(backstory) I have always reviled hospitals for nearly as long as I can remember. The cold, lackluster halls drenched in a sterile stench that draws on the soul- like a cord to the blinds. When I was in high school, a dear friend of mine was placed in one for having the condition of bipolar disorder, and though I did not understand, I empathised and shared a burden that was not mine. His pain was my pain, but my sanity remained my own for me to lose at another turn.
It has been three years now, in a life measured in three year cycles, since I made the turn that landed me in a similar position: locked behind double doors with nothing to do but walk the circular hallway and sip on a variety of carbonated drinks. It was then that I fully understood the burden which had been heaped upon my good-natured friend. The hours were long, still they are long, and the numbness, induced by the combination of medication and sterile air, induced tremors and constipated thought (mostly it was the medication). It was the furthest from myself I have ever traveled. It was the absolute worst 4 days of my life. I often complain that life is cage; that the rules we live by constrict us so much that I am often bewildered that we do not suffocate; but when I remember these days, even with great languishing and shallow breaths, I understand that, given a choice between the two cages, I have yet to suffocate here.
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