I'm Not Going To School

Here is a flowchart, important segments in bold:
Two Assignments > Three Weeks > Boredom > Bitchiness > SI > Excessive Bleeding > Mess > Uncomfortable Conversations

• I'm not going to school. Why? BECAUSE I HATE IT.
• I'm not going to school. Why? Because I'M BORED.
• I'm not going to school. Why? Because I have grade nine math skills and am taking MCR3U.
• I'm not going to school. Why? Because I've been working on this assignment for three weeks and it's been done for just as long.
  
• I'm not going to school. Why? Because with great boredom comes great bitchiness.
• I'm not going to school. Why? Because I hate it when people touch me.
• I'm not going to school. Why? Because I don't fit it.
• I'm not going to school. Why? Because bleeding is a great way to cut through the boredom, which leads to the bitch.
• I'm not going to school. Why? Because as much as I like bleeding, I don't feel like taping layers of gauze to my wrists and sitting through the whole day like that.
• I'm not going to school. Why? Because the school is dirty and I don't have enough PRN's to go everyday.
• I'm not going to school. Why? Because PRN's aren't meant for everyday anyway!
  
• I'm not going to school. Why? Because I'd rather stay home and deal with my mother than spend the day THERE.

What Would (Imaginary) Larry Say?

WELL YOU KNOW WHAT I'D SAY TO THAT, JUST GET IT DONE. JUST GET YOUR FUCKIN' DIPLOMA AND GET TO UNIVERSITY, YOU'LL LOVE IT THERE.
High school is about more than an OSSD imaginary Larry, it's about growing up and being social and finding a niche. Anyways, fat lot of good that advice is, it's at least 1.5 years before I get to university! So I'm not about to spend 1.5 years going to a place I hate for six hours a day. What makes you so sure university is going to be my big break huh? Everyone thought Triangle School would be great, "Oh Kat, you'll be starting a new school and your academics will change..." "Kat at least you won't be a Ward" "Kat it's a school full of people like you!"

SO YOU'RE A BITCH.
What?! What?! That's not helpful! That's not even a question! Ugh. And yes, it matters if I'm a bitch! I don't want to be cruel to other people, especially not to their faces! I'll be to cruel to them in the privacy of my diary!

SEE AGAIN, I THINK YOU FEEL TOO MUCH OF A NEED TO PLEASE PEOPLE.
Oh my god, is this the exact same session as last week? Who knows!? There's a difference between needing to please people and not wanting to be cruel.

HOW C-
Yes! I'm small! HAHAHA. Small people have full sized emotions! Just because I'm a lovely young woman here doesn't mean I'm incapable of being a bitch! Are you going to keep asking me stupid questions or actually help me out with this?

I DON'T THINK YOU'RE BEING A BITCH.
How do you know? Were you there? Are you social worker to some of the people whose feelings I hurt? Are you actually a skinny black woman who was guest teaching the class? If you were, did you not notice the way I made faces and slammed my skull into the desk whenever you introduced a new activity?

SO WHAT?
Can you ignore what I'm saying even more? Is that possible? Being a bitch generally doesn't mean being nice to other people! And it's not a great feeling either! God, I was so mad-

"GOD" NOW HUH? HAHAAAA-
Shuttup.

SEE NOW YOU'RE BEING A BITCH.
Very funny imaginary Larry. What were we talking about?

YOU WERE SO MAD.
Stop laughing. Stop!

I CAN'T IMAGINE YOU MAD. YOU'RE FEISTY THIS SESSION.
Feisty? What, because I'm a small asian woman I don't get mad I'm just feisty? Do I have spunk? Ugh. I was mad, I was really mad for no reason! I was incredibly bored and then incredibly angry and I took it out on other people and that doesn't feel good.

YOU DON'T NEED TO FEEL GOOD ALL THE TIME.
I didn't say all the time, I said I didn't feel good at that moment. Do normies feel good when they take out their anger on other people?

YOU'RE NORMAL.
Uh huh, that's why I'm here talking to you.

YOU ARE NORMAL, THIS IS WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, I DON'T WANT YOU TO BECOME A PROFESSIONAL PATIENT.
I'm not becoming a professional patient, I'm becoming a professional. Difference, hello? If I was becoming a professional patient, I would have new symptoms everyday. But I don't. I read about new symptoms almost everyday, but you don't see me thinking I have DID or a pneumothorax or leukemia when there are people arguing in my head or I have trouble breathing or a collection of bruises for no reason.

...wow that pretend session really pissed me off. Anyway, that's what I'm Not Going To School.

Things I'm Grateful For

Yes, I'm actually doing this. I've been thinking about it a lot lately, so I might as well write it down.

1. Big Bunny
2. Speedy
3. Lolo
4. Lola
5. Pauline
6. Christine
7. Nelson
8. Valerie
9. Vanessa
10. Michelle S.
    
11. Never having to shave my legs
12. Only getting my period every three months (even though I know that will backfire on me later)
13. Having a slight natural curl in my hair
14. My supersonic metabolism
15. Slender fingers, even though I have to get all my rings custom sized
16. Coupons
17. Sales
    
18. Sales where you get a discount off last ticketed price
19. Juice from concentrate
20. My job
21. Living in Canada
    

Signs The TTC Wishes They Had

"CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH CLOSED"

"ON YOUR CELL? SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"KEEP YOUR BODY AND YOUR SHIT TO YOUR OWN SEAT"

"BUTT THE LINE AND DIE"

"YOU WANNA TURN YOUR MUSIC DOWN LOSER?"

"BLOCK THE DOORS AND YOU CAN GET THE FUCK OFF THIS VEHICLE"

"NO, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR YOUR LIFE STORY"

"UNWARRENTED FLIRTING IS FORBIDDEN UNDER TTC BYLAW 1: JACKASS PROHIBITION"

More to come!

My Lola and Lolo 'n Me

This is my Lola.


This is my Lolo.


This is me.


We three have 18 years of history. There are so many things I'll never forget, like Lola's magical roll of umbrella stickers. There were so many umbrella stickers it was like a sticker wonderland. I remember them exactly, tiny umbrellas with a rainbow design and an iridescent layer on top.

Soon after I saw the Forgetful Allergist, I checked the back of a CRUNCH bar and declared I couldn't eat it anymore, because it is Made on Equipment That Also Processes Peanuts/Nuts. Today I ate the first CRUNCH bar I've had in years, and boy I miss when chocolate bars had two wrappers. I forgot to try to eat around the letters though.

Lolo and I used to play so many games. I of course preferred Ice Cream land or whatever, because I really, really like ice cream. But Lolo liked to put together puzzles on top of giant pieces of cardboard we'd slide under the couch for safekeeping. We also played Wheel of Fortune, because to this day they still watch Wheel of Fortune followed by Jeopardy every weekday. (Channel 8, 7-8pm.) Man I suck at Wheel of Fortune, but Lola always figures it out first! And then we all gripe about how stupid the categories are. "Thing," honestly. That was one of them, the category was thing at the word was Honesty. Okay it's a THING, but it's not a tangible THING. God.

Once not long after they moved to the Moorehouse House Lola gave me this magnicent Polly Pocket mansion. I still play with it, even though I'm 18 and they don't even make Polly Pocket's the size anymore. They're not POCKETsized, they're like purse sized Polly's. And their names aren't even Polly. Anyways, it's on my shelf.

I remember when they lived in the Blue House, everytime Lolo and I got in the elevator he would tell everyone that I was his granddaughter and really smart. And when we used to go to the factory, all the Filipino ladies would look over and go, "TINAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" and start gabbering away about how tall I was (lies), how pretty I was (truth!), how cool it was that I used to hang out at the factory...(kinda). I liked walking down to the "river" which was really a useless sewer drain that was dry half the time. And climbing up into the boxes and ditching my shoes somewhere and running away or poking at the giant fish tank. Lolo used to take me into the secret room where he mixed the secret recipe, and we'd both put on a lab coat and I'd adjust my hairnet, which was always falling out of place, and I'd hop up onto the chair and point at everything and ask a million questions. Or he'd go into the walk-in freezer to get/put in stuff, and I'd stand at the door faithfully because I was terrified he'd get stuck inside.

OH MY GOSH! At The House, the laundry/bathroom/pantry/darkroom is in the basement right? I used to tiptoe very carefully downstairs and yell BOO! behind Lola and she'd jump and swear in Tagalog and I would giggle for like, half an hour. Then while she was doing the laundry I would slip in between the wall and the water tank and poke around the pantry, staring at the wonders of diced/sliced/crushed pineapple and jars of nails.

And every night I slept over at The House, (last time was in early August this year) I'd listen very carefully through the wall to hear Lolo's snoring and Lola's litany/rosary, then sneak downstairs for more lemonade.

There's a lot more, but I want to go downstairs now. Bye!

Obsessions

I don't usually wash, check, or count away my obsessions. The exceptions would be washing after being on a damp bus, and counting house numbers. (The goal is to count faster than you see the houses, so 1-3-5-7-9-11-13-15-17-19-21... as fast as you can- but only fast enough to stay one house ahead.) I usually spell them away. R-e-d c-a-r-s c-o-s-t m-o-r-e i-n-s-u-r-a-n-c-e i-c-e c-r-e-a-m p-o-p-s-i-c-l-e-s p-u-r-c-h-a-s-e...

There are some thoughts that just won't go away.

What do I do with them? How do I make them stop when everything is parallel and perfectly spelled and they won't cease fire. They're bad, bad things to think.

speed poetry

how can i resist/ the hope you offer me/ barest of wishes/ slightest of touch/ i place my life in it's hands/ so precarious.

you speak/ i hear not a sound/ i see nothing/ feathers from the sky/ am i/ sirens/ your voice/ bring me back/ i don't want to be/ grounded

i sing/ lullabies and secret cries/ for angels to listen/ but never hear

denied three times/ shadows at my door/ fear, loathing, other/ by the time the cock crows/ thrice

candy cane pants/ memories i haven't lost


It's been a long time (read: years) since I even tried to write anything remotely poetic, mostly it's just an endless stream of thoughts, but I like this. The essentials. Just what I thought of in the two minutes between 12:40am and 12:42am. Good night/morning.

I'm scared of Triangle Program

In three weeks, I'll be starting at a new school an hour away from my house. I'm so terrified! Christine asked me if I had any leftover unit guides, and of course I did, and of course I caught glimpses of them.

I still cringe when I look at ENG3U units.

What if Triangle is the same as Ward? What if it's the same units? The kind of work I could stare at for hours, months, and get absolutely nowhere with. Please don't make me do English, I hate English. I read, write, and speak English perfectly! I have an extensive vocabulary and can write well, please let me off the hook! I can't stand anymore English, God, even the teachers are bored with it!

What if I'm not queer enough? I'm not a vegetarian, I'm not anywhere close to vegan, I don't eat organic or even healthy. 70% of my lunches during Day Hospital were pizza. I don't believe in all-natural healing, I take three pills a day! I don't fit stereotypes or labels! I am comfortable with sex but not with having it! I am sex-positive for other people but not myself!

Why are all the staff there male? What if I start to trust people there? What if I can't, not even a little bit and everyone thinks I'm cold? I can't take the TTC there, I hate the TTC when it's damp! It's ALWAYS damp in the winter! I need dry warmth! Like Speedy, who by the way is a girl!

What if I zoom down again and everything is dark and I can't stand going?

AND YOU! SHUTTUP! I'M TOO TIRED FOR CBT!!!

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.