You ask, How did you get in there? What you really want to know is are you as likely to end up in there as I was. All I can tell you is, a boy with chest pain yelled in the ER and he was carted off for 5 days to the psychiatric ward. So, yes, it's easy.
And it is easy to slide into a parallel universe: worlds of the insane, the crippled, the dying, the criminal. The world existed alongside this reality, but not inside it.
My roommate Mariela came in in abruptly and screaming, during a psychotic episode. She was in bed muttering in her native and only known language, Spanish, about a burning house, and her children. The entire world was obliterated. She was crazy for those few hours. The nurses and doctors were in a gaggle around her at 5am in the morning, and as I warily turned to look, I watched Mariela shriek and cry in Spanish, a language foreign to me. She looked around the room for a moment, and thrashed around on the gurney, before a nurse shot her up with a tranquilizer.
The darkness in my head wasn't prepared for a schizophrenic roommate.
I was admitted to the hospital after attempting suicide. I put a loaded gin to my head for 3 minutes before lowering the pistol, and trudging the half-mile back home. I never expected my "Goodbye" notice on twitter, to make such a racket, and 15 minutes after I arrived home, and secured the gun back underneath my fathers pillow, the police were banging on my front door. The first thought, was burglars? But why would they knock? So I scurried downstairs and cautiously opened the door, and they were. Police uniforms adorned with every weapon and piece of clothing you might imagine. They spoke to me about my suicide attempt, and followed me into the house so I could grab some stuff before they drove me to the hospital. My parents never woke up.
The more handsome policeman took me by the elbow and steered me into the shelter of the back of the police car, while the other got in his car, and began backing out of the driveway. Then he slammed the door shut, and I called Ar, just to let her know I wasn't dead. But god did I despise her in that moment. I let my head fall back, and I hit dead air, so I stiffly pulled my neck up and blew out air from between my teeth. This would be a long sabbatical.
I was high off Adderall when I was admitted to the ER at 3am, and chattered to nurses and patients alike. My parents visited. And I had a psychiatric evaluation, where by Region 10, I was deemed a "safety risk to myself and others." So, I was discharged to the psychiatric ward for at least 72 hours. Involuntarily.
His name was Stan, and he was my only companion in the ward, my only compatriot. We had camaraderie, and charmed one another, which made me smile so widely he questioned what the "things" on my teeth were. My invislign. He was a fellow cutter, and had in desperation to end his life, took a box cutter to his left wrist. Tore the tendons, and they lingered down to his forearm. The scars he had were red and thick ridges and I couldn't help but be intrigued by their story. We exchanged numbers before I was discharged and I left a happy camper.
But, when you put a gun to your temple, you feel the the cold a greasy barrel pressed against your head, your finger ready to pull back the safety, you discover a whole world lies between this moment and the moment you've been planning to die - to pull the trigger. That world defeats you. You put the gun back underneath the pillow, you'll find a better way. I feel like I'm waiting for another inspiration to die, another invitation to Death's doors.
I'll never miss being locked up in a psych ward, where you were monitored all day, your Blood Pressure was checked, the "vampires" (doctors) took your blood every morning at 5-6am. They force fed me, because they knew from my stupidity that I was anorexic. It was hell. The doors were barred and you could hear them slam shut in every section of the unit. I'll never say goodbye again. This was enough.
Everyone in the ward was different, they all had the desperate courage to try to end their lives, they all did what they could.
Showing posts with label bipolar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bipolar. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Saturday, June 4, 2011
something wicked
This week has been full of depression and hurt. I've been living with my aunt since Tuesday, and at the start it was comfortable, yet full of tension. I had called the night before after screaming at L, telling her I cut myself, and I couldn't stop the urge. Wednesday, full of genuine laughter, and spirit, D was happy for once; her niece was willingly spending time with her. I was wearing a denim mini-skirt, one that showed off my legs, since Gary was coming over, I was drinking a Corona beer, and carelessly flinging my legs about, no matter if the skirt rode up a few inches every time I did so. I wanted him to see, I think.
We were sitting in the kitchen, and I was on my second beer, pleasantly mellow and numb, when he glanced over at my exposed scars, and touched them. I glanced down too, he could see the scratch marks, the star pattern, and three vertical cuts, they were definitely deliberate. He looked up, and I did too, tomato red, and cringing. I was waiting for a look of disgust or revulsion, but it never came, and he seemed to know what I was expecting; "I'm not going to criticize you." He reassured me, and touched them without restraint, and just told me he understood, all while D stood off to the side, staring in wonder. Looking straight in my eyes, he told me he loved me, and I was moved beyond belief. But, now he holds a responsibility to me, he is tied inextricably, juts by virtue of loving me - even if I know it's platonic.
But, based on what happened last night, when I was desperately calling HIM for help and support, he calls D in concern instead. I confided to his answering machine, that I cut again, and instead of calling me back, he didn't acknowledge the pain that was tugging me under, but rather made me feel displaced and out of touch. I can now tell, he is also so hungry-beyond the food way-all the time, and sometimes I think I am not his friend but his lit cigarette. Just another experience or person to fill him up and get him by. I don't want to be held in by lips like his. When I talk, he listens, but I am constantly terrified that he will change his mind and spit me out when he decides he doesn't want such a burden on his shoulders.
I am afraid of my love for him. That is why I cut yesterday. A heart, with a ribbon. There was this extraordinary pain knocking at the door of my head, an overwhelming, extreme sensation, and I knew that if I let it in, I would fall under. So I cut, to become immune to the emotional pain, and I felt like it - the razor had saved me - in one of the most profound ways. I was no longer a burden, but a moment of blood and physical pain.
I can feel it happening. The progression has been slow and steady, but I am starting to feel the pull again, the mania. I am lonely, and the need for isolation, has been roiling in my stomach. There is a ringing in my ears, and I can hear the blood pumping viciously through my brain. I feel as though I am stuck between; I have no idea what I am between, but the feeling is very specific and I know it like the back of my hand. I can sense that my smile isn't genuine, when I look at Gary, and there is a definite rage boiling under the surface of my skin, and my moods. Everything trivial causes me severe anguish, and I've taken up purging my breakfast and only eating a yogurt and having a beer the rest of the day. I'm turning into a lush, but what kind of damn do I give?
I am surrounded by everything and cared for by nothing.
We were sitting in the kitchen, and I was on my second beer, pleasantly mellow and numb, when he glanced over at my exposed scars, and touched them. I glanced down too, he could see the scratch marks, the star pattern, and three vertical cuts, they were definitely deliberate. He looked up, and I did too, tomato red, and cringing. I was waiting for a look of disgust or revulsion, but it never came, and he seemed to know what I was expecting; "I'm not going to criticize you." He reassured me, and touched them without restraint, and just told me he understood, all while D stood off to the side, staring in wonder. Looking straight in my eyes, he told me he loved me, and I was moved beyond belief. But, now he holds a responsibility to me, he is tied inextricably, juts by virtue of loving me - even if I know it's platonic.
But, based on what happened last night, when I was desperately calling HIM for help and support, he calls D in concern instead. I confided to his answering machine, that I cut again, and instead of calling me back, he didn't acknowledge the pain that was tugging me under, but rather made me feel displaced and out of touch. I can now tell, he is also so hungry-beyond the food way-all the time, and sometimes I think I am not his friend but his lit cigarette. Just another experience or person to fill him up and get him by. I don't want to be held in by lips like his. When I talk, he listens, but I am constantly terrified that he will change his mind and spit me out when he decides he doesn't want such a burden on his shoulders.
I am afraid of my love for him. That is why I cut yesterday. A heart, with a ribbon. There was this extraordinary pain knocking at the door of my head, an overwhelming, extreme sensation, and I knew that if I let it in, I would fall under. So I cut, to become immune to the emotional pain, and I felt like it - the razor had saved me - in one of the most profound ways. I was no longer a burden, but a moment of blood and physical pain.
I can feel it happening. The progression has been slow and steady, but I am starting to feel the pull again, the mania. I am lonely, and the need for isolation, has been roiling in my stomach. There is a ringing in my ears, and I can hear the blood pumping viciously through my brain. I feel as though I am stuck between; I have no idea what I am between, but the feeling is very specific and I know it like the back of my hand. I can sense that my smile isn't genuine, when I look at Gary, and there is a definite rage boiling under the surface of my skin, and my moods. Everything trivial causes me severe anguish, and I've taken up purging my breakfast and only eating a yogurt and having a beer the rest of the day. I'm turning into a lush, but what kind of damn do I give?
I am surrounded by everything and cared for by nothing.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
rash
In the safety of my bedroom, I sobbed without restraint. These weren't the choked tears, I had dabbing away with a tissue. These were very real, very hard sobs that I had let my guard down to cry. I felt broken and defeated, in a sense, but at the same time I felt some relief. I was finally expressing my honest feelings about the situation.
Essentially, A abandoned me for 4 days and I felt ridiculed for revealing how I truly felt. What she did was inexcusable, and I felt that my rock-solid demeanor had been crushed. I was triggered into a depressive stage, one which I don't know how long will last. I don’t know if we’ll ever be how used to be - best friends who talked to each other day and night - or if I'll be able to forgive how she handled the situation, but I hope that after a cooling off period we can be friends. But, what I can't forgive is that I cut, I cut today, and I cut for 4 days in a row. The only person I had was H, who helped me through it all - she talked me down several times from doing something rash.
I may be going to my aunt's again, because no matter how much she's hurt me, she's never deserted me. I'm also planning on seeing Gary (!) this week, hopefully tomorrow, because I have an eye appointment.
I'm getting better. Not in the recovery sense, but in the fact that I have now placed a welcome mat for my ed back into my life. I've been down to pretty much two meals a day: cereal and yogurt. There's plenty of medications I'm on that suppress my appetite, and this is the first time I've ever felt truly empty.
Essentially, A abandoned me for 4 days and I felt ridiculed for revealing how I truly felt. What she did was inexcusable, and I felt that my rock-solid demeanor had been crushed. I was triggered into a depressive stage, one which I don't know how long will last. I don’t know if we’ll ever be how used to be - best friends who talked to each other day and night - or if I'll be able to forgive how she handled the situation, but I hope that after a cooling off period we can be friends. But, what I can't forgive is that I cut, I cut today, and I cut for 4 days in a row. The only person I had was H, who helped me through it all - she talked me down several times from doing something rash.
I may be going to my aunt's again, because no matter how much she's hurt me, she's never deserted me. I'm also planning on seeing Gary (!) this week, hopefully tomorrow, because I have an eye appointment.
I'm getting better. Not in the recovery sense, but in the fact that I have now placed a welcome mat for my ed back into my life. I've been down to pretty much two meals a day: cereal and yogurt. There's plenty of medications I'm on that suppress my appetite, and this is the first time I've ever felt truly empty.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
scrambled
An eating disorder is a gradual erosion. It’s a chip chip chipping away. A slow, insidious takeover that removes all traces of an individual, erases all suggestion of an identity, dominates thoughts, actions, feeling, and enunciates one devastating message: “without me, you are nothing."
It doesn't feel like a lie anymore. I keep caressing the bandaid that hides my cuts and liking the sting that comes along with it. I wish I had explanations. But, because I have very few answers to my copious amounts of questions. It's also the very source of my pain, at times. Life comes me fast. I don't want to get caught up in it. But I am, and I cut, again, and again. Cutting when I'm alone. Cutting before bed. This is really starting to get ridiculous. Do you ever just want to slap yourself for being stupid? I kind of just want someone to bash sense into me, but it shouldn’t take that. I already know what I’m doing isn’t good in long run, I know its a temporary fix. It’s just the fact that stopping has never been a harder choice. It's hard to explain to people that you really need this when they always think you're lying/wrong. I am always dropping in and dropping out, always having a foot in the door, sometimes being found of my addiction, sometimes hating it...
Wanting to quit but being afraid at the same time. I've given up trying to understand all this. Actually, I really started seeing it as an addiction. It's like drugs. The only difference is, that food is always around. If I need a quick fix, I can get it everywhere. Eating and purging. That's what I did in my 4 years of isolation. But now, I restrict. Severely. I only eat 400-450 calories a day, and I love the schedule of it.
This feeling is something that I know too well. The empty, dumb, hot head. Little pain in my stomach. The eyes still warm from crying. Despair and apathy at the same time. No reproaches, not anymore, it’s been too long for that. There’s a voice in my head, screaming at me “Look, here you are again! Same spot! Same place! We will always meet again. You can never say goodbye! Same place, always!” And I’m afraid. I’m afraid that little voice might be right. For now, not knowing what will be is the best thing I can get. Uncertainty means there’s still a chance. But, I don't like change.
I think about suicide a lot, I know we keep a hand gun underneath the mattress in my parents bedroom. I wasn’t meant to know we had it, but I found it one day while fiddling around in their room (jumping on the bed) and it fell out. I was 9, and I wrote to notes, one to my mother and one to my father, and then put the gun in my mouth, counted to ten, and my mother drove up the driveway. That was about 9 years ago. I’m to scared to even go see if its still there, because I know if it is I’ll almost certainly use it on myself. I think I’m better off believing we got rid of it, or it's somewhere else now.
Ahh! I'm just so pissed off tonight! It is my secret and mine alone. She needs to learn to curb her mouth, that's all. I was banned, unfriended, and unfollowed by a bitch who needs to learn to fuck herself on her own; she forced me into isolation again, and I cried all night because of it. For 2-3 hours I just lied in bed, like a zombie, and cut. I want so desperately to be able to parse my thoughts into words, but I can’t. I just know I want to cut, I just know its the only thing I’m really good for… and I know I want to sleep. I just feel like I’m talking to myself, in some constant argument 24/7. I just want to cut. I always just want to cut these days. Fuck.
It doesn't feel like a lie anymore. I keep caressing the bandaid that hides my cuts and liking the sting that comes along with it. I wish I had explanations. But, because I have very few answers to my copious amounts of questions. It's also the very source of my pain, at times. Life comes me fast. I don't want to get caught up in it. But I am, and I cut, again, and again. Cutting when I'm alone. Cutting before bed. This is really starting to get ridiculous. Do you ever just want to slap yourself for being stupid? I kind of just want someone to bash sense into me, but it shouldn’t take that. I already know what I’m doing isn’t good in long run, I know its a temporary fix. It’s just the fact that stopping has never been a harder choice. It's hard to explain to people that you really need this when they always think you're lying/wrong. I am always dropping in and dropping out, always having a foot in the door, sometimes being found of my addiction, sometimes hating it...
Wanting to quit but being afraid at the same time. I've given up trying to understand all this. Actually, I really started seeing it as an addiction. It's like drugs. The only difference is, that food is always around. If I need a quick fix, I can get it everywhere. Eating and purging. That's what I did in my 4 years of isolation. But now, I restrict. Severely. I only eat 400-450 calories a day, and I love the schedule of it.
This feeling is something that I know too well. The empty, dumb, hot head. Little pain in my stomach. The eyes still warm from crying. Despair and apathy at the same time. No reproaches, not anymore, it’s been too long for that. There’s a voice in my head, screaming at me “Look, here you are again! Same spot! Same place! We will always meet again. You can never say goodbye! Same place, always!” And I’m afraid. I’m afraid that little voice might be right. For now, not knowing what will be is the best thing I can get. Uncertainty means there’s still a chance. But, I don't like change.
I think about suicide a lot, I know we keep a hand gun underneath the mattress in my parents bedroom. I wasn’t meant to know we had it, but I found it one day while fiddling around in their room (jumping on the bed) and it fell out. I was 9, and I wrote to notes, one to my mother and one to my father, and then put the gun in my mouth, counted to ten, and my mother drove up the driveway. That was about 9 years ago. I’m to scared to even go see if its still there, because I know if it is I’ll almost certainly use it on myself. I think I’m better off believing we got rid of it, or it's somewhere else now.
Ahh! I'm just so pissed off tonight! It is my secret and mine alone. She needs to learn to curb her mouth, that's all. I was banned, unfriended, and unfollowed by a bitch who needs to learn to fuck herself on her own; she forced me into isolation again, and I cried all night because of it. For 2-3 hours I just lied in bed, like a zombie, and cut. I want so desperately to be able to parse my thoughts into words, but I can’t. I just know I want to cut, I just know its the only thing I’m really good for… and I know I want to sleep. I just feel like I’m talking to myself, in some constant argument 24/7. I just want to cut. I always just want to cut these days. Fuck.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
bipolar
I posted this on my tumblr, so I figured I may as well post it here as well.
Bipolar disorder for me is ugly. When I am up and manic, life is great. I’m a party girl, love sex and drinking. I have this feeling that I can do anything, I take on project after project because I can hey I don’t sleep for days when I am manic. The thing is my mind races and I can’t finish anything I start because I race form thing to thing and can’t finish thoughts or even sentences. I talk really fast because my mind races and my thoughts are pressured; going faster than I can keep up with. Spending sprees, I once charged 1000$ to my parents credit card when I was 13. So people have learned not to trust me and that hurts. Hurt and regret are a big part of Bipolar for me. It’s like there are a thousand radios blaring at you and you can’t choose which one to focus on. Normal people can focus on one radio and turn down all the other ones, but people with bipolar can’t focus and frantically switch from radio to radio getting stressed and frantic. Then you crash. All of a sudden you realize the responsibilities you have. My brain feels like it is being squeezed and my eyes want to close. I realize I don’t have very many close friends because it is hard to get close to anyone. Life is dark and bleary and all I want to do is sleep it away. Major disappointment to everyone. Medication works, with counseling. There are some mistakes that I have done but I have apologized for everything. Bipolar people have a few rational days when we know we hurt people and kick ourselves for it, but when the swing starts it is a crazy ride that you just try to survive.
Bipolar disorder for me is ugly. When I am up and manic, life is great. I’m a party girl, love sex and drinking. I have this feeling that I can do anything, I take on project after project because I can hey I don’t sleep for days when I am manic. The thing is my mind races and I can’t finish anything I start because I race form thing to thing and can’t finish thoughts or even sentences. I talk really fast because my mind races and my thoughts are pressured; going faster than I can keep up with. Spending sprees, I once charged 1000$ to my parents credit card when I was 13. So people have learned not to trust me and that hurts. Hurt and regret are a big part of Bipolar for me. It’s like there are a thousand radios blaring at you and you can’t choose which one to focus on. Normal people can focus on one radio and turn down all the other ones, but people with bipolar can’t focus and frantically switch from radio to radio getting stressed and frantic. Then you crash. All of a sudden you realize the responsibilities you have. My brain feels like it is being squeezed and my eyes want to close. I realize I don’t have very many close friends because it is hard to get close to anyone. Life is dark and bleary and all I want to do is sleep it away. Major disappointment to everyone. Medication works, with counseling. There are some mistakes that I have done but I have apologized for everything. Bipolar people have a few rational days when we know we hurt people and kick ourselves for it, but when the swing starts it is a crazy ride that you just try to survive.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)