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The Man in the Mirror

March 17, 2015

Going on two weeks in the mental hospital. In a lot of senses, it’s alright here. The staff treat you more as a human being than as an inmate. There is a big difference between the two in the minds of many. The staff are courteous and helpful, and I find myself feeling a lot less animosity toward staff.

I think that the change in my medication has been helpful to a point. I have a psychologist, a psychiatrist, and a Licensed Clinical Social Worker assigned to me, and they are attentive and accommodating. I definitely like this psychiatrist better than the last at whom I used to scream “Get the fuck away from door…” on every arrival. This new doctor doesn’t just ask me questions on his checklist and walk away regardless of the answer. When I told him about my nightmares, he proposed a possible solution if they get too bad. When I told him about my anxiety that keeps me up at night shaking my leg, he prescribed a medication that would help me be calm, and when he noticed in my records that I had an inhaler, he came to my door to tell me this medication could exacerbate asthma, and he discussed alternative options with me.

I finally got to make a phone call and had a good talk with my Grandma. A couple of letters caught up to me from the last institution; there was one in particular I was hoping for that did not arrive, but maybe it will later. I’ve got some writing paper now, and I’ve begun writing a short story that I’ve been thinking about. Haven’t written one in a while! Actually, it’s been over a year since my last short story. I came here just in time for my canteen draw, so I was able to buy some good tooth paste, and I read two good books. One was “The Invisible Man” by H. G. Wells.

I’m just trying to look at the bright side. I’ve got 6-9 months here to try and find some peace of mind, do some writing and drawing and stuff and learn and put to practice a few coping skills that will help me when I return to a regular prison. People who condescend to me, incense me. The fact that C.O. can deny me a meal and refuse to call the sergeant, then write me up for covering my window, and I get found guilty for trying the only way I could to be fed, really pisses me off. And there’s a bunch of other stuff too, but this fucking prison system isn’t going to change and something’s got to change, so in the words of Michael Jackson, “I’m talking to the man in the mirror, no message could have been any clearer…”


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