I abhor the sound of a pencil---the sound it makes when it runs across a strangely textured paper. It turns my stomach. I wanted a pen. I wanted to write, at my desk, in my room with no interruptions. However, in order for that to occur I am required to use one of the rubber anti-suicide pencils they offer at the nut house's front desk, but, as I previously mentioned, I hate pencils. They remind me of math. Of, "Now, Miss Antolini that is an example of that problem on page 76...if, if, if you need help with understanding---let's look there, shall we."
So, the door is open, and, ironically the place in which my "bargain" landed me allows me a complete view of the interior of my room, including my desk. Such is life, rules are rules, and I follow rules: or maybe I appear to abide by these rules, severely break them, and then ruin--------for my life.
Distracted again. The piercing cries outside of this small confining meeting room are making me angry. It is Amy again. She makes me crazy, yet I am so nice to her, I don't know if it is for her though, I am sure the erroneous act of kindness is an attempt at manipulation. I may have me my match, for she may well be unmanipulatable.
This is not dark. I do not think of dark things. Dark things are nearly entirely uninteresting to me. Never is death an event that needs to be romanticised. It is death; it sucks. It steals joy from the living, and suprisingly I don't look forward to joining the caravan of those before. Those who do romanticise death puzzle me--no--they make me angry-no--they piss me off. If one writes about death, draws pictures of death, wears black from head to toe as if they were dead then what the hell are they witing for, right? They are one of the categories of individuals who plainly confuse me; goths and rebel flag hat wearing, allergic to sleeve flannel shirt doning rednecks. I find them both insatiabley repulsive and inexplicable.
The abstract concoction of sound outside this room is greatly deterring this writing endevor. A word or two here-a scream or cry there, a nurtition lesson coming from the left of me, and I find myself all written out. The nurse has checked on me three times--I guess to see if this twenty-five cent papermate has not been lodged into my jugular. I AM NOT GOING TO KILL MYSELF. I am chicken shit, don't you know that I am scared of everything and nothing at the same time. Doctor, take me off of sucide watch-------I beg you. And, write a pen into my orders. My faith of growing out of this disaster that I and biology have created for myself is growing near void. Please fix me......one more thought.....how does something so me, and something so not me exist simutanously. Is this disease me?? Where am I?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Closed
After a day of hopeless contemplation of if or if not a truth even existed in my life, I did the unthinkable. I went to church. After of five days of total denial of any attachment with church or anything directly associated, I sat awkwardly perched holding the 76th diet coke of the day in front of a man, who to me, represented everything that was a “Christian” pastor………………down to the black pen striped suit, navy blue socks, and bad tie. Then, I judged him. So I sat there. Closed. Closed off; mind and body with my arms crossed sullenly like a defiant child. I was the enemy. I, at that moment, had become what I hated. I had judged a man before I knew his cause.
Truth #1 Not everyone is the same .
Truth #1 Not everyone is the same .
Clear-er
Lost, confused, anxious, uncomfortable and home. Well the only home I know for the moment. I guess this is where I ended up with things really started to go out of control about six months ago. Back when I couldn’t pay my bills. Back when it was nothing to drink a bottle, or two, of wine by myself every night. Back when I would not consider sleeping without first smoking a bowl. When drew would come into my room and say that he smelled smoke and wonder if I smelled it too. Of course, I always said no.
So, here I am. At my parents house, and I am grateful for that-----some people have no place to go and I have nearly endless options. Right now, however, I am wishing for a new start. I yearn to make decisions of my own. To allow myself the liberty of knowing what is and is not the best for me. I set here and think disgustedly of the way people think that I cannot make choices of my own. Am I not a woman? Am I not a mother? Can my choices really be that self destructive.
The above rant is a letter that I wrote myself nearly five months ago. I just found it this evening. Ironically just five minutes after I wrote the rant below.
On any given day I can find myself with the head of a defiant teenager and with a heart that never stops bleeding. With a super strong and unrelenting will that never gives up--------and somehow just knows everything will be okay. With a body that has carried a large child, and a large amount of uninvited weight to “nourish” that child, and not so proudly displays battle scars, and, with a backward glance, literally, the once ill-advised “sexy: tattoo I so exactly displayed on my svelte twenty-one year old lower back now resides cozily between to perfectly rounded love handles------------------perhaps that was the plan……………………haha perhaps not!
What a delicate mess. I understand now that my actions do not always mirror my intentions. That my tongue is much sharper than I’d like at times and far too dull at others. I am “a work in progress.” The difference being is that I am okay with that. A wise friend once told me to be wary of finding that perfect ‘balance.” Because, he said, once everything is balanced one small bump in the road and boom, unbalanced. So for now, I count myself happy and luckily to carefully juggle the unbalanced concoction that when mixed together reacts as ME.
So, here I am. At my parents house, and I am grateful for that-----some people have no place to go and I have nearly endless options. Right now, however, I am wishing for a new start. I yearn to make decisions of my own. To allow myself the liberty of knowing what is and is not the best for me. I set here and think disgustedly of the way people think that I cannot make choices of my own. Am I not a woman? Am I not a mother? Can my choices really be that self destructive.
The above rant is a letter that I wrote myself nearly five months ago. I just found it this evening. Ironically just five minutes after I wrote the rant below.
On any given day I can find myself with the head of a defiant teenager and with a heart that never stops bleeding. With a super strong and unrelenting will that never gives up--------and somehow just knows everything will be okay. With a body that has carried a large child, and a large amount of uninvited weight to “nourish” that child, and not so proudly displays battle scars, and, with a backward glance, literally, the once ill-advised “sexy: tattoo I so exactly displayed on my svelte twenty-one year old lower back now resides cozily between to perfectly rounded love handles------------------perhaps that was the plan……………………haha perhaps not!
What a delicate mess. I understand now that my actions do not always mirror my intentions. That my tongue is much sharper than I’d like at times and far too dull at others. I am “a work in progress.” The difference being is that I am okay with that. A wise friend once told me to be wary of finding that perfect ‘balance.” Because, he said, once everything is balanced one small bump in the road and boom, unbalanced. So for now, I count myself happy and luckily to carefully juggle the unbalanced concoction that when mixed together reacts as ME.
What no doctor can do.
Strangely, setting on the front stoop in one of the worst places in Huntington offers me a feeling of safety. Today is the day that I was released from rehab; furthermore, it is on this day that I realize that I have lost two weeks of my life. For two weeks I was confined to half of a floor of an old, poorly decorated hospital that consisted of two L shaped hallways. I, quite literally, forgot about the outside world. Forgot about the sound of a car passing, the site of birds flying, the smell of freshly cut grass, or even how an evening breeze feels on my bear shoulders. Even more perplexingly, while I was safely within my bubble, I was okay with that.
While walking my brothers dog around the block which, ironically sits adjacent to the hospital, I was able, even if for only a second, to clear my mind. What a revelation. Walking past the hospital seemed strange to me, more than strange. It seemed unreal. But then I saw it. The corner of floor four-west, also known as “the smoke room.” It was in the smoke room where most of my therapy actually occurred. The nurses had to unlock the small box where we each smoked our three cigarettes at a hurried pace. Within this room held the meetings of a club or secret society, for locked within that little room we all felt free from judgment or careful observation. The members of this society were free to talk about our addictions, crimes, mistakes, and failures in perfect simpatico. In this room was unabashed acceptance. It was there that I laughed. It was there that I learned that you can find common ground with nearly anybody. It was there that I learned that mental illness and addiction discriminate against no one. It was there that I was completely safe.
While walking my brothers dog around the block which, ironically sits adjacent to the hospital, I was able, even if for only a second, to clear my mind. What a revelation. Walking past the hospital seemed strange to me, more than strange. It seemed unreal. But then I saw it. The corner of floor four-west, also known as “the smoke room.” It was in the smoke room where most of my therapy actually occurred. The nurses had to unlock the small box where we each smoked our three cigarettes at a hurried pace. Within this room held the meetings of a club or secret society, for locked within that little room we all felt free from judgment or careful observation. The members of this society were free to talk about our addictions, crimes, mistakes, and failures in perfect simpatico. In this room was unabashed acceptance. It was there that I laughed. It was there that I learned that you can find common ground with nearly anybody. It was there that I learned that mental illness and addiction discriminate against no one. It was there that I was completely safe.
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