When mental illness leads you down an impossibly long chute or up an extremely steep ladder, hospitalization is an option; in my case, it was a step toward health. There are many stages of healing. The hospital was full of therapists, psychiatrists, medications, hot meals, and the closest friends I have ever had. They were kindred spirits, and we kept each other from tipping the boat. Deep love happened there. It was easy for me to remember everyone’s names by giving them fairytale labels.
“Cinderella” leapt out of a moving car to escape an abusive marriage. We conversed while slightly distracted by our coloring books. “Robin” has severe schizophrenia. We learned our similarities through group activities, and became quite close. “Prince Jesus” helped us to stay calm, and prayed with us. I told him once that if he stopped calling himself “Prince Jesus” they might let him out. The goal is to heal and be released. When that happened, we lost our friends forever. We were left to wonder: Where are they? Are they safe? Are they warm? Taking their meds? Can they afford them? Are they in the hospital or are they at home? Are they alive?
Friends on the outside make time for each other. Relationships only exist when each party is dedicated; nothing is permanent unless it is important to both people. Some of these friendships do not stand the test of time.
Friends detained within locked doors together are friends forever. We filled our hearts with others who shared our deepest secrets and judged not. It was a relief to find these souls. No one taunted us, glanced sideways, treated us as though we were weird. We know we are weird. It’s part of what makes us unique; we gravitated toward one another. There were no “mean girls,” or “jocks” or hypocritical outsiders there. It was just us, and it was refreshing.
We held each other tight, laughed, cried, prayed, lifted the fallen. These relationships brought us freedom behind bars.
–SJB