The "You're Not Fat" Campaign

For the next two days I eat my meals and take my medication and sleep when I'm supposed to and talk when I'm spoken to. I write optimistic things in my journal and say things about happiness and healthiness and recovery in group and to the staff. I am kind to the other patients and reassuring to the new kids and I smile.

On the third day, I go into Dr. Watson's office and sit down in the uncomfortable plastic chair facing his desk and he says "I think you're ready to go home." Something within me soars. I have not felt this light and relieved in probably years.

"Really?" I say, my voice breathy with nerves. Dr. Watson nods and I sigh deeply, releasing some of the tension in my tightly knotted body.

"I've talked to your parents and they'll be here in a few hours to pick you up."

We talk for a bit longer about support systems and which coping skills I am planning on using at home and what to do if I am feeling suicidal again.

Two hours and seventeen minutes later, my parents arrive and help me pack up my stuff. I am going home I am going home I am going home.

Leaving the unit is bizarre. There is so much space. There are so many people. Even within the sterile confines of the hospital hallways, the air smells fresher and wider than it did in the ward. And when we walk into the parking garage, the smell of gasoline and tire rubber hits me like a wall. I take deep breaths of the heavy smell, savoring the differentness.

Everything in the psych ward was the same.

Everything out here is different.

We drive home and I drink a diet Dr. Pepper and play Temple Run on my iPhone - I missed my iPhone so much - and listen to music and roll down the window and I am happy.

I am going home.