I used to be more okay.

Before I was whatever I am now, I was somebody else.

I had bad days when all I wanted to do was eat until I burst in front of the television. Sobbing, screaming, scary days. And days when I would do anything to be seen. Days when I dangled myself in the peripheral vision of people who did not want me like a pine tree car freshener. But I felt better, more often.

I'm sicker now, and I may be getting sickerer. And for the rest of my life I may only have to look forward to getting sickererer.

A cab driver dropped me off at my psychiatrist's office. I hadn't spoken to anybody I cared about in three days. I hadn't been outside in three days. On my walk from the hospital to the cab I was afraid they would change their minds about letting me go and come after me and drag me back inside, into the cold and bleach and thin blankets.

But I got into the cab, and the driver drove, and he said some weird things about women and the devil that made me uncomfortable, while I smiled, dazed, drinking the warm sunshine that was spilling into the car window, savoring the smell of gasoline and hot vinyl, hugging my single plastic bag of dirty pajamas and hospital-issued toiletries that said INPATIENT in big black letters. The bag had a drawstring. I was allowed to have a drawstring now, but I was still worried about being seen with it.

I met my psychiatrist. Or rather, he met me. I'd already seen him in the ward where I was on lockdown for 24 hours, seeing another patient. I mentioned this. He didn't remember me.