I have a morbid sense of humor that has sustained me through the darkest times of my life. I remember when I was in a suicidal crisis in 2007, being held at the police station while waiting for the crisis service to assess me, telling the officers how I wasn’t all that creative, since I had thought out only a few ways to die. I think one of the officers tried to distract me by saying that I must be creative, since I have a blog, but I wouldn’t listen.
Once I had been admitted to the psychiatric hospital, locked ward, with no privileges (as they are called) to leave the ward unsupervised by staff, I started to crack jokes. They were rather lame jokes if you ask me, jokes I’d plucked off the Internet, such as those about the differences between the patients and staff on a psychiatric ward. First, the patients get better and leave; second, not all patients believe they’re God; lastly, the staff have the key.
This post was written in response to this week’s Six Sentence Story Link-Up, for which the prompt word is “key”.
I have a key to my room on a keychain. I would originally get a key to the particular home I live in in the care facility. I ultimately didn’t end up getting one. This may be because there’s not been a need for it. I mean, I can’t go to day activities or whatever on my own anyway.
Another reason may be the fact that I ran off several times. The unit is semi-locked, in that you need to turn a particular key to be able to open the door to go out of the house. The other clients can’t work this key, so are in a minor way prevented from leaving the home.
I, however, can work the key. I didn’t know I could until one day in late October, I was in a crisis and needed to find staff. There is no-one on my floor from 10:15PM on, but there are call buttons and listen-in systems and such for people to call the night staff, who is responsible for the entire facility. Anyway, I tried to find help that particular time.
Another time, around three weeks ago, I ran off because my flight response kicked in. I worked the key again and let myself out.
After this, it’s been discussed to remove the key from the lock, so that staff need to open the door with their own keys and I won’t be able to elope on my own. So far, that action hasn’t been taken, presumably because the measure would be just for me (since no other client can work the key anyway). They probably think I’m responsible enough (or should be) to handle this freedom. I’m not sure how I feel about it.
I do also have a key to my husband’s and my house. The reason for this is more symbolic, as I never go to this house on my own. However, I like it this way.
This post is part of #SoCS, for which the prompt this week is “Key”.