Chapter Ten - The Exit Interview

CHAPTER TEN

The Exit Interview

THERE’S NO CEREMONY.

One day, a staff member calls your name and says, “We’re planning for discharge.” That’s it. No parade. No congratulations. No declaration of wellness. Just paperwork.

You sit down with someone — maybe a therapist, maybe a social worker, maybe a nurse who barely knows your name — and they ask you if you feel ready.

Say yes.

You’re asked about housing. About transportation. About whether you’ll follow up with outpatient care. Whether you’ll take your meds. Whether you’ll stay safe. The right answer is always “yes.”

There’s a script. You know it by now.

“I’ve learned a lot about myself.”
“I have a strong support system.”
“I’m committed to my recovery.”

They nod. They write. You sign. Sometimes you don’t even read what you’re signing.

You’re given a discharge plan — a few printed pages that say where you should go, who you should call, what pills you should take, and when your next appointment is.

But no one walks you through it.
No one checks if the number works.
No one asks if you even have a phone.

You’re handed a bag with your stuff. A list of prescriptions. A reminder not to miss your follow-up.

Then the door opens.

It’s jarring. No music. No applause. Just daylight and silence. You cross the threshold — the same one you entered — only now, you’re free. Or so they say.

But what happens next isn’t part of the chart.

They don’t document the dizziness, the disorientation, the way you flinch at loud noises or scan for staff out of habit. They don’t mention how you avoid mirrors or how your name sounds strange when someone says it outside the ward.

They don’t tell you how fast the world forgets you were ever gone.

And they don’t say it — but you’ll know it:

Leaving the asylum doesn’t mean you’ve left it.