Above the Worries of the World, by Moon

on what is probably a Tuesday, Ayden stops coming to the Fishbowl. not at group therapy. not at dinner. the scavengers we are, we collaborate in eating Ayden’s food alongside our own. the cooking staff only rations 250ml of juice per person anyhow. we rejoice, the seven of us in the unit, for an extra half a chicken tender. Ayden doesn’t show up for another eight meals. when he returns to the Fishbowl with gauze masking his forearms, we want to know what lies beneath. to admire. to compare. to discover methods of improvement. but we think we hear a dog in the background of our skull, and attempt to disregard its banter. we are better than our diagnosis we are better than our diagnosis we are better. we are happy to see Ayden again, though. his lips crusted, a shaky knitted yellow sweater of himself—he’s one of us. between commercials of Jeopardy and Wheel, we congregate over our meds and evolving diagnoses. we talk as if we’re discussing trading cards or what kinds of car brands we like (and which we don’t). most of our insurances don’t cover Latuda, despite the doctor starting us all on it. admit Carolyn, in her sixties, has had half a dictionary of things to treat her delirium. she sees us, though. we see her. Elizabeth needs meds to keep her heart rate from escalating, to keep her hands from shuddering. Ayden only takes liquid medication, refuses them in any other form. pills create the sense of choking. we’ve wondered what swallowing many of them tastes like. probably like drywall mud. the thoughts dissipate easily. our Seroquel and lithium are wiper blades, decluttering anxious ice. perhaps due to the therapy, or simply being with others who bear scars on our brains like ours, this way of life clicks for us. the meals dispel the myth of horrible hospital food. we even have bedrooms and bathrooms to ourselves. in fact, we don’t really want to leave.

the word discharge feels bloody because it is. and yet it’s supposed to mean an unshackling. it’s supposed to be a good word for behavioral unit admits. we’re again admitted, but this time to the outside world. we’re supposed to feel proud. we shouldn’t be sad to say goodbye. but healing feels like a vice, its papery arms weak and uncertain. suppose we give our healing a name. like Winnipeg. a cold place wanting to be warm. our body wants to be a warm place. one with flower tattoos, steaming echinacea tea, a word search book, and a garden of colored pencils in hand. we can make any place warm with a bundle of healing.

normal life is not normal life. but then again what have we been

NMC MAGAZINE 36 living? 37 Anxiety