The clinic's living room

When the pandemic started, I got taken into a local psychotherapy center around march. I was diagnosed with a lot of disorders that only got worse when the government confined us all to our homes. Now I’m confined to a new home. With stricter rules than I would normally have, but also with more people than anyone would be able to see during a pandemic. We lived together with 40 people. Some never got out of their rooms, however. I was the opposite. I never left the living room, as I always needed people around me, or else I was afraid I’d hurt myself again. I couldn’t hurt myself when people were around.

The living room had three red couches, normally they were loaded with blankets and pillows but because of the pandemic, those weren’t allowed anymore. Most patients would bring their own blankets and pillows to the living room, as the couches without them were downright painful. The room also had 10 tables, there’d also be 10 upstairs, but I never went there. 10 tables for 20 persons to sit at and keep our distances from each other. It was hard to live with so many people and adhere to the new rules. However, I was glad I at least got to see as many people as I did, even if I had to stay 1,5 meters from them. There was also a television right across the room from the three couches and some plants next to it. The room was made more homey with artworks and a red clock on the wall. Cabinets were placed against all the walls on the right side, filled with board games and DVD’s. I felt safe here.

Two other girls also had trouble being alone, they would always sit at the table closest to the couches and play one of the dozens of boardgames. I always sat on the smallest couch. It was a safe, confined little space in the corner from which I could see the entire room. People would often sit on one of the couches nearby and have a chat with me, sometimes we’d watch a movie. I became friends with the two other girls who were always around, though I hated boardgames, so I didn’t play with them, I just watched.

The first month I got to meet many people who have been here longer than I. They were even almost on their way out. They told me I was annoying, but everybody is their first weeks, it’d pass once I’d be more mentally stable. I was really hurt by the notion they found me annoying, when I asked why they thought so, they told me I spent too much time in the living room, watching everyone, asking questions about everything. I should go to my own room more often. But I didn’t listen to that advice.

The second month some people left, leaving here was a big happening. The person who’d leave would have a ‘chips and cookies’ party the night before leaving. The day of leaving, they would tell their story of how they got here and overcame their issues and were now able to leave. It was always uplifting, and at the same time depressing to see people leave. The first guy to go was someone who was always hidden up in his room, but he decided his last week to stay in the living room with the others, he was great and had a great sense of humor, so it was nice having him around on the big couch next to me for the entire week. He was extremely depressed, way worse than I might have ever been, and sadly he still was when he left, but he made the best of it all. The week he was around we watched sad movies every night until two ‘o clock, sometimes even until later than that. More people were in the living room than usual during the day to talk with him for the last time.

His end-talk before he would go was breathtaking and beautiful. He had been through a lot and got out of the year here a lot stronger. He’d still have a long way to go, but he was ready to go back to society.

The third month more people left, and new ones started coming in. After the tenth patient leaving, it got slightly less breathtaking and beautiful and a lot more downright annoying. Most of them, I didn’t care about. And seeing them go through emotions every day from happy to leave to scared to leave even got tiring for me, let alone themselves. Some people leaving hit me harder than others. This month two people I grew fond of especially also left. A very tiny girl and a very big guy. Both promised to look me up once they’d left. I cried when they were finally gone, but noticed I got as fast over them as that they had left. I saw them after, once or twice, but I would have been fine with not seeing them anymore.

The fourth month was tough. Most people who I had been around for most of the time had left and almost everyone living here now was newer than I was. I missed the two board game girls filling up space. The new patients kept asking questions about this place and what the therapy is like, all the time, now I finally understood why I was perceived as annoying. Besides asking the simplest things they were also depressing, they had thoughts I had soon learned here to forget, and they had ways of handling things in a way I only did in the first month. Less people hung out in the living room, as most of the new people avoided contact, and stayed in their rooms whenever they could. I got lonely and bored, mostly looking at my phone on my couch, hoping someone would take the couch next to me again, like people always would in my first months, but the new people seemed too scared.

The fifth month a new person came who I directly had a great

connection with. We were instant best friends, and he always occupied the big couch right next to mine. The only moment we were apart were the couple of times a day he needed a smoke. He was quite a rebel. He’d take the pillows and blankets that were hidden away in a closet in the hallway because of the pandemic and put them back on the couches. Surprisingly enough, nobody stopped him or reversed it. He also took the plants from the living room for his own room. Since I was here the longest now, he asked me if he could do this. I gave him permission. I would have loved to see him get in trouble for something as simple as taking plants from the living room. But he never got in trouble because of it. I wondered if the therapists really noticed what we did in the living room at all.

The sixth month I already started feeling way better. I was having fun with my newfound friend and other new people were finally coming out of their rooms and sometimes joined us when watching a movie. People were drawing and playing games in the living room again and it really felt homely with all the pillows and blankets. One of the new patients loved crafting things and had crafted a lot of garlands to hang around the place. The room had never been so lively, and neither had I been.

The seventh month I asked the therapists if I was ready to leave. I liked my friends here, but I wanted to move on. My request got rejected, however. “You and that couch belong together. Where would you go when you get out and the couch can’t come along with you,” They would tell me jokingly. I couldn’t laugh about it. I truly felt ready to leave. A lot of people here had panic attacks and would cry a lot in the living room, and I was always happy to help them, but after seven months, I couldn’t really care anymore. My worse days seemed to be behind me, I did sometimes cry, I wasn’t healthy of course, but I did do a lot better than ever before.

The eight month I started feeling worse again, things were starting to get boring. My best friend here had found a lover on the other floor, so I saw him less. I had made other friends with whom I could hang out, but it wasn’t the same. I’d draw with them but after the tenth drawing I got bored. I even took up playing boardgames and puzzling, but it was just not my thing. Though making conversation was nice.

The ninth month was a better month. The living room became a strange place to me. With one night a party and the other night a lot of suicidal and depressed people. I guess that’s what emotional regulation disorders do to you, and thus, to the living room. This month, however, I got told I could leave in three months, so no disorder could keep me from feeling relieved and free.

The tenth month was a blast. We decided to have a dance party in the living room. We danced all night up until the therapist that slept in the house came in and told us to knock it off because of the pandemic rules. All of us got angry and annoyed because of that. We were never allowed to have fun. We lived together, if one of us got sick, all of us would anyhow. Besides, we had quite a range of personality disorders, so our anger and annoyance were displayed in multiple ways. Most notable in the way of us continuing our dance party after the therapist left for her bed again and by us smoking inside while doing so. I didn’t even smoke, but I’d join a cigarette if that would mean I could break an extra rule.

The eleventh month was downright awful. There was a new person who was also always in the living room. He was the opposite of me in every way imaginable, besides not being able to be alone. He was spoilt rotten and that’s how he got here. Too spoilt to ever learn how to take care of himself or get a grip on his life. All his problems were other people their fault according to him. He talked too much about nothing and always took the spot next to me, before my friend could sit there. My friend would take the chair closest to the couch, but it was still not the same. This new guy was listening to all our conversations, and talking over them, after all. It was also difficult because it was almost my last month in this living room, my home. The realization hit hard. I didn’t want to feel at home in another home. I didn’t want to go out and be alone again.

The twelfth month, my last month, was good again. I was still scared sometimes of the loneliness found in the outside world, but I was also glad to be done. For every fun night I’ve had in this room, I’ve had a bad night as well. For every dance party, there were nights of people crying and having panic attacks. For every friend I made here, I made an enemy. I was done, I was ready to leave.