Things I Learned

PROVEN - Most hospital food is play-doh in disguise. Other secret identities are: paperweights, doorstops, and leather. Some or most hospital food has been pre-chewed and/or not chewable.
EXAMPLES
Pancakes, French Toast, Toast, Tea Biscuit, Dill Salmon, Cream of Wheat, Oatmeal - Play Doh
Tea Biscuit - Paperweight, Doorstop
Beef strips, chicken of any kind, turkey of any kind - Leather, Unchewable
Eggs - Pre chewed

PROVEN - Most hospital food is recycled.
EXAMPLES
Minestrone Soup is Vegetable Soup with pasta shells
Oatmeal is Cream of Wheat with brown food colouring
Beef Strips is Chicken Strips with the same sauce.
Tea Biscuit is French Toast/Toast/Pancakes but fatter
French Toast/Toast/Pancakes are Tea Biscuits but thinner.

He was Right

PTDHSW was right. It is a useful coping mechanism. Hah. Can you feel it? Can you feel your eyes unfocus and your head kind of...float away? It woud have been pleasant if it wasn't so annoying.

Lesbian Faire

Oh my god. Why haven't I been watching this before? Oh, it's so fabulous!

http://www.afterellen.com/blog/karmankregloe/wgn-video-blog-lword-1-lets-do-it

two sides to this story

“You know, there’s the North York- I mean, Scarborough mobile crisis team.”

I know.

“How close do you get to jumping off a ten storey building?”

Too close.

“It’s too early to know.”

Four years too late.

Help Me

Fuck Off

What if I want a future? What if I want a wife who will steal my pager while I’m in the shower and tell people to “leave her the fuck alone”? I want someone to hold onto when my meds make me vomit. I want to freak out and rush my kid to the emergency room to find out it’s a simple ear infection. There is so much I know I can do! I could be great at being a doctor, a mother, a wife. I love to memorize all the pieces of a body that work together, to explore the intricacies of life and find out how/why things go wrong. I’m good at that. What if instead of dying what I really want is to bypass all of this and get it right?

What if I don’t see a future? What if all I can find in mine is an older version of me, pissed at my parents and trying to become content with unhappiness? I see twelve more medications and four more years of treatment, alternating between completely lost and completely functional. There is so much I can’t reach. I can’t get to my thoughts anymore; they’re somewhere just beyond my fingertips. It’s there, somewhere, frustratingly close and just as impossible. What if I can’t ever get it back?

angry

In the past couple of months I've slept without my meds a handful of times. There were a few nights I was on melatonin, and a few more where I was so exhausted I didn't need them. It freaks me out that I can't sleep without them anymore.

It scares me that during that time I wasn't on my meds I was a fucking wreck. I can't believe that I ever was that anxious all the time, it's like some kind of nightmare. Which by the way, I am chock full of. Every night I dream horrible scenes that go in circles.

Every night, and every afternoon because although I can't sleep in my bed I sleep soundly on the bus.

It feels like forever.

repeat: Reality (loop)

I did find a lot of old stuff, but it's a little too intense for right now, so I put it away for later.

I am amused by my parents when they try to be involved in my life. I got my report card from Day Hospital and my dad is standing there waiting to see it, so I said "Bye." Instead of leaving he said, "I want to see it, I'm still paying taxes for that." Bully for you, but I pay taxes too! Sure, it's next to nothing, but when you earn a couple thou a year the government isn't expecting too much.

Is it too much to laugh at my family when they try to figure out what's going on with me? I figure that they forfeited their stake in my life a couple years ago, but as I haven't said that to them I think they're confused. No wait, that's funny too.

I think I should explain, but whenever I talk about something like that they seem to speak a different language. Anyways, I don't feel like adding to the tension in this house.

I should stop stalling and actually do shit...

Retro: October 23rd, 2007

I found this one while going through my First Aid box.

------

Dear Journal,
I could cry. It was a really great retreat until now. We're having mass now and I'm sitting at the back. The other teachers kind of just stared and moved on, but Ireland challenged me. I know I go to a Catholic school and as such I'm expected to participate in masses in liturgies. I was fine in explaining that I don't do Catholic mass, that I'm United*, but past that is private and personal. Please do not violate my limits.

She wanted to know why I couldn't just listen. And I sold my reasons are personal. Now I know, even considering that I had ZERO training at Griffin that you stop there. It is difficult enough to verbalize your need for the other person to stop.

Then she said, "you're just listening, I don't see how that can be offensive." Arms crossed, effectively stopping communication, while at the same time daring me to argue back. I just shook my head. I know enough not to argue. We are both passionate about our positions. She shook her head and walked away.

I don't want to always justify my beliefs, my faith. Mom always bothers me about it. Fighting.

Why can't I worship in my own way? The fact that the Church feels it can take away the most sacred sacrament is folly to me. Mass, to me is a guilt trip, a "privilage" that the Church uses as a weapon. That's not faith, that's blackmail. Other people may find solace in the mass. I don't. I feel the beaurocratic element of the Church leaves "unwhole" people out. Women, non-Catholics, people will mental illness, queers, and for a time, people of colour and the uneducated.

There are my beliefs. (Peace of Christ!)

Til Then,
Kat

*I identified as part of the United Church of Canada at that point.

-------

HAHAHA I ESCAPED YOU, YOU GODDAMN FUCKING ASSHOLES!!! I'm going to look for some more stuff.

Not the Hospital

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.

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.

Days of the Week

She wrote semi-legibly!

Since I started high school, Tuesdays and Thursdays have always been busy for me. First it was because my doctor only comes in to the hospital on Tuesdays, then it was because play rehearsal was always, always on a Thursday. It's a little different now, I spend my Thursdays at the Shoniker Clinic for Group.

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.

i emerge with...the giant pills of doom! people were staring at me on the bus. yes, i cut my nails, geez.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.