I'm so sad.
I'm not ready to navigate the murky waters of the mental health system. I don't want to sort out all the questions and miconceptions. I just want some goddamn help.
That's a pipedream if I ever heard one, so here goes:
YES, I am going to have some seperation issues about the end of Day Hospital.
NO, this depression is not a result of seperation issues.
HEY! I need to tell you people that I need help getting through to the tough stuff and the stuff I get through to on my own needs to be addressed instead of charted and poked away until the next appointment.
I don't know...I don't feel like fighting my way through to any actual help. It's hard enough just asking for it.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Where am I?
I feel lost again. Adrift.
Today PTDHSW, (I refuse to use names for short-term workers outside of treatment!) took me to check out the Triangle Program. I was really scared, so when I got to the station where I was supposed to meet him I sat down and started writing non-stop.
Writing does you no good when all you write is, "So so scared. Breathe. Why Scared? AUGH!"
Yes, I love to talk. I never bought into the secret-keeping thing that is inherent with my culture. Okay, so I lied to my doctor for the first year I was in treatment. I wasn't desperate enough to spill my suicidality to her! But once I hit rock bottom I sang like a canary and I haven't stopped. There are exceptions to my open nature. I don't like phones. Often I don't have the energy to breathe, let alone speak, and I always stutter more on the phone. I don't like strangers either.
So when PTDHSW said something like, "you do the talking and I'll jump in" he was surprised that I said, "NO! I don't like talking!!!" I'm a regular chatterbug in Day Hospital. That was okay though because he did just the right amount of talking, and I managed to resist clutching his sleeve in terror. Hooray for me...
He walked in. I scuttled. They told us about the program, emphasized on the self-directed piece which is obviously not new to me. I don't know...I missed a lot of it because I was trying very hard to stay there, firmly on the ground.
They kept talking about my credit counselling summary, how my grades are good and stuff and it felt like such a lie. I get good grades but I don't finish anything and then I ended up saying that and getting all mixed up... "I get good grades but I spend a lot of time staring at my books...and then I found out it wasn't staring and it was like hours textbooks time."
Thank God PTDHSW jumped in, but then I almost floated away just thinking about how floaty I was already and how awkward it would be to dissociate where people would notice, (as opposed to at Ward or at home) and have to get me to return to some semblance of consciousness.
That was kind of a shocker. I know I get lots of attention from workers, but to think of someone else actually noticing that I was in a different world... it's just weird.
To Remember: Meerkats are so tall and their heads are so small, it's like they're slinkys on the inside. I love slinkys, but not inside animals! Except if it's a weiner dog. Then it's okay.
Today PTDHSW, (I refuse to use names for short-term workers outside of treatment!) took me to check out the Triangle Program. I was really scared, so when I got to the station where I was supposed to meet him I sat down and started writing non-stop.
Writing does you no good when all you write is, "So so scared. Breathe. Why Scared? AUGH!"
Yes, I love to talk. I never bought into the secret-keeping thing that is inherent with my culture. Okay, so I lied to my doctor for the first year I was in treatment. I wasn't desperate enough to spill my suicidality to her! But once I hit rock bottom I sang like a canary and I haven't stopped. There are exceptions to my open nature. I don't like phones. Often I don't have the energy to breathe, let alone speak, and I always stutter more on the phone. I don't like strangers either.
So when PTDHSW said something like, "you do the talking and I'll jump in" he was surprised that I said, "NO! I don't like talking!!!" I'm a regular chatterbug in Day Hospital. That was okay though because he did just the right amount of talking, and I managed to resist clutching his sleeve in terror. Hooray for me...
He walked in. I scuttled. They told us about the program, emphasized on the self-directed piece which is obviously not new to me. I don't know...I missed a lot of it because I was trying very hard to stay there, firmly on the ground.
They kept talking about my credit counselling summary, how my grades are good and stuff and it felt like such a lie. I get good grades but I don't finish anything and then I ended up saying that and getting all mixed up... "I get good grades but I spend a lot of time staring at my books...and then I found out it wasn't staring and it was like hours textbooks time."
Thank God PTDHSW jumped in, but then I almost floated away just thinking about how floaty I was already and how awkward it would be to dissociate where people would notice, (as opposed to at Ward or at home) and have to get me to return to some semblance of consciousness.
That was kind of a shocker. I know I get lots of attention from workers, but to think of someone else actually noticing that I was in a different world... it's just weird.
To Remember: Meerkats are so tall and their heads are so small, it's like they're slinkys on the inside. I love slinkys, but not inside animals! Except if it's a weiner dog. Then it's okay.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Days of the Week
She wrote semi-legibly!I start Day Hospital on Monday. I am so scared...not of the program itself, but of where my life is going. Five days a week at Shoniker, one night, and two days where I go through the tunnel to see Dr. Gerstein and Larry-the-Social-Worker. But naturally, it had to start on a Saturday.
Saturday, when every possible clinic I could go to is closed. God, I hate this! The tidal wave falls and I go back to being a stone. I'd rather be a rock all the time! I would rather feel nauseous, empty, sad, and so exhausted than have these good periods. Because they taunt me! It's like the Evil is dangling this on a stick, "Here Kat! Here! Have a taste of how nice it is to experience different emotions- including happiness!" only to yank it away again. I get hope, and hope...it just hurts to have.
Being this sad is physical. It's a pain that works its way through my bones and my muscles. My legs won't relax until I've taken a CNS depressant. Mostly though...my body is just tired. Exhausted. I'll wake up in the morning or afternoon, and in half an hour I'm spent. Zero energy left.
Why does it keep coming back? Of all the other things, the anxiety, the obsessions and compulsions, the panic attacks, why is THIS the one thing that keeps haunting me? All the days of the week, it's there.
Two weeks until my debut...I know, more than a DAY is a lot to ask of the Evil, but I can't be depressed at my coming of age. What will I do when it's time to dance? When I have to present a speech? I don't have the energy to breathe, let alone dance and speak. I hate this so much.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The Fourth
My sweater is soaked in blood from the fourth nosebleed I've had today...it was only supposed to be absorbing tears. I don't see how going from 200mg to 100mg of sertraline can create such a difference in me...I woke up completely manic, an hour later I crashed, then my mom came in to tell me that I have an appointment with another specialist and I burst into tears. I can't handle this! There is blood on my sheets and blood on the floor, and this time I didn't cause it.
I am so, so sick of all these doctors. I am sick of telling myself that at least I'm getting help and I've got OHIP...I HATE going to all of them. Why can't they just leave me alone?! Why can't I just be normal!?!??! I don't want to see more social workers, more intake workers, psychiatrists and psychologists, hematologists, orthopedic surgeons, child and youth workers... I want to see my family doctor once a year for a check-up and never see them otherwise!
I am sick of Filipino lab tech's asking about the scars on my arms and telling me that I'm ashamed of my culture as they attach ECG cables, sick of them telling me that they need to use a baby needle because my veins are too small...I AM SICK OF BEING SICK. AGAIN.
I don't want to try new drugs and go for more intensive treatment! I don't want to do this! I hate having sixteen different charts and a million people writing in them. WHEN DOES IT ALL STOP!?
LOOK AT ME. JUST LOOK! Do I look like someone who is ready for another drug class and going to the hospital every day?! MORRISON LOOK AT ME! DON'T YOU GET A GUILTY CONSCIENCE FROM CONTINUING TO RUIN MY LIFE?!!? DON'T YOU FEEL BAD FOR ATTACKING ME WHEN I'M VULNERABLE?!?!!?
I just want it all to stop.
I am so, so sick of all these doctors. I am sick of telling myself that at least I'm getting help and I've got OHIP...I HATE going to all of them. Why can't they just leave me alone?! Why can't I just be normal!?!??! I don't want to see more social workers, more intake workers, psychiatrists and psychologists, hematologists, orthopedic surgeons, child and youth workers... I want to see my family doctor once a year for a check-up and never see them otherwise!
I am sick of Filipino lab tech's asking about the scars on my arms and telling me that I'm ashamed of my culture as they attach ECG cables, sick of them telling me that they need to use a baby needle because my veins are too small...I AM SICK OF BEING SICK. AGAIN.
I don't want to try new drugs and go for more intensive treatment! I don't want to do this! I hate having sixteen different charts and a million people writing in them. WHEN DOES IT ALL STOP!?
LOOK AT ME. JUST LOOK! Do I look like someone who is ready for another drug class and going to the hospital every day?! MORRISON LOOK AT ME! DON'T YOU GET A GUILTY CONSCIENCE FROM CONTINUING TO RUIN MY LIFE?!!? DON'T YOU FEEL BAD FOR ATTACKING ME WHEN I'M VULNERABLE?!?!!?
I just want it all to stop.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
This Isn't Me...It can't, can't CAN'T be me
Yesterday I doubled my trazodone dose to 100mg at bedtime.
This morning I halved my sertraline dose to 100mg once daily.
In two weeks I'll start taking duloxetine, an SSNRI.
Sometime soon I'm going to see an intake worker for the Day Hospital at Shoniker.
I'm still trying to figure out how all this happened, how it got so far. Part of me still thinks that this isn't that bad, that I go to the hospital a little bit more than I need to. I know, (through Group) that this is me taking on the beliefs of people around me who say that affective disorders aren't that horrible. But now... now that I've exhausted SSRI's and going on to harder meds, now that I'm going to be under psychiatric supervision from 9-3 however long I'm at Day Treatment, it scares me so much.
Worse than that is realizing my support system has shrunk dramatically, and that suddenly I'm afraid to trust people-face-to-face with my secrets.
Boundaries huh? Ms Morrison, you're telling me that I'm overstepping boundaries by trying to find support from staff and yet you're the one who shared my medical history without my permission? Do you know that even my social workers and doctors ask for permission before talking to anyone else? Including other health professionals?
Ms Morrison, do you even remember that after you told my parents about me you did not provide any kind of support at all? Do you remember that I told you ASK me if it's alright to talk to other people about my status? Do you remember all those times you tried to help my friends and lost interest after a week or two? Ms, you got them to believe that you were going to help them but you ended up doing absolutely nothing. I dislike you.
This morning I halved my sertraline dose to 100mg once daily.
In two weeks I'll start taking duloxetine, an SSNRI.
Sometime soon I'm going to see an intake worker for the Day Hospital at Shoniker.
I'm still trying to figure out how all this happened, how it got so far. Part of me still thinks that this isn't that bad, that I go to the hospital a little bit more than I need to. I know, (through Group) that this is me taking on the beliefs of people around me who say that affective disorders aren't that horrible. But now... now that I've exhausted SSRI's and going on to harder meds, now that I'm going to be under psychiatric supervision from 9-3 however long I'm at Day Treatment, it scares me so much.
Worse than that is realizing my support system has shrunk dramatically, and that suddenly I'm afraid to trust people-face-to-face with my secrets.
Boundaries huh? Ms Morrison, you're telling me that I'm overstepping boundaries by trying to find support from staff and yet you're the one who shared my medical history without my permission? Do you know that even my social workers and doctors ask for permission before talking to anyone else? Including other health professionals?
Ms Morrison, do you even remember that after you told my parents about me you did not provide any kind of support at all? Do you remember that I told you ASK me if it's alright to talk to other people about my status? Do you remember all those times you tried to help my friends and lost interest after a week or two? Ms, you got them to believe that you were going to help them but you ended up doing absolutely nothing. I dislike you.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
My Favourite Place to Be
Is it weird that my favourite place to be is on the 12th floor of the hospital? This picture is from Wednesday, February 20th 2008. I was happy, so happy when I came in that we took a picture, so I could remember it for later. This is Room 3, in the Galaxy 12 Child and Adolescent Clinic, on the 12th level of Centenary Hospital. This is my safe place.
I have been visiting that room for nearly four years now. I have counted all the stars on the wall, climbed onto the window ledge when no one was looking, climbed onto the window ledge during sessions, cried on that couch, came out to my workers, was examined before being admitted to hospital, lost hope in my parents... I know that about 45cm from the floor there is a crack on the left side of the door, there's a dent in the tile third from the north wall, and the third star on the west wall is fading away.
In that room I am free to be and say what I need to without censoring myself or adjusting the story. It is the only place I can be strong and lost and vulnerable and powerful and people will not think less of me. So, for 30 minutes to an hour and a half a week I have somewhere I can be.
Maybe it's not so weird.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
The Latest Dress
I'll update this with a picture of my practice version.
I'm making a new dress! I love off-the-shoulder dresses, but I'm not quite sure if I can pull it off.
It all started Friday, the PA Day. I was going to go downtown, look at dresses, grab a copy of The Advocate. But then I stuck my hand out the front door and decided I didn't want to be an icicle. I saw this amazing dress, really simple lines, and I decided I wanted to try to make it.
I started drawing it out and sketching out how the pattern might work. But it was way too complicated to figure out on paper, so I made a dress form. You know duct tape dress forms? You put on an old shirt and wrap yourself in tape, then cut it off and stuff it? It was a lot less painful than I thought, although it was hard to keep from squishing my breasts down. (Thus ruining the shape AND making it really hard to breathe.) That helped a lot, because I could just pin, re-pin, and cut to make out the pattern. I even practiced doing darts! I'm really excited about this dress, I just need fabric.
Friday, February 15, 2008
How will they ever stop us?
I'm talking to Val right now about this, and I still don't know the answer.
------------
Kids do a lot of harm to themselves. We smoke, and cut, and binge, and purge, and diet, and try to end our lives.
And sometimes, when I'm looking around at the other teens assembled on the 12th floor of Centenary Hospital, I wonder how the doctors will ever stop us. We who are so determined to destroy our bodies and our lives, who think this is the only way we can be okay.
This is it! Nothing makes me feel as good as this! You will never take this away from me! And parts of us know that we are doing things that make us outcasts and lunatics, but that isn't worth being fat, or sad, or sober.
What do we gain from this, our slow raze to stay alive? Waging war on the demons that haunt us by finishing their work ourselves? They will never stop us, because as long as we need to be dodging our secrets, we will keep up creating our own to stave them away.
------------
Kids do a lot of harm to themselves. We smoke, and cut, and binge, and purge, and diet, and try to end our lives.
And sometimes, when I'm looking around at the other teens assembled on the 12th floor of Centenary Hospital, I wonder how the doctors will ever stop us. We who are so determined to destroy our bodies and our lives, who think this is the only way we can be okay.
This is it! Nothing makes me feel as good as this! You will never take this away from me! And parts of us know that we are doing things that make us outcasts and lunatics, but that isn't worth being fat, or sad, or sober.
What do we gain from this, our slow raze to stay alive? Waging war on the demons that haunt us by finishing their work ourselves? They will never stop us, because as long as we need to be dodging our secrets, we will keep up creating our own to stave them away.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
My God This Site Is Awesome
You guys are awesome. Well, some of you. The rest of you suck.
Really? Because in about 10 years, I'm going to need some genetically-perfect sperm. People with mental illness or shortness need not apply.
God, I'm such a virgin. And that sexual side effect sucks. Even if I'm like, a nun.
Yea, I walked around with my shirt tied up like it was the 90's and I had abs.
I hope no one finds this offensive. Oh, what the hell, they're ALL offensive. Does anyone else wish there was a Gr 12 World Religions course?
Yea, it sucks that kilts aren't that absorbent or they wouldn't be quite so sweaty.
I chose this just because it's so funny. Like, "You made me screwed up so now I'm in therapy!" It's funny! It is!
This is definitely me.
I wouldn't, actually. Klonopin feels like a TRUCK hitting you in the chest.
This is for all you people who wonder why I wake up early just to shine a fucking light in my eyes.
I Guess it Goes Both Ways
I am so, so hating Zoloft. Has anyone else thrown up 3 times in the last 40 minutes? Anyone? I know no one reads this so you know I'm asking you God! Hey, God! HAVE YOU THROWN UP THREE TIMES IN THE LAST...okay, fine, i get it. Sometimes it is so annoying talking to an all-knowing being.
I'm pretty sure this throwing up is different from anxiety-throwing-up, because other than feeling like a sasquatch I've had an okay day. I can't even fit into my sweat pants. I did also realize that once again I'm too tense to write, because every time my ink skips my muscles clench. Or my bones, it feels like my bones are clenching. (Shut up, I know that isn't physiologically possible.)
Anyways, as much as I really really hate this drug, I am losing weight. Kind of. On November 27th I weighed 94 pounds. After Christmas I weighed 115, now I weight 100, and since I'm throwing up again I'll probably lose some more weight. Which makes me feel like less of a sasquatch. More of a...water buffalo.
Not that I'm actively trying to lose weight, I just told Pau that she and Christine could come over tomorrow and we'd get a large pizza and I'd eat 3/4 of it. And I would, totally I would. Which isn't something to be proud of, because I fucking binge a lot. I have the worst eating habits of anyone I know. I'm trying to change! Slowly.
What I'm really trying to say is, I'm scared of a lot of things but I can't write them down so I'm typing out a very sarcastic blog.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Subtleties of Loving Me
Everyday I understand things a little bit better. I can see all the tiny nuances in the things that you say, the way you don't even have to justify all the words and promises you make to me. Today I learned then when you say, "I love you" it doesn't also mean, "I will be there for you." I learned that you have your limits, and though they fall much too short for me it is not a choice that you have made.
Today I learned that even knowing that, I can't bring myself to forgive you.
Today I learned that even knowing that, I can't bring myself to forgive you.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
All I Want From You
A Letter.
All I want from you is something I know you can't give me. And every time you give me hope it's almost cruel, because I believe - even for a just a second - that maybe you will change and understand me, and this.
I can't do that.
I can't let myself think that things could be okay because soon enough you turn around and it hurts that much more when you reaffirm that I can never rely on you. You are genuine, you really and truly believe that you are doing everything right, supporting me in every way. You are trying not to lose me, which I can hardly comprehend because I want nothing more than to lose myself, but that's not enough. Please, don't try to salvage this.
What do I want from you?
I want you to let me go, so I can be whomever I need to be without you. Sticking around only hurts us both.
All I want from you is something I know you can't give me. And every time you give me hope it's almost cruel, because I believe - even for a just a second - that maybe you will change and understand me, and this.
I can't do that.
I can't let myself think that things could be okay because soon enough you turn around and it hurts that much more when you reaffirm that I can never rely on you. You are genuine, you really and truly believe that you are doing everything right, supporting me in every way. You are trying not to lose me, which I can hardly comprehend because I want nothing more than to lose myself, but that's not enough. Please, don't try to salvage this.
What do I want from you?
I want you to let me go, so I can be whomever I need to be without you. Sticking around only hurts us both.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Psy.D Time
One of the first things I learned at Griffin was how not to take your work home with you, something I was already quite keen on. Working 8.30 to 5.00 is long enough, I didn't really feel like carrying on with that. So I know first hand that you can:
a) leave work at work
b) burn out and end up crying in a tree after stumbling off the 53E four stops too early.
And God knows I don't want to see any of my workers crying in trees near bus stops.
But I was reading this book, and I came across a passage that...(give me a minute!) ...I can't find right now. First of all, it was a really good book, but also really creepy. The book followed a girl recovering from anorexia, and although I don't have any eating disorders it was ME. What she was thinking, what she was feeling was all identical to myself in similar situations. And I thought to myself, "If this guy can write a book and be exactly the same as what I'm thinking, then all these doctors must know what's going through my head as soon as they glance at my chart!" And then I went to get some milk.
Anyways, it reminded me of this whole time thing. In my previous entry, I mentioned how the 72 hours in the hospital was years for me and minutes for my friends. The same thing goes for anyone providing counseling and care. It may be a half hour in your life, one you'll chart then quickly forget as you go on to your next patient, but it's a hell-of-a-lot more to us. The session isn't over when we leave, we replay it and process it long after we've left.
Just something to think about.
PS: Does anyone else feel weird when you see someone else who is going to your counselor? I feel like we're either all a team, or they're intruding on...on something.
a) leave work at work
b) burn out and end up crying in a tree after stumbling off the 53E four stops too early.
And God knows I don't want to see any of my workers crying in trees near bus stops.
But I was reading this book, and I came across a passage that...(give me a minute!) ...I can't find right now. First of all, it was a really good book, but also really creepy. The book followed a girl recovering from anorexia, and although I don't have any eating disorders it was ME. What she was thinking, what she was feeling was all identical to myself in similar situations. And I thought to myself, "If this guy can write a book and be exactly the same as what I'm thinking, then all these doctors must know what's going through my head as soon as they glance at my chart!" And then I went to get some milk.
Anyways, it reminded me of this whole time thing. In my previous entry, I mentioned how the 72 hours in the hospital was years for me and minutes for my friends. The same thing goes for anyone providing counseling and care. It may be a half hour in your life, one you'll chart then quickly forget as you go on to your next patient, but it's a hell-of-a-lot more to us. The session isn't over when we leave, we replay it and process it long after we've left.
Just something to think about.
PS: Does anyone else feel weird when you see someone else who is going to your counselor? I feel like we're either all a team, or they're intruding on...on something.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Fun With TV!
Go here to see my inspiration.
and a little tweak and we have...
It's a real TV show! It's called High School Reunion, (on TV Land, not the WB) and GOD i couldn't resist. I wish I had photoshop though, using paint sucks.
and a little tweak and we have...
It's a real TV show! It's called High School Reunion, (on TV Land, not the WB) and GOD i couldn't resist. I wish I had photoshop though, using paint sucks.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
In With OD, Out with a Curse
First, I'd really like to thank you guys for all your supportive comments on my previous post. It really meant a lot to me. So, as a special treat, here is another picture of Ellen in a vest...
My, isn't that beautiful? (I'm not so big on the open buttons, and the pinstripes are almost hypnotic, but it's Ellen. In a vest. Case closed.)
---------------------------
Listen to this song while I take you back through space and time...fine. I'm taking you back a few months, to the day I was discharged.
Wasn't that a fun journey? I edited some parts out, you know, keep a little mystery going. I'm joking of course, I'm pretty open about all this stuff. But I did do some editing. Anyways, within the next few days I learned what this new half-diagnosis meant.
Here is why I'm manipulative and attention-seeking:
I've tried to kill myself a few times already, at least three times in 2007, (but they only know about two) and a lot more in previous years. So! By attempting suicide, I am manipulating the people around me to stop and pay attention.
This is pretty much true. Every other time I've tried to kill myself, I really just wanted someone to step in and help me. I didn't really want to die, at least not forever. I wanted to be able to skip all those horrible bits, and I wanted someone to really, really listen to me. I was drowning! I was sinking further and further down, and I needed a hand up. This time, it was different. But when I got to the 'lorspital, I decided, "Since I won't die, maybe...they can actually help me this time." And I knew what I was doing, when I answered all those questions truthfully. Just...some part of me thought that if I didn't lie this time, if I let them do what they had to do, something would change.
But nothing changed. I came out of the hospital with this new curse of BPD traits, and the knowledge that now nobody would listen. Nobody would help, because the next time I really need someone, and I talk to them before doing anything permanent, I'm going to be attention-seeking. Don't they see though? Don't they see that I AM attention seeking? I am seeking their help! I am telling them, "I am not strong enough to do this on my own, I know that, I need your help."
Suicide attempts are often referred to as "a cry for help." Analyst Joseph Laufer noted that, "this very apt term has fallen into disrepute because it has been used in a pejorative way about those who have attempted suicide, implying that they behaved in a manipulative way to draw attention to themselves." (1)
"...research with girls shows that dismissing teenage girls' suicidal behavior as manipulation overlooks what may have been the meaning of the suicidal act in the first place. They may have learned to manipulate, but are doing so in a spirit of hope, of getting needs met that have no been met otherwise. The original meaning of the word "manipulative" is "to lead by the hand." When suicidal acts enable girls to get help, it is inaccurate to see these acts as merely "manipulative". Treating them as such can lead girls to give up hope. And then, psychologically or literally, they are more likely to kill themselves."(2)
Can't these people see? With their years in med school, residency, clinical training, and then just plain practicing medicine and their specialty, are they now blind to the fact they we are screaming, we are shouting, and we are telling them, "I trust you, I need you, please, please, help me."
1. Laufer, J. (1995). The Suicidal Child. Madison, CT: International Universities Press, 1995, p. 104.
2. Machoian, Lisa. (2006.) The Disappearing Girl. Plume: Penguin Group USA, 2006, p.174.
My, isn't that beautiful? (I'm not so big on the open buttons, and the pinstripes are almost hypnotic, but it's Ellen. In a vest. Case closed.)---------------------------
Listen to this song while I take you back through space and time...fine. I'm taking you back a few months, to the day I was discharged.
[Fade out.]
[Fade in to our weird breakfast conversation on the unit.]
OTHER PATIENT: I'm psychotic.
KAT: I'm sui-
[Freeze frame.]
Voice Over: HOLD IT! Too far! Let's take it forward a bit.
[Fade out.]
[Fade in to Kat in the TV room, The Doctor is In!]
[Fade in to our weird breakfast conversation on the unit.]
OTHER PATIENT: I'm psychotic.
KAT: I'm sui-
[Freeze frame.]
Voice Over: HOLD IT! Too far! Let's take it forward a bit.
[Fade out.]
[Fade in to Kat in the TV room, The Doctor is In!]
DR R: So, how are the suicidal thoughts?
KAT: [Fidgets in chair, then sighs.] They're there, but vague.
DR R: So you're still having them, but they're not as strong.
KAT: [Thinking, v/o] Duh.
DR R: Can you promise us you won't hurt yourself?
KAT: Yea. [Fidgets some more.]
DR R: Okay. [Speaking to CYW.] I'll cancel the form. [Speaking to Kat.] You should know that you have borderline personality traits. So we'll have to make sure that doesn't progress to the full disorder.
KAT: [Thinking, v/o] We? I have seen you four times in the past four years, counting today and yesterday.
DR R: Okay.
[All exit the room. Kat is excited to get out of hospital clothes, which suck.]
[Fade out.]
KAT: [Fidgets in chair, then sighs.] They're there, but vague.
DR R: So you're still having them, but they're not as strong.
KAT: [Thinking, v/o] Duh.
DR R: Can you promise us you won't hurt yourself?
KAT: Yea. [Fidgets some more.]
DR R: Okay. [Speaking to CYW.] I'll cancel the form. [Speaking to Kat.] You should know that you have borderline personality traits. So we'll have to make sure that doesn't progress to the full disorder.
KAT: [Thinking, v/o] We? I have seen you four times in the past four years, counting today and yesterday.
DR R: Okay.
[All exit the room. Kat is excited to get out of hospital clothes, which suck.]
[Fade out.]
Wasn't that a fun journey? I edited some parts out, you know, keep a little mystery going. I'm joking of course, I'm pretty open about all this stuff. But I did do some editing. Anyways, within the next few days I learned what this new half-diagnosis meant.
- I'm manipulative.
- I'm attention-seeking.
- I have...abandonment issues? What the hell?
Here is why I'm manipulative and attention-seeking:
I've tried to kill myself a few times already, at least three times in 2007, (but they only know about two) and a lot more in previous years. So! By attempting suicide, I am manipulating the people around me to stop and pay attention.
This is pretty much true. Every other time I've tried to kill myself, I really just wanted someone to step in and help me. I didn't really want to die, at least not forever. I wanted to be able to skip all those horrible bits, and I wanted someone to really, really listen to me. I was drowning! I was sinking further and further down, and I needed a hand up. This time, it was different. But when I got to the 'lorspital, I decided, "Since I won't die, maybe...they can actually help me this time." And I knew what I was doing, when I answered all those questions truthfully. Just...some part of me thought that if I didn't lie this time, if I let them do what they had to do, something would change.
But nothing changed. I came out of the hospital with this new curse of BPD traits, and the knowledge that now nobody would listen. Nobody would help, because the next time I really need someone, and I talk to them before doing anything permanent, I'm going to be attention-seeking. Don't they see though? Don't they see that I AM attention seeking? I am seeking their help! I am telling them, "I am not strong enough to do this on my own, I know that, I need your help."
Suicide attempts are often referred to as "a cry for help." Analyst Joseph Laufer noted that, "this very apt term has fallen into disrepute because it has been used in a pejorative way about those who have attempted suicide, implying that they behaved in a manipulative way to draw attention to themselves." (1)
"...research with girls shows that dismissing teenage girls' suicidal behavior as manipulation overlooks what may have been the meaning of the suicidal act in the first place. They may have learned to manipulate, but are doing so in a spirit of hope, of getting needs met that have no been met otherwise. The original meaning of the word "manipulative" is "to lead by the hand." When suicidal acts enable girls to get help, it is inaccurate to see these acts as merely "manipulative". Treating them as such can lead girls to give up hope. And then, psychologically or literally, they are more likely to kill themselves."(2)
Can't these people see? With their years in med school, residency, clinical training, and then just plain practicing medicine and their specialty, are they now blind to the fact they we are screaming, we are shouting, and we are telling them, "I trust you, I need you, please, please, help me."
1. Laufer, J. (1995). The Suicidal Child. Madison, CT: International Universities Press, 1995, p. 104.
2. Machoian, Lisa. (2006.) The Disappearing Girl. Plume: Penguin Group USA, 2006, p.174.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Different
Point One
Uhhh hello!? I think I need to get myself some more vests. That is fantastic.Point Two
I am really different from other people.
I kind of just realized that last night. At least, in those terms. I always knew I was different, I was a REALLY REALLY weird kid! And I liked that, it gave me someone to be, a personality to fit into. It made things easier if I could just be a weird kid.
But now that I am more capable of exploring different sides of myself, it's not something I'm so big on. Yes, I am a little off-centre. But I wish that I wasn't now. I mean, there's so much to fight without me being different. If I - and I can't believe I'm saying this - if I wasn't queer, it would be so much easier. It is so all-encompassing, right down to the pronouns I use. If I wasn't queer I might still go to Catholic church. I would never have met all these great people at Griffin, but I wouldn't have to think about prom and dances and my debut in all these ways. And if I wasn't sick, I might be graduating this year and not fighting so much with my parents. Or myself. Or the school.
Anyways yea, I know that being different has taught me a lot, but sometimes it really sucks. Like how it took me three hours to type this because I kept forgetting what I was doing.
But now that I am more capable of exploring different sides of myself, it's not something I'm so big on. Yes, I am a little off-centre. But I wish that I wasn't now. I mean, there's so much to fight without me being different. If I - and I can't believe I'm saying this - if I wasn't queer, it would be so much easier. It is so all-encompassing, right down to the pronouns I use. If I wasn't queer I might still go to Catholic church. I would never have met all these great people at Griffin, but I wouldn't have to think about prom and dances and my debut in all these ways. And if I wasn't sick, I might be graduating this year and not fighting so much with my parents. Or myself. Or the school.
Anyways yea, I know that being different has taught me a lot, but sometimes it really sucks. Like how it took me three hours to type this because I kept forgetting what I was doing.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
I can't, I can't!
I'm not at work today. I'm not picking up Pau's fantastic wrappingness, I'm not serving customers, I'm not filling box cards.
I can't.
And my parents, and Janice, don't believe this is real. I know it's frustrating to have calls coming about me saying I can't work, usually with less than 24h notice. Or even 1h notice. But this is the face of my illness. This is the compromise you make by hiring me, someone who is dedicated even with a job I hate, who will keep on answering, "Are you charging Canadian or American prices?" without swearing at customers, who will spend her break working because there's only one girl on the floor and it's busy.
I know, I know I shouldn't say this, but I wish this had been an illness that people could see, or measure. Something that didn't come with stigma attached.
I can't.
And my parents, and Janice, don't believe this is real. I know it's frustrating to have calls coming about me saying I can't work, usually with less than 24h notice. Or even 1h notice. But this is the face of my illness. This is the compromise you make by hiring me, someone who is dedicated even with a job I hate, who will keep on answering, "Are you charging Canadian or American prices?" without swearing at customers, who will spend her break working because there's only one girl on the floor and it's busy.
I know, I know I shouldn't say this, but I wish this had been an illness that people could see, or measure. Something that didn't come with stigma attached.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Discharged - I'm Back
Update later. I have to find my bag and stuff...
Five Days Later:
I know I pretty open about talking about all this stuff, but this time, I'll keep it to myself. I painted my nails bright pink to match my raspberry hat. I call them Power Nails, because they're shocking and loud and vibrant. All things that hurt my eyes and my ears when I'm on this stupid med. I did find my bag by the way, everything still complete, sharps still on it. I'm going to collapse onto my bed now.
Friday, November 23, 2007
On Pause
I've reached another place in my life where what I want to write about is much too personal to post on the Internet, of all places. So I'll be taking a break from updating this blog, at least until things work out or end.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
i want a baby
Please save your breath. I know I earn LESS than what I need to support myself, let alone a child. I know I'm seventeen, and I can't even commit to choir once a week!
I think I'd be a really good mother. I think I would love my baby more than anything or anyone in the world, but I also think...that when the days get shorter or I just- I just crash, I would never leave my bed. I would cry and cry and I would probably...not be a very good mother.
I suppose I should say good-bye.
