Wednesday, April 14, 2010
I checked myself out from the clinic today. The process was fast and unsentimental. Nobody said goodbye. I didn't care. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. I was done with being treated like an invalid or worse, a delusional idiot. My discharge date had been scheduled for Tuesday, next week, but I was already at my limit.A little money came to me earlier than expected. I notified the registrar that I was leaving. I filled in various administrative forms and phoned a car hire company. Orderlies started to remake my bed and vacuum around it even before I'd finished packing my few possessions – a reminder that the clinic is, after all, primarily a business. I left a vase of long-stemmed red roses, the texture of their petals like bloodied velvet, on the bedside table.I drove in peak hour traffic to a hotel in a neighbourhood I'd never spent much time in before. The room was simple, stylish and quiet. I sighed with relief as I took it all in. For the first time in 10 weeks, a nurse wouldn't be intruding to check on me every couple of hours. I lay in the deep white bath for an hour and let the hot water lap around me. I scrubbed away the city grime, sweat and dried tears from my skin. When I left the clinic, a nurse told me me that everything would feel 'too much' for a few days. She was wrong. I can't get enough. Maybe I'm stronger, healthier, and more rested. Maybe I'm determined to discredit one of my psychiatrists' opinion that I needed to live "a life more ordinary". I have an insistent, voracious appetite to go after everything I ever wanted but didn't dare to – until now.