7 February 2011You took me in your arms and held me close. Nothing too remarkable seeing as we had been doing that for the past two weeks. Our burgeoning relationship is still in it's infancy, but I haven't felt a connection like this one in years and never one this strong. You are afraid and I can tell. I can't say I am any less scared. Not because of who I am, but because of who I used to be. My writing is predicated on a very specific understanding between the both of us. My past has been a terrible, dark thing that no matter how hard I try, I cannot distance myself from it.
"I'm just afraid that I am going to be a bad influence on your writing. You are just so happy right now, that I hope it isn't too hard to go on writing about your exes and your family."
All I could think of in my pop culture related mind was a quote from
Moulin Rouge that I didn't bother to say aloud for fear the reference would be lost amongst the generally sillier pillow talk:
"You're going to be bad for business. I can tell."
The rest of the afternoon was a blur, but a pleasant blur. Then the buzz began to wear off and I set about to do a bunch of work that I should be getting done and I get hit with multiple pieces of bad news in the middle of a crunch time situation.
My mind does what it always does in these situations. These are the situations that I don't expect you to ever understand, my love. The moments when everything in my past comes back to haunt me. These are the nights when even the smallest setbacks feel like the biggest failures. It is not your fault and there isn't necessarily anything you can do to change them.
"The path into this heart is filled with corpses and strewn with body parts of those who came before. So just give up."
I know you know what that is from. I also know you know exactly what that feeling is like. We are kindred spirits in so many respects, but I don't expect you to understand what it is like when I get into moods like this.
I take my nightly dose of medication and prowl the archives sleeplessly for me at my unfiltered worst. Not in terms of writing because a lot of this is strangely beautiful. I just want you and everyone to know just how hard it is sometimes. I don't want to hide from you any longer than I have to. If you accept me for this, you don't even have to say anything about it. This could all be a wordless agreement. You can also ignore it and I wouldn't consider it callous or uncaring of you. In truth, this might be best taken in small doses, but I just can't leave it that way anymore.
This is one chunk of Blog Zero that is about to fall down. Only a few more parts to go.
As for anyone else reading this, take this as a sort of behind the scenes look at how my mind works and why sometimes it is hard for me to make posts as innocuous as my film blogs. They take more energy than you realize. This is the kind of thing that comes naturally.
7 October 2006Where do I begin? I could start with the suicide note in the pocket of my jeans. I could recite the entire thing if I had it in front of me. That way we could all recount the pill by pill account of what lead me to this place. I ticked off everything thought by thought. The pain, the frustration, the regret, it’s all there. At least until the 10th pill (generic Tylenol PM so that in the event that I would survive the morning I would at least sleep for an extended period of time. Long enough to kill the brain cells tied to my memory) when I was too weak to even hold a pen and barely able to speak or yelp from the violent shaking I felt in my arms, chest, and jaw. There were still five or six pills after that all brought past the lump in my throat by a mug of hot chocolate. If I was going to die I was going to die comfortably.
I didn’t die. I got sleepy, but it was a bad kind of sleepy. It was almost the same feeling I got from the one late night cram session in university when I took far too many caffeine pills. I was drowsy, but far too jittery to sleep. The tightness in my chest was probably ephedrine but it felt like my heart was breaking, which was exactly what I deserved. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stand, walk, crawl, or even speak properly.
Reliving it all seems so surreal now. But I was going to tell you about the note you’ll never see. Not because I don’t want to. As with mostly everything I write, it was something I would hate to throw away. I simply can’t show it to you because the hospital lost my pants. No one even got the chance to read it unless someone actually got the jeans (I hope you enjoy them, they were my favorite pair). As soon as I told Christian, after I got off the phone with Davin (after he had been on the phone with Jenna), I hid the note in my pocket because it was no longer relevant. It had officially become a part of the past.
According to everyone in the ER, I came here naked. I’m pretty sure Christian, his mother, Kevin, Justin, or Melissa would have noticed as I was on the way to the hospital. So here I sit on my third night here, in a plain white T-Shirt, red scrub pants, and those no-skid hospital booties I love so much writing the introduction to something I will have to continue tomorrow. As much as it killed me to do so, and that it has come to this, I took a sleeping pill an hour ago and it’s starting to kick in. The doctors say it is to ease my racing mind. Other than the arrival of fresh clothes, Wendy’s, and a much needed call from Jenna, today was of little consequence and there is more time to talk about the past tomorrow.
This is merely to stave off sleep a few moments longer.
7 February 2011To this day, as much as I love it, I can't drink hot chocolate without cringing at first. I still remember that day so vividly despite my best efforts to forget. The grey October dawn. Asking Kevin for a piece of paper to write my suicide note before he went to work and then going downstairs to set about my work in silence. I hate being so cavalier about how I tried to kill myself. To this day I have no idea why I do this. I guess it all just boils down to coping mechanisms.
8 October 2006In hindsight it would have been very easy to write later last night. Despite all the lights being turned off, the door remained open. The light from the hallway was more than enough to write by. Combined with the window next to my bed, it might as well have been daylight.
Looking out the window, my head slightly to the right to look from my bed out the mesh wire encased window I can see the full moon illuminated still against a light blue sky. It hangs a few feet above the power lines, almost like an optical illusion.
The sleeping pill worked with mixed results. It staved off my crying and panic attacks. I didn’t cry or hyperventilate. It just didn’t put me to sleep. It wasn’t the fault of the drugs. I indeed felt drugged. Instead it was the fault of the Russian.
Girsch only speaks Russian and you could tell almost by looking at him. His hair was salt and pepper colored, I guess you could say, but mostly looked black and dusted with flour. The bald spot on the front of his head wasn’t terribly noticeable unless his hair wasn’t combed over. His beard was scraggily and long, and decidedly unkempt to the point where it barely moved at all. The only time the beard changed shape slightly was when he spoke or smiled (as he often did) with the gap toothed grin of his.
Naturally, no one on staff at the hospital speaks Russian and he is clearly troubled. Last night somewhere in between my going to sleep and God-knows-when, the Russian emerged from his room, ranting and raving and naked. This lead the nurses to start shouting back at him. It might have lasted as little as ten minutes, but in here ten minutes feels like an hour.
On top of that, one of my roommates snores like a chainsaw trying to start up with no gas in it.
I wasn’t thinking. My mind was blank from being tired. I just could not sleep. Even when the Russian was finished with his ranting, even when the chainsaw had died out. I’m about ready to die out myself.
It’s almost time for lunch. Still nothing has happened. I didn’t even get the nap I had been hoping for. It was easier to catch a few winks when it was only Ted and myself. Now with two others making it a full room, things are still somewhat more cramped.
My room overlooks a major street, but on a Sunday afternoon the traffic seems very light. It faces West. I kind of just want to lie in the sunlight like a cat, but I have to wait until after dinner for the light to reach my bed completely.
I can still see the Ferris wheel. I hate that fucking Ferris wheel.
I could use this time to bring you up to speed as to what happened the first two days. My motivation has been shot and I’m just now starting to uncross my eyes.
The smokers are lining up for their cigarettes. I’m just waiting for my lunch.
Before I forget, even mental health patients don’t think Shawn and Marlon Wayans are funny. There was no one lining up to watch today's performance of
White Chicks. That was all I needed to prove my hypothesis.
Ted is the only one of my roommates I really talk to on a regular basis. I find it amusing that the oldest person and the youngest person on the ward spend the most time talking to each other. Of course, Ted spends a lot of time talking to himself. He just walked in to go to the bathroom wondering aloud where everyone was. He doesn’t say “crazy” things or spout conspiracy theories. It’s like he has no inner monologue. He will say aloud the things we often think.
“Where did everybody go?”
“Almost time for lunch.”
“Where did all the time go?”
“I think I’ll shave today.”
Ted is a World War 2 veteran. He was one of the men on the beach at Normandy. He was only 19 and believes that nothing more than his youthful quickness got him out of there alive. Today at age 80, Ted still looks better than everyone here that’s over the age of 50 (staff included). He’s not married. He has no kids. Maybe that’s why he looks so young. Maybe that’s why he’s here in the first place.
Lunch is running late today, as it usually does. Breakfast shows up a few minutes before eight. Lunch, which is supposed to be here at 12:30 is often half an hour late. Dinner, which is scheduled for 5:30 is usually half an hour early, making the waiting time before visiting hours that much longer.
While pacing the halls with a song stuck in my head (thanks to complete lack of music with the exception of the occasional BET. Today’s song is “Fix You” by Coldplay) I realized that this place would make for a great one hour drama on HBO. It kind of feels like a tragedy at times.
My brain is telling me to sigh. I’ll sigh when I’m more at rest.
Charles hates to be called by his real name; he prefers Tom. So for the sake of keeping everyone happy, I’ll refer to him from hereon in as Tom. I found out he hates being called Charles the hard way.
Tom was brought in the day after I arrived and I didn’t even know it because he was completely sedated.
Now let me stop for a moment and back up because I have to tell you about another patient in order for this story to make sense. I guess I’m being a shitty narrator, but it’s my story and you’re reading it, so just go along with it.
Roberto (who for some reason I always want to call Carlos) is a kleptomaniac. Roberto only speaks Spanish, which makes him easier for me to understand than Girsch. Roberto spends his days roaming the halls and stealing shit. You can’t turn your back on him for a second or else your pen, coffee, paperwork, underwear (off your dresser of course), socks, ice cream, notebook, pills, shirt, or even garbage could be stolen. He paces quietly and has a tic that causes him to shut the lights off when entering a room only for a few seconds. If he decides to stay in a room he will leave the lights as they are.
Roberto’s other problem and the one that annoys me more (mostly because he has never tried stealing anything from me) is the fact that he always answers the phone and hangs up immediately afterwards. He will say hello and once he realizes the person on the other end of the phone is trying to ask for someone in English, he will hang up. This happens quite frequently. This happened to Tom’s wife all day.
I don’t know why Tom was brought here, but I assume it was drug related. I do know that the reason he was knocked out all day on Friday had nothing to do with his condition. It was because the hospital fucked up. Tom was given the wrong kind of medication. Actually, that’s not true. He was given two medications, one right and one wrong, that counteracted each other, making him very sick and sedating him completely.
I finally beat Roberto to the phone, which is not an easy task since if he isn’t standing next to it, his room is one of the closest to it.
Tom’s wife asked for him as Tom and when I went…
Wait, one more thing I forgot. I am being a terrible narrator again. Kind of like that movie
Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. I bring it up because Robert Downey Jr.’s character narrates the movie in a similar fashion, filling in the details as he goes along. I freely admit I will rip off that literary device right now.
First, I realize that I never described to you what anyone other than Girsch looks like, mostly because unless they look like someone I can identify, I suck at describing facial features that aren’t particularly out of the ordinary and I always preferred to put faces and attributes on characters in a story myself. But for those of you that don’t know by now (I assume you know who I am if you are reading this or at least could place the face) here is what the cast of characters I have introduced so far looks like:
Ted- 5’8”, white, thinning white hair and moustache, wears a green New York Park service jacket with no shirt beneath it. Kind chubby, almost cherubically so.
Roberto-5’5”, about 50, Hispanic, slightly grey but mostly black goatee, scrawny, could easily be mistaken for a lawn dart. Always wears Adidas sweatshirt and two pairs of jeans (blue for outerwear and black for underwear)
Tom- 6’5”, looks like he’s in his late 40’s. Definitely was a biker at some point as evidenced by his tattoos and affinity for Harley Davidson merchandise. Wears glasses two sizes too small for his face. Gives him a squinty look. Wears a skullet in a messy ponytail.
Now, after we have gotten that out of the way and I have taken several breaks from writing this to do nothing at all, let me get to the second point I wanted to make.
There is only one pay phone for patient use. It is at the far end of the hall next to the smoking lounge. It is one of the rare pay phones that accepts incoming calls. Outgoing calls are still 50 cents, but if someone calls you, it’s their dime and not the hospital's.
We answer the phone with a hello. The patients are the only ones allowed to answer the phone. The nurses aren’t allowed to speak on that phone and if you called the nurses station they will not confirm or deny that a patient is staying there. They can only give out the number for the payphone number and wish them the best.
This made it difficult to track Tom down while he was inadvertently in a medical induced coma. Tom’s wife asked for Tom and not Charles as his paperwork had stated. I asked at the desk if there was a Tom there, but everyone shook their heads. When she finally said she calls him Tom and no one really calls him Charles, I had to break the news to her that Tom was down for the count indefinitely.
The entire night I tried to get the phone before Roberto and she was on the other end of the line about 90% of the time. I was her liaison. The nurses couldn’t disclose any information to her because Tom was in too weak of a condition to sign a release of information form stating his wife could monitor his progress. I kept her posted until the moment I went to bed. She was happy to hear that he was able to eat, but upset that he fell back asleep immediately after.
The next morning after exiting the shower, I answered the phone and not to much surprise it was her. This time Tom was awake. He was in the main lounge eating breakfast. He looked glazed over, but in better shape than the day before.
I called him Charles and he stormed out of the room. “I fucking hate that name. No one calls me that anymore.” Later that night, I met Tom’s wife and she thanked me for being polite and helpful. (I guess all that time working retail paid off) Tom apologized and I thought nothing of it. I probably would have been just as cranky.
So, why is this meandering, yet fact based story important or relevant in any way? It is because of a conversation over the phone between Tom and his wife that I eavesdropped on. His wife was at the shopping center across the street. If you look out the window next to the phone you can see it clearly. She was standing there and waving back at him. She couldn’t see him through the grating on the windows, but he could see her. It meant the world to him.
I only wish I could see something more than a shopping center when I look out that window. Right now all I see is failure, regret, and a Ferris wheel.
And now for a word about the imagery behind the Ferris wheel. For any future English teachers who might be reading this text, I will spell it out for you in two different ways. I’ll first discuss the figurative meaning behind it. If you have seen a Ferris wheel you know it goes in a circle. Picture someone you know getting in a car at the bottom while you are on top. You want to see them, talk to them, hold them and tell them everything is going to be alright, but the longer you stay on the ride you realize you aren’t much closer to seeing them at all. Eventually one of you will have to get off. No matter how much you enjoyed the ride.
More later.
I have also decided that I am totally prank calling the payphone here when I leave.
I have a sudoku book that I haven’t touched yet. A “TV Guide” crossword book, too. I prefer the journal though. Besides, the doctor is coming soon. Best not get too attached to anything right now.
I’m back shortly after I wrote that. Some people just got busted smoking in the smoking room and I have talked to the doctor. Neither were exciting and no fights broke out at all. The doctor is increasing my medication tonight. So now I can feel groggier longer.
The whole time it has been on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t say it. Although, it is tempting. I just don’t know if I want to keep writing about tragedy. Or disappointment. Or heartbreak. I would gladly write about tragedy over the other two, though.
When Jenna called last night I was elated and pained at the same time. Wait. I can’t talk about that yet. I’ll save that for later.
I saved coffee creamers because I thought I would need them. Did I? No.
Shortly before dinner, Patrick called to see how I was doing. We bullshitted for a little bit about writing and drawing and small intimate art shows in bars. It was good just to talk about random things for a while. Just kind of wish there wasn’t a shitload of people filing into the smoking lounge while I was doing it.
Roberto has been stealing things left and right. I can’t stand it anymore. I hope he goes home soon.
Visiting hours start soon. I don’t think I’ll have any. Maybe some phone calls if Roberto doesn’t hang up the phone on me. Either way, I am going to watch everyone. Observe them. And as always, wonder.
Visiting hours have come and gone. All in all it was pretty uneventful night. Well, except for one of my roommates saying he’s going to hurt somebody. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed.
Ted has the same visitor every night. I don’t know his name, but he’s a pleasant chap in a cool looking fedora hat. They talk about their war buddies and where they are now (if they are still alive) and they talk of the good times they had on their return home. His friend is 78 and has cancer, but still rides his bike everywhere despite having a 2005 Cadillac sitting in his driveway. Every day, without fail he is here ten minutes before visiting hours starts. Ted is happier I these moments more than he is all day. That is the kind of friendship I will always yearn for.
They are starting meds early tonight. I sit by the phone. Waiting somewhat selfishly that someone will call. Knowing deep down that they wont. There are a few people I would like to have call me, but not too many that I would know what to say to.
So I bit the bullet and took the pills. I still don’t know what they are called. They make me drowsy, but that’s about it. Drowsiness doesn’t exactly equal sleep. Combined with the Claratin and Effexor (now it’s about the size of a horse pill), it’s making me kind of loopy.
The reading of this is probably quite boring right now. There are other stories to tell here. Might as well tell one to kill some time.
Hugh Nevins is a dead ringer for Bill Nighy. However, he looks like his really crazy twin. Acts like it, too. Even down to the British accent.
Right now, Hugh is dancing in the hallway and pretending he is a bullfighter. I don’t know much about him, but if this place had a class clown it would be him.
Hugh has his moments (usually first thing in the morning) where he can be downright frightening. He’ll rant and rave about how we are…
9 October 2006… and shortly thereafter I passed right out. I wanted to continue writing, but I was physically wiped out. Too bad. I might pick up on it again later. Maybe more about Hugh as well.
Today has already been chaotic. And I have only been awake for twenty minutes.
It’s sunny, but the fog is thick outside. Wait, I’m wrong. It’s not foggy at all. That’s just my window.
Lets try and start (briefly and before breakfast) with my roommates. Not Ted, he was fine, but I’m guessing he had as much trouble sleeping as I did. Well, Ted’s on so many meds that it probably didn’t matter.
First, in the middle of the night, Craig, the violent roommate (think Larry the Cable guy with a ponytail) tried killing himself by shutting off the oxygen supply he needs at night for his emphysema. It took an hour to sort the whole thing out. The buzz saw snoring continued as the oxygen slowly hummed though the tubes. I wasn’t so much scared as I was reminded of my mother.
My other roommate Gary was the first distraction I had upon waking up this morning. His doctor, who also does MD rounds on all three psych wards here, burst into the room screaming at Gary for ODing on meds that he prescribed. He told Gary he could no longer be his doctor and stormed out of the room. It was the only time I ever heard a doctor curse out a patient.
Tom just got into a shouting match in the hall with a nurse. I don’t know what it was about.
I ate well this morning. First meal I ever finished here. Probably because I didn’t eat much dinner and skipped snack time last night.
Let’s see what the rest of the day brings.
It’s not even eleven and it’s far too chaotic to keep everything straight. As far as I know three people are getting released today. Roberto is one of them. Maybe more. Maybe me. I don’t know. Oh, wait, Gary (who I just mentioned, but didn’t describe in any way)… he’s out today, too.
I feel awake. Shaky and groggy, but still awake.
It’s starting to come together. I don’t know what “it” is, but it’s coming.
Benny is watching me from the door closest to the pay phone. Out of everyone here, Benny probably has the saddest story. He is also clearly the most depressed out of all of us. Benny has been plagued with health problems. His hair is about all he has left, falling around the sides of his head in small white curls jutting out from his dark brown skin. Considering he has Parkinson’s, he manages to stay well groomed on his own. That’s about all he has, though. On top of Parkinson’s, here is a list of Benny’s other problems:
1. It’s hard to understand him because not only does he have Parkinson’s, he also has no teeth (and can’t afford dentures) and he has had two strokes.
2. Other than a blue windbreaker, he doesn’t own any clothes of his own.
3. He has no control over his bodily functions and is forced to walk around with a cathoder and a colostomy bag.
4. He has pancreatic cancer. The operation for it is in a few hours. He has been nervous about it for days.
5. His daughter, and “caregiver” (if you could even call her that) spends all of his social security money on herself. Not even on drugs. Just on, as she puts it “stayin’ fly.”
Benny offered me all of his money so his daughter doesn’t get it anymore. He offers it to someone new every day. He’s tried to kill himself three times in two years. No wonder he always has a frown on his face.
I forgot to mention, last night while I was at the phone writing, I took a break and put my head in my hands and Girsch spoke to me in broken English…
“You…are…miserable.”
I nodded and smiled slightly.
“You good man.” Then he laughed and started speaking Russian again. I’m sure he had nothing but good things to say. I didn’t understand it all, but the little I did was all I needed.
Too bad now he seems pissed off. Everyone’s blood seems up today.
There is a man in a shiny suit talking to Ted. I’m in my bed behind the curtain eavesdropping. Earlier in the day he was in the lounge talking on his Blackberry about how great his weekend was. He’s from a nursing home in the country. Ted wants to stay in the in the city. He has been here his whole life.
It sounds like a shitty deal to me. No private room and they take $950 a month for his rent when the government only pays him $1,150 a month.
All this guy is asking about is money.
I can’t stand it.
If nothing else, the morning has passed quickly.
There is a Christmas tree on the roof of the hospital. No one knows why it’s there. It’s been there for years. Sometimes in the afternoon when the light hits is just right, it doesn’t look brown and decayed. It almost looks like it belongs there.
I feel very hyper today. Not necessarily happy, but hyper. Kind of loopy. Half of me likes it. The other half is frightened.
There is an arts and crafts session starting in the lounge soon. I plan to attend, but I also plan to write all the way through it.
The lounge is about half full with people finishing their lunches. A few faces that I can place, but none that I can put a name to. I guess I’ll tell a couple more stories.
Right now I’m looking at James. James has a very pronounced face for an old man and a perpetual frown etched in the center of his stone faced jaw.
James has Alzheimer’s and his daughter is trying to place him in a nursing home. His son, however, doesn’t want that. James, however, wants to live with his sister.
The only words James says are:
“I want to go home.”
“I can’t go home.”
“I’m staying here.”
And
“I can’t spill.”
I’ve noticed a change in him lately, but only for the worse. This morning he had a tear rolling down his face. A single lonely tear.
Phillip looks exactly like Charles Manson, but with shorter thinning hair. He wears the same red polo shirt every day. He always has a distant look on his face and has a tendency to stare. He looks like he would kill you if given the chance. Truth is, he is one of the most harmless one’s here. All he lives for is smoke break. Only speaking to ask when it’s time to smoke and how many cigarettes he can have.
The most innocuous looking one of the bunch is actually the most dangerous. Joe isn’t developmentally disabled, although he looks it. His condition is the result of an automobile accident. He is prone to sudden fits of uncontrollable rage. Right now I am listening to him trying to read.
Now it’s just me, Ted, Phillip, and Joe in the lounge. It’s quiet again.
Three people are leaving now. Gary left already. Roberto is leaving soon, as is the cracked out dude who keeps calling me “dude buddy” and Alfonso. I might tell more about him later. Of course, I shall have to talk more about Hugh and Joe later as well.
I am trying very hard to write complete stories, thoughts, and sentences. I am trying very hard to not write merely notes. Today, for some reason, that’s hard.
Hugh is now wearing street clothes, but his condition hasn’t changed at all. Let me finish what I started last night…
…he’ll rant and rave about how we are being mistreated. If our food is even a minute late, he’ll freak out and go on a tirade. Right now, though, it’s the Hugh all of us like better. The one who knows tons of useless historical facts. You never know what will come out of his mouth.
Right now he’s trying to explain to Joe the difference between Julius Caesar and Chunk from
The Goonies. I’m not even making that up. Only in here, folks.
Ted just said that all there is to do in this place is die. He’s not that far from the truth.
Girsch is acting crazy. No surprise.
Despite being arts and crafts time, only Joe, Hugh, and Phillip are taking part. Joe is drawing since we can’t trust him with sharp objects. Hugh and Phillip are making stained glass.
Joe just said I was a famous composer for all the writing I do. Joe doesn’t speak in full sentences. Mostly just jumbled phrases.
“My garbage is that I am busy”
“I ate the fruit in my slacks.”
“The earwigs are not, they bad. They scurvy.”
Phillip has given up on his project. Craig came in and said all he wants to do is break things.
Joe is going to snap. He is just screaming and swearing.
“I worked before this and I come here and get treated like a fucking baby!”
That was the first sentence I ever heard come out of his mouth.
I am watching Roberto leave. Si-yo-fucking-nara.
I think Ted’s going to cry.
The doorbell and phones wont stop ringing.
Joe keeps looking at me and repeating “Don’t bring up your past. We’re not trying to take long term adventures.”
Feeling kind of low right now. Can’t figure out why. I have almost bled this pen dry. I think it doesn’t look like there is much left.
Maybe now is as good a time as any to write about how sorry I am to have put everyone through so much pain.
I feel like I just shit all over everyone who loves and cares about me.
Put simply, I make love hurt a lot more than it probably should.
So the other night when Jenna first called, I think that was the high point of my stay here, thus far. It wasn’t the happiest call in the world. It was the kind of conversation that had it happened in person would have consisted of her crying and hitting me repeatedly, but I would have gotten a huge hug afterwards.
I worry about her now. Normally I would be listening to Joe talking crazily about how baseballs are made, but I can’t stop thinking of her.
There is a picture in my mind of her. Alone. Because of me. Worried. Because of me. Part of me wishes that for her sake I had never entered her life. The other part of me knows that I wouldn’t have gotten this far without her.
I don’t know what will become of us. I don’t even know what to say. It’s so easy to write about everyone else’s problems. It’s so much harder to write about my own right now.
Mostly because I can’t believe I ever did something so stupid.
Fuck. I need a hug.
I haven’t looked at the Ferris wheel at all today.
The hours between 4 and 6 are death. Easily the worst of the day. Not a heck of a whole lot happens outside of vitals being checked and lunch.
Gary has been quickly replaced by Luther. He seems like a good enough guy. Just like everyone else when the first get here, he’s asleep.
I called Gloria. I hope she calls back tonight.
I wonder if that sub shop across the street is any good. Somehow, I doubt it.
Dinner should be here soon. Followed by a meeting with my doctor. Followed by nothing much at all (Visiting hours are slowly meaning nothing to me) unless someone calls me. Maybe Jenna will. She said she just might. I’m lucky to have someone like her in my life.
I will never be able to forgive myself for what I have done to her. Or Christian. Or everyone.
The binding of the book I am writing this in is starting to stretch and the pages are becoming dog eared from the firm strokes I tend to make with my pen. One of the pages is about to fall out. I dread to think what will happen once it is full.
The second day I was here the manic side of me had a pretty good idea. I have been working out each day as best I can. I can now do twenty five push ups on a blanket spread out between my bed and the heater. I have also worked myself up to doing 100 sit ups by putting my feet on the heater and sitting up on the bed. It’s starting to pay off. I’ve managed to lose five pounds. Of course, there are probably other factors contributing to that as well.
Dinner is here. Smoke break is late. Mostly everyone is pissed off at this. Especially Phillip. Not me. I don’t smoke. But a cigarette might just be better than the food here.
Off to dinner. Hopefully no gas pains tonight.
Dinner wasn’t bad. I am on my sixth cup of coffee though. Oh, well.
Roberto’s wife just called. Apparently he’s back in the ER. She said he was walking around the house naked and he burnt up all his prescriptions. We might not have seen the last of him. Everyone is decidedly less than thrilled.
Short of murder I think I have seen the worst that human kind has to offer.
The staff tonight is nice and made up of good people. It’s a damn shame they are all crabby due to lack of coverage. Three people can only do so much.
The binding of the journal is now officially broken.
I think this place is making me crazy.
I am terrified of being alone.
I hate having nothing to do but wait for the phone to ring.
I feel so unproductive.
Today I tried to write a song. Then I remembered I can only sort of sing. I thought I could parlay some of this pain into starting a successful band but much like my forays into screenwriting (well, writing original one’s anyways) I think I should just stick to what I am good at.
I find it hard to believe I just gave myself credit for something.
Another visitors hour spent manning the phones. Roberto’s wife just called again. She got the same answer she got before.
Just met a new guy named Eric. Eric seems like a pretty young guy for someone to be waiting for their wife to call.
The nurses got annoyed talking to Girsch and Phillip. So they sent them down to me to keep me company. Here’s how it goes:
Me: “Um, hey there.”
Phillip: “Do I get two at 9:30?”
Girsch: (laughing and speaking Russian, smiling)
Me: “Yes, Phillip.”
Phillip: “You know what I’m talking about?”
Me: “Yes, you are talking about cigarettes.”
Girsch: (nods head to rap music coming from smoking lounge, I think it’s Cassidy, while mumbling in Russian, but I think one of the words was America)
Phillip” “Are you handing them out?”
Me: “No, the nurses will.”
Girsch: (smiles and speaks loudly, I think he said alcohol and vomit while walking away and smiling)
Phillip: “So I get two at 9:30?”
Me: “Yes.”
Phillip: “How do you know?”
Me: “I know things.”
Phillip: “So you know I get two at 9:30?”
Me: “Yes. It’s also written all over your forearm in black marker.”
There is one guy who does nothing but pace the halls all day. He has been here longer than I have. He says nothing at all. Occasionally he will smile or ask for a cigarette. I still don’t know his name. He’d be pretty imposing if it weren’t for the fact that he has no clothes and wear towels on his feet.
The page next to the one I have been writing on has officially fallen out.
James’ sister and their deacon are here. No one speaks when they are together. Except the deacon saying pointless motivational phrases like “Live one day at a time” and “When I fall, I get back up.”
Joe makes strange writings. Quite scary actually. I know for a fact that one has my name written repeatedly along one edge of the page. The other side was filled with other names and random words like “cool,” “nookie,” and “kill.” Right now his writings are quite simple. Over and over again in hand writing getting longer as he goes down the page is “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” At this point I backed away slowly and slammed into Girsch who I didn’t even know was standing there. Sacred the shit out of both of us in the process. Girsch doesn’t speak English, but he sure as shit knows it’s creepy to write “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” up and down the page for six pages.
There is another guy named Teddy on the ward. I call the old guy (and my roommate) Ted. The other one I shall call Teddy. Now I know that is confusing, but I hadn’t thought of mentioning him until now. Teddy is young and very quiet. Rarely leaves his room or talks to anyone unless he’s eating. He has the build of a football player, but is a gentle giant if anything.
I mention Teddy only to put into context how much Joe frightens me.
One night at dinner, for no apparent reason and without any provocation at all, Joe started screaming at Teddy and attacking him. He started a fight for no reason. Joe slapped Teddy in the face and threw a very heavy wooden chair at his head. It took five nurses to take him down. One suffered a bruised collarbone.
He might be disabled and barely able to walk, but looks can be deceiving.
New guy just came in. They have been coming in as fast as they have been going out today. He seems pretty gangsta. He threatened to slap somebody if he didn’t get a cigarette. So they opened the smoke lounge for him
Jenna called. I’m tired as hell now that I took those sleeping pills.
I kept telling Jenna I was sorry. Repeatedly. She said not to worry about it.
So much to say. This shit hits me HARD, though. Tomorrow I think I will take the sleeping pills later.
10 October 2006I didn’t get right to sleep after Jenna called. As soon as I had hung up the phone Christian ended up calling, and immediately after that, his mother called. Then, I just couldn’t sleep.
Joe tried attacking someone with a chair again this morning. I don’t know who, all I know is it woke me up. He was screaming “STOP MOVING SO FUCKING SLOW!” repeatedly. That was at about 5AM or so.
Roberto is back. He was the first thing I saw this morning. He has already stolen Phillip’s reading glasses and hung up on three phone calls.
I haven’t written all day. It’s after two now and I am sitting in the main lounge observing a substance abuse meeting. I didn’t have to attend, but my room reeks like vomit at the moment. So now I’m just listening to people talk about their addictions
It’s me, Bobby (I guess I’ll mention him later), Ron, Scott, and Girsch and Joe, who like myself have no reason to be in the room.
Bobby is a liar. A bold faced con and we all know it. He says he is here for depression, but it’s really a plot to try and raise money to make a trip back to Florida. Right now it’s a place for him to stay to tide him over.
Eric just re-entered the room. I know he has three kids, but now it turns out that he is much older than I am despite not looking it at all. He loves his family very much and he seems to be determined to kill his pill addiction.
Scott is an alcoholic. Former addict. Current alcoholic. He’s a bit on edge, but he’s a good guy. He was brought in by the police who found him passed out on some train tracks. Scott has no idea how he even ended up there.
Luther has been in his room all day vomiting and praying for Jesus.
It’s very hot in here and I have heartburn like a motherfucker.
The guy who runs this group is also named Eric. He’s probably my favorite staff member here. He handles all the groups, recreational activities, and substance abuse counseling.
Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again excepting different results every time. I never even knew that until today. I guess that’s it’s proper definition.
You can rattle off every cliché in the book, and it might not help you or work for you, but you damn sure remember it.
Benny got back from surgery late last night. Today he is pissing blood into his bag. Yet somehow he managed a smile today.
Ron looks so weary. If there is one person here… I don’t know where I was going with this. He just looks beaten by the world.
Not much going on right now. Nope. Not much at all.
Today was the first time I had a chance to listen to music that wasn’t in video form. It was a nice mix of music from the past and today. I love Canadian radio stations.
Luther has been transferred back over to the medical side. The room still reeks of piss and vomit as I am sure it will all night.
The air is thick with dread. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it’s the meds, but my Spidey Sense is tingling.
Joe just tore his room apart.
Girsch just walked by me, patted me on the stomach and gave me a smile that I could only describe as reassuring. Sympathy seems to know no language.
Benny and Girsch want to fight Roberto. That would be a hell of a fight to see.
I feel almost comfortable now. I feel like I’m flying under the radar. I feel like a character on a TV show.
I feel steadiest with a pen in my hand.
The entire time I have been here, all they talk about is medication. Not once have they spoke of therapy. My doctor described my situation as “situational.” That I am only depressed because of stress. I hope she’s right.
I still want/need therapy, I think.
They say it will take roughly 40 days for everything to get straightened out. That’s way too long for my liking, but I have no choice at all in that.
I have done nothing but pace the halls since dinner.
I am being released tomorrow. I am actually worried about what everyone will think of me when I leave. Maybe that is what I feel in the pit of my stomach.
James’ sister just called. I have no idea why she would call. He can barely speak as it is. And if he’s not sleeping, he’s crying to himself.
Craig barely leaves his room anymore.
7 February 2011The bad news piles up around me and I am loathe to talk about it. Despite it being pas three in the morning, I should be sleeping or emailing you. I could be working on my press release, but until I get in touch with a few more people, that is a no go. Throw yourself at your work is my motto when I get in these moods. Work until you pass out and swallow down everything until you forget it.
The day after that one isn't particularly interesting, mostly because I was incredibly happy that day. I got to see Jenna and all my friends again. The only poetic thing I wrote that day was that my Effexor pill split open and the contents looked like the little candy sprinkles you would put on ice cream as a kid. You know the ones that look like microscopic rainbow coloured ball bearings? Those are the ones.
That was a pretty terrible experience, but the feelings that led me there are feelings that I will never be able to shake as long as I try.
You are not bad for business. I am the worst person for my own line of work. I wanted to say that was the last such incident, but it wasn't. At that point I wasn't even diagnosed as bipolar. Everyone just thought I was depressed. Bipolar disorder often goes undiagnosed the first few times you go before a doctor.
10 October 2008I didn't keep a log for this trip to the hospital. I was barely able to hold a pen, let alone use one for anything other than paranoid rants about how I felt everyone was talking behind my back and conspiring against me. If I wasn't paranoid, I was crippled by how badly I felt about how I had treated those that I loved that I wanted to die. I didn't have the focus or energy. When I entered the hospital I was weighed and it turns out I had lost close to sixteen pounds in the span of a month (and my pants seem to fit accordingly).
Luckily, this hospital didn't have too much to write home about. The stories are more anecdotes that I can tell friends in person. They don't really translate into something worth reading.
I'm out now and things are far from perfect. It seems like every day brings some sort of new struggle that is seeming to want to force me "off the wagon". For the most part, I am quite happy right now, and the medication seems to be working and is adjusted accordingly, but I still feel over medicated at times. Having to take pills throughout the day is hard to get used to. The morning and evening are easy, it is the afternoon/early evening one that is hard to tackle. I could take it in the morning since it is just an extra dose of what I am already taking, but I will feel groggy and sick for the rest of the afternoon, so it is best to avoid that.
My apartment is a private hell. I was happy for it at first, then I broke down and when I came back I wasn't ready to face being alone yet. Then I returned last week and within days it had flooded for a second time (it is a basement apartment) and I now have rats that need exterminating. Hence, I am not staying there tonight or tomorrow until everything is fixed again. Hopefully I won't have to do this again.
I have been getting hate mail as well from some former friends regarding my need for further hospitalization. It isn't helping my mood. They have no clue what I have been through or what I go through every day of my life. It is based out of pure ignorance blinded by some misguided feelings that there is some underlying problem between us.
I need an ego boost pretty badly. I don't know why. I think I just want one person to say that I am doing the right thing and that they are proud of me.
My mind is starting to race now that I have been getting everything out. That means it is almost time for my sleeping pill.
Work is pretty decent. Writing is coming nicely. That is about it.
7 February 2011Sweetie, I know you are probably scared right now and I can't say that I blame you. Also, I know you have caught me on something already. I know I told you that my weight hasn't changed since high school. That is probably because I always seem to come back to my "normal" weight all the time. When I have an episode, it drops pretty drastically sometimes. I just weighed myself and I have only lost two pounds in the past month. I don't think that is enough to raise any alarm bells just yet.
28 May 2008It comes at night and it can hit me even when I am at my most optimistic.
“I think I am going to bed.” She said.
“Me too. I am actually just finishing up typing the last thing I have to work on tonight and then I think I am going to call it an early night, myself.” This was at eleven at night and by my standards anything before one is an early night.
I finished my typing and immediately fell into a hole. I was literally happy and smiling less than ten minutes ago.
“What do you think you have accomplished? What do you think you have done?”
My face soured and I knew it was going to be one of those nights. The kind of night where my brain keeps telling me I am fucking everything up. Not in some sort of voice other than my own. It’s my own and no one knows how to better kick myself when I am down. All my supports had either gone out for the night, gone to bed, gone on vacation, or were just plain missing in action. I just kept telling myself not to get desperate and not to let things get out of control. Remember what your therapist said.
“Centre yourself. Place one hand on your stomach and the other over your chest. Close your eyes and tilt your head back. Allow you mind to go blan...”
“What have you accomplished?”
“...k. Slowly begin to bl...”
“So fucking proud of yourself, aren’t you? Look at what you have done.”
“...ock out anything that could possibly ha...”
“You are such a fuck up. Pathetic. You should just give up.”
“..rm you. Remind yourself that you are within your own...”
“You only hurt everyone around you. No one reads this shit anyway.”
“...mind. You make the rules and nothing c...”
“Boo-fucking-hoo, my life sucks, I can’t do anything about it. Waaaaaaa.”
“...an harm you there. Then focus on your bre...”
“Remember the shakes you had? Those pills came so close that one time.”
“...athing. Short, slow breaths, focusing on the in...”
“Remember how everyone felt? Oh boy no one will let you forget that one.”
“...haling and then the exhal...”
“You have put everyone you loved through hell.”
“...ing. Just keep repeating this until you are able to focus on no...”
“Look at what you have lost. LOOK AT IT!”
“...thing else other than the sound of your breathing...”
“And here you write all these things and for what? For healing? You are fucking useless.”
“...and how your chest feels as it rises...”
“You aren’t even that good. Resign yourself to your fate and just walk around like the fucking bum you are. You had your chance and you fucked it up.”
“And falls.”
“I fucked it up because of you. Stupid fucking brain.”
I woke up from my mini-meditation on the couch. The thoughts were gone and my head felt a thousand times lighter. The problem is that no matter how hard you silence it, the harder it wants to try and attack again. It will change its tone to the fantastic aspects of life.
“Hey, do you know how cool it would be if you had fifty billion dollars? Like, that is a good amount so that you would never run out. And just think of all the good you could do with it! Everyone would love you again!”
“I’m not falling for that one.”
“You are fucking useless and always will be.”
“Whatever.”
One of the drugs I had suggested for me was Ativan. “This is only to be used in case of an emergency. The way you make it sound you seem to be prone to some pretty crippling anxiety attacks and I want you to have something strong in case you need it. I warn you, though. Ativan is habit forming. You will only get 10 pills and no refills. You should never need more than that. Consider it something that you would break the glass in front of in case of an emergency. If things are crazy enough to break the glass, you probably need it.”
Needless to say, I haven’t been able to either pick up the prescription or even been able to get in touch with her since she left for a family funeral. I could call whoever is standing in for here, but by this point I am already sitting up at 1 in the morning trying to watch Crank to better appreciate how shitty it is, but I can’t stop thinking about everything.
All that I have ever done comes flooding over me like tidal waves. Some of the memories are even happy ones, but they only exist at times like these as a form of psychological torture to provide context for further self flagellation. Some are of things that were simple mistakes on my part that I paid dearly for or put someone else through grief. Then, like coming upon the final circle of hell, everything that I have ever done while I am surrounded by hundreds of disappointed faces.
I stop thinking that I am capable of being loved yet that is all that I yearn for. At times like these I pray for some sort of interaction that ultimately never comes. I shut down and begin to almost babble in the event that someone witnesses one of these episodes (which in truth can be staved off by the drugs I can’t fucking afford). Tonight, I took off my sweatshirt, freshly laundered and pleasing to smell, and clutched it as tight as I could as if it were a security blanket.
I got off the couch and shut the movie off; my train of thought was gone. I gripped the sweatshirt tightly and curled up in the foetal position on the part of the floor that was exposed hardwood. The intention was to have the cold wood caressing my arms and shoulders so I could snap back to the now, but it wasn’t happening.
Should I wake anyone up and tell them how I am feeling?
“None of them care, and besides waking them up is just an inconvenience to everyone anyway. It just further proves you are a fuck up.”
I rushed to the computer and turned it back on. I signed onto MSN and no one was online to talk to about anything.
“Because they are either sleeping. Or they are well adjusted and have social lives you dumb fuck.”
I quickly ran through the bookmarks for the number to the 24-Crisis Helpline that I haven’t needed to call in months. I fear this means my body might be getting too used to the depakote already. I tried several times to dial the number, but I am oh so tired that my vision is going blurry and I keep punching in the wrong numbers. I am now on my knees with the phone in hand listening to the busy signal drone on and on and on and on and on.
This isn’t the first time this has happened. Actually, only once after midnight had I ever gotten through and not had a busy signal. The woman I talked to last night said it wasn’t uncommon to not get through. She had her “regulars” that seemed to call every night for everything from suicidal thoughts to just being afraid of the dark.
Every sound in the house from the phone to the ticking clock in the kitchen two rooms away was amplified. As was the voice:
“Typical. Just fucking typical. You can’t catch a break can you? Take a hint. Everyone hates you and could give a fuck less whether you lived or died. Fucking pathetic piece of fucking shit.” As corny as it sounds I ran upstairs for my childhood teddy bear, Matilda, but not even she could help me now. I had gone too far and the only options left were to act on the impulses to harm myself, give in to a delusional fantasy to make it all go away, or ride it out like a junkie in the first stages of trying to go clean.
It is now almost three and I am exhausted. I have ridden it out yet again. I think I am going to be OK. I know that what I just wrote is sort of tough to read, but I didn’t want to let this feeling go. I wanted everyone to know exactly what it is like. And more importantly, I wanted to put it into words once and for all.
7 February 2011I thought that was it. I thought that was the most recent depressing thing I had written "in the moment." I was wrong. I came across this written on a slip of paper from just last year.
26 May 2010I have no idea what to do about anything anymore. I really don't. I wish for death, but I want to live. Just not like this. Not anymore. I function as a human being on a biological level, but very little else.
7 February 2011Sleep on it or keep going? Which direction to choose? This is in no way an episode. This is just an explanation. I just wanted you to know for better or for worse what you could be getting yourself into. And I wanted my writing to you to be so much happier than this turned out to be. You have really made me happier than I could ever remember being. You deserve to know at any rate. This is me at my most unfiltered. Take it for what you will.
But I do vow, here and now, to never put you through anything like this. If you will have it, I would prefer to take the upfront and honest approach with you when it comes to how I am feeling.
That is after all what the purpose of this blog was from the start.
One part of Blog Zero down. Now to get the rest of this off my chest.
