My recent (brief) mental ward stay sparked this convo which sparked my friend’s essay on mental health care and stigmas. Since I wasn’t suicidal, there was no place for crying little girls. Or, as my therapist said, “You don’t have to be suicidal to be psychotic!”
Why is there no in between sane and not sane?.
i ate a lot of cake yesterday. i had an emergency chocolate, chocolate-fudge calling. BUT i’m allergic to wheat, so i had to take a benedryl.
now. it’s 9:00pm, i’ve taken benedryl, and most peeps can prolly guess what the benny-d’s does to me: sleep like a stone.
i thought about going to bed early so i’d already be in bed when i checked out for the night, but damn that couch be lookin fine! couch wins. matthew couldn’t budge me to bed, i was out like Fraser v. Ali, so he gave up and went to bed without me.
3:00am my drugged ass wakes up and i’m just omg i hurt so bad need bed and millet pillow stat. i actually take the time to wash off my waterproof mascara, unbelievably, and then ooze my way into the bed buck nekkid cause who gives a shit about finding a damn nightgown at 3 am? a few hours later and matthew gets me up. i am in so. much. pain. from sleeping like a pretzel on the couch. ow.
next time, benedryl = bed drill. (cough, yeah right!)