psychiatric units

darnold1975

The Bitchuation Room: The Unhinged Adventures of Inpatient Life

“Psych units may be chaotic. But at least my bitching is organized.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Somebody hand me a fan because the level of petty I’m about to describe requires ventilation. Psych units don’t just have pettiness. They cultivate it like a community garden complete with tomatoes, basil, and grudges. And if I’m going to talk about it, I need every ancestor, archangel, and neighborhood stray cat on standby.

These places run on a spiritual cocktail of fluorescent lighting, lukewarm coffee, and the kind of petty that could power a small city. The spirits already know what time it is. We’re about to enter the only place on Earth where adults will fight over a graham cracker, a blanket, and who gets to sit closest to the fake plant in group therapy. Especially the kind that shows up wearing non‑slip socks and asking if you’ve “completed your feelings journal for the morning.” Buckle up. We are about to revisit the life of the unhinged.

Let me tell you something right now. Nobody does pettiness like a psych unit. Not your auntie at Thanksgiving. Not your ex who still watches your Instagram stories from a burner account. Not even the Southern church ladies who can bless your heart into a coma. Psych units are the Olympics of Petty. Gold medal level. International competition. And sponsored by “Clipboards & Consequences™.

And the wildest part? The staff and the patients are in a silent, unspoken petty war at all times. It’s like a nature documentary narrated by Morgan Freeman: “Here we observe the patient refusing to participate in group therapy because the therapist said, ‘good morning’ with the wrong tone.”

Breakfast on a psych unit is not a meal. It’s a spiritual exam. You ask for two sugars? They give you one. You ask for a spoon? They hand you a spork like you’re being punished for past lives. You ask what the eggs are made of? They say, “Don’t worry about it,” which is exactly when you start worrying about it. 

And the patients? Oh, we’re petty right back. Someone refuses their meds because the nurse said their name wrong by half a syllable. Someone else declares a hunger strike because they didn’t get the “good blanket.” Which is the one that feels like it’s been washed fewer than 400 times.

Psych unit bed assignments are the closest thing we have to Old Testament conflict. Two grown adults will absolutely fight over who gets the bed closest to the window like it’s beachfront property. Someone gets moved rooms and immediately acts like they’ve been exiled from the kingdom. They say, “I’m not unpacking. I’m staging a protest.”

Group therapy is where the petty becomes performance art. Someone refuses to share because “the energy is off.” Someone else overshares because they know it makes the therapist uncomfortable. Someone proudly announces, “I’m only here for the snacks” and means it. And the group leader? Smiling sweetly while spiritually flipping everyone off.

If you’ve never seen adults negotiate shower times like they’re drafting a ceasefire agreement, you haven’t lived. People will take 47‑minute showers out of spite. “Forget” their towel so they can walk dramatically down the hall. Complain someone used “their” shampoo even though it’s the hospital’s and smells like citrus‑flavored despair.

And then you discover the shower has no curtain. Not a flap. Not a panel. Not even a nostalgic bead string from the 70s. You step into that shower like you’re entering a baptism you did not sign up for. The water pressure is either a gentle mist that feels like someone exhaling on you. Or a fire‑hose blast that could strip paint off a Buick. Meanwhile, staff strolls by doing “wellness checks” like, “just making sure you’re safe!” Ma’am, I am safe. Emotionally? No. Physically? Barely. Spiritually? Absolutely not.

Mindfulness group on a psych unit is its own brand of comedy. The therapist dims the lights (as much as fluorescent bulbs allow), puts on royalty‑free pan flute music, and says, “Imagine you’re on a peaceful beach.” Ma’am, I am sitting in a plastic chair that squeaks every time I breathe. Then it’s, “Picture a calm, soothing waterfall.” Meanwhile someone is snoring. Someone is whisper‑arguing with their spirit guides. Someone is chewing graham crackers like they’re in a survival documentary. And you’re trying to “visualize tranquility” while holding a safety crayon shaped like a melted candle. 

They are not crayons. These are wax‑based emotional support devices. Thick. Stubby. Unbreakable. Unsharpenable. Every letter looks like it was drawn by a raccoon wearing oven mitts. But when a Code gets called? Those colors become binoculars. Everyone leans forward clutching their little wax chunk like, “Pass me the purple one. It’s the good one.”

Psych units have one universal truth. A doctor must be called for absolutely everything. You sneeze too enthusiastically? “Hi, yes, doctor? She sneezed with intention.” Want a Tylenol? Doctor. Want a different blanket? Doctor. Want to sit in a different chair because the one you’re in feels spiritually cursed? Doctor. It’s like a fluorescent DMV where every request requires a supervisor who is mysteriously never on the floor.

And then there are the medications. Raise one eyebrow too high? “Let me page the doctor.” Ask why the eggs taste like regret? “Let me page the doctor.” Have an attitude after being woken up at 5 a.m. for vitals you did not ask for? Suddenly they’re offering you something “to help you relax.” Which is psych‑unit code for, “This will knock you into next Tuesday.” These meds are so strong they could end a world war. You wake up unsure of your name, the date, or why your socks don’t match.

Some staff walk around like they’re the TSA of mental health. And they’re ready to confiscate your emotional liquids. Some give you the “I’m tired of all y’all” look before you’ve even spoken. Some have mastered the therapeutic smile. The one that says, “I care deeply.” But their eyes say, “I clock out in 12 minutes and I’m not starting anything new.” And the tech who acts like your request for a second blanket is a personal attack on their lineage? Iconic.

There comes a moment when staff decides you’re “a little too spicy for the general population.” And suddenly you’re being escorted to the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit known as the PICU. The PICU is not a unit. It is an ecosystem. A habitat. And a fully unhinged micro‑climate where time is fake. Socks are currency. And the air vibrates with the energy of people who have absolutely had enough.

The lighting is harsher. The chairs are bolted down with enthusiasm. And the staff has that look like they’ve seen things they can’t legally discuss. This is where someone argues with a wall. Someone else declares themselves the mayor. A graham cracker becomes a weapon of emotional warfare. And the “call the doctor” rule becomes a religion. You start to wonder if the doctor is a real person or a mythological creature who appears only during full moons and paperwork audits.

There is a very specific sound a psych unit makes right before a Code gets called. It’s too quiet. Like the ancestors are holding their breath. Then, a chair scoots too hard. A voice gets too spicy. A slipper hits the floor with conviction. And the staff looks up like meerkats who heard a twig snap. Someone yells “CODE!” with the enthusiasm of a Walmart employee announcing Black Friday. And the whole unit transforms into live‑action chaos. Patients settle in like it’s cable TV. And it’s like, “Oh lord, they done called a Code. Lemme get comfortable.” Staff sprints like Olympians. Clipboards fly. Walkie‑talkies crackle. And the therapist breathes deeply like they’re manifesting a different career.

And when it’s over? Everyone goes right back to coloring like it was a commercial break. Psych units are messy, miraculous, chaotic, exhausting, and sometimes deeply funny in ways only people who’ve been there understand. The pettiness isn’t cruelty. It’s survival. It’s humanity. It’s the tiny rebellions that remind you you’re still a person. Even when life has knocked you sideways. 

Connect and Refocus assignments are the psych‑unit equivalent of being told to stand up in front of the congregation and confess your sins with a microphone that echoes. They hand you a worksheet with questions about your troubling behavior. And by the time you’re done it’s the thickness of a dissertation. The therapist says, “Just outline your maladaptive coping skills and therapy interfering behaviors.” Just? As if you’re not about to write a full academic paper on why you shut down emotionally. Overthink everything. And threaten to fight the vital signs machine at 5 a.m. And the worst part? You don’t just fill it out. You have to read it aloud in group like you’re defending your thesis before God, the ancestors, and a room full of people who just met you yesterday. You’re sitting there clutching your safety crayon while trying to sound insightful. And everyone else nods like they’re on the judging panel of America’s Next Top Trauma Survivor. It’s humbling. It’s horrifying. It’s hilarious. And somehow, it’s exactly the kind of chaos that makes psych unit bonding feel like summer camp for emotionally exhausted adults.

But there is no gamble on Earth quite like the moment they tell you, “You’ll be sharing a room.” That’s not an assignment. That’s a lottery. That’s a spiritual test. That’s a cosmic wheel‑spin hosted by the universe itself. On a psych unit, your roommate can be literally anything. The possibilities are endless. Unhinged. And hilarious in a way only people who’ve lived it understand.

Here is a few of the different types of roommates you could be paired up with.

1. The roommate that sleeps 12 hours a day but somehow still manages to terrify you. They snore like a diesel engine. They sit up suddenly at 3 a.m. like they’re receiving messages from the ancestors. They whisper things like, “Did you hear that?” No, I did NOT hear that. And I would like to keep it that way.

2. This roommate provides live commentary on everything you do. You stand up? “Where you going?” You sit down? “You tired?” You breathe? “You okay?” I am trying to exist. Please let me exist in silence.

3. This roommate has been in the unit for 48 hours and has already achieved spiritual awakening. They speak in riddles. They meditate loudly. They give unsolicited advice like, “You must release the ego. Also, can I have your pudding?”

4. This one will eat every single snack you have. Even the ones you hid in your pillowcase. They will deny it with confidence. They will gaslight you about your own graham crackers. They will ask for juice while drinking the juice they stole from you.

5. This roommate is entertainment. Pure entertainment. They talk to themselves, the walls, the staff, the ancestors, and occasionally the ceiling tiles. They narrate their dreams. They reenact scenes from movies that don’t exist. You don’t even need cable. You have them.

6. This roommate showers at 2 a.m. With no curtain. With the water pressure set to “pressure wash a tractor.” They come out wrapped in a towel the size of a napkin and say, “Your turn.”

7. This roommate is quiet. Too quiet. You don’t know if they like you. Hate you. Or don’t know you exist. They stare at the wall for long stretches of time. They fold their socks with military precision. They whisper to their juice cup. You respect them deeply.

8. This roommate minds their business. Sleeps in weird positions. Hisses when staff wakes them up. Eats only the snacks they like. And will absolutely sit on your bed like it’s theirs.

Psych‑unit roommates are a whole spiritual curriculum. A syllabus written by the universe. A randomized character generator with no patch notes or warning labels. And I’ve had every single type walk through that door and claim the other half of my room like they were entering a reality show.

Some were chaotic. Some were confusing. Some were plot twists. And a precious few? They became family in the kind of way only shared trauma, cold cereal, and shared “Did you hear that?” moments can create. You don’t choose your psych‑unit roommates. But sometimes the universe chooses them for you.

I’ve had the ones who snored like freight trains. I’ve had the ones who narrated my every move. And the ones who didn’t speak for three days. But somehow communicated entire novels with their eyebrows. I’ve had the ones who showered at 2 a.m. with the water pressure set to “remove barnacles.” And the ones who treated the room like a spiritual dojo. Then there were the ones who were just there. Quiet. Odd. Mysterious. Every roommate was a new chapter in the saga. Every roommate was a new lesson in patience, comedy, and survival. Every roommate was a new story I absolutely should not laugh at but absolutely do.

But out of all the chaos, characters, and all the “Lord, give me strength” moments, there are a couple of roommates who became real friends. The kind you still talk to. Still laugh with. Still send memes to about your shared psych‑unit nonsense. These are the ones who laughed with me at 3 a.m. when the unit sounded like a haunted Walmart. Shared snacks like we were in a bunker. Understood the unspoken language of “I’m fine but also not fine but also fine.” Survived Codes, guided imagery, and curtain‑less showers right alongside me. And turned the worst moments into inside jokes that still make us wheeze.We walked through the same chaos and came out with matching emotional scars and petty humor.

I wouldn’t trade them for all the money in the world. Not for a million dollars. Not for a lifetime supply of the “good blankets.” Not even for a shower curtain. Because some people come into your life for a reason. Some come for a season. And some come because the hospital assigned them to your room. And the universe said, “Y’all need each other.”

And within that roommate lottery, the prize is either peace, or a story you will tell for the rest of your natural life. And somehow? You adapt. You bond. You laugh. You survive. And you walk out with tales that sound made‑up but absolutely aren’t.

Healing is hard. Fluorescent lights are evil. And humans will absolutely weaponize a spork if pushed far enough. May your blankets be soft. Your meds be on time. And your petty be righteous. May your coping skills be strong. Your boundaries fortified. And your spirit guides remind you that sometimes the pettiest thing you can do is heal anyway.

And that is the gospel truth of the psych unit. A place so petty. So chaotic. So spiritually unhinged. That even the ancestors step back like, “good luck.” Between the curtain‑less baptisms they call showers. The guided imagery that feels like group hallucination. The safety crayons built like toddler dumbbells. And the Codes that pop off like surprise season finales. One thing becomes clear. Healing might be hard. But the comedy is free.

So, the next time somebody tries to tell you psych units are calm, peaceful places. Just smile. And let your spirit guides handle the lie. And remember, sometimes the pettiest, most powerful thing you can do is survive it with your humor intact. Thanks for reading! And, yay, for the ability to use humor as a coping skill for survival. 

Affirmation: I am calm, I am grounded, and I will not let anyone with non‑slip socks ruin my vibration today.

***Don’t forget to watch the video!***

#ThisPuzzledLife

darnold1975

These Beautiful Walls (Poetry)

These Beautiful Walls
8.3.19
Some people see what others can’t see
These beautiful walls that keep me safe from me.
People think this is where we come to hide
But this is where I find members of a “trauma tribe.”

We are people who have been through more than most.
And more than not several of us have a host.
For we have seen and been a part of the evils of life.
And for us it has caused lots of strife.

We have fingers and we have toes
But with that comes many woes
Listen to me as I begin to close
We come here beaten down and come to
recognize ourselves as heroes.

By: Dana Landrum-Arnold
#thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Life Is Better When You’re Laughing

Life Is Better When You’re Laughing

“I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose.”

—Woody Allen

The above title is the writing on the outside of my private journal.  Understand comedy however you wish but for me it has gotten me through a lot of situations both good and bad.  I have always prided myself on the fact that regardless of what events have taken place in my life, my ability to laugh and find humor in most situations was never damaged.  Often times humor was used against me as a form of humiliation and embarrassment.

As a child, I’m not sure if I was humorous or not.  However, with my dad’s quick wit and grandmother’s lack of a filter, in any capacity, there was always a reason to laugh.  In my teen years, clowning around became second nature and a form of survival.  I became a class clown that followed me into adulthood.  In most treatment centers and psychiatric units you can most assuredly find me as the guilty party wherever roars of laughter might be exhibited. This is not because I like attention.  I do, however, love laughing with like minded individuals.  Things I Have Learned on Psychiatric Units is another blog where some of this very humor was captured.

I am usually telling stories related to my late grandmother’s antics especially when birds, squirrels, her individualized driving abilities or lack thereof and Wal-Mart scooters are the topics. She never could quite understand the fact that birds and squirrels have co-existed for thousands of years together.  She also never realized that both birds and squirrels can survive on food even if you don’t personally feed them every day.  There were many days when you would catch her screaming at the squirrels in a murderous rage about staying out of the bird feeder because they had their own food (corn cobs) placed securely onto a tree.  After throwing random objects from her house such as knives, spoons, cooking pots, a tea pot and house slippers at said bird feeder and using language that would make even the most liberal of southern Baptist blush she would then proceed threatening them with verbalized thoughts of a mass squirrel genocide.  Even after her death some of those same house slippers were found buried beneath leaves of the once violent anti-squirrel tyrant.  The blog post Birds and Squirrels also reiterates some of these same scenarios played out by one of my greatest friends….my Nannie.

comfort zone

Her driving consisted of her ignoring street signs, mainly speed limit signs, because they were viewed as a suggestion rather than law.  My family and I started driving her around soon after we all realized that safety behind the wheel was not her goal or a priority.  When I would take her to Wal-Mart my 80 year-old grandmother used the same lack of driving skills on the scooters.  There were times when I would look up with her driving solo to the women’s clothing section right up into a clothes rack.  She then proceeded to tell me the scooter was broken  and that’s why the incident has occurred.  Never once did she acknowledge operator error.  She would somehow cuss her way into leaving the area on the “broken” scooter only to leave a trail of blouses that had been ripped off the rack.  She would also drive down to another section of the store with additional clothing and hangers swirling around and grinding in the tires.  I’m sure Wal-Mart wrote these damaged items off because they most assuredly could not be sold after my Nannie had done her damage.

The ability to laugh at our own shortcomings allows us to not take life so seriously.  Laughter helps to reduce pain, strengthens immune function and decreases stress.  Whenever I feel some type of major depressive episode coming on I’ll usually find a movie or a standup performance by one of my favorite comedians/actors to help chase it away.  Granted this doesn’t always work but laughter has been some of the best medicine for me.  Some of my favorite comedians are:  Kevin Hart, Katt Williams, Dane Cook, Tyler Perry, Rickey Smiley, Jim Gaffigan, Aries Spears, Gabriel Iglesias, Will Ferrell, Jim Carey, Dana Carvey, Margaret Cho, Amy Schumer, Ellen Degeneres, Tig Notaro, Melissa McCarthy, Mo’nique, Whoopi Goldberg, Wanda Sykes, Cedric the Entertainer, Jeff Dunham, Mike Epps, Russell Peters, Darren Knight (Southern Momma) and the late Robin Williams, Chris Farley, Bernie Mac, John Candy and Ralphie May.

While my ex-husband could be comical, he used his humor in a very demeaning way against me.  And in public or around family is when he would let these skills reverberate with only me having the knowledge that this was not done in fun. I picked up on those comedic verbal sniper attacks very well. Also, since tears and real emotions were not considered “safe”, humor whether appropriate or inappropriate was always acceptable.  To this day, I’ll deflect most emotions other than anger or humor because it just doesn’t feel safe even with safe people.  Luckily, my “coach” already knows this and gets my attention when deflection seems to be my goal instead of feeling uncomfortable feelings.

Learning how deal with feelings through laughter is ok.  However, using humor as a way to avoid feelings can be detrimental and deadly if taken to extremes.  Re-learning how to deal with feelings appropriately is not an easy task.   But I will still take time out with telemarketers to let them know that I have to end the call because I have a cow on fire in the front yard.  Again, another part of life where I must learn and accept the importance of moderation and balance.

#thispuzzledlife

darnold1975

Things I Have Learned On A Psychiatric Unit

“Psych units are the only place where you can cry, hallucinate, take a nap, and then laugh so hard you almost get written up, all before breakfast.”

-This Puzzled Life

Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Negative energy go away. Today’s story requires spiritual armor, emotional bubble wrap, and possibly a priest. It’s good to be able to laugh at yourself. And at the flaming dumpster fire situations life casually tosses your way like, “Here. Deal with this.”

Before we begin, let me just say that if life had a suggestion box, I would’ve stuffed it full years ago with notes like, “Hey, maybe stop throwing flaming emergencies at me before breakfast,” and “Please stop sending character‑building experiences. I am fully built.” But here we are.

One thing about me? I will laugh at absolutely anything. Trauma? Comedy. Chaos? Material. A mental breakdown?  Existential dread? Put a wig on it and call it performance art. Give me ten minutes and a snack and I’ll turn it into a TED Talk with punchlines.

I’ve spent so much time in the mental health system that I should honestly get a loyalty punch card. Nine visits and the tenth one comes with a free juice box and a pair of grippy socks. And while none of it is funny in the moment. Because nothing is funny when you’re locked behind steel doors wearing hospital-issued foot mittens. Give it a little time and suddenly you’re laughing so hard your abs almost activate for the first time in recorded history.

So today, we’re taking all that chaos, all that “what in the actual hell?,” all that fluorescent‑lit trauma and we’re turning it into comedy. And after a string of emotionally heavy posts, the kind that require a nap, a snack, and maybe a brief dissociative intermission. It felt like time to lighten the mood. Because if I don’t laugh, I will simply lie face‑down on the floor until my cats gather around me like I’m a fallen soldier in a Civil War reenactment.

Spending most of my adult life in the mental health system has gifted me something priceless an absolutely unhinged collection of stories that were NOT funny at the time but are now comedy gold. Nothing is funny when you’re behind steel “safety” doors wearing grippy socks and questioning every decision you’ve ever made. But soon you’re laughing so hard your abs almost activate for the first time in human history.

A lot of my trauma centers around the idea of being trapped. Which makes psychiatric stabilization units a special kind of irony, because nothing says “calm down” like being locked behind metal doors with fluorescent lighting and a chair bolted to the floor.

The system is deeply flawed. So flawed that being “stabilized” often destabilizes me further. But I’ve been lucky enough to meet some incredible people along the way. I call them my fellow battle buddies and sometimes all you can do is laugh together like, “Wow. This is impressively bad.”

I’m also extremely talented at roasting myself at any given moment. It’s a gift. Or a trauma response. Possibly both. So grab your emotional support beverage, your sense of humor, and whatever coping skill hasn’t been recalled this week. Welcome to the blog. Welcome to the chaos. Welcome to the Psych Olympics.

If you’re considered “too spicy” for regular psych, congratulations you’ve been promoted to the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit, lovingly known as the PICU. This is where you’ll witness behaviors you didn’t know the human body could perform. You may also receive bonus labels. One such title is “poop slinger,” which is not a metaphor and absolutely not a personality trait you want on your résumé.

Through trial by fire, I’ve learned how to survive these units. I’ve also learned that confrontation is sometimes necessary. Not because it’s wise, but because it makes both staff and patients suddenly realize you are not, in fact, the easy target they hoped for.

Below Are My Field Notes From the Inside Some Of These Units

• If you find someone drinking out of the toilet bowl like a Labrador, this does not mean they are friendly. Approach with caution. This is not a Disney movie.

• When staff asks, “Do you want to take a trip on the van?” They are not talking about sightseeing. They are talking about Ativan.

• If you don’t drink fruit juice or cow nipple secretions, you are now considered “noncompliant” and also “mysteriously thirsty.”

• Showering without a curtain is a deeply humbling, prison-adjacent experience no one prepares you for.

• You will dry off with either a pillowcase or your own pants because paper towels are apparently dangerous weapons.

• The food is not food. It is a suggestion of food. A memory of food. Something a horse once dreamed about.

• When your safe food is hummus and it arrives looking like caulk from Lowe’s, served with graham crackers instead of saltines, the will to live briefly exits the chat.

• Poo-Pourri is contraband. Your only option is shampoo sprayed aggressively into the toilet while yelling, “WE HAVE A SHITUATION! AND WE NEED SHITRUS SPRAY” Staff will not laugh. Patients absolutely will.

• When cigarettes become your only coping skill, germs lose all meaning.

• “Therapeutic activities” include coloring pages and word searches, which somehow increase aggression instead of reducing it.

• Some psychiatrists have the energy of people who definitely own jars of eyeballs labeled “DO NOT ASK.”

• Saying threatening things while angry never ends well. This will, however, guarantee a forced nap courtesy of booty juice.

• Booty juice is a powerful chemical cocktail delivered directly to the ass cheek — could stop a zombie apocalypse.

• Stress hives will convince other patients you have mange.

• Yelling “DEAD MAN WALKING!” while entering the cafeteria is hilarious to patients and devastating to staff morale.

• Benzodiazepines may be prescribed solely because you are annoying.

• Being given laxatives while actively battling eating disorders is a choice. A deeply concerning one.

• Watching daily emergency codes becomes like watching Cops. You start rooting for chaos like it’s a sport.

• You may meet someone who looks suspiciously like a knockoff Mike Tyson.

• Serving sexual trauma survivors link sausage does not guarantee a faster healing pace.

• Panic attacks may be treated with what appears to be chest compressions.

• Every diagnosable mental disorder exists here.

Every single one. You think you’ve seen weird behavior? You have not even scratched the surface of humanity. I hope you laughed. Because everything in this piece? I lived it. It really is this bad. And somehow, we’re still here, laughing anyway.

If you made it this far, you have survived a guided tour through the psychiatric Hunger Games, narrated by someone who has absolutely been there, done that, and stolen the hospital socks.

Every fluorescent light. Every bolted chair. Every “therapeutic activity” that made me want to fight God. Every cafeteria meal that looked like it had been described to the chef but never actually prepared. And somehow we’re still here. Still laughing. Still healing. Still comparing trauma notes like, “Girl, did that really happen or did I hallucinate it?”

The system is flawed. The experiences are wild. The stories are unhinged. But the resilience? The humor? The ability to look back and say, “Wow, that was impressively terrible”? That’s ours. We earned that. So if you laughed, good. If you related, I’m hugging you in spirit. If you’re still in the thick of it, I’m cheering for you with the enthusiasm of a patient who just got approved for outdoor time. And if you ever find yourself in a stabilization unit again, just remember: You are not alone. You are not broken. And somewhere out there, I’m probably also wearing grippy socks and yelling “WE HAVE A SHITUATION” into a toilet. Thanks for reading! Keep smiling.

Affirmation: “I am thriving, even when life hands me trauma, fluorescent lighting, and a pillowcase to dry off with. I bend. I don’t break unless it’s hospital furniture, in which case that was already loose and not my fault.”

#ThisPuzzledLife