Dignity

After years of suffering the many challenges associated with my mental illness and experiences with PTSD, I felt I was finally walking down the sidewalk of recovery. However, my ghosts returned with my first flashback. Splintered parts of me began to take form. In a deep hypnotic state, the flashbacks made their first introduction and the four-year-old identity of myself opened up to me.

Dislodged and horrific memories of a nature that I could not contain, as though I were a balloon, helium pushed through my body, until I could not take it any longer. I felt the anger of an entire army. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to murder the man who had done this to me. I felt I wanted to kill the person who had not protected me from him. As altruistic as I was, I began to feel suicidal in order to protect the people I hated.

I had gained the ability to assess my mental state and because of this I knew when things were getting out of control. I needed to go to the ER for an evaluation.

Hatred was pouring into my face like blood. I had never been so angry. I called for an ambulance, stating that I was homicidal and suicidal. I waited in front of my apartment building. First the police showed up; three of them approached me. I was frightened. I didn’t want them to abuse me and take me to prison. I told them I just needed to go to a hospital. I promised I would not hurt the EMTs. I told them my anger was directed at specific people.

After I had been evaluated in the ER, I was admitted to the hospital at around three in the morning. I was put in a bed with restraints and taken up to the unit. I was expecting to be treated, or should I say approached, by the staff of the unit in a way that was consistent with the anger and agitation that was emanating throughout my being. But, as these thoughts swirled within my head and my defense mechanisms prepared themselves, a gentle nurse approached me and smiled warmly saying, “How are you feeling, Mr. Zion?” He could tell by my facial expressions that I was feeling inordinately angry, but he gave me only salvation: He treated me as he would have wished to be treated. This act of virtue calmed me and helped me to realize I was truly in the right place.

I told the staff that I had “PTSD” and was specifically terrified of having a roommate. I communicated my fears of being attacked in the middle of the night; the staff responded with understanding and validated my fears providing me with a private room for my stay. However, due to my escalated state I was on five-minute checks, and I could hear the staff checking on me as I slept. I was afraid they would rape and attack me, too. I slept with a pencil in my hand to protect myself.

I began to watch the other patients around me. Some, who were manic, didn’t think they needed to be hospitalized; they were like worms burrowing through the soil, looking for a way out.

I did not look for a way out. I knew I needed this respite. I needed a recipe that could send me home after two weeks as a man who could feel anger, but find tools to remain in control. I had been used to focusing always on my problems non-stop, the “negative” being the overwhelming tone of my focus. I didn’t realize I needed this break, but the hospital nurses taught me that. I looked around myself and saw what other patients were up to. They were watching television, they were working on crafts or making puzzles, and they were like leaves slowly falling into soft conversations.

At first I didn’t really agree that distractions would be helpful. I preferred to write poems focusing on my venom. As I focused on that writing, I noticed more and more sheets of anger covering...