Eating with two spoons

There is a sense of survivor’s guilt I feel for having made it out of there alive, appearing almost unscathed. A part of me believes I didn’t even qualify for psychiatric care, a total lie by the way. It’s just my mind playing its cruel tricks on me, I know that much. I can’t exactly describe the feeling of having to reintegrate myself into society, despite having been there for just 10 days. All I know is, and I say this poorly put: the Beti who entered is not the same Beti who left.

I have so many questions. Am I 100 percent healed? Have I recovered enough to live as a high-functioning human on a planet that still views those with mental illness as incapable of work? Who created the metric for what normal is?

As someone who has always felt any kind of emotion at its maximum level, I cannot help but carry all this guilt with me, which I know is still my mind and its form of foul play. I keep thinking about my younger brother who needed an older sister growing up. And that same younger brother who took on the role of being the older sibling because at the time, and in the present, I am incapable of being the sister he needs. I carry the guilt of being the firstborn, and being a completely unreliable daughter—while my mom assures me this isn’t the case, the human part of me understands that while I was hurting, I too, have hurt the people around me. While I cannot turn back time, I can only endeavor to recover and become better. I know better than to excuse my behavior because of what I have.

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At night, I pray to God. Recently, I’ve been speaking to Him throughout the day. I’m not sure if my relationship with Him has become a crutch to help me carry forward. Whatever it is, it can’t hurt, can it? In the past, I would pray to God to show me opportunities to be strong. My usual joke is that what I didn’t realize was that he may have overachieved a bit.

We were not allowed to speak about religion in the ward as this was a triggering topic for some. We also were not allowed to discuss drugs, sex, violence, etc. While we, the patients, understood why we couldn’t speak about these, we also knew that deep down, speaking about our shared experiences was a way for us to accept ourselves, as flawed as we thought we were. At this point, who isn’t?

During my first three days in the ward, I could not get myself to crawl out of bed. I would sleep, eat, line up for my medication, repeat. I kept thinking to myself, crying, praying, almost screaming into my pillow thinking: if there is a “rock bottom,” this is exactly it. I was completely checked out. But since I volunteered to receive in-patient treatment, I had to make the most out of it.

Article continues after this advertisement On my third day, I left my room and began to socialize with the other patients. In my head, I had pictured the ward to be something along the lines of that in “Shutter Island.” This place was anything but. Our ages ranged from 14 to 56, which comforted me a bit. I wasn’t sure if this was a case of misery loving company, but I was happy to feel less alone in the mental turmoil. What amused me the most though was the requirement to only eat with two plastic spoons. Something as simple as a fork had become a health hazard. Can you imagine? I mean, I get it. I just found it amusing.While admitted, we kept ourselves busy. Boredom was very much our version of Baygon. We had occupational therapy where I learned to play Scrabble and chess. I wrote in my journal until lights out. In fact, I came up with pretty good material for a book. The shit that took place I wouldn’t be able to make up on my own. There was a man who jacked off as soon as the lights were turned off. He would eyeball the nurses so often that the nurses had to cover the window with scratch paper to avoid the creepy eye contact. The same man would shadow-box on the side. At one point I was writing in the open area while he came up to me, lifted his shirt, and bragged about his hard nipples. I couldn’t tell if I was frightened or amused. Knowing me, most likely, I was both.

In the hospital, I met the most beautiful and strongest of souls. In equal measure, they were also quite damaged, as was I. Many of us were admitted for several reasons. Some were addicts, and some, like myself, had reached the peak of their illness and had made the conscious choice to move forward and recover. After all, life was meant to be lived. And joy was not made to be enjoyed in crumbs.

I don’t know if we will ever meet again. Despite this, I am beyond grateful to them because they were instrumental to my recovery and journey to self-acceptance.

I am now home and slowly reintegrating myself into the “real world,” whatever that means. I just lost my job, which I’m trying to look at as a blessing in disguise. I watch movies with my brother and spend my days reading and writing poetry. If there’s something I’ve learned throughout my journey with illness and recovery, it is that life is fleeting. It can be complicated and painful, but we all deserve to give ourselves a fighting chance to see it through.

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Bettina “Beti” H. Gayoso, 26, is an aspiring writer who is passionate about non-fiction literature and poetry.