Happy Anniversary!

Sullied Soapbox: It has been just over a year since I institutionalized myself. I needed the time away. It had been eight months since I returned to the then-quasi-united states from Japan after half a decade away; prior to the most recent half-decade having me residing in the Land of Shrines and Shinkansen, I spent two years in Corea, the Land of Camaraderie and Skinship. Moving back to a room at my parents' house at the age of 33, I knew my dignity was immaterial. Crucial relationships, education, work, and deeply-personal conflicts exploded not like gorgeous fireworks but rather grenades loaded with sulfuric acid, corroding all needlessly over countless months.

WHITEOUT I guess this is not so much a sullied soapbox as toppled outhouse. Excrement everywhere! Hike up your trousers and skirts!.

But first, may I offer some levity conjured from those weeks sequestered and massively isolated in rural Pennsylvania? Humor carries us across splintering bridges to societal conventions during peacetime conditions.

Danke.

Sometimes, as I get to the end of my rope, that twisted length seems to look more and more like a noose. I gotta say... That is fine inventory management and adaptability.

Believers say that God gives His hardest battles to His strongest soldiers. I never knew that my friends who committed suicide were just losing to The Devil. It's so clear now... Fuck those cowards.

According to Dante, suicides root themselves as trees in Hell (heh... Australian meaning of "root"). Harpy attacks probably make the ever-looming eternity bothersome, but you know what? Consider these circumstances:

1. With so many trees, Satan obviously cares more about air quality than many politicians. Better air helps both the crows and branches understand commands.

2. Hell is boundless, but those on Earth have to worry about borders.

Okay.

Here is my experience with mental health. Things grow ever darker here.

I was seven and playing The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past in my own partially-wood-panel-walled room next to the sole bathroom at my family's first house house in the suburbs of Easton, Pennsylvania. In one of the preliminary Light World dungeons, I came across a puzzle that required an ignition source, some arrows, and a dungeon-specific Big Key doorway. Desert Palace. Red Eyegores.

One exit to a desert. One door an entrance closer to an abyss.

Dare I dive into dust?

Do I even exist? Having experienced an existential awakening at such an age, my nonsensical senses were slow to open and did so with the maturation of my mindless endocrine glands; an implacable sense of despair hung bags that drooled over my cheeks until sex hormones barely took hold some years later. Sleep was but a dream, but more commonly,

BANG

BANG

FUCKING BANG

!!!... my head against the dressers in both of my primary rooms of that house as time went by. Fragile attempts to feel.. Dizzied by the Hell of Self.

Fun fact backed by my life on my back, attacked while lacking defensive tact: Carpet flooring absorbs mortality mourning.

/WHITEOUT Snap, Crackle, Pop back to reality.

2019 I spent the Monday through Friday after Naomh Padraig at a secluded detox location in some uncaring pyramid by the Delaware Water Gap. The facility separated men and women. They kept genders separate via hallways and meal chimes.

In my short time there, junkies collapsed into vomit piles in the 4-per-room-occupancy bathrooms. Genders found restricted locales. The male wing instigated violent staff fights over remote controls. I knew little of the female corridor's feelers, but they seemed perilous. Almost everyone I encountered couldn't wait to get out and connect with their dealers.

Related: Not wanting to interact with the people around me who wanted to get out and score their next fix, I tried to stay in my room, even as one roommate bowed before the porcelain god for hours on end. A nurse called me over into her office to question my reclusive behavior. After berating my hair length and telling me I needed to look respectable, she had me shave my face and comb my hair. She told me that I should facilitate helpful conversation. Was she aware that I was a patient and not a professional? Upon discharge, I holed up in a cheap motel. My family knew not where I was. My then-wife also didn't but found me and had a mobile crisis unit visit me. She saved my life. This was a Sunday.

IMPORTANT: She and her mother saved my life. Nobody else did.

Immediately prior to independently seeking help, I had a ticket to Dublin, where I planned on overdosing on sleeping medication. That has been put on hold.

The mobile crisis unit directed me to a resource center in Easton, so I went there that Monday (25 March 2019). Upon arrival, I was behind one man; as he stepped away, the person behind the glass in the office shut the window on me. Later, I happened to speak with the person who disrespected me. Nothing useful. The secretary instructed me to return on Tuesday, directing me to stay in the area overnight. Easton had no safe hotels. A high school friend kept me safe via his lodging connections closer to the airport.

The next day, I waited at the office for hours, moving my car around as I could to avoid meter violations. No personal interactions. Suddenly... An address! I had somewhere to travel. I did so alone.

Driving for hours. My '02 Toyota Echo slowly died. I stopped at a random restaurant near the supposed destination. Nothing memorable. More driving. I arrived at the address given to me several hours ago. It was in a cul-de-sac in a residential area. I knocked on the doors of the homes as I slowly realized my folly.

Locals signaled the police. I knew they were after me, so I called out to the two responding cops upon their arrival. The man who called the authorities on me rushed out, stating that I was no harm as I had my arms up.

The next 48 hours, I watched The Simpsons in a small hospital room. No real outside communication.

Roxbury Psych Ward

March 28th - April 11th

Strapped down. Wheeled in backwards into a medical transport. Watched the back windows' suburban landscape fading in and out of pastoral settings. Napped.

Naked. Examined. Personal items investigated and separated. Tattoos noted.

Enter the Psych Ward.

No door handles. No pencils longer than 3". No pens save for the nurses' station. Shower curtains and blankets short as to prevent noose production. Toilet paper in a wall indentation that removes the need for small parts. Clothes locked away. No belts, sweat pant ties, or hoodie strings. Supervised bathroom breaks. Glass windows for all locations and solitary doorways everywhere. All eating utensils plastic and handed in after all meals. Younger people than me danced. Older people than me wandered. We all got fresh air sometimes and smokers had their breaks. I wrote.

Halfway through, a social worker and I worked out a contract that allowed me to play guitar under supervision. I also began having nightly storytelling/joke sessions with patients a decade or more younger than me. We smuggled graham crackers and peanut butter.

The psychiatric and psychological help there left much to be desired. Seeing a sycophant-favoring psychiatric "staff" and barely any psychological assistance has had me value personal interactions more than the professional help the facility should have provided. Though 'twas a decent facility, I felt more valued by the caring techs who helped us constantly than the better-paid-but-absent professionals.

Then again, who cares about the opinions of crazy people?

I need more than two weeks here.

Exit the Psych Ward; Enter the Chemical Dependency Unit 11 April - 9 May Various addicts. Many good people. Many scumbags.

4 weeks. 4 weeks of reminders of how different I am from most people, even when I am placed among the wild and uninhibited. 4 weeks of stifled conversations through 10-minute calls. 4 weeks of more writing and music. 4 weeks of letters returned by half and loved by all. 4 weeks as an outcast among outcasts. 4 weeks of being gravely misunderstood. 4 weeks of being unable to fully relate to anyone. 4 weeks.

No airways at our end of the hallway. Broken washers and dryers. Stifling early-spring heat in our catacombs. Junkies seeping out their detoxing odors in their sleep.

Easter in an institution. A session with my parents mediated by a mental health professional. Minimal effect or understanding - further reinforcement that my problems do not carry any weight. A bed bug scare across the hallway has everyone on edge. Final days. Black comedy send-offs. Requests for my last words. 9 May I returned home. No, no, no... I went back to a room.

Errant. Ersatz. Erased.

I appreciate the tolerance and space, but I have no place. Rent erodes my best estimations of solace. The gall. Take care, all. I either love or loathe you all, but stay positive.