Each time I’ve been in the hospital there has been a reason for it. Of course the reasons aren’t made clear right away, but eventually they come to me, and I am grateful for them. The first time was simply so I would stay safe. Being in a ward with the beds and chairs bolted to the floors, no toilet seats, having to ask for paper towels and shampoo and hand lotion and deodorant and a toothbrush, not being allowed to wear real clothes because they might have snaps or zippers or buttons and instead swimming in too-big, scratchy, disposable scrubs that could pass for pillowcases, and not being allowed pens or caffeine or to make phone calls definitely keeps one safe. For me, it also allowed time to go from a hysterical kind of crazy to a more sane, but still crazy, kind of temperament.

The second time was so I could begin to understand the severity of my illness, how much work I had to do to get better, and that I couldn’t do it without some real professional help. That hospital was a little bit better. The nurses and social workers felt more caring, the chairs were extremely heavy but at least moved if you put your weight behind them, the groups and discussions were more relevant and intelligent, and the schedule gave us less down time, which is helpful when phones aren’t allowed, the books on the shelf aren’t much to choose from and one can only write so many things in a journal when not living in regular, everyday life.

The third time was to give me a break and to help me realize the importance of self-care, that taking small steps, even if they are very small, is ok, and that I need to keep writing. I know I write a lot anyway. On Facebook, here, on post-its, on the big paper on my wall, in workbooks, in my class notebook, and lists of gratitude practices. But this reminder was about journaling. I sat down to write more in the story I’m writing, but it ended up being very therapeutic for me. I came away with 5 8.5×11 pages, front and back and thoughts that have been spinning for weeks, months were finally out and it feels like a weight has been lifted. I love writing here. I love knowing that maybe I will help someone, even if it’s only one person, by sharing my feelings. In my class today we talked about how not everyone will like us, and that brought me to thinking about this blog. I know some people don’t like it. But some people do, and most importantly, I do, because it feels like I can do some good, which I need to feel, especially now without my job or my kids to influence. So I will keep writing, unapologetically, to those who’d I like it and those who don’t. Those who don’t can choose not to read it. Or maybe they’ll keep reading so they can complain and gossip. But maybe someday I’ll say something that will reach them too. I’d like to do that.

Of course I know I can come to these conclusions and realizations on my own, at home or in therapy or maybe even on a slow day at work or out on a walk or during yoga or when journaling, etc. I don’t plan on making a habit of being in the hospital just so I can get some important insight. But I’m not complaining that I have gotten what I have out of the time I’ve spent in hospitals. I feel in a really good place right now. I’m thrilled with the goals I set yesterday. They feel attainable and not too big but at the same time like they will make a huge difference in my life and on my health. I still have a long way to go with figuring out a career and an eventual house but I can’t think about those things right now. For now I will just be proud of my goals and the awareness that I’ve gained from quiet moments (well, not quiet, because hospitals are not quiet places, but from moments that allow me to think). And I will try to remember the things I’ve learned and keep remembering and keep learning, every day.

Love to all you guys out there!