Two weeks into my challenge, an update — on the poems, and the week I spent in the hospital.
The good news: I have (so far) succeeded in writing one poem every day throughout August, as planned.
The also-good news: I did this even while in the hospital for a whole week.
The not-so-good news: I was, in fact, in the hospital for a whole week.
To break it down:
The “(so far)” is because I…haven’t written a poem yet today (whoops). But every other day this month, I wrote a poem — sometimes a long one, sometimes a short one; sometimes a halfway-decent one! Sometimes a really, really awful one. One day, I wrote three poems.
Yes, I wrote a poem every day while in the hospital. I didn’t have a laptop or a phone (my preferred method for writing since at least 2011)…I didn’t even have a pen. I had my small notebook (given to me by my friend, it’s small and adorable and every time I look at it, I feel like I should be holed up in a cozy library room on a biiiig poofy chair), and I had a marker, and that’s about it. But I made it work. I have no idea if I’ll be able to re-read what I wrote when the time comes to transcribe the poems. But I did it!
The hospital: Last Thursday, I went to the emergency room. I wanted to check into the behavioral health unit (layman’s terms: the psych ward). This would be my fourth visit. In six years. Should I be disappointed? Should I be…resigned, like this is just a facet of my life going forward? Should I be tired (I am, regardless)? I think it’s all of the above — I am accepting that this is my life and I live with a chronic illness, and yet that is disappointing, and of course, I cannot not be tired (I am always tired). At the same time, I feel…victorious.
Because asking for help is freaking hard. Because checking into a locked unit, where they take your phone, your laptop, your clothes, your literal undergarments, and give you paper clothes to wear and strange meals to eat and structure your every hour around group therapy and activities and —
It’s so much.
It's so much and it’s so terrifying to voluntarily give up so much of your independence.
But I did it, because I realized that without it, if I didn’t make that small sacrifice, I might end up sacrificing a million things more.
I would sacrifice my sanity, my relationships, my job. I would sacrifice my future career. I may, in the end, have sacrificed my life.
All at the altar of not giving up my independence.
Is it worth it? Would it have been worth it?
I don’t know man, the fear was…so intense.
In fact, my poem for last Thursday (the day I checked in), reads
Seeping in through all the cracks
Filtering into every thought
Polluting the very soul until
Until it's all cracked, creased with dirt.
That’s it, that’s the poem. Just four lines, pretty clichéd, but honest.
And this is the part where I remind you that if you donate at least $15 to one of the charities that I’ll list below (note the addition!), you can get your very own selection of poems from this month! Including very many Hospital Poems.
ISLA (Immigration Services & Legal Advocacy) — scroll down page to “Donate” section