stories from a ghost

this year is different

because it’s the first year

I’m older

how boring “recovery” is

And they don’t tell you

that you’re supposed to do Nothing

for as long as possible

If you’re in the hospital 6 weeks,

it’ll probably take you 6 weeks

to get back to functional

And if you live alone,

too bad

And they don’t tell you

that even cleaning up

too much around the house

or taking a trip to FamilyMart

will make your brain literally shut down

And all this is happening

as you drop further into depression

because they took you off the meds that helped

during the emergency

and your dose of the new stuff is a joke

And it’s just That Time in the Cycle again

They don’t tell you any of it

They just kick you out the door

and tell you to come back in a week

for a check up

To close the arc

It took almost a week

for me to stop acting like

a security camera watched me sleep,

even after I left it.

That was only seventeen days.

What will it be like

after 45–

to wear shoes,

to shower without slippers,

to FINALLY, after weeks,

take off my binder?

What will it be like to choose what to eat

and when,

to choose my doctors,

go to work?

How will it feel to be outside

for the first time

in longer than it rained

It’s a weird feeling.

One I should be used to

from the life I choose to live.

But there’s a pang

every now and then

that comes with the revolving door

of patients.

Jealousy.

For every one who came after me–

even WORSE than me–

they get to leave

and I’m still here.

I hate

how I can’t be happy

for friends I somehow made.

In, out, in, out, in, out.

Until the common area sounds different,

mealtimes look different,

again and again and again.

And you realize

that stranger you couldn’t even talk to

was still a comfort

when you would not

at each other in passing.

But he’s gone now.

So are the rest.

I remain.

I know why,

but it still hurts.

I just want

to go

October is here.

Not to be dramatic but

will I ever feel the summer heat

-

upstairs day 19

8:04

Yesterday was Teacher’s Day,

the first year it warranted

a day off school.

But does it count for me,

someone who’s poured my life

into the work

when I don’t even have

a classroom or students

anymore?

That’s the pain of it,

isn’t it?

That I sacrificed my summer,

a much-needed break

after the horrors of last year,

planning out every single day

for the semester and beyond.

Bringing a van of my own belongings

to supplement the classroom

that I decorated so so carefully.

All for it to be given away

and make me

nothing.

8:38

In college

I thought I’d suddenly

become and awful student,

gotten bad at math and money.

That everyone

couldn’t hold down a part-time job

and kept switching majors

and felt lost.

That throwing my whole identity

into a religion that didn’t want me

was the normal thing to do.

Later

I thought the relationship I had–

secret five-hour drives,

“I love you” in two weeks,

spending recklessly–

was normal.

I thought having a 0.0-GPA semester

and getting kicked out of school

was my fault.

I thought the permanent dissociation

was a trauma response to my parents’ divorce.

I lied my way back into school.

“I’ll get help,” I said.

It took an extra semester to graduate.

Post-graduation:

Working a job that was a workout every day.

Going home and working out more.

Full of energy.

A reckless accident and permanent injury

that makes me wonder.

I learned Chinese when I was recovering.

Quickly.

A whirlwind move abroad–

fulfilling a dream, I’d said.

I sold and gave away everything I owned.

Why was that weird for people?

China.

Work came first, of course.

I never slipped.

Constant energy, restaurants, hikes,

parties.

A new smoking habit

that quickly turned into a pack a night.

Then stopped.

Taiwan.

Reckless partying in the worst ways.

Too “intense” for the friend group.

Depression later.

Spontaneous trips near and far,

many dangerous.

Last year

I inserted myself into local politics.

Out protesting every night, late, after work.

Plenty of energy,

the cause the most important thing to me,

because I thought I mattered.

I don’t even have a passport here.

February this year.

Walking two hours to work in the rain with no sleep.

Just because.

Then getting on a bike and sprinting 40km

straight after work.

Not tired.

Hiking, biking, no sleep.

then voices.

July this year.

Newly on HRT, new job.

Low sleep, high energy.

“I NEED to apply to be on Survivor because I’ll DEFINITELY win!”

“I NEED to publish this manuscript I wrote in a day

because it will win awards.”

And then August.

And now the hospital.

October starts tomorrow.

9:05

Am I lucky?

Unlucky?

A liar?

Eleven years trying to find a reason

for why I’m not okay.

Or worse–

not even knowing at all.

How did I do it?

10:20

I’ve now officially

been in this ward

longer than the last one.

There, I was surviving.

Here, I am… comfortable.

I promised I wouldn’t.

Get comfortable.

Has the time passed slower or faster?

Why does everything before this ward

and this room

feel like a dream?

10:23

The Bedroom

Nicer than the last,

partially because my scary trans status

only makes me safe in solo rooms

for VIPs.

The bed moves on its own

with a remote like in the movies.

Laundry, handwashed in my sink

dries on the railing still,

two days later.

I get two blankets here.

A TV on the wall,

a fridge that is too loud

at night and always.

A cupboard for my few clothes and belongings.

A bedside cabinet full of books and notes.

All my art from in here lines a bench,

a failed attempt to liven the place up.

Photos of my dog line up on the bedside cabinet.

A watercolor of the view of 101

sits on the caged windowsill.

The en-suite bathroom tells its own story.

A stack of tissues over the toilet

counts down the time until I hope to leave.

A gallon of shower gel

says it’s not likely to happen soon.

Dish soap, laundry soap, miscellaneous items

show how hard I try

to keep the bathroom clean every day

when the sink gets moldy in less time than that.

And this is where I live now.

10:37

The only other place

I’m allowed to”unsupervised”

is the… common area?

The Big Room, in my narration,

though not very big at all.

A water machine and fridge,

a view of the nurses’ station,

a corner for reading,

three tables for meals,

ten small armchairs

gathered around a TV on the floor,

a whiteboard we don’t use,

two hula hoops and an exercise bike.

That’s how big my world has been

10:53

I didn’t finish breakfast today,

determined as I had been.

They cancelled morning exercise

and shared a PPT about child abuse.

I wasn’t hungry after that.

I wasn’t in my own body either.

Part of me wondered

if they triggered me on purpose,

but that’s the kind of paranoia

that would keep me here longer.

20:33

Van Gogh shot himself in the chest at 37.

I have to do better than that.

He talked for years in his letters

about living on borrowed time,

something I myself have said for years.

“I’ll never make it to 30.”

But here we are.

So let’s say 60.

Because I have meds

and he didn’t.

20:37

I was in the ICU that day

for 26 hours and no food–

except my Icebreakers Sours.

A throwback to grade 3.

something I’ve found twice ever in FamilyMarts here,

decades later and like 7,000 miles away.

But they kept me calm.

All those house in the chair

bolted to the ground

patients restrained on stretchers, hospital beds, wheelchairs,

in and out.

Screaming.

A grueling interview.

They took a lot of my possessions,

phone charger included,

but not the Icebreakers.

Not my anchor.

I didn’t lose them until the acute ward.

I can have them now but I’ve finished them.

What I wouldn’t do for more.

20:43

A week ago

I was desperate

to get out of here.

It can’t be a great sign

that I’m so calm

about it now.

20:43

Apparently Van Gogh was like me.

Or I am like him.

It’s weird.

Someone so amazing,

the creator of my favorite piece,

who I can never dream to compare to.

But also a cautionary tale.

Everyone knows he was the Crazy One.

Will I one day have my own Starry Night?

Am I destined for my own Asylum Era?

I just know

comparing his letters

to my poems…

I don’t have a word

for the feeling

seeing the similarities

gives me.

20:54

I see my body

and hate every part of it

And don’t know why.

Dysphoria. Obviously.

I can’t keep up with the T changes.

I can’t even Google the milestones

from in here,

I just feel and guess.

But I know this is deeper.

Because the last time I tried

to fix the food

this happened too.

The weight that fell off quickly

comes back just as fast.

And as much as I want it

Maybe I look different

and maybe I hate my wide face

that I’ve never noticed before.

And maybe I hate

that now my muscles are gone

I’m only adding flab

until I finally have energy

to try again.

And I know the end result–

that I want,

that I know must happen.

But I stand at my moldy ass sink

And saw the cheeks.

I sit on the chair

and see the pale fat thighs.

They’ve never looked like that before.

So feminine.

I stand on the scale

I’ve always avoided since Last Time

And see the number

because the doctor encouraged me.

It’s not even as high yet as where my brain wants it.

jarhead movie

gulf war

why is leo's accent so bad in blood diamond?

is my low appetite connected to high water consumption?

hilton head vs. myrtle beach

why am i constipated?

lotr production impact on nz economy

will i be in the hospital longer if i stop caring?

cate blanchett filmography

hanna actress

why do so many schools read the kite runner?

is the kite runner propaganda?

afghanistan geography

afghanistan under the taliban

october holiday calendar taiwan

who is the actress in disturbia?

was van gogh bipolar?

van gogh brother letters

lemon mint

why am i so cold when i wake up?

how long can bipolar episodes last?

15 minutes outside in 30 days.

It could easily by 10, actually.

I looked at my beloved Qixingshan

20:48

A weekly visit from a biweekly friend.

Who came, even in a typhoon,

with company, gifts, food.

For the first time in weeks,

I want to try to eat again.

For the first time in days.

I want to write.

Or try.

Should it not be an indicator

that love from outside

was the only thing

able to bring me back to myself inside?

20:52

New photos of my dog–

the biggest treasure I could ask for–

stand in the side table.

My fridge and chair overflow

with good things to feed myself.

A bathroom full of toiletries.

And part of me hates it all

because it feels like

I’ll be here forever.

I promise

I’ll be gone before the stack of tissues

is replaced.

One way or another.

upstairs day 13

9:18

Everyone has stories

about the moment on T

they started passing all the time.

Mine will always be

when I switched wards

in a mental hospital.

upstairs day 11

upstairs day 8, 9:41

“You ruminate too much.

You need to focus on action over problems.

You need to weigh yourself every day.

That’s the only way to prove an eating disorder.

You track your food

but if you’re not losing weight

you’re probably “accidentally”

9:56

Two things of note:

I advocated for myself.

Someone tried to find a solution

to my problem.

12:18

The new person was a zombie,

wouldn’t eat.

would only hit herself.

I looked down at my food,

then sneakily back up

as I saw the care

she was handled with,

even presumably to be restrained.

Why does it make me

want to try more things?

15:08

A space that was safe this morning.

A boot camp this afternoon.

25 adults fill an art room.

They draw, color, / “No talking! Color or get out!”

relax, chat, / “I’m done.”

I read, unbothered / “No you’re not, there’s still white.”

since I don’t want to be there anyway. / “Can I go to the bathroom?” “No! … Hurry up.”

How did the teacher

become the student?

19:33

I told the truth

and got more Xanax