The clinic has five 'newbies' now;
three of them stuck out their two-week quarantine
and are now circulating amongst the rest of us.
The other two are still in quarantine,
having arrived more recently than the first three.



Change of subject:
this is so hard, so very hard.
I can't say much.
Not happening to me, but to other patients.
These other patients have submitted complaints about, sad to say,
yet another patient who has been here for several years now.
The way this last patient is mistreating others
hits all of my deepest triggers.
The clinic's trouble-shooting protocol is slowly creaking its way
through the formal procedure.
As much as nothing has directly been done or happened to me,
I feel so fearful and angry and sad and distrustful and unsafe.

Well, something was bound to trip my triggers in treatment,
and if there is one thing I don't feel, it is surprise.
But I hate that this troubles me so deeply.
Am I talking about my feelings? You bet I am.
My therapist has heard about my feelings,
my social worker, my care coordinator,
the nursing staff (Emergency Services),
the residential program manager,
other patients,
group facilitators, and on, and on ...

I was so happy and trusting here, until this came out in the open.
Out in the open is, of course, where it ought to be.
Some of this on the part of the problem patient
had been covered up for months,
which makes me even angrier and more distrusting.

Donuel spoke weeks ago of a sandbar.
Now I've got more of a
undertow/riptide going on.
No, I'm not going to drown, obviously,
because I'm not entirely at the mercy of the current,
to continue the metaphor.
I am buoyed up to the surface,
there are helping hands,
there are lifelines.
I am far from abandoned.

And it still feels like a nightmare
from which I am desperate to wake up.
Thanks for listening.