The Check-In
You know that moment in life when things crumble just enough for you to say, “Ah yes, this is fine,” while everything else burns?
Yeah. I missed that stage completely and slid headfirst into LWL before I could even process what the hell I was doing.
The hospital is clean, well-lit, and engineered specifically to remind you that time is a social construct. Days here don’t pass.
I arrived here with a brain that had decided to screen horror movies on repeat without my permission. Voices, visions, a cocktail of fear served loudly. I walked in scared; they gave me a bed, some paperwork, and a menu of medications I don’t seem to understand. A proper welcome.
Somewhere deep inside I thought, “Maybe this will help.”
But the more honest part whispered, “Go home!”
I ignored both.
The Food Situation
German hospital cuisine is a form of character development.
You think you’re tough? Try eating cold bread at 6 p.m. while everyone else politely spreads butter like they’re in a commercial for dairy products.
Breakfast: cold bread, cold butter, cold cuts.
Lunch: lukewarm confusion.
Dinner: breakfast, again
I had to write out about what I “cannot eat.” They agreed on providing me soup for the dinner. Not that it’d sate my hunger, but at least I’d get something warm.
The Voices Return
Medicine: “We’re working.”
Voices: “lol no.”
Two men talking somewhere behind my ears.
Familiar voices.
Unwanted guests.
The kind you don’t even offer tea to because they show up uninvited and start rearranging your thoughts.
I stared at the ceiling wondering how the hell one argues with a hallucination.
I went to ask for meds. They handed me Haldol. It looked like it came from a Pokémon evolution chain of sedatives. I swallowed it and hoped for the best. The best did not occur. The voices just lowered their volume, like they were being considerate. What lovely roommates for the night!
Dreams That Need Their Own Trigger Warnings
You know how you never die in a dream? Last night I dreamed that I tried to kill myself just to wake up.
A dream inside a dream inside a panic attack—Christopher Nolan would be proud.
The anxiety afterwards? Less cinematic.
I sat on the edge of my bed thinking, “If I tell the nurses, they will absolutely not let me go home.”
And you know what? I really, deeply, desperately wanted to go home.
So I didn’t tell them.
The Desire to Escape Intensifies
I have been here long enough to realize: I would not survive jail.
Not because of the danger.
Not because of the violence.
But because I cannot eat bread-based meals twice a day at fixed hours like a 19th-century German farmer.
Also, the door to the ward makes a sound every time it opens.
A cheerful ding.
A lie of a sound. Because nothing here is cheerful.
I asked them if I could go home to bring my tablet. I promised them that I would come back before the earth gets devoured. They didn’t let me.
I walk circles in the corridor like a zoo animal whose enrichment toy was taken away. Other patients do the same. We do not talk. We just do laps like we were all preparing for some Olympic event called “Don’t Lose Your Mind Relay.”
The Problem of Being Evaluated
Every morning a doctor appears like a side character in a video game, asks about sleep, mood, and whether I feel safe.
And every morning I tell them what I need to: “I’m fine. Better. Improving. Great, actually.”
Lies.
All lies.
I want to go home so badly my bones feel homesick.
But I know how this works.
One wrong sentence and they’ll keep me longer “for my safety.”
I’m scared, but I’m also strategic.
Survival tip: psychiatrists love the word stable. I drop it into conversations like seasoning.
The Paranoia Episode
This one… hit differently.
Voices came back, louder, sharper. Adi. Prathamesh.
Except they weren’t there.
Except my brain insisted they were.
I felt watched. Followed.
Hunted by shadows that weren’t real but felt very committed to their role.
I thought he would kill me. Or make me kill myself. I thought he was in my room. I thought the voices were commands.
My hands trembled.
My chest clenched.
Every survival instinct in me screamed hide.
The logical part of my mind whispered, “This is not real.”
The illogical part countered with, “But what if?”
I didn’t tell the nurses.
I didn’t dare.
Freedom tomorrow depends on silence today.
The Great Semester Break Crisis
I finally got help from the Sozialdienst.
Semester break approved.
One problem: I immediately felt guilty, useless, and like I’d ruined my entire academic timeline.
It’s funny how your brain can be drowning one day and worrying about university paperwork the next. Truly versatile organ.
I asked myself a great philosophical question:
“Should I go back to India and breathe air that smells like home?
Or stay in Germany and attend appointments like a responsible adult with a broken brain?”
Both options terrified me.
Both options felt like decisions made by someone older than me.
So I put the question in my mental ‘deal with later’ drawer and closed it carefully.
I would talk about my decision of taking semester break in detail later.
The Countdown to Freedom
It’s Sunday.
If all goes well, I’m out tomorrow.
Suddenly… today is harder than all the other days combined.
Waiting for freedom is worse than being trapped.
You start imagining everything that could go wrong. One bad dream, one comment, one shaky voice… and they could keep you longer.
My brain tried to sabotage me with brand-new usual hallucinations:
Voices again.
Fear again.
Shadows again.
I want to cut myself again.
I won’t tell the nurses. I can’t. I want out.