Cut the top ten and go straight to the number one reason why Willa Goodfellow should never get herself committed to the psych ward:
I suck at arts and crafts.
I didn't used to. I used to produce Christmas cookies and gingerbread houses that made adults and children alike respond, "Oh! My! God!" -- though not the way this cake does. I used to make big gingerbread houses. No kits. and no showing off with royal icing and special decorating tips (which might have improved this cake, if I had been able to find them). I used Golden Grahams for shingles, individually placed sprinkles on the door wreaths, graham bears ice skating in the yard, pretzels for fences. I made Dr. Seuss-like trees out of marshmallows and gummy savers, M&M's for roofing material, or maybe candy-canes for the Swiss chalet touch -- those were a bitch to hold in place until the frosting glue dried. Once I used peanuts to construct a fire chimney. All color coordinated. I must have made thirty of those suckers, and each an original masterpiece.
Then I took Prozac. And Celexa, and Cymbalta, and Effexor. And part of my brain has never come back. I think the part that departed included the "good taste" part. Also the "give a damn what you think" part.
This cake and the guerilla party I held in the hospital lobby to celebrate the 45,000,000 people at risk for suicide who will survive it, the same hospital whose psych ward I hope never to call home, definitely come out of the "Prozac Monologues" spirit. So does the grammar of that last sentence.
This one, I am submitting to cakewrecks.com. So, Elaine, (a friend who happened by the party and was speechless) you can go ahead and say it. Yes, I know.
Some people actually do get it. One of the guests was a psychiatrist who laughed along when I bemoaned having thrown away all the meds I have stopped using over the course of the Chemistry Experiment, so that I was reduced to Smarties and Mike and Ike for decorating material.
So...
"I have a dream. Okay, technically it's a fantasy." [Elmont, Doonesbury] That when people who survive self-injury are transferred from ICU to the psych ward, they will be greeted with a cake. That when they get home, there will be a party, just like the party that will greet my friend who just made it through colon surgery. A quiet party, befitting the energy level of the guest of honor. But a party with a guest of honor, for having survived this latest round with a disease that has a 15% mortality rate. I have a fantasy that people who survive self-injury, or manage to avoid it altogether, will be treated like people who survive breast cancer.
I have a fantasy that next year the Psych Department itself will host the party for Suicide Prevention Week, with both Emergency Room workers and the patients, out on a pass, sharing the honor. For sure, the hospital-catered cake will look better.
I suck at arts and crafts.
I didn't used to. I used to produce Christmas cookies and gingerbread houses that made adults and children alike respond, "Oh! My! God!" -- though not the way this cake does. I used to make big gingerbread houses. No kits. and no showing off with royal icing and special decorating tips (which might have improved this cake, if I had been able to find them). I used Golden Grahams for shingles, individually placed sprinkles on the door wreaths, graham bears ice skating in the yard, pretzels for fences. I made Dr. Seuss-like trees out of marshmallows and gummy savers, M&M's for roofing material, or maybe candy-canes for the Swiss chalet touch -- those were a bitch to hold in place until the frosting glue dried. Once I used peanuts to construct a fire chimney. All color coordinated. I must have made thirty of those suckers, and each an original masterpiece.
Then I took Prozac. And Celexa, and Cymbalta, and Effexor. And part of my brain has never come back. I think the part that departed included the "good taste" part. Also the "give a damn what you think" part.
This cake and the guerilla party I held in the hospital lobby to celebrate the 45,000,000 people at risk for suicide who will survive it, the same hospital whose psych ward I hope never to call home, definitely come out of the "Prozac Monologues" spirit. So does the grammar of that last sentence.
This one, I am submitting to cakewrecks.com. So, Elaine, (a friend who happened by the party and was speechless) you can go ahead and say it. Yes, I know.
Some people actually do get it. One of the guests was a psychiatrist who laughed along when I bemoaned having thrown away all the meds I have stopped using over the course of the Chemistry Experiment, so that I was reduced to Smarties and Mike and Ike for decorating material.
So...
"I have a dream. Okay, technically it's a fantasy." [Elmont, Doonesbury] That when people who survive self-injury are transferred from ICU to the psych ward, they will be greeted with a cake. That when they get home, there will be a party, just like the party that will greet my friend who just made it through colon surgery. A quiet party, befitting the energy level of the guest of honor. But a party with a guest of honor, for having survived this latest round with a disease that has a 15% mortality rate. I have a fantasy that people who survive self-injury, or manage to avoid it altogether, will be treated like people who survive breast cancer.
I have a fantasy that next year the Psych Department itself will host the party for Suicide Prevention Week, with both Emergency Room workers and the patients, out on a pass, sharing the honor. For sure, the hospital-catered cake will look better.