What you can expect:
The brutal truth of me, without all the sugary coating.
Here I am just me, UNCUT and UNEDITED.
I talk about my family, my divorce, and a lot about MAKEUP.
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Monday, August 9, 2010

August 3, 2010 - Checked-In

The following text is a journal entry I made August 3, 2010. 

I just checked into the [name of psych ward I won't mention]. It's scary and lonely here. Steve stayed with me through the admission process and just left. Watching him walk out into the sunshine while the doors slammed shut and locked behind him was the scariest feeling I can imagine.

I share a room with someone, although I don't know who yet. There seems to only be three other women here, though, and all three of them appear to be dead inside. Their vacant eyes stared at me or the ceiling as I was oriented by the intake worker, not a HINT of friendly spirit behind them. Apparently I won't be finding a friend here! (haha.)

I checked out the bathroom after making my bed (with two itchy blankets and a teeny, tiny plastic pillow, on the hardest mattress imaginable - seriously? These people don't even get sheets?), and when I came back into the hall the staff guy (what was his name?) was walking around playing the guitar, yelling, "Group time!"

I waited until he left, then asked the bleached-blonde woman on the couch in her pajamas, "What does that mean, 'group time'?"

She just stared at me blankly, a hint of resentment in her face. Apparently cluelessness isn't favored here. So I just sat down on my bed and started writing. I guess if they want me for "group time" they will come explain to me what that means and where I should go.

The blonde just walked into my room. Awesome - she's with me. Perhaps she's upset she now has to share a room? Or maybe she's as depressed as I was yesterday and couldn't speak even if she wanted to.

"Was that your boyfriend who dropped you off?" she just asked me. Caught me off guard - I guess I'd already accepted that we wouldn't be talking.

"My husband," I said.

"How long have you been married?"

"Five years."

"Five years?" She made a slight expression of acknowledgment and laid down. She immediately faced the wall and is now clicking her pen.

Everything echoes in here because there's nothing on the white walls. There's a bulletin board on each wall, but no pins to pin anything up, so they are empty. The silence is maddening. The front desk workers are chattering and the guitar-playing one is still strumming, but the silence in my room is palpable. She's over there, awake, and not moving or making a sound - except the occassional pen click. Why do they still make clicky pens? How irritating. I don't begrudge her, though. I feel pain coming from her side of the room. Or fear maybe. I'm afraid too, but it's a different fear I think.

Before Steve left he said, "I don't think you belong here." I agree with him, but at home I am overwhelmed and freaking out. I can see that this place won't be as healing or relaxing as I was anticipating, but perhaps the experience I need to pull from this is perspective. Maybe I need to see the bigger, scarier problems in order to quit obsessing over my own.

I miss my kids already. I brought a little book of pictures of them, and I am so glad I did, because I won't be seeing them until after I leave here, and I don't know when that will be.

(to be continued)


  1. So brave of you to write this, Aubrey. Taking the steps to get help is a big one.

    Thank you for linking up with Blog Bash!

  2. This must have been a difficult post to share. Thank you for your bravery.


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