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.
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.
I'm talking to Val right now about this, and I still don't know the answer.
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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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.)
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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!]
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.]
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?
Yea, not really with the abandonment. I can think of a lot of times I felt pretty alone, but from what I've read, I'm not even close to having abandonment issues worthy of being part of the DSM-IV criteria. But the other two, I guess you could say that. I'm very sneaky and passive-aggressive, although I'm starting to become more assertive. (Oh, by the way, you can stop listening to the Beach Boys now. It doesn't really work with this part.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
...is something I have serious trouble with. I like working! As much as I hate that I have to, I like that sometimes, people are happy when I'm helping them. Even just helping them find the right card, I dunno. That's a nice feeling. But it's so tough! I had a panic attack at work today. What if I'm alone? What if I'm working and whoever is with me is on break? I can do that! I can work a pre-Christmas shift, by myself, cash, floor, card cleaning. But sometimes, it's hard enough to wake up in the morning. I need to be able to keep working. I need so much more then that, but right now, I need to be able to work. And I hate myself for not able able to.
Dammit O'Reilly, you caught me. I'm secretly part of the TLTO, (that's Toronto Lesbians Taking Over) and I'm working hard to rack up my Dyke-Points, so I can get myself a toaster!!! Honestly, I'd prefer a microwave, but you have to convert 50 girls to lesbianism, and I don't work with the gang enough to get that!
I haven't been going to the hospital for the past three years, I've taken the "tunnel" to our underground lair, where we plan out lesbian gang stuff and have lesbian sex.
They're part of the gang. And I didn't get my job back at Carlton, I just got a promotion in that gang and I needed more time to go into Straightville, (that's everywhere outside of Church and Wellesley) and recruit. Actually, they're not 17. They're 37 and 49 respectively, and they recruited me. They sponsored me into the group, (they acted as my Sapphic Sisters.) I was their microwave girl. Dammit, now we have to go revise our safety plans. O'Reilly, you've really got us going.
Sophie's World. Alberto leaves Sophie a letter and asks..."Are you a child who has not yet become world-weary?" Unit 3 HZT4U1. The print before me reads, "Give your response."
I thought at first, that I could simply answer, "Yes/No." And then as I thought more about it I started to remember....
I know that I am only seventeen and have so much more to experience, but I think I am tired of the world.Five years ago I had so much less to think and worry about- not that I didn’t have any problems, but just that they were so...average!(Here I must say that although my issues were the same as every other kid in my class, that didn’t make it any easier.)The next year I hit depression, started self-injuring, and attempted suicide.Throughout high school, I’ve come to see so many more unpleasant parts of the world.Corruption!The disintegration of my family, the abuse of my friends, the intolerance of the church, the stigma of mental illness, how could I not be tired of this!?I am so much more familiar with Centenary Hospital, how to see a friend in a locked ward, how to evade being hospitalized, hatred, and loneliness than I ever wanted to be.I have watched my friends...no. There are good things to this world, sure, but I’m rather tired of the bad things.
The bonfire was so...together-ness. I sang and told a horrible story that I interjected with Filipino history and my own theories on why there are so many of us. (Which includes hormones, no condoms, and Catholicism.) Still, it felt so good to bring together all these people I was intimidated by/not close to/never seen before.
But, [*insert ominous music here] we had a mass the next day. I've been sitting out on masses and liturgies for a while now, and I asked Candiotto if I could continue to do so. He said it was okay by him, but that there were five other teachers to worry about. Point taken.
So I sat my chair out at the back of the room and proceeded to write in my journal. Other teachers looked at me oddly...but I wasn't bothering anyone! And I was sitting at the back...so I continued hoping no one would approach me. But of course, Ireland did. I don't want to recount the whole story, but basically...she kept asking me why I couldn't just listen, even though I made it clear that my reasons were personal. I know I received zero training at Griffin, (except like, CPI stuff) but even I know that when someone tells you that what you're asking is private, you stopped. People will well developed social skills know that. Ahem. Anyways, eventually she backed off, and I was angry for a bit. Not that she asked, I had actually expected more teachers to challenge me, but that she crossed my boundaries. (Elijah, if you ever read this, know that I use that word with the utmost resignation.) But by the time I got to the 'lorspital, I was pretty proud of myself! I stood up for my beliefs, and I did it quietly and without being offensive. I feel good about that.
*I would suggest Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, 1st Movement. And then listen to the 3rd movement because it's that fantastic. And then listen to Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto #3, 3rd movement. Hey, that's a note for Bas too, Marjolein.
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Birds eye view of my cousins wedding reception.
I didn't want to use a picture of my immediate family, (mom-dad-brother-lolo-lola-titojoe-tina-bunny-puppy-brownie) because that's just a little too direct. I finally told my dad how angry and sad I was that they abandoned me after I was diagnosed. The rest was pretty much an elaboration of that. I know it must have hurt him terrible to hear that...but it hurt terribly to know that I was doing all that alone. It still hurts. I concluded by saying that I didn't want my parents involved in my mental health anymore. No more intruding on my sessions against my wishes, no more awkward questions about how things are doing, no more "helpful advice." I'd like very much to stop hearing them say, "you just have to fight it! That's what I did!"
You fought nothing like this. Your battles were completely different from mine, they were difficult and valid but completely different.
I am glad for my Lolo and Lola. If I didn't have them...I'd be pretty alone in my family. I didn't expect them to understand so fully, to accept and support me...I didn't expect them to just shrug when they realized I'm gay...it just wasn't synonymous with the feelings of their time. And yet...they love me anyways. They never stopped supporting me when I became taboo.
I'm still looking for a picture of myself in grade 8 or 9 for the retreat tomorrow. In doing so, I found a lot of pictures from when I was younger.
There I am! Mortified and unable to fake a smile at my 5th birthday in JK, because I was so terrified of all the attention. There I am! At my 7th birthday party clutching Barney close while I tried not to cry. Oh...maybe the next one will be better. There I am! At Petticoat Creek...sitting on the grass because my cousins wouldn't let me sit on the blanket. Huh. There I am! In Florida, staring up at my brother and cousin who are waving from the balcony they wouldn't let me go near. There...at my 8th birthday party completely miserable because my cousins were ignoring me. And there...at my brother's graduation, attempting to smile for the camera but really just wanting to be in that big Cousins photo that no one would let me into. There...in late in grade 8, smiling at waving at the camera Nigel was wielding. I remember that well because I was trying very hard to smile and to keep my sleeve up over my wrist.
I know that I was the cute baby for a bit, but then I became the annoying kid to my teenage cousins. I recognize that as they were my teenage cousins, they were only able to think of things in relation to themselves, as well as being deeply invested in being the popular kids. But...honestly...didn't ANY of them think about how that made me feel?
Did any of them realize that when I was grade 4, (I was nine) I promised myself that once I was in high school I would sever any ties with the cousins? I planned to go out with my friends, or even just pretend that I needed to study. The arrival of my nieces and nephews changed that, but at the time I was simply waiting until I was free of my obligation to the family.
Did anybody think that the first time I thought about killing myself was when I was eight years old, and deathly lonely? In one of my old diaries it even lists methods and what I thought of them.
I HATED them! I hated my cousins so much that I would shake with anger when I thought about them. I cried so many times, blaming myself for having been born too late. When I was looking at those photos, I wished I could do that to them somehow. But I know! I know how hard it is to be ignored! I know the fear and the anxiety and the sadness and the loneliness that make you so desperate that you will try to take your own life! I'll be honest, I've had a lot of experience that maybe, my cousins didn't have. My own diagnosis and treatment, my friends, even my job during this summer all have changed me. If I were to treat my nieces and nephews, (having about the same age difference as my cousins and I) like I had been treated, I know it would hurt. Anyways, I can't do that, they're mine! They're precious and I love them and I'll be on the lookout for them, always. I'll teach them to stand-up to bullies, to tell fireants from the ones you can play with, to treat other kids well even though they won't share, and that if they feel alone, I'll be there for them.
All in all, I'm quite glad that's in the past. Even with more than a decade having passed since I started feeling like an outcast, I still remember clearly how awful I felt. I still feel awful, but at least now I have great friends, and (gosh this is so counsellor-y) a solid support system. I had great friends then too, but I wasn't ready to tell them shit like that. I almost love my cousins now. I've grown up a lot, and so have they. Just because I'm the same age they were and I don't act like my little cousins are pieces of shit doesn't....(*breathe) I almost love my cousins now. Almost. Hey, at least I'm in the picture now.
PS: I'll be gone tomorrow, at the retreat hopefully. I'm shaking for quite a different reason now...I don't really want to be at that retreat as I am. And once I'm there...I can't just go home to my bed and sleep it off, nor can I just leave and find someone who can help me. I did pay $40 for it...and the bus seating and rooms will get messed up. I will try to be brave enough to go. Maybe while I'm there my body will finally acclimatize to the new med? Or maybe being out there is what I need. Gosh, I'm scared. PPS: Marjolein, are you there?
Is it weird that my favourite place to be is on the 12th floor of the hospital? 
