Monthly Archives: February 2014

I’m home.

Spent a little over a week at respite.  Bad experience, never going back.  Also there was an ER trip in there for the UC.  Also not fun, but less awful than respite.

Somewhat less suicidal now.

Not feeling like talking, which is probably not a good sign.  But it is what it is, I guess.


February 28, 2014 · 5:52 pm

Probably about to end up in the hospital. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me.


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Bad Night

Ended up cutting for the first time in I don’t even know how long. A very long time.

Called C, which just made me feel worse, but I couldn’t hang up or she’d call the cops on me. I couldn’t even explain to her why she was making me feel worse. She just makes me feel like she’s blaming me, like it’s my fault I’m in this place, like if I’d just try harder I could find some hope and feel better. She doesn’t mean to make me feel like that, but that’s how it is.

At least when I talk to A, I don’t feel worse. I don’t feel better, but right now nothing makes me feel better. (Well, her dog does. Her dog is fucking awesome.) But I didn’t feel like I could call A at 11:30 at night. She said I could call her if I didn’t feel safe, but it feels like a boundary violation to call her so late.

I just feel so alone and hopeless. I want somebody to save me, but I know that wouldn’t be enough because what I really want is for someone to go back in time and save child-me before she was so irreparably broken.

No one ever saved me. People could’ve, but they didn’t, and that grief is more than I can bear.

I look around and I just HATE people. Everyone who didn’t save me back when I could still be saved. Families that love their kids. People who have any measure of financial security. I look at these people and I hate them so much I want to hurt them. At least then I wouldn’t be alone with this unendurable pain.


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Today Sucks

Had the meeting with Social Security this morning. I may have to pay them back for the four months I was at Sheppard Pratt last year–apparently you’re only entitled to a small stipend if you’re hospitalized for more than 30 days, which no one tells you. I don’t know how they think you’re supposed to keep paying the rent–it’s not like the property management company cares that I was in the hospital. I don’t know how I’ll afford to pay back the money if they demand that. I’m already overdrawn by the third week of every month as it is.

I did get my non-working debit card replaced at the bank–not that it matters much, since I don’t have any money and am probably about to have a lot less.

Then therapy. A decided we should play drums to release my anger, which is not even something I feel at this point. I don’t know why, but the sound of her banging on the drum was really triggering, so that idea didn’t last long.

Came home to find the pellet stove is broken. Again. We’ve had a guy out here four times to fix it in the 6 weeks we’ve lived here, but it still won’t work.

So I thought I’d go take a hot shower to warm up. Oh wait, no hot water. We’re completely out of oil. Partly that’s my fault–the gauge is in the basement by the washing machine, and I haven’t cared enough to do laundry in weeks. But my housemates knew it was low and didn’t say anything. Of course, I don’t have the money to fill it, and even if we did, it would be a few days until they could come anyway.

So there’s 2+ feet of snow, it’s below freezing, and I have no heat or hot water. I can’t afford it.

And I should stay alive why?


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Purpose, Agency, Hospital

I should go back to Sheppard Pratt.  I realize that at this point.  But I’m fighting it.

See, I went to a caucus today.  Not my town’s–I was just helping out at this one, compiling slates, getting petition signatures, bossing volunteers around (erm, organizing volunteers).  For six hours, I was important and competent.  I was NEEDED.  I was meeting delegates and calling in numbers and making important decisions that actually affect this campaign.  I felt good.  (Admittedly, the oxycodone probably helped with that.  I’m much happier when I’m on opiates, although somewhat stupider.)

If I go back to Sheppard Pratt, I lose out on that.  First, I’ll have to lie to my RFD (regional field director), probably tell him I’m going out of state to get surgery for my UC or something.  I hate lying, especially since I work for a candidate who’s strong on reducing stigma and increasing access to mental health care, but I will lie.  I’m just too afraid it’ll come back to bite me in the butt someday if I’m honest about it.

And once I’m at Sheppard Pratt, I’ll be cut off completely.  No computer, no cell phone, no radio.  There’s a TV, but you’re not allowed to watch news.  There are three phones for 22 patients, and the hours you can use them are very limited.  I won’t be able to organize caucuses or phone banks or house parties.  Hell, the last time I was there, i got “redirected” just for using Obama’s name because you’re not allowed to discuss politics.  I won’t be allowed to go outside.  I won’t even be allowed to use the bathroom without someone coming in to check.  I understand the reason for all the restrictions, but they make me feel like less than a person.  I lose almost all agency in my life.  Not forever, but it feels like forever when you’re 500 miles from home, all alone and isolated.

The two things that have kept me hanging on through these last couple weeks are my sister’s wedding and this campaign.  What if I go to Sheppard Pratt and lose the things that I’m still hanging onto?  What if it makes me more hopeless?

I’m afraid.


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save me

I called C in the middle of the night last night.  (I think it was last night; I’m not doing well keeping track of time.)  It was that or kill myself.  I had the letter all written out, down to the phone numbers of who they should contact once I was dead.  I had the pills.

Talking to her didn’t make me feel better.  I wanted it to, desperately.  Her heart is pure gold, but she said a lot of stupid things you shouldn’t say to someone who’s profoundly suicidal.  I don’t remember all of it, but guilt came into it.  She said she’d been suicidal before and how would I feel if she’d done it?  I said I wouldn’t know her if she had, and you don’t miss someone you never knew.  Someone else would’ve filled her role.  Harsh but true.  I told her I’ve had friends commit suicide, and it sucked–but no more than when I lost a friend in a car accident.  With suicide, at least it was their choice.  At least I could believe that they’re no longer hurting.

She took issue with that, too.  Religious issue.  Nothing specific or dogmatic, more just that “Well, how do you know it wouldn’t lead to more suffering after death?”  I told her I don’t believe that because there’s no rational proof of existence beyond death.  And if there is a god, I cannot believe that he would punish us for taking the only way out we had left.  She tried the “You can’t prove there’s not life beyond death” argument, and I tried to tell her that’s not where the burden of proof lies.  She didn’t listen.  I stopped arguing because it was making me too angry and I wasn’t with it enough to argue coherently.

I still want to die.  I still feel like I have to.  Like there’s no other way.  Like things are only going to get worse and there’s no one who can help me.

C wanted me to go see A today, but we’re having a snowstorm with another foot of snow.  Even if it weren’t for that, I don’t have the physical or emotional energy to get there.  I did talk to her on the phone.  I don’t really remember any of the conversation, but I do remember at least she didn’t say anything stupid that pissed me off.  We talked twice.  I remember her voice but not any of the words.

She and C both mentioned me going back to Sheppard Pratt.  Asked me if I thought I should.  I don’t know.  I probably should, but I don’t want to.  I don’t want to have to deal with any of this shit.  I don’t want to do the work.  I want somebody to just fix me because everything else hurts too much.  At this point, even uncurling my body from the tense ball it wants to be in feels excruciatingly painful.  If I can’t even tolerate the physical act of opening up, how could I survive the emotional act?

I want somebody to save me.  I don’t have the strength to do it for myself.  So where does that leave me?


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Part of me wants to go back to therapy tomorrow.  I want so badly to be heard, to be understood, to be cared about.  I feel completely, totally alone.  I feel like there is no one who will help me. 

I’m almost out of food–still haven’t been approved for food stamps.  They asked me again for a statement of my rent.  This is the third one I’ve sent.  But even if I got food stamps, it wouldn’t matter because I can’t get to the grocery store on my own anyway.  There’s no affordable housing that’s close enough to stores.  But it doesn’t matter, I guess, because they’re probably about to take my Social Security away too.  I have to go to a review meeting next week.  They’re going to say I seem fine–people always think I’m fine because I’m smart and usually pretty articulate.  Then they’re going to say I’m faking it for the money and take it away, and I won’t be able to pay any rent.

But if I go back to therapy, I’m just going to get lectured about how I can’t give up.  They say they’ll figure out some way to make it work.  Maybe they will, but even then it will barely even be survival.  That’s not what I want.  It takes too much to keep fighting so hard to get the most basic needs met.  I can’t do it anymore.  I don’t have anything left.  What in this “life” is even worth fighting for?  I don’t want it.

I want to go back to therapy because I want someone to fix me.  I want someone to make it all better.  A can’t do that.  No one can do that.  I’m a grown-up, and nobody’s going to adopt me and take care of me because I’m no one’s problem anymore.  All A can do is tell me not to give up, and I’m way past that point.

But I just want so much not to be alone.  Everything hurts so much.  Every breath feels unbearable.  I don’t think I can survive this, but I don’t want to be alone.

I don’t think I’m going to make it through this.  I feel like a terrible person even saying that because what can anyone do?  I’m just making people watch me die.  But everything hurts so much and I don’t want to be alone.


February 13, 2014 · 4:00 am


They hate me.  A and C both.  C said she didn’t deserve to be treated like I treat my family.  But then they get mad when I don’t give them the answers they want either.  So talk or don’t talk, whatever I do is wrong.  All I do is fuck things up and hurt people.

They won’t let me quit therapy.  I’m an adult, and I need them to respect that.  I need to be alone.  I just feel worse when I see either A or C.  They don’t understand and I can’t explain it to them.

They threatened me.  C just threatened hospital.  A threatened cops and hospital.  And then they want me to trust them.

I’m just so far past done.  They can’t help.  No one can.  So why won’t they just leave me alone?  But they just get mad and I feel even shittier.

Can’t do this anymore.  At all.  Just can’t.


February 11, 2014 · 9:14 pm


I don’t know how I’m going to explain to A what’s going on in my head. I don’t have words. But I have art.

I started working with oil pastels and mandalas when I was at Sheppard Pratt, and it continues to be useful when I just don’t have words. Not sure if I’ll show this to A…maybe, if I have the courage.

On a more pleasant topic, socks! I was talking to a couple of other bloggers about them. I have teeny feet that don’t fit in store-bought socks, so several years ago I started knitting my own.

However, I have what knitters call Second Sock Syndrome: I get bored with the pattern after I make the first sock, so I rarely make a matching pair. I pretend my mismatched socks are some kind of artistic statement, but really I just get bored easily.

Here are some of my socks. More in the laundry, probably, and I’m too lazy to dig them out.





And for added fun, a few works in progress.




The last two pictures are my Elizabeth Warren socks, which I plan to send her when I’m finished. Yes, I’m a weird fan girl. I call them Sox Populi, and I hope someone else here is nerdy enough to get the joke.


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I’m so angry right now I can’t think straight.

A “friend” of mine who I was stupid enough to trust and tell how much I’m struggling has been on my case about going to the hospital.  I said being shamed and treated like I’m less than a person was not what I needed to get better, and she asked why I was so opposed to getting “help.”

So I told her.  I told her about how I’ve been yelled at for self-harming or being suicidal.  How a doctor refused to suture a cut that clearly needed it because he had “real patients who didn’t cause their own problems.”  How I’ve been strip-searched.  How I’ve been watched while showering and using the toilet.  How I’ve been forced to take medications that made me sicker.  How I’ve been threatened with restraints and worse “treatments” if I refused.  How my attempts to get help have been written off as “attention-seeking” and “manipulative.”

I told her about being in the state hospital.  I told her that one night, another patient came into my room, grabbed me by the throat, and hit me in the face over and over again.  Staff refused me any medical attention (I later found out the woman had broken my nose) and told me to “forget about it and move on because she didn’t know what she was doing.”  No attempt was made to protect me.  I told her that one of my roommates repeatedly sexually assaulted me, but I didn’t tell anyone because I knew they wouldn’t care and wouldn’t help me.

And this “friend” blamed me.

She said I should’ve reported any doctor who treated me poorly.  She said if I’d fought back against the woman who beat me up, she would’ve stopped.  She said I should’ve told someone I was being sexually assaulted and they would’ve stopped it.

She blamed me for all of it.

I’m trying to hang onto believing she’s wrong, believing I did the best I could to survive, believing it wasn’t my fault.  But I’m not doing very well.  Not hanging on very tight.

I want to hit her.  I want to beat the shit out of her.  But that turns almost instantly into wanting to slice myself to ribbons and then kill myself.  This is the hardest thing for me–I try so hard to stop blaming myself for all the traumas, but when someone I trust blames me, I fall apart.  I blocked her email and cell number, but her words keep replaying in my head.  I can’t stop that.

I’m really not okay right now.


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