个人故事
Personal Stories
他们的过去，现在和未来
Their past, present and future
吴瑶
Wu Yao
吴瑶，今年35岁，贵州人。她的外表看起来非常年轻，一坐下来，她笑着问我们：“猜猜我多大了？”
吴瑶的履历看起来像许多普通年轻人的缩影——在家乡的机场做地勤、去天津广告公司策划、保险销售、培训机构课程顾问。她说：“我总在换工作，其实是想找到一个让我舒服的生活方式。”
但生活并没有那么简单。十七岁那年，父母的婚姻破裂，她第一次陷入抑郁，伴随神经衰弱的并发症，她连文字都看不清楚。大学期间症状暂时好转，她重新拾起学业，也开始对写作和广告产生热情。毕业后，她在天津的广告公司工作到深夜，这是她人生中最难忘的时光。然而，好景不长，那段时间因为高强度的工作，她经常加班，喝咖啡续命，直到某天在北京南站迷路，被民警带回。那是她第二次抑郁症发作。
后来，她主动提出进入精神康复医院，在林东医院已经疗养三年半。她参与医院提供的休闲活动，在这里画画、打乒乓、唱歌。在展示墙上，她的画《海绵宝宝》挂在角落。她说那是她的小标志——“证明我还在创造。”她还利用每周难得的使用电脑的机会做游戏脚本创作，她以自己为原型，构思了一个关于一个记者闯入精神病院，逃生的游戏脚本。
她并不避讳自己的疾病，说，“我是一个外向的抑郁患者，有何不可？”
关于对未来的畅想，吴瑶表示想做自由撰稿人，写小说，不求名气，只希望“能在世界上留下自己的影子”。在她看来，那些画作、剧本、歌声，都是她在这个世界上创造的痕迹。
Wu Yao, 35, is from Guizhou. She looks much younger than her age. As soon as she sits down, she smiles and asks us, “Guess how old I am?”
Her résumé mirrors that of many ordinary young people—working as a ground attendant at her hometown airport, then moving to Tianjin to work in advertising, insurance sales, and as a course consultant at a training school. “I’ve always been changing jobs,” she says. “I just wanted to find a way of living that feels right for me.”
But life was never that simple. When she was seventeen, her parents’ marriage broke down, and she fell into depression for the first time. Along with neurasthenia, she began to lose the ability to read—words blurred before her eyes. The symptoms eased during college, where she picked up her studies again and discovered a passion for writing and advertising. After graduation, she worked late into the night at an advertising agency in Tianjin—“the most unforgettable time” of her life. But it didn’t last long. The intense workload took its toll; fueled by endless cups of coffee, she eventually got lost at Beijing South Railway Station one day and was brought back by the police. That marked her second major depressive episode.
Later, Wu Yao voluntarily entered Lindong psychiatric rehabilitation hospital. She has now been receiving treatment at Lindong Hospital for three and a half years. She takes part in the hospital’s recreational programs—painting, playing ping-pong, singing. On the display wall, her painting SpongeBob hangs in the corner. “That’s my little signature,” she says, “proof that I’m still creating.” She also uses her limited weekly computer time to write game scripts. One of them, based loosely on her own experiences, tells the story of a journalist who sneaks into a mental hospital and tries to escape.
Wu Yao does not shy away from her illness. “I’m an extroverted depressive,” she laughs. “Why not?”
Speaking of the future, she hopes to work as a freelance writer—writing novels, perhaps submitting to magazines. Fame doesn’t matter to her; she simply wants to “leave a trace of myself in the world.” To her, every painting, script, and song she creates is part of that trace — a proof that she has lived and kept creating.
曾艳
Zeng Yan
曾艳，36岁，四川六盘水人，现定居贵阳。 她在林东精神康复医院三病区住了一年多。她的入院原因听起来有些突兀——“和人吵架。”那次只是在人行道上与人相撞，情绪一激动就动了手。虽然受伤的是她自己，但警察还是把她送进了医院。“没办法，他们非要送。”她轻描淡写地说。
在此之前，曾艳做白酒生意。她解释说自己不是酿酒，而是做“贴牌”——买厂家的酒，自己取名包装，再卖出去。第一次创业，她亏了几十万。那时她刚搬到贵阳，孩子上初中，丈夫不在身边，父母也相继去世。她说那阵子整个人“紧得像绷着的弦”，看谁都烦，心一崩就吵起来。
“我是被压力逼的。”她承认那年情绪崩溃后已经来过一次，现在是二次入院了。
曾艳在医院里是“正常人”中的一员。她不太爱下楼活动，不喜欢唱歌或跳舞，但愿意帮护士照顾生活不能自理的病人——“剪脚趾甲、洗澡、换尿布、喂饭。”每月150块的报酬，她说“不是为钱，就是图个心安。”
空闲时，她会去医院菜园子里种点西红柿、辣椒和豆角。那片菜园，是她认为“这里最像外面”的地方。“天气好，看着蔬菜长，心情就好一点。”
她很快要出院了，打算去义乌看看小商品市场，再试着做点小生意。她有一个十四岁的孩子，“经常打电话叫我回家。”说到这里，她的语气轻柔下来：“我好想他们。”
Zeng Yan, 36, from Liupanshui, Sichuan, now lives in Guiyang. She has been staying in Ward Three of Lindong Psychiatric Rehabilitation Hospital for over a year. The reason for her admission sounds almost trivial — “I got into a fight,” she says. It started when she accidentally bumped into someone on the sidewalk; tempers flared, and she struck back. Although she was the one who got hurt, the police sent her to the hospital anyway. “There was nothing I could do — they insisted,” she says lightly.
Before that, Zeng Yan ran a small liquor business. She explains she wasn’t a distiller but did private labeling — buying liquor from factories, creating her own brand name and packaging, then selling it. Her first venture failed, costing her hundreds of thousands of yuan. At the time, she had just moved to Guiyang; her child was in middle school, her husband was away, and both of her parents had passed away. “I was wound tight like a string,” she recalls. “Everything annoyed me. Once I snapped, I couldn’t stop.”
“I was pushed to the edge by pressure,” she admits. This is her second stay in the hospital — she came once before after an emotional breakdown.
Inside the hospital, Zeng is considered one of the “stable ones.” She doesn’t join group singing or exercise sessions, but she helps the nurses care for bedridden patients — “cutting their toenails, giving baths, changing diapers, feeding them.” For this, she earns 150 yuan a month. “It’s not about the money,” she says. “It just feels better to be useful.”
In her free time, she works in the hospital’s small vegetable garden, planting tomatoes, peppers, and beans. To her, that garden feels “the most like the outside world.” “When the weather’s good,” she says, “watching the vegetables grow makes me feel calmer.”
Zeng is preparing to leave soon. She plans to visit Yiwu’s small commodities market to “try to run a small business again.” She has a 14-year-old child who often calls, asking when she’ll come home. Her voice softens as she says, “I miss them so much.”
沈从芳
Shen Congfang
沈从芳，47岁，贵州人。她住在林东精神康复医院的三病区，已经六年多。她是这里少数住得最久的病人之一。她笑着说：“在外面想太多，在这里反而踏实。”
她的人生充满了起伏。十三岁那年，邻居说带她“去拿点东西”，却把她卖到了外省。那时她还以为能去找母亲——因为母亲早些年也被拐卖。她被迫生活在陌生的村子里，做农活、洗衣、带孩子。她说：“那时候太小，也不知道反抗。”2006年，她终于逃回贵州，开始一场“寻亲”之旅。可家已经散了——弟弟在车祸中去世，父亲再婚后病逝，房子也没了。她说得很轻：“回来十五年，亲人一个个都没了。”
她漂泊过广东、贵州、四川，做过工地搬运、洗碗工、餐馆帮工，也在砖厂挑灰浆。她喜欢工地的自由：“想干就干，不想干就歇。”直到有一天，她在租房处被一名男子言语挑衅，愤怒之下对他动了手，男人送医不治。她被送入看守所关了一年多，又因精神问题被判缓刑，转入林东医院接受治疗。
在医院的六年里，她帮老人洗澡、给不会说话的病人喂饭、擦嘴。有些年轻病友喜欢黏着她，有人喊她“妈”，她笑着应下：“我小时候也没妈，我懂那种感觉。”她常在康复区做手工、种番茄、刺绣，也喜欢给别人讲“社会的道理”——“人啊，有错就要认，该承担的就承担，不要逃避。”
她的家人几乎不再联系她。母亲七十多岁，身体不好；妹妹也不太理我。她平静地说：“亲情是缘分，有就有，没有就算了。”
沈从芳说，她这一生见过的坏人也多，但也遇到很多好人——看守所里舍饭给她吃的犯人，医院里帮她签字做手术的护士。她说：“人活一辈子，能遇到几个好人，就够了。”
她不打算出院：“也许我就在这养老吧。反正这儿有吃有住，还有人叫我妈。人嘛，遇到什么都正常，往好的方向想，就不会太苦。”
Shen Congfang, 47, is from Guizhou. Congfang has lived in Ward Three of Lindong Psychiatric Rehabilitation Hospital for over six years—one of the longest-staying patients there. She smiles and says, “Out there, I thought too much. Here, at least, I can feel at ease.”
Her life has been full of upheavals. At thirteen, a neighbor told her they were going “to fetch something,” but instead sold her to another province. She thought she was being taken to find her mother—who herself had been trafficked years earlier. In that strange village, Shen worked in the fields, washed clothes, and cared for other people’s children. “I was too young then,” she says, “I didn’t even know how to fight back.” In 2006, she finally escaped back to Guizhou, hoping to reunite with her family. But home was gone—her younger brother had died in a car accident, her father had remarried and later passed away, and their house was gone. “Fifteen years later,” she says softly, “my family was all gone.”
She drifted between Guangdong, Guizhou, and Sichuan, doing all kinds of manual labor—construction work, dishwashing, odd jobs in restaurants, and carrying cement on building sites. She liked the freedom of that life: “If you want to work, you work. If you don’t, you rest.” Until one day, a male tenant in the same rental house verbally harassed her. In anger, she struck back. The man was taken to the hospital and later died. Shen was detained for over a year and later, due to mental health concerns, was sentenced with probation and sent to Lindong Hospital for treatment.
In her six years at the hospital, she's been helping elderly patients bathe, feeding those who cannot speak. Younger patients cling to her; some call her “Mom.” She always smiles and replies, “I didn’t have a mother growing up—I know what that feels like.” She spends her time doing embroidery, growing tomatoes, and making crafts in the rehabilitation yard. She often gives advice to others: “If you do something wrong, admit it. Take responsibility. Don’t run away.”
Her family rarely contacts her anymore. Her mother, now in her seventies, is in poor health; her younger sister “doesn’t really talk to me either.” Shen says calmly, “Family ties are fate. If they exist, they exist. If not, that’s okay too.”
She says she has met both good and bad people in her life—the inmate who shared food with her in the detention center, the nurse who signed off on her surgery when no family could. “If you can meet a few good people in your life,” she says, “that’s enough.”
She doesn’t plan to leave the hospital. “Maybe I’ll just grow old here,” she says. “There’s food, there’s shelter, and there are people who call me Mom. Life is like that—whatever happens, you just try to see it from the bright side, and it won’t feel so hard.”
刘国祥
Liu
Guoxiang
刘国祥，53岁，贵州人。住在林东精神康复医院二病区，已经两年多，快满三年。
2000年左右，他离开老家，去浙江打工，十多年一直在小车贴膜厂干活，平日勤快能干，有时也帮人做钣金美容。工地、厂房、宿舍是他的生活常态。到了中年，他的生活几乎只剩下工作和酒。他并不承认自己“有病”，只是觉得“喝了身体垮掉了”，但一次次因饮酒被派出所抓回，再一次次被送进精神病院“戒酒”。“不来不行，他们车子开过来，直接把人绑走。”他说时眉头一皱，更多的是无奈。
在病区，他慢慢变成了大家眼中的“熟人”。每天固定的节奏：早上吃饭、下楼打麻将、偶尔唱歌、吹笛子、参加康复活动。他抱怨伙食“要么太咸，要么没辣椒”，也笑称自己“每天4支烟根本不够抽”。
对于身边的人，他既有警觉也有善意。新来的病友不稳定时，他会劝他们少冲动；有人吵架，他就躲开；熟悉了脾气，再慢慢教他们“这里的规矩”。他说：“大家都是被关进来的，没必要再互相难为。”偶尔，他还会替护士打扫卫生、帮病友端饭、送水——并不求回报，只是顺手而已。
谈起未来，刘国祥说自己只想“出去继续打工”，回到浙江的老厂，顺便照顾年迈的母亲和外婆，“不能再喝酒了，再喝就完了。”
他反复对自己说，酒毁了自己太多年，“要是能对年轻时候的自己说一句话，就是——别喝酒。”
Liu Guoxiang, 53, is from Guizhou. He has been living in Ward Two of Lindong Psychiatric Rehabilitation Hospital for over two years—almost three.
Around 2000, he left his hometown for Zhejiang, spending more than a decade working at a car film factory, sometimes doing bodywork repairs on the side. Construction sites, workshops, and dormitories became his everyday life. By middle age, his world had narrowed to little more than work and alcohol. He insists he’s not “sick,” only that “drinking wrecked my body,” yet again and again he was picked up by the police for drinking and sent to the hospital to “dry out.” “You don’t come willingly,” he said, furrowing his brow. “They drive up, tie you down, and take you away.”
Over time, Liu became a familiar face on the ward. His daily routine is fixed: breakfast in the morning, mahjong downstairs, occasional singing, playing the flute, or joining rehabilitation activities. He complains about the meals—“too salty or no chili”—and jokes that “four cigarettes a day isn’t nearly enough.”
He treats those around him with a mix of caution and kindness. When new patients are unstable, he advises them to calm down; if arguments break out, he steps aside; once he learns their tempers, he slowly teaches them “the rules here.” “We’re all locked up,” he says. “There’s no need to make life harder for each other.” Sometimes he helps nurses clean, brings food to other patients, or carries water—not for thanks, but simply “out of habit.”
When asked about the future, Liu says he just wants “to go back to work,” return to his old factory in Zhejiang, and care for his elderly mother and grandmother. “I can’t drink anymore,” he says. “One more time and I’m finished.”
He repeats to himself that alcohol has ruined too many of his years. “If I could tell my younger self one thing,” he says, “it would be—don’t drink.”
刘宇东
Liu Yudong
刘宇东，31岁，贵阳人。他住在林东精神康复医院六病区已三年。那天他在家为过世的父母烧纸，触发了烟雾报警器，物业报了警，社区工作人员赶来后直接把他带进医院。“我就这样被送进来了。”
在此之前，他的生活单调但安稳。每天推着一辆画线机，在城市的地面上画斑马线、箭头、停车线，干了几年。
他不觉得自己“有病”，只是觉得“倒霉”。三年来，他的世界被限制在医院的围墙里。空气“闷”，病区里“有人随地大小便”，伙食“咸、油、没辣椒”。但最让他难受的，是身体的变化——“从137斤胖到210斤”，胖了80斤。
刘宇东并不算“叛逆的病人”。他会帮护士推饭给同病区的病友，每天两根烟算是“报酬”。他也不常参加节日活动：“人太多，轮不到我。”放风要排队、要预约，有时因为下雨被取消。他最常做的事，是在病房里看电视。“以前只能看新闻频道，现在能看快手，看电影，好一点了。”他说自己不太合群，“这儿有五十多岁的，也有十几岁的，我三十出头，谁都不熟。”
对未来，他的计划很简单：“先出去减肥，再找份工，电焊、进厂都行。”但他没有监护人，只能等社区批准，“一个月打一次电话，他们总说再等等。”进来三年，连医生都结婚生孩子了，“我还在这。”
停顿片刻，他轻声说：“我没什么想法了，只希望早点出去。”
Liu Yudong, 31, from Guiyang. Yodong has lived in Ward Six of Lindong Psychiatric Rehabilitation Hospital for three years. The day he was sent here, he had been burning paper offerings for his deceased parents at home. The smoke triggered a fire alarm; the property management called the police, and soon after, community workers arrived and took him away. “That’s how I ended up here,” he says.
Before that, his life had been simple but steady. Every day he pushed a paint machine, drawing zebra crossings, arrows, and parking lines on the city’s roads—a job he had done for several years.
He doesn’t think he’s “mentally ill,” only “unlucky.” For the past three years, his world has been confined within hospital walls. The air is “stuffy,” the ward “smells bad,” and the food is “too salty, oily, and has no chili.” What bothers him most, though, is his body: “I went from 137 to 210 jin,” he says. “Eighty pounds gained from eating, sleeping, and not moving.”
Liu isn’t a difficult patient. He helps nurses deliver meals to others, earning two cigarettes a day as “payment.” He rarely joins holiday activities—“too many people, I don’t get picked.” Exercise time must be booked in advance and is often canceled when it rains. Most days, he just watches TV in his room. “It used to be only news channels; now we can watch Kuaishou and movies—it’s a bit better.” He admits he doesn’t socialize much: “Some are in their fifties, some are teenagers. I’m in my thirties—don’t really fit with anyone.”
His plans for the future are modest: “Lose some weight, find a job—maybe welding or factory work.” But with no legal guardian, he can only wait for community approval to leave. “I get one call a month, and they always say, ‘wait a bit longer.’”
“Three years have passed,” he says softly. “Even the doctor who admitted me got married and had a baby. I’m still here.”
After a pause, he adds quietly, “I don’t really have any big plans anymore. I just want to get out.”
张菲
Zhang Fei
张菲，五十岁，贵阳花溪人。她在林东精神康复医院住了两个月，是病区里少有的“新面孔”。
在她的叙述里，生活的节奏缓慢、断裂，却始终带着一种温和的调子。她年轻时没正式工作，一直在家操持家务，照顾年迈的父亲和两个孩子。女儿不让她外出打工，“怕我累”，她就安心在家做饭、洗衣，偶尔去街头理疗店“烤烤灯、聊聊天”。她说那是她的“娱乐时间”。
两年前，她曾被短暂送入精神病院，那次因为“哑了”，三个月后被家人接回。直到这次，病情反复，她用菜刀划伤自己，女儿害怕出事，只能把她送来。她自己说：“我本来是正常人，是他们骗我来的。”语气里有几分倔强，也有几分孩子气。
在病房里，她依然勤快而尽责：帮护士打扫卫生、擦地、冲厕所；有时也照顾新来的病人——喂水、递饭、劝人别吵架。医生们信任她，不愿把她调走：“你能劝人听话。”她半自嘲地说：“我就是被他们拿来‘用’的。”
她的女儿每隔一段时间来看她，带饭、带零食。张菲总念叨家里：“我孙子都十八岁了，我该享福的时候了。”她最想的还是回家，回花溪的老房子，继续她熟悉的生活——做饭、带孩子、晒太阳。
说起未来，她摇摇头：“我不敢多讲，怕他们又把我捆起来。”想了一会儿，她又轻声补了一句：“我现在好多了，我不想再伤自己了。那是害自己。”
在张菲身上，看得出岁月的疲惫，也看得出一种柔韧的本能。她始终温和、善良，信任别人，也仍相信家。她说：“他们对我好，我就对他们好。人嘛，心要软一点。”
Zhang Fei, 50, is from Huaxi, Guiyang. She has been living in Lindong Psychiatric Rehabilitation Hospital for two months — one of the few “new faces” in her ward.
In her telling, life moves at a slow, uneven rhythm, yet it always carries a gentle tone. She never had a formal job when she was younger, spending her days managing household chores and caring for her elderly father and two children. Her daughter wouldn’t let her work outside — “She’s afraid I’ll get too tired” — so Zhang stayed home, cooking, washing clothes, and occasionally visiting a street therapy shop to “sit under the heat lamp and chat.” She calls that her “entertainment time.”
Two years ago, she was briefly admitted to a psychiatric hospital after suddenly losing her voice; she was discharged three months later when her family took her home. This time, however, after her condition relapsed and she injured herself with a kitchen knife, her daughter, terrified something worse might happen, brought her back. “I was fine — they tricked me into coming here,” Zhang says, her tone a mix of stubbornness and childlike grievance.
Inside the ward, she remains diligent and conscientious: cleaning the floors and toilets for the nurses, caring for new patients — feeding them water, passing them meals, calming arguments. The doctors trust her and don’t want her transferred. “You can make others listen,” they tell her. She jokes wryly, “I’m just someone they use.”
Her daughter visits from time to time, bringing home-cooked meals and snacks. Zhang always talks about her family: “My grandson is already eighteen — it’s time I enjoyed some peace.” More than anything, she longs to return home, back to her old house in Huaxi, to resume the life she knows — cooking, caring for her grandson, and sitting in the sun.
When asked about the future, she shakes her head. “I don’t dare say much — I’m afraid they’ll tie me up again.” After a pause, she adds softly, “I’m much better now. I don’t want to hurt myself anymore. That only hurts me.”
In Zhang Fei, one can see both the weariness of time and an instinctive gentleness that endures. She remains kind, trusting, and deeply attached to the idea of home. “If they treat me well,” she says, “I’ll treat them well too. People should keep a soft heart.”
小黎
Xiao Li
小黎17岁，瘦得像十三四岁的孩子，头发染成深红色，手臂和手腕上有着密密麻麻的伤疤。“这是我第三次进来了，这次是我自己要求的。” 她平静地说道，“这里比外面好，大家都对我很好。”
小黎原本在读书，中途休学。当我们问她回不回学校读书，她摇头，指着自己的手臂：“我这个样子没有学校敢要我。”说完又补一句：“我也想赶紧进入社会工作，我想赚钱。”她把“想要有钱”说得很直接，没有遮掩。谈到将来，她最亮的神情来自一个念头——做纹身师。“纹身很酷。”她说，喜欢在皮肤上留下清楚、确定的图案，那是一种能自己决定的事。
这次住院，她把自己放在“安全”的位置：按时吃药，尽量少起冲突。她说这里的护士会叫她“小妹妹”，病友也让着她；在外面，“很多事一下子就顶到我头上”。她知道自己还要学会更稳定地过日子，但不想再被“未成年”和“病人”两个标签完全定义。
她的打算很朴素：出院后先找一家纹身店当学徒，从打扫、画稿练起，只要能留下来学手艺就行。至于读书，她说“以后再看”，现在更想把时间用在能立刻改变生活的事情上。她说话不快，语气却很笃定：“我会好起来，先学会赚钱，再学会独立。”
Xiao Li is 17, thin as a 13-year-old, with dark red hair and arms covered in dense scars. “This is my third time here — I asked to come in myself this time,” she says calmly. “It’s better here than outside. Everyone treats me kindly.”
She used to be in school but dropped out midway. When we ask if she plans to go back, she shakes her head and points to her arm: “No school would want me looking like this.” Then she adds, “I just want to start working and make money.” She speaks of “wanting money” with disarming frankness. When the conversation turns to the future, her eyes brighten at one idea — becoming a tattoo artist. “Tattoos are cool,” she says. She likes the clarity and certainty of marks etched on skin — something she can choose for herself.
This time in the hospital, she has chosen to stay “safe”: taking her medication on time, avoiding conflict when possible. She says the nurses call her little sister, and other patients treat her gently; outside, “everything hits me all at once.” She knows she still needs to learn how to live more steadily, but she doesn’t want to be defined entirely by two labels — “teenager” and “patient.”
Her plan is simple: after discharge, she hopes to apprentice at a tattoo studio, starting with cleaning and sketching, as long as she can stay and learn the craft. As for school, she says, “Maybe later.” For now, she wants to spend her time on things that can change her life right away. She speaks slowly but firmly: “I’ll get better — first learn to earn money, then learn to live on my own.”
王正梅
Wang Zhengmei
王正梅今年34岁，这是她第二次为“戒酒”入院：第一次住了近10个月，今年4月再次入院已两月余。她被诊断为“酒精所致精神障碍”。她面临婚姻与家庭压力，情绪无处疏解，每天晚上失眠，便通过酒精试图促进自己入睡。一杯接一杯，“一沾酒就停不下来”。这一次，她是自愿来的。
入院前她几乎什么工作都做过，时间最长的是加油站——从加油到内勤、报表、行政都干过，“只要有人教，我就能学”。在院里，她是“较为稳定的病人”之一，参与了院方组织的中国传统节日的活动：中秋做月饼、元宵包汤圆、端午包粽子，空下来折手工；偶尔到菜园子帮忙。更多时候，她照护生活不能自理的同病区病人：剪脚趾甲、洗澡、换纸尿裤、喂饭，每月补贴150元。做这些事情的目的“是让自己忙起来，别胡思乱想。”
她对医院的评价务实：环境与价格相当，伙食“一言难尽”，大锅菜油水重、口味不稳，“查血脂老是高”。和病人相处，她觉得这里比社会简单，大家的交往直来直去，不会拐弯。
谈到出院，她渴望先找份工作，先稳定、再打算，存点钱，不再让家人担心。她想送给未来的自己一句话——“别再在同一件事上绕圈子，放过自己。”
Wang Zhengmei is 34. This is her second admission for “quitting alcohol”: the first lasted nearly ten months; she was readmitted this April and has been in for over two months. She has been diagnosed with an “alcohol-induced mental disorder.” Under marital and family pressures and chronic insomnia, she turned to alcohol to fall asleep. One drink led to another—“once I touch alcohol, I can’t stop.” This time, she came voluntarily.
Before admission, she had done almost every kind of job, spending the longest stretch at a gas station—pumping gas, clerical work, reports, administration. “As long as someone teaches me, I can learn.” In the hospital, she is considered a “relatively stable patient.” She joins activities around traditional Chinese festivals—making mooncakes for Mid-Autumn, tangyuan for the Lantern Festival, and zongzi for the Dragon Boat Festival; in her spare time she folds simple crafts and occasionally helps in the vegetable garden. More often, she cares for ward mates who can’t manage daily life on their own: trimming toenails, bathing, changing diapers, feeding. She receives a monthly stipend of 150 yuan. The point, she says, is “to keep myself busy and stop overthinking.”
Her assessment of the hospital is pragmatic: the environment matches the price; the food is “hard to praise”—big-pot dishes are oily and inconsistent—“my blood lipids keep coming back high.” Compared with the outside world, she finds interactions here simpler: people speak directly without beating around the bush.
As for discharge, she hopes to find a job first, stabilize, then make plans—save some money, and stop worrying her family. Her message to her future self: “Don’t keep circling around the same issue. Let yourself off the hook.”