Last night, tiny raccoons flooded my bed and bit me all over. Bit me? Perhaps it's more aptly put that they kissed me. It was still cold, but they were there, comforting me.
Syringes, haloperidol, blood pressure alarms, screaming.
I'm here again, in the ward.
I'm always here.
I remember the first time I came here, and afterwards writing "a part of me will always stay in that place." I've lost so many pieces now that I cannot count, nor am I certain I've any left to lose; And every time I return here, I search for those missing pieces desperately, but can never seem to find even a scant trace of them.
Ward nightmares are intolerable. It's my last night here, yet I feel as though I've still a dime left to serve on my sentence.
A nurse asked me what was wrong as I stared past the wall infront of me. I quipped "I suppose 'fear' of hospitals isn't diagnosable criteria in the DSM-V." She didn't laugh, and recited some canned, uninteresting phrase. Rest isn't worth writing.
(Apologies for my prolonged absence; as you can see, I was confined to my old stomping grounds once again..)