So… apparently I am still more fragile than I might have hoped, this many years into the mental health odyssey. I don't deal well with bad news, especially as it pertains to my terrifying, obscure future. *Sigh.* I spent Friday night/Saturday morning — 12 hours — in the hospital.

I didn't lie; I told the truth about the likely source of my affliction, which saves everyone time and annoyance. (I've worked in medicine as a vet, so I have a personal appreciation of this.) I'd been stupid and was suffering for it — masticatory muscle dystonia, which is the incredibly uncomfortable clenching and twisting of the jaw muscles. It was three hours before I was looked at. And then I won access to a small beige room down an oppressively beige hallway, at the entrance of which a guard sat. My belongings were taken away "for safekeeping". Despite the pain, this was the worst part of it for me. It was frightening, I was not allowed to flee, and I'd forgotten my phone, so I was alone. I wanted my safe holt at home, under the covers with cats scattered across the comforter like wildflowers, breathing out comfort and contentment. Wanted it badly enough that I shook, and turned the lights out in the small room.

The rest of the beige corridor housed other occupants — extremely agitated and garrulous occupants. They shouted their litanies of wrongs done them, their frustrations, their distress, calling each other names. I stayed silent, and shook in the dark, my panic level rising hour by hour. A nurse came by with a pill that did, in fact, eventually alleviate my painful symptoms. She wouldn't tell me what it was. The guard came by and chatted — he was a pleasant human being, and tried his best to help the temporary inmates of the beige corridor, playing intermediary, fetching blankets and pillows and styrofoam cups of water or juice. Each time a nurse came by, she was someone I hadn't seen before… but they all wore identical expressions of "there, there, ducky. Just stay patient and do what you're told and it will all be okay." It was meant to be sympathetic, I know — after all, everyone has awful days. It was dehumanizing.

Finally, I was able to speak with the psych resident. He was calm, kind, had a gentle sense of humor, and was patient. He also was the first person who took the effort to explain to me what processes were underway with regard to my temporary stay, and followed through on his promises. I drove home dry-eyed and bleary in the sheeting pale light of midday, so tired I couldn't sleep when I got home and curled up with my cats.

Jonesymin was waiting for me. He'd fallen asleep watching a movie with me the night before (because storytelling fox is narcoleptic  ), and when he woke, it was to my message that I was heading for urgent care. He'd been awake and worried ever since (because storytelling fox is also a bit of a worrier... not that that's a bad thing, necessarily). But having my BFF there to comfort me and be comforted in turn… made it feel like I was finally home.

I have follow-up appointments, starting Tuesday. I think I'll hide in my holt until then, perhaps work on some unfinished projects so I can put away the materials. I'm considering spring cleaning, although with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. I wish, on Tuesday, that it won't be fear driving  me out of the house, but hope.