Dysfunctional Mother's Day
After my mom's second overdose attempt, she was held in the psychiatric ward at Hollywood Memorial Hospital. Mom was on the first floor, which was “Open Psych.” The second floor was “Closed Psych.” The closed psychiatric ward was just that, closed. It was locked. The patients had to stay in their rooms. It was where the most insane people were. The doctors and nurses told my mom that if she did not do well on the first floor that she would need to go “one floor up.”
For the longest time, that was a big joke. Whenever me, or mom, or Hanna, or any friend that knew about the joke did anything odd, one of us would say, “Uh oh. You’re going one floor up.” Then, everyone would laugh, even me. Really, I didn’t think it was that funny. The thought of my mom being crazy, dead, or institutionalized frightened me. She was angry and didn’t make the best decisions, but she was truly all I had. We didn’t really have family in Florida, other than Hanna and Laurie; and they weren’t really related to us. We had Mom’s boyfriend, but that wasn’t really a good thing.
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