeting. I am moving on. The Dr warns that the longer you stay, the harder discharge becomes. Still, is home manageable? I am not the only one with doubts.

“The world out there . . . its disastrous,” says my friend J in the lounge. He doesn’t want to go home. He wants to stay a little longer. I do too – But this is just a slice of life, not life, and I need to face the music.

My room in the psych ward is messy again. I’m leaving tomorrow, and packing is spilling out over my floor. My green bedspread and pillow are stripped off the bed and piled in a basket. There are layers on the chair, of clothes to be folded, patterns clashing, stripes and fuzzy jumpers. There is a hand-made card open on the desk prepared for the nurses – not yet finished – as I try find the right words to say goodbye.

People sometimes pity you when you go to a psych ward, but for some moments, it is a privilege to be here. It is a privilege to be able to get well. And to go home with brushed hair and clearer skin and a trove of art and craft made in recovery. It is an accomplishment, to admit to the hospital, and a relief, to leave.

My room on the psych ward is still. One more lonely night here. The ward is quiet. Tomorrow, I go home.