My First Morning at Home After Forced Confinement They Wanted to Call ‘Care’

This morning’s offerings for breakfast illustrate the abundance that it is to come home again after weeks of austerity. My nervous system is on overdrive coming home — so many things to do, and knowing I need to take it slow, not try to tackle everything at once.

Fresh fruit (out of season, no less!) feels like a luxury after weeks of canned offerings and the occasional orange — the kind of detail you don’t forget once you’ve been deprived of it. There was evidence of the police intervention in September when I got home yesterday, as they had toppled furniture to force me out of the house when I offered passive resistance.

There was evidence of the police intervention in September when I got home yesterday, as they had toppled furniture to force me out of the house when I offered passive resistance. I’ve tidied up a little bit, but my regular mess needs to be addressed over the next days and weeks. The chaos in my studio is not something that is going to get resolved overnight, considering it’s been there since I moved in four years ago now.

I woke up in the early hours of dawn and decided a bit of retail therapy might help me recover from the stress of institutional trauma I’ve been put through lately. I decided to look up Peter Pauper Press journals on Amazon since I’ve become addicted after discovering these gems at the hospital gift shop (my current collection shown above). How had I never known about them before? The production quality is stunning. It feels right to encourage my re-established habit of journaling by hand, of touching real paper again.

The first morning back, everything feels strange, with seemingly too many options. After weeks of beige walls, beige floors, beige meals, my home feels almost indecent in its abundance. I made hazelnut Nespresso coffee in my red “CAN’T TALK: NOVELING NaNoWriMo (a relic from a defunct era, sadly), rinsed raspberries so vivid they looked digitally enhanced, and broke open a muffin that bled berry juice like a small heart. ♥️

So many choices feel overwhelming on this first day of freedom after weeks of containment under oppressive circumstances which most psych ward patients agree are more prison-like than anything resembling “care.” Now I finally have the freedom to pick a ceramic mug (as opposed to a non-microwaveable paper cup). I can froth the milk (instead of opening a single tiny milk goblet). I can decide when to walk the dog (and actually step outside to get fresh air — which I was denied for seven weeks under the completely ridiculous assumption that I was a “flight risk”). I get to decide when to write, I get to enjoy my solitude, and as I mentioned last night, even washing the dishes is a pleasurable activity. It’s the small things we all take for granted that make the difference when they’ve been denied to you.

The fridge alone says it all — shelves full of colour and possibility: maple syrup, hummus, Greek yogurt, miso, celery, juice mixes (the “Immunity” Tradition Plus pomegranate, beetroot and ginger is a major winner), eggs, and a variety of snacks. So many textures, so much life. The anxiety is just my body breaking out of containment — a world that is no longer padded, no longer restricted. This bowl of Nespresso coffee pods, each one a small promise of flavour, is proof: I don’t have to drink insipid decaffeinated brown water anymore. I get to enjoy flavour, colour, and a full palette of options again.

And of course, Stella… my “bestie forevs” for real — soft, so bright and affectionate — has barely left my side since I walked through the door at my stepdad’s place to pick her up. Her calm weight against me reminds me what safety actually feels like.