I haven’t written much in the last few days. It hasn’t been so much that there’s little to write about – the life of a psych ward is always interesting! – but that I’ve been weirdly flat.
I’m going home on Sunday, and I feel that my mental health has stabilized to the point that it is unlikely I’ll be re-admitted in the foreseeable future. There is a part of me which feels that I should feel happy about this; more than happy – exulted, excited, relieved … After all, this particular “going home” will mark the end of another tragic cycle or saga in my life; one era of difficulty is coming to an end. Isn’t that something to rejoice about?
Yet my feelings were, instead, of sadness, trepidation and anger. I felt sad that I would be leaving this place which has been home more often than not for the last fifteen weeks, and sad to be leaving behind the supportive environment which exists here. I was (and still am) fearful of the unknown, of stepping into a new way of being, even if I expect it to be easier. And there lingered anger that, through no-one’s fault, my treatment has not been ideal and the time I’ve been required to be here much longer than was strictly necessary.
There is room for validation here: sadness, trepidation and even anger are all valid emotional responses to the situation I find myself in. However, today I am pleased to report a surge of energy and optimism, a renewed joy at the prospect of life beyond these walls.
As Robert Frost said, “Life goes on”. Thank goodness.