Where the Earth Breathes: Notes from inside a Mental Ward

Part 1: The Weight of Expectations

I wish I could write about my life with the effortless grace of my friend Andra. But looking back, I’m not even sure I’ve done anything notable or worthy of being written down until now.

For as long as I can remember, my life was dictated by a single, heavy mission: pleasing my father. Every single hobby I ever loved was meticulously transformed by him into a chore, a crushing obligation. It took breaking down to finally reach a definitive conclusion: I absolutely hate it when people tell me what to do. The moment something enjoyable becomes a demand, it completely loses its value to me.

I still know how to play the guitar, how to draw, and how to sing, but I’ve never truly excelled or achieved high performance in any of them. Maybe only in Romanian class, if I’m being honest. And perhaps that’s why I am back to writing now, sitting here.

Obregia Hospital is a wonderful place for rest. I have friends here. Against all odds, I feel safe.

Part 2: The Fog and The Voices

Time blurs in here. The calendar says one thing, but my mind is living on its own timeline.

Some days are marked by a heavy, immovable exhaustion. When Aurelia and Alexandra left the ward, a wave of loneliness hit. I told myself I was feeling better, relatively speaking, but the truth is, there are moments where I feel too lazy to even breathe.

Then come the better nights. The first nights where I don’t wake up in the pitch black, gasping for air. I miss Alexandra. Dumi has been a total sweetheart through all of this—he gave me a new pen that actually writes beautifully, thank God. We should be happy. We really should.

But then the fog rolls back in.

I don’t know what’s happening to my brain. At night, just before I fall asleep, I hear voices. It’s strange. No, “bizarre” is a more appropriate word, I think.

My dreams are plagued by strange, unsettling images of my mother and father. I wake up asking myself: Why? Why now?

Part 3: A Scream on Paper

There are moments when the desperation leaks right through your skin. I found myself staring at a blank page and writing a single, definitive truth in bold, jagged letters:

I WANT TO GET WELL!

My mascara smeared across the page, stained with tears. But even in the darkness, Dumi remains a sweetheart, a anchor keeping me tethered to the real world.

The environment here is unpredictable, a surreal theater of human pain. Just the other day, a fairly imposing woman walked up to me in the middle of the dayroom. “Is your name Suzana?” she demanded. I looked at her, trying to keep my composure. “No. It’s Morgana. Why?” She glared at me. “Because if it was, I think I’d punch you and smash all the teeth right out of your mouth.” “Pardon?!” I stammered. She just shrugged. “Ah. Only if your name was Suzana.” And she walked away.

You have to learn to just walk away here. You have to find your own space.

Part 4: Facing the Shadow

As the days bled into one another, something shifted inside me. I stopped writing in Romanian and began thinking, processing, and writing entirely in English. It was as if switching languages gave me the emotional distance I needed to look at my own reflection clearly.

I found myself watching The Flash on the hospital TV, and a flood of childhood memories came rushing back, contrasting sharply with this questionable situation. I am in a mental hospital, and yet, I still don’t know if I’m “crazy” or not. How crazy do you actually have to be to be considered a danger to society and to yourself?

Strangely, there is a twisted kind of comfort here. I realized that the worst parts of yourself come crawling out only when you finally start to understand everything that you truly are. For a long time, I felt like I was no one. I hadn’t figured it out yet. I just wanted to be clear. To be aware.

I am where the earth breathes…

Part 5: The Gift of Healing

Looking around the ward, I saw my own private battles reflected in everyone else, just amplified. I saw people fighting Anorexia, severe OCD, and Borderline Personality Disorder. It compelled me, watching the human mind fracture. Depression, though, seems to be the universal language here, the most common diagnosis bringing people through these doors.

But this place gave me something beautiful: Alexandra, Aurelia, Eli, Rebeca, and Miruna. These women became true friends. They helped me understand myself, and in turn, understand others.

This journal exists because I can finally admit that I am a changed woman after this experience. Of course, I know reality is waiting outside. My struggles with Xanax might rise again; the road isn’t suddenly flat. But right now, in this exact moment, I feel better than I can ever remember using the word “better.”

Part 6: Departure

Today is my last day.

I want to thank all of the people here for their endless patience and radical kindness. It is a profound irony that the gentleness I found inside these hospital walls is so hardly found in regular society, even in high-class universities, in my experience.

This place turned out to be like a strange summer camp. A place where you don’t really know anyone… until suddenly, you do. I’m leaving pieces of myself behind, but I am walking out whole.