Recorded on the PAAZ...


Slowly, I hear the swing doors slamming down at the end of the hall. I still call “love you” but don't hear much back...
I turn around and look at the bags on and next to the bed. A wooden wall separates my room from my roommate's.
There I am 34 years old, mother of son of 4, with the soul under my arms. I don't get it all anymore.
What I do get is where I am. Partly because I chose to be here myself. Partly because the environment is screaming out at me.
I was hospitalized in Psychiatry.

Or the PAAZ.
I hear people in the hallway and the nurses in the office, as my room is right across from it.
A little distraught I look around and suddenly the panic strikes.
How's that with the little one? His daddy made his entry into my house to take care of our hero in the period to come.
Slowly, I'm starting to see what I brought with me. I picked up a bag of clothes and a bag of crafts stuff, which caused me a havoc in the attic.
I'm so sorry for all of you. I can't believe I'm so confused. Could be so angry. I've lost myself more and more.
Then the daddy walks back in. The sweetheart has been on headphones so I can listen to my music. After this, he leaves again. It's as painful as an hour ago.
I'm gonna get my craft stuff and get to work. The bed is pretty nice and slowly I start landing there. Now and then someone comes to see, but I'm left alone.
Until a nurse comes into my room and tells me to have an appointment with the psychiatrist. And now.
I'm reluctantly walking through that almost endless corridor. At the end of it, behind a window with a colored glass eye, the psychiatrist sits.
He's looking at me from his monitor and back.
“So,” he says
after hearing and reading my story. “That didn't go so well, did it? We can say that you have neglected yourself quite a bit”
Self-neglect...
There I am, ex-home counselor in psychiatry himself admitted at the PAAZ.


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