Comment if you read the whole thing, I’m curious
No, seriously, they had so many board games and card games and puzzles and paper activities… but without the fun. My title is a lie. But I hope you sang it in the tune to “Welcome to the Jungle” because that song is stuck in my head. From Thursday the 9th to Monday the 13th I took a short stint in the Bridge House Mental health center. And I documented it. Probably badly, but I had to write and what I did write I am going to share here because I am an attention whore and plus I want to keep this blog going and not let it whether and die like every blog I touch does.
Later this week I’ll also FINALLY share some more of my witchy stuff with the last Tarot reading I did. I’m going to try to read Tarot and discuss it here for at least once a week. More if lucky. Hahahahaha. I am probably going to make myself a liar.
But on to my Asylum Stay.
Inmate Again 2/9/2017
I always mean to journal whenever I’m in here. Because of EA or because I wish to document, I can’t decided. But this time I’m prepared. I hope they let me keep my pen. First off, I’ll exhaust you on my past five committed times when I have more time. I already like this place. It’s not an ER but a Crisis Center. As long as there is nothing medically wrong (like I took a bunch of pills) they will admit you. It’s not crowded. Since I entered an empty waiting room two people have come in after me. I’ve been here for four hours. (One thing compared to the ER, they are faster) A councilor has determined yes I need to be admitted. My insurance has approved. Now just waiting for a doctor to give me the yes then I move from crisis center to… BRIDGE HOUSE. A hospital that I’ve been dying (lol) to try for a change of pace from my current Hat Trick of Highlands with my last crisis adventures. Now, will this one do the trick and help me process what fucked up things Damien did to me? Or will psych wards become a revolving door I am stuck in for the rest of my life?
I’m here because I’m suicidal 2-10-17
Bridge House is a locked down center in the same parking lot of the for-mentioned Crisis Center. Literally ten minutes from home. They, so far, are 99x better than the last three places I’ve been to. First off, it’s got a beautiful view of a backwoods area and bike path. I hope we get to go outside. Our caged area looks more like a garden than a place to hold us crazies. They even have tables on the deck where it looks like we can eat on warmer days. There is eight of us. Not feeling a lot of welcoming from the others so far but maybe this time I should keep to myself?I debate keeping my cuts covered or not. It’s like a game of “Street Cred” Look I’m hardcore, I cut, you should see the monster on my thigh.
I want to be the most sick one and that in it’s self make me sicker. I have being like this.
But isn’t that why I’m here?
I’m suicidal and at this point I might do something. No I will. Unless I get Damien processed out of my fucking blood. Maybe this sickness can be bled out. Maybe I just like the idea of blood?
I don’t have a pen to write with, just this tiny golf pencil. So I may not write much. So no history lesson on my last five stays.
Have I possibly been blessed with a marker? I have! The freedom of non sharp art supplies here is wonderful. Groups here are pretty much the same as other places but the one on one therapy and psych is amazing. I already feel like I’m getting more help here than any where else. I’m not socializing well is the problem. I’m the new kid. I don’t know, maybe it’ll be better later.
I’ve seemed to have befriended an old hippy guy. We talk art and draw together. It’s nice. Hope I can keep this marker during my stay. I write better at night.
Being off my meds for 24 hours have made my hands go numb and my head heavy. But I got night meds early. Hope I sleep better tonight. My first night I tossed and turned and kept waiting for it to get light outside so I could go out in the day room to read and possibly get some tea as soon as breakfast started.
I miss my mom. I feel sick inside because I feel like she’s ignoring me. I just want to talk to her. I want my momma. I imagine she’s busy, trying to tell myself she is just busy. But I feel so empty.
I had a hard conversation with my mom but she assured me it was out of love. Didn’t feel like love. I feel like she wants to get rid of me. She wants me to do things on my own, alone. But I can’t. She wants me to stay here for a long time but I don’t know if they’ll let me stay here. I’m stronger than I think though. I’ve been to Hell, I’ve died. I need to live again.
Aunna is not answering. She’s at work but I’ve been calling from 12-1:30. When is her fucking lunch? Will she remember to call me? I need someone right now. I feel ignored and abandoned. I have no one.
Tate hasn’t answered all day. Where is my support system. Aunna finally answered but I have to wait another four hours to even talk to her again. I probably won’t see her until I’m out. I’m spending Valentine’s Day without her. Just like last year. I’m the worst person alive. I’m still suicidal. I’ve been here for two full days. I feel like I’m going to fucking lose it. When I get out, which I’ll get out before my mom is happy I know, she wants me in long term care. They don’t do that here. Will they transfer me? Where will I go? They try to convince me Ill be out and it’ll be okay on the outside. But I’ll end back in a a few months. It’s a fucking cycle. My mom is going to be upset at me when it’s not going to be my choice to leave. Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain. I’ve cried so fucking much today I feel sick. I can’t seem to socialize with anyone today. There are five of us now. Everyone sat at a different table than I. Back to feeling lonely. Ignored. Abandoned. I think I’ll try to call Tate again.
They Don’t Get It 2/12/17
New People. My table mates think they are in another mental state than “us” but if they really knew me… One girl is crying hysterically. That was me on my first day in a place like this. Scared. Begging God. Making excuses. I was truly Hysterical. If they saw me yesterday after the phone call with my mom. If they ever saw me off medication…
Or is this me being my usual “I’m so Sick” routine. Which wouldn’t that be another disorder? Or just more fucking with BPD!
Did you know that the treatment I’m getting is still in the fucking “stone ages?” That makes me feel great. Bring back the fucking straight jackets and drugging us until we have no more personality. Maybe then I’ll feel better. Give me a fucking lobotomy. Do the Electro Shock Therapy all fucking ready. I AM DONE testing medications. I’m done with this band-aid therapy. Let me open wounds because there is a lot of pus that needs to be drain. Gunk. Poison. Take it out. How do I get that across. There healing methods don’t work on me. How do I get that clear to them. Meds. Yes Therapy…
I cried. And I cried. I worried about coming off manipulative, told them that. Then cried some more. Explained the rancid open wound Damien is in my life. Out patient treatment, no, INTENSIVE Outpatient is needed. But will it be for trauma? Will it ACTUALLY be about digging into that wound and healing it? Everyone tells me pretty things…like how this place does trauma, and how that was a big fucking lie! I’m not going to trust a fucking person anymore. It’s all lies lies lies lies.
All fucking lies! Did they really believe me or did they just wanted to get me out. I honestly thought they were going to keep me until we knew if the Zoloft woked or not. But I guess fucking not. I feel very Emilie Autumn right now in my striped stockings, but I got to keep my clothing and I wasn’t accidentally thrown in max. I’m even with people where I am the most mentally ill. These people don’t have Bipolar or BPD or PTSD. They just have depression or a bad fight with their spouse or no support system. I am not among like minded people, am I? Oh but the two new people who shake as I do, and mutter about God. They might be like me. They probably are. Robin. The girl. She yells and cries. Maybe I should start yelling. Then maybe they’ll keep me here longer. I really want to yell. But I remember that I’m supposed to keep my feelings in check. And it just builds up inside my chest and it hurts. It hurts. Or maybe they’ll transfer me to a hospital level. This isn’t a hospital, I’m reminded. It’s a crisis center.
I’m so afraid that my mom is furious with me. She probably thinks I’m pathetic. I just want my mommy right now. I’m scared. I’m angry. These people here listen to me but are they listening? Don’t send me home. My mom is right. I need to stay. I’m scared to go home. Scared of my mom being disappointed. I’m always afraid of her being disappointed in me.
Waiting for Aunna. She said she was going to visit me. But she’s not here yet. Feels like forever. I’m twitching at every door opening. “Is it for me?” I keep looking up to hope to see her in the door getting wand down. She said she’d be here. She promised. Didn’t she? I’m feeling abandoned again. Should I call? Would that be too much? What if my mom is with her? I must practice patients. But I can’t practice what I don’t have. 6:09 pm… We only get an hour. Doesn’t she know that? I bet if I call she’ll say “pulling into the parking lot” Or not answer because she crashed on Santa Fe. I bet if I go lay down she’ll show up. Or maybe I’m wrong? OMG SHE’S HERE!
Getting preached at by another inmate at the asylum is such an OTHER feeling. Like she keeps asking “Do you have a relationship with Jehovah?” I tell her the truth “sorta” I won’t tell her I’m also a witch. She’s just as lost as I. Whoa I wrote a lot today, pages of it. (but side not I write sorta big and this is a wide rule notebook) I need to figure out my medication, I don’t even know what I’m on.
Fuck I wish I could have my cards with me and do some readings. But I can’t. But I will spend my time in lock up to think more my last reading so when I finally post it it’ll be a meaty post. Most of what it tells me is that Anakin has been screaming at me and I’m the one not listening to him. Again, I can also need this as he was warning me. He knew I’d end up in here. Anakin, I miss you. The nights are lonely without your hand on mine, your heart beating against my back as you keep me calm. My ghost. Where are you? But I guess you were asking me to live weren’t you, Anakin? You won. I get it now. Now stop punishing me and come back. You should be back soon. I love you.
Tiger stripes, striped stockings
tangled hair, red cheeks
the shuffle of papers and distant music
Atmosphere of numbness among us
Single serving friends, most who’s empty words tangle my brain and I pull back making another knot of forgotten relationships.
Lonely in a world full of pain
It’s mental illness soup and we’re all waiting to be scooped up into the waiting bowls of our lives again.
But we’ll end up cold unless love heats us up.
WE let people eat and slurp until we are nothing but droplets of tears.
Try to kill ourselves and end up in the pot again.
Wonderland is Fey Land. When people go to Fey land they come back poets or crazy. Wonderland is just the same. I’m a faerie that’s been to Wonderland, what does that make me?
A crazy poet.
Laughing Lillie’s, singing roses
alphabetically sorted mushrooms
The gnomes dancing
the bark is talking
this land i go to
clouds fly low, smell sweet as bubbles
and those bubbles too, big enough to ride in
All dragons are kings, with their royal lover
Fire doesn’t sting and no shadows at night
But don’t eat the sweets or drink the tea
Unless you want to come back…
come back to bright pain and bleak hope.
Your brain with loose wires
Memory fading of the happiness
with ladies fair, hair long enough to share
Magic is fading from our world
so keep it safe from all of those who refuse to believe
I’m doubting my sleep when I don’t dream. Where am I during those missing nightmares. I think it’s fairy land. I think that’s why I’m wanting to die. I want to die to go back home. I am a fairy with their wings, and what good is Icarus without his wings when he loves the sun so? Even at my true home my wings are missing since I was raped. But…I know they heal. I just need to spend more time there and not stuck in terror of flash backs. Fucking kill me. Then I’ll be where I belong. Wouldn’t I?
I am not human. I use a human shell but my heart, soul, mind, is not human. It’s really not. I’ve been saying this for years but now I get it. I’m cutting to escape this shell, I am trying to return to fairy land. There is nothing more I can do as a human. Except… my family. My son, half fey, he is. He sees dragons already. It’ll be easy for him. But I can’t kill my child. Could I wait until I die naturally? But if I die now in the right spots of fey land my son would follow naturally, at what ever time is right for him. I could wait. But now how to bring Aunna with me? She has the sight so she belongs. Must teach her my fairy secrets. Or will she want me locked up for real? Oh I love being off that abilify, my thoughts haven’t been so clear before.
I know what I am going to do, and it’s going to be perfect. I need a white…no…better idea. I need my Alice dress. Black and white stockings. Flowers in my hair and hands. Lay down in that brook by the trail in Morrison, and drown. Dramatic. Ophelia. Alice. I have until summer. I’ll do this on my birthday too. Pull it off as a “photo shoot” but just…drown. No more Cassandra for the prophetess is dead. The fairy lives on.
Good night sweet ladies.
MONSTER. I hope it fucking scars.
Not Suicidal? 2-13-17
After what I wrote last night, it still makes sense. My head feels so clear as well. I no longer feel compelled to commit suicide right now. I still have it in my heart. But now I have a plan. Oh fuck I’m moving backwards-
GOING HOME TODAY. It’s so easy to lie to doctors.
Back to today. Yesterday, my first full day out of the crisis center, I was manic as fuck. And I got tattooed. It was Valentine’s Day and it was great. I spent the day with my son and the night with my wife and I was so happy. I mean, I was a manic happy but it felt good. Today I feel… baseline. I feel natural anger and natural happiness like a non mentally ill person.
I still don’t know what to say about what I wrote on the 12th. What can I tell you… I always have to be the sickest person there is and I am honestly trying to control it but… I don’t know how hard I am trying because…look at me. I’m aware. I see it. But I don’t touch it. I’m not compelled to move forward. It’s too comfortable here. But all I can do now is…well…it’s up to me, isn’t it? Up to me to fix it. I have the medications. I have the therapy, I have the skills to use… I go to therapy, I’m going to start going to a Sexual Assault Survivors group, hope to repeat the DBT group that I have graduated. I am CLEARLY making efforts. But I make these efforts as they pass me and I wave at them as they pass me by. Doing them to be good. But am I soaking anything up? Am I capable of that? I think I am legit trying. But like others, I can say pretty words and not follow through just like so many people throw away I love yous now a days.
“I am clearly broken and no one knows what to do.”
Wait I’ve used that Korn lyric in my wordpress already. Hahahahaha. I’m a mix of stolen lyrics and stolen stories, but isn’t that how we write? Isn’t that how everyone lives? Isn’t that how we are raised? It is what it is and whatever.