Those are the cards I can put in the window of my room in a psychiatric ward. They’re personal to me, I’m the only person who uses cards on the ward.
They do cover all the ways I feel though.
Blue, like a clear sky when the sun is out. This one means “I’m fine”. Green was another option, but blue epitomises my existence. It is pretty sad at the moment, even when I’m “OK”.
Suffering from anxiety isn’t the slightest bit fun.
I’m not angry. I’m not OK. I’m highly anxious and stressed, but it’s lasted so long it feels like the colour and joy has drained from my world.
I don’t need an intervention, but just talking to me lets some colour seep back into the scene I occupy.
The perennial fire of my anxiety is heating up. Someone else can still help me get it down, but dealing with it alone is no longer possible.
Someone needs to stop and just wait for me to explain what’s wrong, then help me work through it.
My anxiety is all consuming. It devours everything, including my ability to move or speak, like an unstoppable wildfire. The best way to deal with it is to prevent it from happening in the first place.
Intervention from staff is necessary.
I’m still on a ward, not sectioned, the consultant psychiatrist thought I wouldn’t challenge the status quo by leaving the ward, so he didn’t see any need to continue to section. I haven’t gone missing, but I’ve taken plenty of time off the ward during the day.