Tuesday, May 9, 2017
Three years ago today, I left the first (and only, so far) psych ward I've ever visited. I mentioned then that I didn't know why I hadn't gone before, but I've since remembered. I tried to go once several years before, but was married to someone who was having none of it. He was embarrassed and didn't want to pay any money for it. So, while I was desperately trying not to commit suicide, I was also tending to his feelings. I ended up doing outpatient therapy instead, but it's not what I needed. Frankly, I'm impressed with myself for not dying despite this blatant lack of support.