ninetiescat

[ninetiescat]

tbh it’s not that easy tbh when people don’t grasp what’s behind the h words

If I were at Roanoke right now I’d be so frustrated, and shit it’s sort of selfish. All the positive mental health helping stuff they’re doing that I only know about from secondary sources...it’s just bullshit. I’ve become increasingly cynical over the past year of what degree of fucked-up one needs to reach before getting to complain about it—like your one bad day is sadness, it’s not depression, and your nervousness when speaking at your club meeting is anxiety but f u c k how can you complain when you are c a p a b l e of g o i n g to that club meeting? I’m the first to admit and assert that pain is subjective and your worst day may be on the same level as my best day thus yours hurts more in that scenario; this is why I know it’s selfish, but nonetheless. At least can fucking go to that club meeting. Fuck that nervousness when I can’t go to physics or math club meetings no matter how much I want to. In high school, I walked up to the threshold of classrooms where club meetings were being held, and I had full intentions of going to those meetings, but fuck I looked in and my throat closed and while sometimes I froze and tried coaching myself to take just one step in most times I r a n away and screamed and cried in pure panic and as a bonus I got rejection letters from every college I wanted to go to because I wasn’t physically capable of participating in extracurriculars. It blows my m i n d when people talk about their anxiety as they proceed to live normal lives. Hospitals that take the worst of the worst won’t see me because it’s already too bad. I’d love to help people who are having a hard time; I’d love to switch colleges and get some psych degree and do exactly what my therapist does because I know she’s saved my life time and time again and I’d love to do that for other people; I’d love to do that in college, given professors and teachers in high school did already find sad students and say “rae you’re responsible for this one”/“hey this is rae she’s been around the fucked up block a time or twenty she’s gotchu” and I’m good at it and enjoy it; I want to go back to Roanoke and find out if there’s anything I can do like that even if it’s the counsellors saying “hey this is Rae’s number she’s fucked up but she’ll help you outside of my office hours.” I have so much respect and love for people who are going through what I’m going through but...I mean fuck, all these things schools do don’t help shit.

Then again, maybe they do. Maybe little things like that are enough. Maybe a brisk evaluation and slapdash informal “diagnosis” and scripted communal discussion about how Not Guilting Someone into Years of Suffering That They Aren’t Interested In Suicide is Oh So Bad Tragic™ for some people can turn their lives around. Maybe I underestimate how many people’s personal version of “fucked up” is so minimumal that it’s fixable by something that casual. ((Trigger warning below this point. And no you don’t need to be worried, never do, never have needed to; that’s the job for me, my psychiatrist, and my therapist anyway.))

I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night my b my b I already can’t sleep anyway if I in any way led a “discussion” about why people shouldn’t commit suicide. Telling someone to not kill themselves is so fucking selfish and you’d realize that if you ever felt suicidal. Telling someone to not kill themselves is telling them to keep on suffering and just place a bet that things m a y improve with no assurance of when or fucking if. It’s a selfish reflex and I do it all the time. Fight, stay strong, try this, stop that, deep breath fists in the air this is the face you wear treading the riptide. It’s reflexive to say “don’t kill yourself.” I wish people would point out when I smile after they say that because I know I do it and that smile is just lacking the effort of a laugh. I appreciate you wanting me in your life and wanting me to have happiness but that first part is selfish and the second part is a bet and nothing more. I’ve had exactly 24 happy days in my life, 24 days during which I have been okay with being alive, and those 24 weren’t even normal days—they were special exceptions that can’t just happen, there’s no chance that one will come unexpectedly. As of today I’ve been alive 7,398 days. That means I’ve spent 7,371 days wishing I wasn’t alive. For shits and giggles, that’s 176,904 hours; think of your 24 bad hours here and there and 1 or 2 anxious hours now and then, add those up, and compare. Have some of those hours been relatively happy? Sure. But a happy moment doesn’t correlate to a happy day nor a moment during which I was okay with being alive. I’m 20 years old. Yes I unfortunately might have many years ahead of me during which I could be happy and want to be alive on a more regular basis i.e. on regular days, but how could you blame me for really wanting to be dead when 99.635% of the days I’ve been alive have been days I wished I wasn’t? “Life is full of ups and downs,” or as that one song I love goes, “Every low / will have its compliment / of highs”—I hear that, but mathematically, let’s round recklessly and say every 996 lows will have 1 high—likely 1 high I either cannot afford or am not privileged/lucky enough to get. Why would you want someone to live with that, especially if it’s someone you care about? That’s not living. That’s suffering. In no uncertain terms, that is s u f f e r i n g . How can you say you give a shit about someone and yet be okay with them enduring that? With me you can’t say “happier times may come and that’s worth living for” but I have no c l u e what “happier times” look like so I have nothing to look legitimate forward to; those are empty words and people don’t realize that. If you’ve really got it, these school events can’t fix shit. I haven’t found one that raised any new awareness of anything related to depression and suicide. “Suicide awareness”...we’re all fucking aware of what the act of suicide is, but I’d bet anything that if you randomly sampled a hundred college students, no one will understand how meaningless all the words said at those events are. If anything what we need are events hosted by people who live on the edge, live in some twisted form of suspended animation, are in touch with what those words like “depression” “anxiety” “sadness” “hopelessness” “suicide” “end” really mean, people who aren’t success stories yet because success stories focus on the result and people who aren’t success stories don’t have use for your interpretation on how we should proceed with existence, we don’t actually give a fuck if you know how to help us in the moment—we give a fuck if you try to tell us to keep suffering or not without understanding what your words really mean and feel like. Tell that to the heads of your fucking committees. Everything you’re doing now has already been done and we have the internet. You’re not providing the suppressed unsung information. It can’t be presented by some neurotypical person who’s had a panic attack before and a couple sad days; unfortunately you need to hand the mic to the loose cannons people who live it, are living in it, have spent time nestled in it, and can grasp the words that exit their lips more than understanding what a racing heart and falling tear feels like. You’re not doing it right and you’re missing an important opportunity. Evaluation is important but I’ve talked to more adults than I can count about this and I know 1. the most useful/helpful/beneficial/change/inciting thing—there is no one word for this—comes from metaphorically professionally fucked up peers, and 2. the ones who’ve got it bad who haven’t sought help yet get this look in their eyes when they see someone in their shoes—age group, emotional state, also not success stories yet, etc.—talking about their shit with experience, especially when the one speaking is educated on the topic, as one like me who’s fought more than they really cared to is/has had to be. We are certainly loose cannons, but we can rein ourselves in. We aren’t dead yet after all, are we?

[ninetiescat]

story of my medications

This is my response to the message I received on my sarahah (@illusionarium), reading,

May be a bit personal, but I want to know your story behind all of your medication. Your social medias are phenomenal which raises my curiosity as to why you have to take so much.

This is going to be way more information than what you asked for. I haven’t proofread this but I tried to write carefully. Potential trigger warning beyond this point.

I’ll start at the very beginning, getting to the more-than-you-asked-for right away.

How I got on meds in the first place:

In January 2012, the night of day 1 of the second semester of my freshman year of high school, so roughly five and a half years ago, I was involuntarily put under mandatory 72-hour hold in a psychiatric ward for threatening to kill myself. I was in there until the afternoon of day 3 of the semester. This is pertinent because I wanted and somehow proceeded to achieve straight A’s and knew that staying in longer meant I was missing more class-time and putting that at risk it took a month to catch up on those three days I shit you not. (For the full hospital story, see this post.) While being held there, I did my best to abide by the rules the hospital operated by—i.e. rules none of us were directly informed of, rules we had to be informed of by our fellow inmates let’s be honest, it was essentially a prison who were there before us and learned the hard way so we didn’t have to—but those rules were just things to check legal boxes, they didn’t make any real sense, and they weren’t consistent, so despite my genuine best efforts, it became very clear very quickly that they wouldn’t release me after 72 hours (72 hours is only the minimum) if I didn’t sell my soul to the devil. I always swore I would never take psychiatric medications—I just didn’t believe in it, if I was doomed to be sad then so be it, I didn’t have anything against other people taking meds but I didn’t want it for myself under any circumstances—but I couldn’t afford to be held longer than the bare minimum basically if I took a breath one second later than expected, Staff would threaten to hold me for an extra week, a threat that was said to me five times, so I agreed to be medicated to check one of their damn boxes needed for an on-time release. Then, when released (about 24-hours after agreeing to take meds and taking the first dose), I was told that if I stopped taking the meds I would be readmitted. I assumed, despite Staff being heartless assholes for the most part, that they—medical professionals (well, sort of)—wouldn’t flat out lie to me, so I reluctantly continued taking the meds. I cried, I went to the doctor they referred me to every month and a half, I sold my soul and gave up what I stood for, I took my shit as prescribed, I was a good girl, and I hated every second of it, but I hated it less than I hated hospitalization. It wasn’t until a year and a half later that I cried to that doctor (who was very nice; I quite enjoyed seeing her) about hating being on meds and wanting to stop but knowing I can’t without being readmitted, and she, surprised by my statement, informed me that that was a lie, I was never required to keep taking them, they could not readmit me for that, period end of story, I had been blatantly lied to. Unfortunately, by then I had gotten in too deep (I’ll explain why), so despite still hating being on meds, I carried on.

Why I stayed on them:

I grew up depressed, anxious, and with insomnia; it’s all I’ve ever known, so I couldn’t complain too much having never known better I mean I complain all the time, talked about suicide etc., but I wasn’t fighting for better because I didn’t know what to fight for and didn’t have the motivation too. A year and a half into bouncing from medication to medication (I’ll elaborate later), I had had no success with improving my depression or anxiety, but after about a year of that, I found a sleeping medication that worked, and holy fucking shit. Over the course of my life, my sleep had been getting progressively worse; for instance, at age 14.5, Night 2 in the psych ward, bedtime from 10pm through 7am, I took over an hour to fall asleep and woke up eight times I remember because Staff yelled at me about this the next morning. That was quite normal for me, I wasn’t accustomed to anything better, but getting a night of what normal sleep should be for the first time…was just something I couldn’t pass up. It was like a brand new world. The medicine that did the trick was an atypical antidepressant prescribed to me for insomnia by that point my doc had gone off-label, as I was already failing to respond to traditional treatments, so I said fuck it and kept on making my way down Big Pharma’s product list trying to treat all my issues for the heck of it. Note however that I had also been diagnosed with ADHD, a problem I wasn’t previously aware of, and medication for it worked also, but I could’ve accepted pre-ADHD-med life more than pre-insomnia-med life.

Since then:

My insurance dropped that first doctor not technically a doctor, psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner, PMHNP, didn’t know that for a long time, didn’t know there was an important difference at the year and a half mark, so I switched to doc #2 not a doctor, advanced practice registered nurse, APRN, who quit and was replaced by #3 some kind of nurse practitioner who quit and was replaced by #4 APRN whom I hated, so I switched to #5 family nurse practitioner, FNP, who was great, but I really needed a psychiatrist. So now I’m seeing #6, a psychiatrist! A PhD! An MD! At last! My therapist of five years said I needed an actual psychiatrist and advised I try to get off of my meds (four total at the time), which is a main reason I took medical withdrawal from college in March. This doctor is fab and is trying so hard to get me the best treatment possible. We tried weaning off slowly, but the withdrawal symptoms were too bad to handle alone, so we’ve tried substituting new meds with them to ease the withdrawals (elaborated on later). Because of how that is going, he wants me to seek a second opinion technically an eighth if we include the psych ward, five NPs, my therapist of five years, and himself from an accredited institution if we can find one that will see me because my “case has advanced beyond what conventional medical treatments can help” and I have “suffered too long,” and if a re-evaluation shows that my diagnoses are correct, I could benefit possibly from experimental treatments or clinical trials since my shit is so treatment resistant.

How that’s going—what I’m diagnosed with and what all I’ve tried:

Chronologically, I’ve been diagnosed with major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, insomnia, ADHD, and panic disorder, with anorexia nervosa present but left undiagnosed. In trying to treat my five diagnoses in the last five and a half years, I’ve had my system pumped with twenty-five different psychotropic medications. Of the 25, I’ve only had any success with/positive reaction to 8. I’m currently on 6 daily. Let’s list them out chronologically with more info than you asked for for shits and giggles shall we—“[medication class] prescribed for [whatever, usually off-label], italicized means it worked, bolded means I’m currently on it:

Zoloft/Sertraline—(from the hospital) antidepressant for depression & anxiety

Xanax/Alprazolam—sedative for anxiety

Trazodone—weird antidepressant for insomnia

Tranxene/Clorazepate—benzodiazepine for insomnia

Ambien/Zolpidem—hypnotic for insomnia

Prozac/Fluoxetine—antidepressant for depression

Elavil/Amitriptyline—idk it treats everything and was prescribed for idk I can’t remember tbh

Remeron/Mirtazapine—atypical antidepressant for insomnia (worked for a year, stopped, immediately replaced by Seroquel)

Adderall XR and IR—stimulant for ADHD (XR extremely effective but couldn’t tolerate ingesting it, IR ineffective)

Buspar/Buspirone—anxiolytic for anxiety

Inderal/Propranolol—beta blocker for anxiety/depression

Seroquel/Quetiapine—atypical antipsychotic for insomnia

Lamictal/Lamotrigine—anticonvulsant for depression (under slow withdrawal at the moment)

Daytrana/Methylphenidate—stimulant for ADHD

Klonopin/Clonazepam—benzodiazepine for anxiety

Valium/Diazepam—benzodiazepine for anxiety then insomnia

Lexapro/Escitalopram—antidepressant for depression

Wellbutrin/Bupropion—antidepressant for suicidal thoughts (it helped a bit)

Atarax/Hydroxyzine HCl—antihistamine for insomnia

Phenergan/Promethazine—antihistamine for insomnia

Clonidine HCl—alpha blocker for insomnia & high blood pressure/elevated heart rate

Trileptal/Oxcarbazepine—anticonvulsant for depression/to ease Lamictal withdrawals

Vyvanse/Lisdexamfetamine—stimulant for ADHD

Dexedrine/Dextroamphetamine—stimulant for ADHD

Evekeo/Amphetamine—stimulant for ADHD

So I’m currently on Seroquel, Lamictal, Valium, Clonidine, Trileptal, and Evekeo—three for insomnia, two for depression, and one for ADHD. I am incapable of sleeping without sleeping medications; I go about 36 hours wide awake, then go from wired to unconscious note that sleep is not an unconscious state for about half an hour, then snap back awake as if nothing has ever happened until I take the next dose. I have extreme difficulty reading, comprehending, writing, and understanding information without ADHD medication, one of the main two reasons I’m taking a second semester off from school. My anxiety is debilitating and currently only being treated through therapy, which is undoubtedly beneficial but not the same; I used to take Valium to stop my panic attacks (it would calm down the physical symptoms so I could use what I’ve learned in therapy to calm the mental symptoms), but when I started taking it for sleep it stopped working for panic, so I just have to ride it out. I started Clonidine as a substitute for Valium for falling asleep, but it makes me so damn sleepy during the day that I’ve been slow to let go of the Valium and raise the Clonidine. I’m not addicted to any of it, simply terrified to not sleep. A sleepless night is a nightmare few people understand; yeah no one likes a sleepless night, but it’s fucking torture when you get more suicidal with every second you’re awake. I get in bed every night terrified that this will be the night I stop sleeping; Seroquel, for the first four years, worked effortlessly for making me fall and stay asleep for roughly eight hours and wake up on my own with no drowsiness, then all of a sudden it stopped helping me fall asleep and out of desperation I added on Valium because it was my only option and I knew it had hypnotic properties. Since it’s not healthy to be on it super long term, my doc wanted me to trade it for something safer, like Clonidine. I was put on Lamictal after going through rounds of antidepressants that failed; Lamictal treats seizure disorders and bipolar disorder and is related to Trileptal but carries a greater risk of a deadly side effect. Seroquel is an antipsychotic that also treats bipolar disorder; it seems the medications that work best for me with the fewest side effects are the ones that treat bipolar disorder, for which I have not been diagnosed (technically I am down as bipolar in my files for insurance reasons, as my insurance could request my files, see the depression diagnosis, and refuse to pay for Seroquel and Lamictal because they are not approved to treat unipolar depression), which I find interesting. Trileptal has shown very little evidence on efficacy at treating mood disorders and is in no way approved for their treatment, but I have responded to so few medications that my latest doc thought hey, why not. Fun, isn’t it?

And at last,

why I have to take so much:

My shit, aka an intricately intertwined clusterfuck, is just so damn treatment resistant that 1. no one medicine can treat any one problem well enough to suffice on its own 2. everything is so bad that even if one worked really well and wiped out one problem altogether the others really can’t go untreated yet. There are only two instances in which I am okay with being alive—on stage performing or in an airport. I’m not lucky/privileged enough anymore for the former occasion (bonus: my sleeping meds contain antihistamine properties and I’ve watched as my voice has deteriorated over the past four years, escalating in the last four with the addition of Clonidine) and not rich enough for the latter to occur as often as I’d like, so I spend virtually every day wishing I was dead. It’s so normal to me now. It’s been twenty years. I can smile and laugh and dance around for a few minutes, but that’s all I get; it doesn’t last. My favourite singer can release a new song and I’ll cry with happiness as I sing at the top of my lungs for hours or see some aesthetically pleasing decoration in a store and take a hundred pictures of it and that’ll make my day, but it simply doesn’t last. I’ve only managed to live this long because my anxiety is severe in just the right ways to keep me incapable of going through with any method of suicide. I’ve become accustomed to coasting by; I often wonder how many people can tell I’ve got issues or can tell what kind of issues I have without being informed first. I wonder too what I’m like beneath the medications, if I would even be recognizable; I thought I would find that out over the summer, but that will have to wait until the weaning is all done I suppose my psychiatrist estimated the process would take 3.5 years when I started seeing him.

Soooo…I hope that answered your question and makes some sort of sense. Feel free to inquire further; I’ve spent the past six months doing nothing but researching and focusing heavily on all of this so I know it well and have a lot to say about it.

[ninetiescat]

the story of the start of an eating disorder

Trigger warning. Story below the read more.

I have so many messages to reply to I’m so sorry everyone; writing this has been good, finally getting words out

I didn’t realize they changed the DSM. I fell under EDNOS in IV, but in 5 the definition changed—anorexia nervosa now. I’ve earned my wings, dark black wings. Here we go.

Now that I’m home I don’t have anyone making sure that I eat, I don’t have access to much and when we go shopping I don’t ask for anything because I don’t know what I want, I have no lunch plans I can rely on, no one watches over me. This is the only time in my life I’ve been upset about it, genuinely upset. I don’t like this. You never know what you’ve got until it’s gone I guess.

I remember it all too well. I remember it. Water. I didn’t want to leave in the first place. I can still feel the vibe in the room. I remember parking and how it looked from the outside. That’s where it began. Just water. It was crowded and loud and yellow. My anxiety was high and I was sick as hell. I was against the wall. I was nauseous. There were too many people; it was too loud. My head was too loud. I wanted to go home. Sure it was part conscious defiance. It was about ten percent “I’ll show you.” The rest was “I feel like dying, so why aren’t you listening?” I remember the inside joke, just not its origin. I didn’t want it. I could be quiet and dissociate and not a bother. You didn’t need to yell at me. My anxiety was high and I was sick as hell. It felt like my skin was peeling off. I needed air. No one cared. I remember it all too well. That’s how it began. Five months later it was official. But that was when it began. But that was when it began. That was it. If only I had protested harder. If only I channeled my anxiety into throwing up. If only my words had meaning. If only you had protected me. You could’ve protected me. You should’ve protected me. Bullshit, it was all a cop out. It felt like I was drowning in air. I couldn’t do it. That ten percent dropped to zero. I was one hundred percent sick. I was one hundred percent terrified. I didn’t need a voice raised at me. I didn’t need your silence. I was fragile. I was learning how to not hate myself; I didn’t need more ammunition. I was fragile and susceptible to anything and everything. I didn’t want anything. Pass. Water. I was trapped. I was drowning. I can’t remember the root of the inside joke, just the friend it started with, an irrelevant detail, maybe never mentioned. After a long series of events I learned that zero in tennis is love, the only real love. I lost the notebook with my old lyrics in it—I remember taking it to practice and editing them on the fly, but I must’ve thrown it away with my hopes and dreams and all the cliché shit—but I wrote so much of love I could never have, all splattered in tears of the frustration buried in every line; “I wish I knew that you would save me, / but believing that’d be wrong.” “I’m at the end of the line. / You’ve run out of time.” “You should have made a choice / just before you were given a voice.” “You aren’t here to sing me lullabies / when I am filled with fright.” “All these things I have to say turn into these songs. / I’ve never seen love and I don’t believe in it because—” Oh heaven help me. That was the first and that was the last. Water. There’s no turning back. I guess I ran out of time. You could’ve stopped it. You could’ve stopped it all. You could’ve been there. You should’ve said something. My palate couldn’t handle it. My gag reflex was triggered. I was nauseous. Water was too much. Someone could’ve stopped it. A simple “don’t treat her that way” could’ve spared it all. Sure, maybe by the time April came I would’ve fallen victim anyway; maybe it was in my blood, burned into the back of my head, a section of my DNA; maybe it was lying beneath the surface waiting to be set off. I remember it all, stumbling out the door bleary-eyed 4am “Call 911” and “Please Don’t Go” memorizing the highways, the twists and turns, sights and songs; I remember it all. I stood on stage for two years with my stomach sucked in and sang the woes I could never speak; I couldn’t force the words out after I tried and instead of being respected was forced to eat. I’ve been choking on my emotions ever since, drowning. I feel limitless on stage; there’s nothing to hold back and no one to hold me—to hold me back or to hold me. I feel powerful, cue Ellie Goulding’s song. I wanted to say it all. I had so much to say. I was thoughtful. Hell, after years of unsaid thoughts, I had blood to spill all over stage, overflowing from my mouth, drowning, zero. I had so much to say; I lost my chance; I was sick; when will I have that chance again? You weren’t there when I sang the woes; I don’t even know if you know. I was trying to practice one night and slipped out of my chair; I’m glad I caught it on film. You should’ve been there. I was almost willing, you know? I was really close to being willing, wanting, making amends or something. Now it’s just bitterness burning a whole right through me. It’s acidic.

Yellow walls. Clear water. Zero in tennis, zero in all black, zero with my black wings tucked in. In therapy, way back at the start, I represented myself as a black caged bird in a blocked off room; it seemed right, it fit, it didn’t have an origin, or so I thought. It doesn’t matter now. I guess you never noticed how the light escaped my eyes every time you walked away. I sang those words at the top of my lungs, the top and all the way down, with the deepest breaths, all the way down. I remember it all. I kind of hate “The Light,” but it started as mine and then got a whole life of its own, a totally surreal blessing. I sang it on the happiest day of my life. I let the blood run free, spilled all over the stage, and I left my heart there. I was delirious. I’ve never felt more alone; being on stage is the loneliest, most powerful place to be. Damn, I wish you could’ve seen it. The air was so pure. Everything was so pure. Dreams came true, purity, I found heaven alone, with no one to celebrate with. People screamed, cheered, hugged, elated, and I stood by and watched on the outside. Encore, they said. Dreams came so true. I sang of love I never knew, watched on the outside. I wonder if you would’ve been proud. Do you even know? Spotlights are warm. I wore jeans the first time. It was a mistake. I was boiling alive under the lights singing my lungs out, spilling the bloody feelings everywhere. It’s funny—flash back to my first round, eight hundred, one light, black backdrop of heavy curtains, black shirt black skirt black shoes, I couldn’t make out any of the faces in the crowd but the song was sent out to you; I stared into the spotlight across the room, eyes burning, imagining that light was there with you beside it. I was so furious, enflamed, burned vexed, but I let it all out. I was sucking in my stomach. I only wanted water. I remember. The happiest day of my life, I wasn’t alone on stage, but microphone in hand, no one else exists, nothing else exists. I was, for all intents and purposes, alone. I wore jeans the first time, boiled, and didn’t do it again on my happiest day. It was powerful. I want to go back to that day so badly; I want that power again; I want to live that day again at this age and feel powerful over my eating disorder. I don’t feel like it controls my life, I’ve moved past that part of it, but it originated from exactly what I sing about, scream about, bleed about. I wrote “The Light” either right before or right after it all began; it hurts. Powerful. My second day in the psychiatric ward, Staff said I didn’t eat the day before, but I never noticed, I never experienced hunger. All of my rights were taken away from me, they would’ve forced me to eat if I didn’t nibble on my own, but they wouldn’t have made me feel like shit over that. No one there would’ve protected me, but that’ll always be different. I felt attacked, you know? The world against me. Food against me. Under attack. Zero. You’re supposed to understand. You were supposed to understand.

I relapsed into cutting and my eating disorder during this academic year; despite everything I did so well until I got pushed ever so slightly too much. December 4th I found peace walking the streets of Salem in the dark, walkways lit by stores’ Christmas lights before sunrise. I was cold and alone. The streets were my lonely stage. It was a gentle peace. My last cut was the 8th, but I kept torturing myself with my eating disorder, ripping it all apart, my silent disease. People with brown eyes and black hair must be destined to rip me apart by—well—everyone already knows. It’s all the same. Stumbling out the door bleary-eyed 4am memorizing the streets.

So I remember it all.

I remember it all.

[ninetiescat]

this is the face I wear treading the riptide

I finally started listening to a song I downloaded over a month ago and it reminded me of something. “It’s four in the morning. / I’m finding my own. / You know you never said sorry / for all that you stole. // Now I’m going that way, / and you’ll never find me. / Five years older today, / molding clay. / Found you never knew me; / now I can find happy. / Nothing to show / but my name.” It’s been five years as of this January 3rd that I fucked up and walked into hell around 4:14am the next morning; I believe that was the time on that plastic bracelet they put on you when you’re admitted into a hospital.

I’m going to chronicle the longest 72 hours of my life. I’ve talked about it a lot, but it’s been cathartic putting it all in words. I tried my best to proofread. There’s no way that I can really put into words how horrible every instance of what I’m writing about was. Take the worst you can imagine and multiply by ten to start.

Slight trigger warning.

So.

After shit went down freshman year of high school, shit I fortunately was able to avoid this year, I said too much. A bit after I said too much, I finally crashed on my bed after a horrible day, cried my makeup off, calmed down, felt better, and before I knew it there were six or seven or eight police officers in my tiny house—smaller because we were taking down Christmas decorations and boxes filled the house—with an ambulance in the yard, and a firetruck in the street, all because I said too much and a really stupid and thoughtless decision was made totally out of my hands. They made me roll up my plaid sleeves (see 1 below), blue and black and red shades I believe, to check for cuts, of which I had none at the time. I got the “I have a daughter blah blah she’ll be okay after she’s sad blah blah I wouldn’t want her to feel his way blah blah” cookie-cutter bullshit from one of them as I nodded and “mhmm"ed totally tuned out before having to be put on the stretcher and put in an ambulance headed to the hospital up the road. Five minutes passed and it was 6pm when I was carted into my hospital room and had to put on a shitty gown, wrapping my arms around my chest because I can’t handle not having a bra on should I ever be in that situation again, I will not remove my bra. My clothes were put in a bag, like that you’d see on tv when detectives are collecting evidence from murder suspects. I had to explain what caused me to experience an emotion god forbid I experience an emotion and say too much and land myself there—pouring plenty of salt into the emotional wound reliving it again and again and againandagainandagain, not that anyone gave a shit—to maybe six healthcare workers, maybe more. The main doctor assigned to me, to whom I also had to explain everything, was very religious and very homophobic, and my reason for being there included homosexuality and I stupidly answered when he asked what my religious views were. I, a far too open person, answered honestly, not entirely realizing that I am under no obligation to answer such a question *gasp* you might say I wasn’t thinking clearly after the barrage of shit I had been put through starting at 6pm, but that’s just my opinion, for which no one cared, shocker. I, already destroyed inside, was then lectured h a r d about how I’m there because of my sins and being gay is just a phase and I’ll see how wrong I am one day, not that I hadn’t heard any of that before. The problem was that he was in control of my medical treatment and I was everything he despised and I didn’t seem remorseful enough. Once I opened my mouth to him, I was done. My fate was sealed. No matter what I said to anyone, after speaking to him, I was screwed. He played God and called the shots about me going to Hell. They needed to draw blood to test for drugs in my system, of which I had none, and despite expressing my intense fear of needles and the nurse trying to be kind and calm me down and find some anxiety-reducing medication to make it easier for me, the doctor gave instructions for me to be held down and have it be forcefully drawn. I screamed and cried. They put a cotton ball on it with tape and I pressed on it with one hand because it hurt; the other hand was on my chest. I said too much.

They had to send the blood to LSU’s medical center for it to be tested, which took hours, so I lay there in a cold room full of wires not an intelligent choice for someone who isn’t happy about being alive from 6pm until sometime in the 3am hour. Bedtime was typically 9pm for me, so after I was finally left unbothered around 11pm or midnight, I started trying to doze off, but as an insomniac, an actual episode of sleep wasn’t possible. Once I was close to an actual episode of sleep, I was told it was time to go—not home, but to a psychiatric ward. I thought it was optional, but in the thousands of interviews I gave that night, I said too much, and it was not optional, not that it ever would have been given my doctor’s views; I was screwed from the second I opened my mouth. I said too much.

I was being placed under mandatory 72-hour hold.

I was given the choice between Children’s Hospital and River Oaks, and not knowing anything about either, I chose Children’s. I chose wrong. By 3am-ish, I was rolled out on a gurney into an ambulance again headed there across the Causeway. The guy in the ambulance with me was very kind; he made me laugh and was positive unlike every other person I had encountered that day. I can’t recall his name or what we talked about, but he was kind and I stayed calm. I thanked him once the ambulance stopped and I was rolled out again. I said almost enough that time; I wish I could’ve said more.

I was taken to the third or fourth floor. Why place the suicidal kids on floors with windows high enough for them to jump out of? Once unstrapped, I was taken to a room that, if my memory serves me right, looked something like New Hall’s honors classroom. A lady explained where I was and what was going to happen; my father only by genes sat next to me on the couch. I was told to remove my earrings, then my shoelaces. Classic Converse, as opposed to the new II version of which I have two pairs now, do not have anything to hold the tongue of the shoe to the rest of the shoe, so whenever I walked, I took small steps to keep my feet from sliding out of them. After removing my shoelaces, I stood up and was going to be taken to my room, but the lady noticed I was wearing a belt, so I then removed that; luckily my jeans could stay on better than my chucks.

They put on my hospital bracelet, the kind that snaps. It read 4:14am as the time of admission and was waterproof. That was what I fiddled with my entire time there; I seriously regret not keeping it.

I got to my room, bigger than the one at home or college, with a loudly ticking clock and a big window that made the room too bright with all the city night lights. Staff (see 2 below) said it was the last room left; since that time, I’ve read that psychiatric ward rooms usually have two occupants each, and I’m not sure if this ward was that way, but the way Staff made it sound, I was lucky to have that room. Maybe that’s why I need a single at college. Originally my petition to have a single was declined basically because they knew I wasn’t the happiest camper and were worried that I would kill myself if left alone. That makes me wonder why I had a single in the hospital. Staff shut the door. I cried and cried because I wanted to go home. The bed was uncomfortable. I didn’t have the opportunity to explain to anyone why I wasn’t going to show up at school again or be in contact with anyone for a while, about which I felt guilty and sad. I fell asleep around 6:40am and was woken up by a Staff at 7am; it was time for group therapy, and my lack of sleep and lack of a shower were unimportant details to them. Note here that Staff thrived on details.

This was when the real fun began.

Group therapy was referred to simply as “group.” There were roughly fifteen of us. We sat on chairs in a wide circle, with Staff also sitting in the circle, at the front. Aside from every physics and linear algebra exam this year, I have a tie for the three most demoralizing experiences of my life. The whole time there was demoralizing, but group was the worst. In group, you had to spill your guts, like I had to all the medical Staff at the hospital merely twelve hours prior. When it came to my turn to tell my story, I did as I always do—I gave as many details as I can to paint the clearest picture possible. I learned years ago that if you give every single detail then there’s no wiggle room for someone to twist your words and get away with saying “well you didn’t say [insert thing/event here] wasn’t [insert incriminating/bullshit lie here]” without actually lying; there was no room for a story of a lie of omission. I tore myself apart and gave every possible detail despite not wanting to fucking relive it another fucking time. We had group several times a day, and on day two I was pulled aside by Staff and told that if I didn’t talk more or give more details in group then they would hold me for another week. I assumed right then that I would have another week because I knew—and explicitly told them—that I was doing everything I could. Everything is cookie-cutter in Children’s psychiatric ward, and I didn’t fit the mold. Saying too much got me in there, yet it seemed that that was not too much or nearly enough for them.

That first day, soon as we inmates had time alone relatively speaking with each other, after I’d said “I just want to go home” the first time, I was informed by my fellow inmates (a girl named Amber first) of all the things I absolutely must not say or do. Everyone looked out for each other. Everyone cared. Those were truly some of the sweetest and most special people I have ever met. We looked out for each other. As soon as someone new was admitted, someone or multiple people would make sure to inform the newbie of how things work as to make their time there end faster. You never say you want to leave. You do whatever Staff wants, alter your story to be whatever they want, because it’s survival of the fittest—the fittest to be an actor, to submit, to obey. Your pain is irrelevant. One girl couldn’t cry for some reason; she was sad and hurting like the rest of us, but she couldn’t cry. Staff told her they wouldn’t release her until she cried. No one should be forced to cry.

As for their sweetness, up until then, I had never been invited to sit with people at meals; I’d been avoided or shooed away, so I never expected a group of people who are feeling bad to be so kind. That was a massive misconception; they proved me wrong in many ways. The girls sat at different tables than the boys; the rule was we were to be no closer than elbow’s length to another person of the same sex and no closer than an arm’s length from the opposite sex. There was a boy who was sitting at a table alone not being spoken to because the other boys’ table was full, and our table had an empty seat, but sadly I couldn’t invite him to sit with us; that sucked.

As for their specialness, from what they said in group, their backgrounds were all different, they had different demons that landed them there, they had talents and hopes and dreams and plans outside of those four walls and zillion locked doors. One girl admitted after me had the voice of an angel (see 3a below); she had the best R&B voice I’ve ever heard, and if I could remember her name I’d make sure to buy every record she produces. The other, there before me, was Amber. She had long black hair and a messy barcode of healed and healing scars on her arms. One night she tied her hair up in a bow; it was so beautiful especially for someone who had no supplies to work with and no mirror. She wanted to be a hairdresser someday, and if I could remember her last name I’d go to her salon before anyone else’s. In there we weren’t allowed to share last names. Amber and another girl worked on colouring sheets and camouflaged their names in them and took the other’s sheet with them. I remember how badly I wanted to do that, but I didn’t have the courage; I blame the crush-at-first-sight. Amber was the first person to speak to me there. Sometime when we conversed, she said that this wasn’t her first rodeo. It was heartbreaking that someone as wonderful as her could be institutionalized more than once; it was unfair that someone so pure could be plagued by such pain. I believe I mentioned that I was given the choice of which psych ward to go to, and she had previously been in River Oaks but this time around was sent to Children’s. She said she’d pick River Oaks over Children’s any day; she said River Oaks was the “party house” and so much more pleasant. I’d never wanted to go to a party house so much in my life. Children’s was hell.

Day one, sometime midday or afternoon, I asked if I could have anything to hold my shoes together to keep my feet from sliding out, and I was given two zip ties, which I accepted and thought was a pretty smart idea. My feet are narrow, so I pulled them kind of tight in two holes a bit more than halfway up, both shoes. I learned then that zip ties are very sturdy, and they will leave bruises on your feet and will hurt excruciatingly like someone is taking a whip to your foot every time you move a muscle starting after the first minute of wearing them. No one allowed me to cut them off despite voicing that agony; this was something I asked for, and as nothing better than a prisoner, I had no rights, especially none to make requests that would help me feel better. Needless to say I was elated to get my shoelaces back in a plastic bag once released. I learned to treasure shoelaces.

Day one was a blur. I think we were allotted one phone call and mine was that day. I swear we were prisoners; for seventy-two hours I went from prisoner of my own mind to prisoner of a shitty institution. Mine was a fucking waste. A year and a half later I knew there was roughly a 75% chance that I’d be hospitalized for an eating disorder at a different unit so I wrote the only phone numbers I cared about on my abdomen in sharpie; the ones on file at Children’s were bullshit and I couldn’t remember the important ones, the only voices I wanted to hear.

Back to group. The last big group session of the day was between 10 and 11pm. As previously stated, my bedtime was 9pm. I was not thrilled. Having big group multiple times a day made me feel naked; I had nothing left to give. We also had small group sessions on the floor above the main ward floor. My small group was in a tiny room with lots of sunlight and couches and chairs that didn’t match; it felt like a corner of an attic with a slanted ceiling. This group was led by a different person, and she, like the other Staff overseeing big group, said that I didn’t share enough and poked and prodded, just more salt in new wounds made greater by big group. That happened once or twice each day. Since it was on a different floor, we had to go through lots of doors to get there; I’ve never gone through so many, and all of them were locked. Our Staff lady had the most full keyring I’ve ever seen. It really was a prison.

After one of my small group sessions, day two I believe, I had to see the doctor; I didn’t realize that was a thing, but it was my turn. All I remember is lying down on the table and cringing and shaking and panicking and saying “no” with a weak voice because a woman was pushing on my abdomen, and the fact that I panic when other people touch me without my permission, especially like that, didn’t matter.

We also had individual therapists assigned to us. The room my individual session was held in looked like my room in New Hall at night with choppy city lights flowing in; the blinds must have been messed up because individual sessions were held during daytime. I remember the chair I sat in. My session was led by a therapist much like the doctor at my local hospital. No answer was good enough for her. I even tried crying, but to no avail. She reported back to the rest of Staff. By the way everyone was reacting to me opening my mouth I figured they’d never release me.

Anyway, I can’t remember if I showered before morning group or after night group each day, but I remember the first time I showered (we had a shower in each of our rooms), I kept my right arm away from the water as to not get the cotton ball wet because I knew they wouldn’t give me a new one or a bandage; maybe the needle hole had already healed, but in my mind it still hurt and I still needed to take care of it. That first time I showered, I stayed in for nearly an hour; Staff warned me multiple times that I needed to get out of the shower, but the water was nice. It made the hospital-ness flow off; I felt clean inside and out. I worried Staff would come in and pull me out since the shower doors didn’t lock, but thankfully they didn’t. Not being able to shave was a massive issue, but I had so many other issues at the time that I let that one slide, which never happens.

Towards the end of day one, I was asked if I wanted my grandma to come to the family therapy group session. I said “no, I’d rather her not be there,” but Staff doesn’t ever listen. Sometime day two, my father only by blood and grandma came. The therapist we got, whom I hadn’t seen before, wanted me to talk it out with them, but the problem is that I was there for homosexual reasons and I didn’t want my homophobic grandmother to find out about everything. Staff didn’t care apparently. I had done everything to keep my home life from being more hellish than it already was by keeping these gay facts secret, and Staff blew that to hell. Home life was already bad. This made it explode. After ten minutes I was crying so hard that Staff physically pulled me out and sent me to my room. I didn’t appreciate the pulling but the session would’ve been useless or even more counterproductive anyway.

Morning of day two, Staff informed me that I hadn’t eaten at all on day one. We had five chances to eat: breakfast, morning snack, lunch, afternoon snack, and dinner. I had been invited to sit with some of the other girls, so I wasn’t not eating because I was unusually sad or something; my mind was just incredibly occupied and it never occurred to me to eat. I do remember showering and feeling light though; it must’ve been a nighttime shower. So I nibbled during each eating session because I was so sick to my stomach over the whole situation, metaphorically and literally, that anything more would probably make me throw up. They tolerated it for four of the five eating times. I think I ate most of my lunch; the food was actually decent, and I think it was grilled cheese.

Day two midday, my lips were on fire after having not applied chapstick for a long time; this was nothing unusual. Of all the things I was allowed to bring me not a large number, that was not one of them; supposedly you can kill yourself by eating a lot of chapstick. I only had one. Several others requested chapstick, so Staff at the front desk said they’d go to Walgreens and get some. They actually did, and later that day I went back to the desk to ask if I could use one; my lips were bleeding by this point. I had seen Staff hand one to someone about an hour before me; a lady reached beneath the front desk to a bin one foot below where she was working. When I asked, bleeding lips and the best manners showing, I was told “no.” She would have had to move her hand down one foot, then up one foot, and then down one foot again. I’m pretty sure they were only paid to do one nice or humanly decent thing per day and the other inmate got the one humane act of the day; I was shit out of luck until discharged.

A bit after that, Staff said we had all been behaving well and they would take us outside to the hospital’s playground, equipped with concrete and a basketball hoop, grass and a swing set, and a sandy area, surrounded by high walls. I took to the swing immediately, and a girl—specifically the only one whose full name I remember—sat in the adjacent swing. She was younger than me and I tried cheering her up, but she was having no part of it. We swung silently until some kid freaked out, and we all had to go back inside. I was at peace swinging higher than I’m comfortable with, breathing in the outside air and fixating on the sky; January is technically winter, but it felt like spring to me that day. “We took you outside / for the first time / from the hospital. / You let the sun in. / We welcomed you to spring / from the hospital.” It was nice while it lasted.

Later in day two, everyone had their meeting with the psychiatrist. This was the most important thing, more so than big group or little group or individual therapy. We were called in one by one, most out of the middle of big group, and she grilled everyone; we had to tell our stories another time, and supposedly she was the devil incarnate, which is something considering the rest of Staff were awful (barring one man, Clay or Carl or Ben, some short name; everyone liked him). There were five Staff assigned to each case, all of whom we’d met before, who were also in the meeting on a couch, sitting silently, with the psychiatrist in her desk. I was one of the last to go in. I went in with good posture, said what needed to be said, and expected the same reaction from her as from everyone else. I started melting down a bit and rambled about school and apparently other things that I was anxious about, and she listened without grilling me further. She spoke nicely to me and didn’t seem to hate me; she didn’t meet the previous expectations I had. The downside was when she suggested medication. She said they’d release me sooner if I agreed to be medicated. I was so beyond done and so seriously needed to be back in school that I agreed. She let me leave; I had said enough, I said the right things. I went back to group and everyone asked how it went later, and I said she was nice and it went well; they were surprised. They cared. I overlooked the medication part.

Night of day two was visitation time. Staff put on the movie “Radio” in the big group room and we were called out one by one to see our families. The movie was sad so I don’t know why they picked it. I waited and waited. Eventually everyone left the room except for me; the one nice Staff member was the only person and overseer there. I drew my legs up to my chest in my chair, wrapped my arms around them, and rested my head on my knees. He asked if I was okay, and I said yes; normally such a position would result in Staff freaking out and you’d get in trouble, but this guy was nice. I wasn’t surprised. I just wanted to go to bed; I was up for no reason. No one was coming for me.

Before bedtime of day two, a female Staff handed me a small plastic cup with the small pill in it. I told her that I am not able to swallow pills, and she said “Too bad.” It was bitter when chewed, but not as bitter as some I’ve had since then. (See 4 below.)

I don’t think they gave me the antidepressant they said they were giving me. After half an hour, I could barely breathe, it felt like my heart had stopped beating, I could barely stand or speak, and when we had our last big group of the day, a girl was sharing something seriously not funny but I couldn’t stop laughing. Staff said if I continued to laugh I’d be sent to my room and held longer, but I swore I couldn’t help it. We had to stand when it was our turn to talk, but I couldn’t do it when my turn came. They again said I needed to, and I laughed and said again that I c a n ’ t stand. They asked why, and I said it must be the medication I was just given, and they said “nope of course not you’re lying.” I understood the skepticism because I knew antidepressants aren’t supposed to work anywhere near that quickly, but their skepticism was cold and my opinion aka the fucking facts of what my body was doing was neglected. I was later asked by my peers what they gave me, and when I said it was an antidepressant they laughed and said “no really.” I insisted, and they said “no seriously, you’re high, what kind of the good stuff did they give you,” and I had no answer. I felt like I was dying so I wouldn’t have told them even if it was truthfully given to me as something like that.

Day three came. I had not slept decently that night. When asked by Staff how I slept, I said I woke up eight times, and they got mad because I didn’t open my door and walk down the bright hallway and report my awakening to whoever was at the front desk. I’ll never understand that. I was given the medicine again at breakfast and felt and acted the same as I did the night before and was again asked what they gave me. I was again asked what kind of the good stuff they gave me; I just laughed. Then there was the usual morning group, small group, another big group, but there was a lot of chatter; I believe it was Amber who asked if it’s true. I asked what she was referring to, and she said she heard talk that I was getting out that day. Apparently everyone knew before me I don’t know if that was intentional, but it happens in other situations often enough that it probably wasn’t. I was pumped as fuck but still had to go to group and do the regular routine until my time came. Around 2pm I was released. They handed my dad a prescription for my medication, a bag of my confiscated belongings, and told him to bring me back in two weeks to be screened for Asperger’s. (see 3b below)

When I was ready to leave, Staff looked the other way about the elbow’s length rule and I hugged Amber. She was so happy that I was able to go, wished me good luck, smiled infectiously, and I did what I do best and quickly professed the tiny crush, and she hugged a bit tighter and we said our goodbyes and both smiled. That was the happiest goodbye. I’ve done everything I can to remember her last name. I think we could’ve been good friends. I really hope she’s well.

I skipped out and went to my dad’s car blissfully. I was finally free. He gave me my phone and chapstick and belt and shoelaces back. No matter what he tried talking to me about, I couldn’t stop laughing and feeling like I was dying. When we went to Walgreens to get the prescription filled, I walked down the isles crying laughing at everything and all the bright colours. My dad bought a blue Snuggie for me; I either had previously mentioned wanting one or I laughed and made a big deal about its presence and he bought it because I was happy. Supposedly my dad told my grandma that that time between when I stepped out of the hospital and when he last saw me that day was the happiest he’s ever seen me. If I was high on something, that’s all the better reason to never pursue anything like that; I felt like I was dying, and I don’t want a fake happiness that wears off. It was fake happiness. The first song I listened to after I was released was “Falling Hard” by The Crystal Method featuring Meiko. I remember that. I got home and basically just went to my room and danced around to Breathe Carolina’s Hell Is What You Make It on full volume until it was bedtime. It was hard to stop dancing around. The fake happiness didn’t go away until I slept it off. It felt like I was dying. I haven’t danced around like that again.

I had to take the medicine again the next morning and the pills from the pharmacy looked exactly like what I was given in the hospital, but I never had that dying feeling from a pill that looked like that again. There’s no way it was the placebo effect at the hospital because I was expecting to feel nothing at all and there were way too many physical symptoms for that to realistically be all in my head.

The shitstorm was yet to hit fully at home; we kind of didn’t talk about it at all that day or a while after either really. There was no pity for the pain I was still in though, neither then nor later. It’s okay.

Longest 72 hours ever. It still feels like I was there for a month. It cost roughly $10,000, and that was after insurance was applied. It was a pile of horseshit. Somewhere on my record is a suicide attempt when all I did was panic and cry and miss enough school time somehow to need a whole month to catch back up.

So. That’s my story.

In retrospect, that—when I knew I was going to have a problem and proceeded to say too much after that was verified—is when I realized I had panic disorder; I just didn’t know there was a name for it. I guess that’s why I was released with “anxiety not otherwise specified” and later diagnosed with GAD and then that years later. I knew what kind of severe panic attack I was going to have, then I wasn’t able to avoid the situation, and the attack I predicted did in fact happen. I knew my high school wouldn’t do anything about it, and the thought of having to go through it for eighteen weeks was unthinkable. My high school turned around and fixed the situation real quick after I was released.

I did some research a couple weeks after I was let out and found that the psychiatrist at the hospital was lesbian; maybe that’s why she was so nice to me.

I was never screened for Asperger’s. I wish I had been.

I left with “depression not otherwise specified” too. Since then I’ve been officially upgraded to major depressive disorder (a month later after release), generalized anxiety disorder (month later), insomnia (month later), ADHD (six months after), eating disorder not otherwise specified (year and a half later; this was not solidified due to insurance issues but it would have been), and panic disorder (four years later).

If I could go back to that time…I’d slap duct tape on my mouth and drown all my electronics. I needed my high school to make the change necessary for me to function and I needed the diagnoses, but I’d make damn well sure that it didn’t happen the way it did.

Hospitalization ruined my life as far as I’m concerned. I wasn’t a risk to myself. I went in less fucked up than I went out. I was emotionally stripped naked in front of a room of people multiple times daily and demeaned and just…I was treated horribly, and I learned how to treat myself horribly in return. Yes I made lovely temporary friends. Yes my high school needed to take it seriously. Yes I needed diagnoses. What I didn’t need was to be lied to and manipulated and made to feel like the stupidest thing alive. I can’t put into words the kind of abuse of power Staff exhibited. I probably didn’t need any medication at all—I was getting by fine taking hours to fall asleep and waking up eight times before it was time to really wake up; therapy probably could’ve really helped the mood and anxiety shit; ADHD meds would’ve been needed but that could’ve been achieved through some process/recommendation or something through therapy. I didn’t need to be demoralized. I just said too much. I said too much outside those white walls and couldn’t say nearly enough within those white walls. It’s amazing what words can do.

••••• Notes •••••

(0a) When I was admitted, there were two Kaitlins, though their names had different spellings; one day another Kaitlin was admitted, also a different spelling. I found this ridiculously insane considering I was hospitalized because of the aftereffects of a heartbreak committed by a Kaitlin. (0b) There were bright sides, two. Amber and the others were one bright side. The other: at the time, I was writing poetry constantly. I somehow managed to get a pencil and blank paper from Staff; the pencil was the regular kind, short but sharpened, and I wrote and wrote until my hand hurt and the lead was all the way back to the wood. I wasn’t sure why they allowed me to have a sharp pencil with me alone in my room. I lost track of the paper; it was shitty writing anyway. (0c) Major moral of the story is that, if you live in southeastern Louisiana, if an underage person absolutely has to be admitted and you’re given the choice of wards, unless Staff at Children’s has been completely replaced, which is unlikely, choose. River. Oaks. Preferably don’t have the person hospitalized, but if you must, choose River Oaks. Once you start the machine there’s really no turning back, not that I know of at least. You can’t turn back and say “well jk, now that I’ve listened and heard the story recited so many times I can see why [adolescent] was so upset, [adolescent] doesn’t really need to be locked up we can take them home now and it’ll be okay this was a rash thoughtless decision.” It doesn’t work that way, apparently. (0d) I just found out today actually that there exists a correct term for what I was admitted for—"parasuicide"—but they put it down in the books as an actual suicide attempt. (1) Last school school year, when flying home for some break, I had my sleeves down and forgot that my Apple Watch was still on when going through the TSA scanner, so I was pinged and an agent pulled my sleeve up forcefully; I apologized for forgetting to take it off, though I know that probably happens all the time. It still brought me back. (2) About a year later, I read one of only two books I have chosen to and was able to read on my own accord ever, and in that book, the hospital’s staff members were only called “Staff,” which sort of made me smile considering we only called them “Staff” as well, like we call our professors Durta or Medlock or Poli minus the prefixes. It was somewhat comforting. (3a) At this point I still thought singing could be a career for me, which was all I said when asked about my future. When we were alone after group, they asked me to sing for them, a Taylor Swift song was recommended, and I got applause and many “well fuck you can sing”/“you know you could be the next T Swift right”/“you say your preferred genre is alt or dance but you’d definitely slay as a country singer,” which was really nice considering all that happened in that hell hole was negative and just tearing me down more. 
I learned the next time I was almost hospitalized, about a month later, that that’s not what doctors determining whether or not you’re suicidal want to hear since that is a nearly impossible industry to enter, so I started saying “I want to be a theoretical astrophysicist and get a doctorate,” which shows I have something legitimate to live for. I’ve just run with it from there. (3b) Their final request was for me to sing for them one more time; “Fall Back Down” was the choice and it went over well and I left with a chin held high. (4) That’s when I started giving up my morals to suit other people—to save myself in the short run too, but mostly to suit others. I swore on my l i f e I would never accept medication, but I was desperate. Because I said too much, I’m now dependent upon multiple medications because I wanted to be released sooner, and upon release they told me I’d be re-institutionalized if I stopped taking my meds. I found out a year later that that was a flat out lie. I had been on them too long to turn back by that point. Five years later, I’ve been on sixteen different medications. S i x t e e n . I feel like a lab rat and no one is more against animal testing than I am. I’m currently taking five daily. The medication they started me on, an antidepressant, didn’t help my mood at all, but it did remove my sense of fear, largely speaking. That’s when I was no longer afraid of the pain of self-harm; that’s when it started, about twenty days later. I almost made four years clean, but now I’m just one month clean; recovery is a rollercoaster. That’s when rolling up my sleeves should have been a problem. What they checked for before admitting me was later a result of admitting me.

••••••••••••••••••

So five years later…

This has not been thoroughly proofread.

This year will be better. I went into 2016 crying, literally spending the first half-hour starting at minute one crying my eyes out. Never again. Better decisions will be made. I started buying basic tungsten carbide rings for myself at the end of February of 2016 once I said enough was enough. Number one was one-millimeter thinner than the one it had to replace; once I pitched the three-millimeter one I’d wake up at night worried that I’d lost it and I’d catch shit all before reminding myself I pitched that shit and there’s nothing to worry about, so I decided to get one all for myself to soothe the automatic “oh my god it’s gone” feeling and to remind myself to not fuck up again; it’s been on my left middle finger ever since. The second was mostly because I really liked having a ring on 24/7 they’ve only been off of me for about ten/twenty minutes this summer, but it’s become my reminder to hold my thumbs when shit gets rough. The third is on the other thumb because I wear another ring on that middle finger; it came to be because I fucked up a different way; it’s my reminder that I’ve had enough and it’s a matter of being upfront about all my problems to avoid them being a problem down the line. Now number four is resting on that middle finger for when I’m not wearing the other one that only comes along when I leave my house or dorm; this one is my NBK ring. I couldn’t make it to Niykee’s concert in New Orleans because it was the Monday of exam week I didn’t even have an exam that day but couldn’t afford a roundtrip one-day ticket sighs sighs sighs, so this will ride with me as a Fuck You to the world and just everything else about the NBK movement “Naturyl Born Killers, / put that on my life”; “fuck with me fuck with me we gon’ eat cake”; “she belongs to NBK”. I don’t like having two rings side by side so I’ll either have to stop my addiction habit or start stacking them, but this year is going to be better either way. “Bad Intentions” was my song of the year and damn well better be the song of 2017. “This is the face I wear / treading the riptide, / abysmal oceans where good girls go to die. / I wanna love somebody, / wanna feel their love all on me, / but after / everything I still believe in true love— / not being / able to find it— / damn it tears me up, / and I know / it’s my fault.“ iTunes says it’s just a couple plays short of 1000 which is crazy but speaks to how much I love it and how much it speaks to me. I try my hardest but it always feels like “I’ve got some damn bad intentions.” I’m still going to listen to love songs and fight with the face I wear treading the riptide. “You can see it in my eyes— / I don’t wanna die.” These rings are going to stay on and remind me to stay strong. I know it’s my fault, but after everything I still want to love somebody and I do still believe in true love. I’m NBK.

Everything I do is calculated, either explicitly or implicitly, and this year I’m going to make as many explicit as possible and calculate them ten times over before proceeding. I will proceed with caution, calculate more carefully, think and act infinitely harder with my head than my heart, but I will also dance around my room to “Down” and “Next Kill” and happily hum “Angel in a Centerfold” and hope I’m not bothering my dormmates aside or below me. I’m going to go out of my way to pursue the only four things I live for, but only after I calculate and find I can still dance around happily after the evaluation. I will not let myself hurt over someone. I will not let myself get to the point where I feel worse for myself than I do for them. I’m going to have even more fun in airports. I’m going to do geometry as well as I possibly can. I will do my best to stop hiding behind my mental illnesses; they need to be addressed to avoid everything blowing up again, but I’ll do my best to stop hiding behind them and letting them overshadow me. I want to dance around my room happily. I want to be one year cut-clean as of 20 November 2017; I’m disappointed that I won’t be four years clean 28 January 2016, but we live and we learn, and boy have I ever learned. I want to start thinking of myself as an angel in a centerfold, not in a conceited way but in an…“I’m capable of being confident enough and loving myself enough to think that I’d deserve that.” I’m starting to feel comfortable in my skin. “You’re looking at the love that you came for: / angel in a centerfold.”

I’m going to take long walks along the streets of Salem at 6am alone in the silent dark to regain some solace as it comes and goes. I’m going to stay on top of my shit for once; I’ve fallen too far to spend another year or semester slipping further. I’m not going to freak out when my medications stop working; I can adjust; I find a way. I will only accept what I can accept; I can’t carry on continuing to tell myself “well it’ll be okay this time around.” I have grown up a bit, but if 2016 taught me anything, it’s that my boundaries are what they are and they’ve been this way long enough for me to take them seriously. If they’re going to be a problem, then I can walk away. During the daylight I don’t like walking alone, but it’s better than walking at any time scared and telling myself it’ll all be a'okay as soon all my fears vanish in the next three seconds, because that’s not how it works. “No one has seen the future / and no one likes the wait” from a poem from an old friend.

I already know there are people in my classes that I really don’t particularly like in any way, and boy you better believe I’m going to avoid them like the plague, but I’m going to try real hard not to explode the first time I get annoyed by them. There are some people I dislike, but I’m really lucky to have at least one person I love in each of my classes. I hope I don’t smother them or that they don’t mind when I do. In 2016, I’ve been blessed with some pretty awesome classmates; I can’t thank them enough for making me laugh, being patient with me, and letting me bitch to them about the coursework. Those specific groupings will be greatly missed.

In eighth grade, we were told that the third quarter of honours algebra I would be hell and we should drop down to regular right then if we thought we couldn’t handle it. I thought nothing of it because I enjoy math, especially the hard stuff, but third quarter was in fact hell. It’s a miracle I finished with an A. I will be taking that quarter of math in one-semester college-form this year; I’m going to do my best to not set myself up for failure, but I’m going to be prepared; expect the best, prepare for the worst.

I have to write a fucking distinction project from scratch someone save me but I won’t assume it’ll be hell. I’m going to let that thought go. I’m going to get my shit done and focus and do the best I can. I need to finish my incomplete work, submit all that, then start on the good stuff. One-third of the incomplete work is the good stuff, and if I’m lucky, the distinction project will also be the good stuff; I need to start sooner than later and stay positive.

Freshman year of high school wasn’t super bad. Bad stuff just happened at the wrong time like it did this year. 2012 was the bad year; the 2011 part was okay. 2013 was a pretty bad year too. The very start and very end of 2016 were bad, but I can’t complain about the middle. “There are no happy endings. / Endings are the saddest part. / So give me a happy middle / and a very happy start.” The last three days have been quite happy actually, despite being lonely and sitting outside in the rain a lot freezing my ass off, but I guess in total this has been Silverstein’s view of an ending. I didn’t know the ending would be sad while in the middle; I never would’ve seen it concluding this way, but it’s okay. I know not to make 2012 and 2013’s mistakes, and I’ve learned not to make 2016’s mistakes. I don’t want 2017 to have a sad ending, but all I can hope for is a happy middle and a very happy start. By the middle I’ll have been alive for two decades. Decades. That’s a crazy word. It feels like just yesterday I was crying literally in my closet because I was 12 and gay and thought people were nicer and more understanding than they actually are. That was seven years ago. I didn’t think I could have a happy moment again. I didn’t think there was any dancing around rooms left for me. So much has changed in a way, yet nothing has at all. I guess it depends on your definition of change. I can’t remember what New Year’s Eve looked like seven or five years ago, but I’m pretty sure I was dreading another year. I’m kind of ambivalent now. I’m neither dreading nor anticipating anything; that mightn’t sound impressive to anyone else, but for being alone, especially after everything that’s happened in 2016, this is a miraculous place to be. I don’t know how to feel about it; it’s kind of scary, this way normal people probably approach a new year.

It wasn’t all bad. In 2016, my best friend achieved something incredible, did the impossible, and I couldn’t possibly be more proud; that’s probably the highlight of my year. I made a new friend whom I am sad about no longer having class with; it’s rare that I make a new friend. I got to learn more about black holes and talk about them too much; I hope that that continues next semester. I was given another lesson in biting my tongue, a thrice-per-week lesson. I stood up for myself after suffering way too long. I handled a shitty situation better than I have in the past, even if it didn’t all end well; I at least did the first part well. I lived through being sleep-driven to therapy. I was given every reason to be horrified by math this year; thank goodness for falling in love with it even harder in the spring semester—that’s all that got me through the fall semester, and it may be all that gets me through this spring semester. I didn’t know how much I could love writing proofs; I have 2016 to thank for making me that one nerd who sees a professor start to form the letter “p” with their mouth and gets sUPER pumped because they might say the word “proof” and then everything in the universe will be better that. “I’m not good at math, but I do know that the universe is formed with mathematical principles whether I understand them or not, and I am going to let that guide me.” I learned I’m not completely broken; the degree to which that is true is yet to be known, but I’m happy that I can exit 2016 with that takeaway, despite the fallout. I will go into 2017 alone, but I’ll go so much happier than I did into 2016 crying. Maybe 2017 will prove better. This could be the year for all I know. However, I’m not going to get my hopes up and I’m not going to set myself up for failure.

I aced a test everyone else is supposed to fail; I accepted failure before it happened, went in knowing I’d fail and reminding myself that what counts is how little I fail, then didn’t at all. Disney movie shit happened and there was an alligator situation and it was golden. I got a book and award from my mentor; have I mentioned I know a real astrophysicist in real life and it’s still like having discovered a unicorn? I heard the A320 series planes make the barking sound, and I cried happy tears. I bought a dress and went to a social event and didn’t freak out; the shopping was even more fun than the event. I looked through a telescope and saw the lil rings on Jupiter. 2016 wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t the worst. I’m walking into 2017 a bit happier, a bit more hopeful, and a bit stronger. 2012, specifically three of the first six days, whipped my ass and made me rethink all my words, review my lexicon, and learn how to handle myself in some way at least, even if it involved bending and breaking; in 2016, I did less bending and less breaking, more healing and regeneration even after getting knocked down and/or trampled a bunch of times. I actually think 2017 might be a bit better. I don’t think I’ve ever thought that before. Hopefully I’m not jinxing it.

This post is a mess, just like me still, but that’s okay.

Here’s to another year outside of the hospital. Here’s to another year of getting better.

The End.