Gut-wrenching. I read this with tears in my eyes.
“I’m feeling much better now. Clearer.”
— Sarah Connor
Why do they have to call it “mutilation?” That’s such a murder word.
The nurse who checks my bag says I’ll have to leave my facial astringent and mouthwash in an assigned locker. “They’re hot,” she tells me. I will soon learn “hot” is psych-ward code talk for, Sorry, these items contain alcohol. Our facility has strict rules against clear skin/fresh breath/pulling an Amy Winehouse.
It’s my first night of a two week stay at the Crossroads Center for Psychiatric Caring. A palm tree infested facility stiffly posed between the cow patty waft of farm town concrete and wine vineyards. For reasons I’ll never be clear about, this hospital likes its adverbs, italicizing the word CARING on every sign, pen and document. The nurse wears her CARING tag pinned to the breast of her Winnie the Pooh scrub smock because…
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