Surveillance and Data

When discussing the idea of incarcerated readers, it struck me that being in-patient at the Grey Nuns existed in similar ways in that there was a relative monitoring system that happened--sometimes checked on every hour, sometimes every 15 minutes, sometimes round the clock surveillance.

Books were available but donated ones which were surely censored (no Thirteen Reasons Why, unsurprisingly) and then, additionally, there was a library cart that circulated twice a week, manned by a volunteer, The anxieties, then, of having someone observing your choices, your returns, the “reading trails” that sometimes happened through annotated messages in the books or wearing of covers, dogearing, etc. compounded by the eyes of nurses, aides, doctors and other patients. But those people seemed part of the general agreement of being in a mental psych ward.
Coming out of my room to discover a student manning that cart was startling and unsettling. As much as he was covered by a non-disclosure agreement, it felt highly alarming to have my privacy invaded by this outside surveillance.

Well, let's talk.

It has been 61 days since I went on medical leave.

It was a decision that took a good amount of time and thought to come to but the reality was I couldn't function at work. The brain fog created from the medication I was taking, and the subsequent anxiety that arose from the lack of clarity, came upon me in tidal waves and gusts. I couldn't stay grounded; I couldn't catch my breath.

Although being off work meant that burden was lifted from my shoulders, I was still weighed down, sleeping 12-15 hours per day. I couldn't rise up from that well of deep aching fatigue but still had to get kids up, lunches packed.

Moments of confusion: conversations in which I couldn't discern thoughts from reality, snowdrifts I mistook for people while driving, finding myself bemused at intersections moments from my home, as though lost. I began to struggle with more things as time went on.

And then: considering what it might be like to just have everything stop. To not have to worry about *that one more thing*

---

It has been 20 days since I went to the hospital and they admitted me to in-patient care.

In the first 4.5 days I slept 100 hours. HOURS. (There are only 108 hours in 4.5 days). I spent two days just inside the ambulance bay doors but slept unaware of the bustle of the days and nights until a bed came open. I continued to sleep until finally, on the 5th day I texted my husband in excitement: I stayed awake ALL AFTERNOON AND EVENING. It had been almost 8 months since I had last been able to do that.

Every day since has been a step towards healing. Meetings with the psychiatrist, psychologist, occupational therapist, social worker and group therapies--art and otherwise--help to frame the days.

The days still drip by, hospital life is functionally low energy and soothing. But in those times of rest there is also time to struggle through the things that have been stirred up, time to reflect, time to connect the dots of the things that have been tucked away and ignored, time to feel anger and frustration, time to settle into the heart of what has shattered me and time to rebuild myself.

I feel extremely fortunate to have made this journey with so many supports around me. Despite what people say, talking about it *is* important and the government *has* made mental health access for me (and my children) easier. I have more tools to help me cope with the chaos I feel embedded in and am working on brushing off the stigma of being sick.

So, let's talk.