how the experience reshaped me — and the quiet adjustments that saved my life 

Before we talk about what I’ve learned, we must first acknowledge the world I was released from. I’ve written about it before — in Waking Up With the Living Dead: My First Hours Inside Sereno Clinic — but there is more to say, because the clinic is not merely a place. It’s a cocoon, a strange, suspended dimension where every second of your day is governed, protected, contained.

Inside a mental health clinic, you are safe — almost too safe.

You are surrounded by others like you, doctors and nurses on stand-by, psychiatrists and psychologists monitoring every breath and thought. You have a remote beside your bed with buttons for everything:

 call nurse, call emergency, call help…

 but most inmates (yes, we happily call ourselves that) use it only to turn on the television.

Every hour, on the hour, nurses patrol the corridors. They slip into your room silently, shining a small beam of light on your closed eyelids — checking for life, checking for danger. Suicide rates are high. Their vigilance is constant. If your eyes flick open, they stay and talk. Sometimes they offer a sleeping pill. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, they offer a conversation over a steaming cup of coffee at 3 a.m. — a rare luxury when patients are only allowed a single “cup-of-Joe” per day.

But there are loopholes, and everyone uses them.

Every bag of fresh clothing I received was sifted through like a crime scene. Anything sharp was confiscated. Anything resembling medication — even antacids — gone. Yet the food they served created heartburn, and other digestive gymnastics best left undescribed. Maybe the discomfort was from medication, maybe not. I didn’t care enough to investigate.

Medication arrived at fixed, unchanging intervals — after breakfast and again after dinner — keeping us on a tight chemical leash. And in between those times, the day was kept full:

 morning lectures, noon crafts, afternoon relaxation, and eventually the gym, where I became the lone inhabitant. A lonely privilege.

And that is the truth of it:

Inside Sereno Clinic, every decision is made for you.

 When to wake.

 When to eat.

 When to take meds.

 When the air-conditioner switches on.

 When the lights dim.

While inside, I didn’t even know a heatwave was raging beyond the walls. The world existed without me, and I existed without it.

The Shock of Stepping Out

Now imagine being abruptly released back into civilization — where wild humans roam freely, all sharp edges and unpredictable tempers.

There is no gentle re-entry.

 No easing in.

 No “halfway world” to bridge the gap.

You leave abruptly.

 Your feet land on cement, and life demands you keep walking.

And here is the truth:

not everything I learned inside prepared me for the world I returned to.

So I had to learn anew.

 I had to become someone different.

 Someone sturdier.

 Someone more loyal to myself.

These are the adjustments that saved my life:

1. I learned to push needy people away — gently, silently, firmly.

I have a generous ear. People love dumping their emotional garbage on me.

 Not anymore.

Boundaries are not rude. They’re life-saving.

2. I learned to stop shapeshifting into the person others expect.

No more performing.

 No more pleasing.

 No more trying to prove myself.

As I am, I am enough.

3. I learned to say “no” — even when people expect a “yes.”

Capacity is a finite resource.

 I will not bankrupt myself for anyone.

4. I learned to obey my body.

I eat slowly.

 I nourish myself.

 I no longer drown my system in caffeine, Coca-Cola (the devil’s nectar), or anxiety-fueled habits.

Moderation is protection.

 Health is strategy.

5. I learned not to feel guilty for the things that heal me.

Reading.

 Writing.

 Quiet.

 Rest.

These are not luxuries — they are medicine.

6. I learned to walk slowly, not run frantically.

I no longer chase a watch’s approval or strangers’ admiration.

 My body needs gentleness, not punishment.

7. I learned to turn the television off.

Why invite poison into my mind?

 Why sip the world’s toxic nonsense?

Silence is a sanctuary.

 Books are nourishment.

 Peace is a choice.

8. I learned that I don't need to entertain anyone.

Not my wife.

 Not my mother-in-law.

 Not friends.

 Not family.

My time is mine.

The ones who love me don’t need a show.

9. I learned to cherish my dog more deeply than ever.

He was the happiest to see me return — besides my wife.

 His joy wasn’t complicated.

 His love wasn’t conditional.

Sometimes the purest companionship waits at the door with a wagging tail.

10. And finally — the most important revelation of all: I learned to let the needy go.

Friends disappeared.

 Followers vanished.

 Social numbers dipped like falling stars.

And what a blessing.

The weak links snapped.

 The fake ones drifted off.

 Only truth remained.

In the end, it was my wife and my dog who welcomed me home.

 No one else.

Even my mother doesn’t know where I was — because she wasn’t there, and that is its own truth.

But here is the miracle:

I am not a victim.

 I am a victor.

Say it with me —

 shout it with me —

 feel it in your bones:

I am a victor.

Yes.

 There it is.

 Let it roar through your chest.

And in the quiet aftermath of it all, while friends disappeared like mist, three authors kept my stories alive:

Eva Pasco, Colin Garrow, and Martin J. Best.

 The unexpected trio who carried my voice forward while I was silent.

There is beauty in that.

 A strange, luminous beauty.

Closing Note

Healing is not an event — it is a constant choosing of yourself in a world that benefits when you don’t.

Inside the clinic, life was controlled.

 Outside, life is wild.

 But somewhere between those two worlds, I found myself.

And today, I move gently.

 I move honestly.

 I move victoriously.