New Year’s Eve in a Mental Health Institution
On the last day of 2019 — the last day of an entire decade — I sat idly in the waiting room of the public mental health trust. If you’ve never been to a state-run mental health institution, let me be the first to tell you that it can be a very peculiar experience. There can be screaming and biting and full on meltdowns. I visit every three months to talk to a therapist and get my antidepressants sorted out by a doctor and while I never look forward to the appointments, I always leave feeling better (might be the meds).
The waiting room is a stupidly boring place and because this is public and state run, appointments pretty much run behind schedule every, single time. The walls are a muted green. The color has to be a thought-out choice to keep patients calm and on this particular day; all the chairs are full. The one next to mine empties and fills in ten-minute intervals until a woman in her mid-sixties sits down. She introduces herself and takes off her boots. Her voice moves as quickly as her eyes darting at the clock. We both know we have to wait so we get comfortable. Her name was Mary, she was bipolar, and lived in assisted living after having a manic episode that threw her life into disarray.
New Year’s Eve. Last day of the year. Last day of the decade. Mary had one goal in the upcoming decade: to be happy. And she said so to me.
As implied by the previously mentioned antidepressants, I deal with depression. It is a far cry from what others in a publicly run mental health institution have to live with and for that I feel like I almost don’t belong there. Still, I need the help. And I’m extremely grateful to get it. It took years to ask for help. I don’t know what I would do without it.
Mary’s intention gave me a hope I hadn’t felt in a while. I’m one of those insufferable people who loves the idea of a new year. There is something about a new beginning, the icicle watering the perennial grass of springtime. Everything is fresh. The days have yet to be tainted. I set goals (that I admitted rarely achieve). I eat broccoli. You know, normal stuff.
Still, I’m human. Two days in and I already feel myself slipping from my original plan. I gave myself an extra day for fallibility because 2020 IS a leap year (woohoo!) and look, I already ordered Postmates and overspent on my credit card and yes, I FEEL BAD.
I know that goals are important. Like I said, I GO TO THERAPY, BABY! But sometimes it’s difficult to get the goals written down or even set upon. I would love to be the person that others look to for direction, but usually I’m in my own kind of lost with a road map that places me all alone. My advice in this new year? Be like Mary. Strive to be happy. And good luck. And I can’t wait to see where we both are in a year.
