February was messed up. I think I was more in a hospital via St Francis and Methodist than out. If I don’t consider the month change, I had definitely been in a hospital than out over the past 30 days. I don’t think I ever had that situation, including the spinal fusion.

Roughly a week at St Francis just recouping to where I could feel comfortable physically move. That took four days. Then I had a couple of days out. Maybe a weekend. Then, poof, into Methodist for two weeks.

Methodist is a hospital but a very different one. I was in a psyche ward and surrounded by people who were cutters and failed suicide attempts. There were people who filtered in for just a couple of days for a couple of meals and a refill for medications before demanding to be released. Quite a few seemed homeless, although I never specifically asked. But when you see them given a list of shelters… which are always full… I get the idea.

But one thing they all had in common, save one or two, they were intelligent and startling caring. Even through the drugs, situations, and whatever anti-depressants, their thoughts and experiences deserve respect, far more than what the staff typically showed. The staff… that’s another blog entirely. (Especially my very own Nurse Ratchet.)

While this wasn’t from DC, I would consider this Arkham-lite. Well, at least for me. For the majority of the time, I couldn’t choose what I hate, the bathroom was always locked, and cameras were everywhere — except for the bathroom. Back into the wheelchair I went, just like the House, but this one didn’t have big wheels. I couldn’t push myself anywhere until I figured out how to unlock it without standing up. I had to fight keep a pen on me and to use a straw. The TV was behind a cheap security frame. The chairs are too hard to move to prevent my fellow inmates from throwing them at each other. Fairly sturdy brown backs took the place of trashcans. Again, to keep people from hurting themselves or becoming projectiles. So, there was some thought.

But it wasn’t consistent. I was given a couple of paperclips when receiving papers. I could have straightened them and caused some damage to myself or others. Someone could have easily pocketed them and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Golf pencils were provided but still… even those could cause some self-harm providing the right area of the body was pierced.

During dinners, simple things like cheap pepper packets were denied. If I didn’t eat, I would get the Ensure which I saw as a punishment falling back to the House and their methods. I could have water. I couldn’t have water. I could have all the water I wanted provided it wasn’t too much, in accordance to Nurse Ratchet.

(Well… crap. I had an appointment at 10 I really wanted to go to. It’d be the first time I’d driven in over a month and interact with someone who wasn’t family or affiliated with big medical. She’s sick and has been rescheduled to Friday. Dern it. I need to recalculate my day… after the appointment I was going to walk at M. Race for a bit. How about I wait until it’s a bit more warm, take off the trash, go to Wal-Mart and get meds, and… walk around at the fairgrounds for a little while? This girl needs some movement. I don’t know what’s more difficult. Trying to get back to my routine or staying at C8. …. C8. Hands down.)

Anyways…waiting for it to become a little warmer… Okay. What was I writing about?
Oh. Since I was denied simple things like pepper and Splenda packets, my pockets were not full of sunshine. I tried to fill them with the forbidden flavoring and used them discreetly and only when I thought no one was looking. Which they probably totally were. Just like how I was dispose of magic food that appeared with nearly every meal.

That’s right. Magic food. When I was provided a little freedom on what I could eat, magic and unasked food would just appear. This could range from a random tub of peanut butter, a tube of full flavored ranch, or a plain slice of bread. At first, I was offended. Not what I ordered. Won’t eat it. But I couldn’t not eat it or I would be slapped with a glass of the punished high calorie and more fat than a candy bar Ensure. So, I had to get creative. I’m not sure how many packets “feel” between the cracks of my cheap recliner or vanished in a strategically placed brown bag. Jason even smuggled out a piece of bread for me. I was shameless.

Once I figured out that the magic food was to hit a unknown calorie daily intake, it was understandable. People are just doing their jobs. But I still didn’t eat all the magic food but some. I caved a little. Really, a plain piece of bread is kind of okay but mayo, when the dinner was a cheap microwaved lasagna, isn’t. No way. Into the brown bag that went.

What’s next…. besides attempt to not slide backwards… The great whale starts tomorrow. I’ll call it the Center. It’s in Indy and doctor at C8 pushed me to the head of the line and to jump the waiting period which, I was told, was multiple months. Tomorrow, I’ll be assessed to determine which intensive inpatient program I’ll be enrolled in. The day after I have a dietician. This is supposed to be the premiere place in the state for people with my issues. A fellow inmate even provided a lukewarm recommendation as she went through a couple of weeks before being kicked out. (Given that we’re undocumented experts from all of the therapy we’ve been provided over the years, any type of recommendation is huge. I don’t know much about this place except they are into the body/trauma connection and the head, Dr. Mary, was sent my medical records. From that, she was the authority that allowed my hellish stay in C8.

I’m guessing she was impressed, especially since we’ve never met.

I think I can handle the Center. Been there, done that, sort of thing. Hopefully, it’ll be a learning experience and something new instead of the usual trite BS. I’m just nervous about the journey. Since the use of Medicare transportation was scheduled and heavily imposed, I’m thinking that maybe some are concerned about my ability to drive long distances. That’s understandable since I was just released from C8 four or five days ago.

But the appointment isn’t until 7:30am and the cab is coming to get me at 5. Five…? Even if it’s an hour and a half drive, five is going to place me there nearly an hour early. I don’t know anything about this area of the city. Is it safe? Will there be a place to walk around or just boringly sit until the correct time? Will the doors even be open that early? The Thursday appointment is at eight as well and the cab is going to pick me up at six. That seems more reasonable than 5 as it would allow a buffer and get me there early enough should there be additional check-in paperwork.

Also, how about getting back? What if the appointment goes over an hour on Wednesday? On Thursday, the appointment is supposed to take an hour… eight to nine… what if it goes over? Thursday might be okay since the cab isn’t expecting me until 9:30 but on Wednesday, the cab is scheduled for 8:30. That’s just half an hour into the hour long eight o’clock appointment.

I don’t know… but surely the Medicare cabs are used to riders getting out late…. right?
I don’t want to be stranded in Inday all day just waiting and waiting and waiting…. wondering if I would go home. I did that enough in the early days of my stay at C8. Just thinking of that situation again so early after release fills me with apprehension. …

The thing is that in any other situation, I would welcome the chance to explore the area. I’d be fearless and find parks and places to go. Maybe I do have PTSD from the House. Being under any type of lockdown and restriction of freedoms really messes with my head. I slide down the Candyland ladder back to start and just don’t know what to do. I want to go forward, but not too fast. I need to test my strength and do so at a pace that doesn’t alarm others.

And what I think I can handle isn’t the same what loved ones think I should do. But, of course, I can’t trust myself. As the House continually reminded me, my confidence and judgement landed me there and now a psyche ward.

The grounding of my personality and maybe my essence feels like it’s under continual attack.

I’m just so blessed that I have people who care for me.

… They have too or they’re gluttons for punishment. =)

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting some more.

Is it warm enough yet?