I was sent to a place that exists somewhere between the psych ward and the Outside World. Norms call it “Day Hospital”. They have snacks and basket weaving. There’s individual therapy, group therapy, and occupational therapy. I’m about to finish an 11 week stint and I’m feeling therapied out.
It’s much less romantic than my imaginings. Peeling paint, missing locks on bathroom stalls, fluorescent lights all combine to create a desaturated version of every movie I’ve ever seen on the subject. Hollywood led me astray. Where’s my Nurse Ratchet? Where’s my Sylvia Plath? Susanna Kaysen?
My meagre attempts at injecting some life into the off-white hallways gets as far as quietly placing tiny creations on the unused stove. Nobody noticed.
ADDENDUM: The staff at Day Hospital were always professional and helpful. I’m grateful I had access to this kind of service (thank you Canadian Health Care). So, I may poke fun at my experience here, but really, it was a game changer.