The one thing you have in abundance in a mental hospital is time. Time to think. An omnipresent clock in the common room to remind you of all of the time left until the next group activity for you to sit and think. Always time to think, which isn’t good for nearly every single beaten down soul in the ward because thinking about your life, your situation, your desperation, is what landed you there to begin with.
So how is thinking more about your blackened mind or misfiring neurons going to help in any rational way? It won’t. You have to push through and make it to the maximum allowable insurance days and walk out in your drawstring-free sweatpants and hope you don’t boomerang back in sixty days. Won’t you just feel alive with the possibilities?
© 2023 Jeff E. Brown. All rights reserved.
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