Just to say something
Just to say something to make people feel a little less scared for me.
I'm better.
I'm not going to say that I'm okay, because I'm not and really can't be unless someone figures out WHAT is wrong with me.
Details that aren't exactly that:
I went to the hospital thursday night.
Gitti called 911.
My mother showed up.
So did Ms. Mather.
(I find it odd that I appreciated Ms. Mather's presence more than my mother's)
I was relieved of one (1) red swiss army pocket knife.
I was suicidal.
Very.
Things were out of my control.
I scared Emily out of her mind.
I scared Katja, too.
And my mother.
And my father.
And Ms. Mather.
And the cops.
And the medics.
Everyone really.
So they took me to children's hospital.
I was admitted for...hmm...8 hours?
I was released at about 5:50am.
I came home.
I called Gitti.
I ate graham crackers.
I went to sleep.
I woke at 2.
And retrieved my car from Kat's house around 3.
There is obviously something wrong with me.
I don't know what it is.
Neither does anyone else.
Things have become incomprehensible.
Various people think that I am at various levels of psychotic stuff.
No, I am not hearing voices.
Except for my own.
Which keeps accusing me of worthlessness.
And I'm tired of this.
All of it.
And I just reached a point where I didn't want it anymore.
I'm convinced that this is how I'm going to live for the rest of my life.
The idea is not pleasant.
Neither are most of the other ideas I'm having these days.
I'm going to see the psychiatrist on Monday.
Until then I'm under strict orders to obtain attention if I feel like hurting myself.
I promised.
So I will.
I need help from everyone.
It is unreasonable to ask everyone to babysit me.
So I won't.
But if people could call me...
I need the attention.
I need the love.
I need things that I can't even articulate.
But more than everything else I need safety.
I desperately need to feel home.
Even though I don't know where or what home is anymore.
So, just talk to me, keep track of me.
Don't let me go.
I lied to the psychiatrist.
But that was because I really didn't want to be hospitalized for any real length of time.
I told him that it was like last time.
That I had decided not to die.
And I had even convonved myself of that.
Though I had less trust in myself.
And less control.
So looking at my own mind at that time.
It was true.
But now it's more a lie.
I'm sitting in a precarious limbo.
I need to keep track of myself.
But I don't know if I can.
So I need help with that.
Keep after me.
And I apologize for asking you to do things that I won't appreciate.
I'll do my best not to snap at you.
Or get mad.
But be prepared for tears.
Because they're easy to come by these days.
And I love you all.
But I can't explain this properly to myself.
So don't expect to understand.
I won't expect you to.
________________________________________
I just need to say...that death is both hard and easy. When I'm so far gone in my own head and my own misery I'm still intellectually aware. I'm not stupid just because I want everything to stop. I'm not entirely logical, but I try. If you try to be logical with me, I'll do what I can to follow you and understand. And trust. But I won't feel things normally. Everything will be a bad thing. Everything will be another reason to die, or something that I think has no worth to keep me from dying. Contradict me. Tell me I'm wrong. Be strong, but calm. Don't get mad at me. I'll be a test of your patience. What I need to hear more than anything else is that you love me, but I also need to give you control. The best way to interrupt all of this is to ask for control. Ask for me to trust you on this because you know and I know that I'm not seeing the world correctly and I need your help. Ask me to stop. Don't say "do it for me" because that jsut triggers a whole load of things that I can't deal with very well. I know this hurts you guys, and I'm sorry, but mostly I can't help it and hearing that it hurts you will only make me feel worse. Ask for control, and even if I don't say I'm giving it to you, start making decisions. Start deciding what to do with me. It's commonly a good idea to put me to bed, or to feed me, or to just sit and talk. If you can't deal with me, then I NEED you to call on someone else. I NEED you not to try to do what you don't feel up to, because I will respond to your lack of confidence by trying to be in control, and I'm not safe when I'm in control. Ms. Mather, Brigitte, P-Lady, and various other people would be more than happy to help. Ultimately I would rather not have my parents come, but if you're calling 911, or if you want them there, I've already given up control, and I will understand.
I love you. And thank you.
I wrote while I was waiting in the hospital, and I want to put my bits about death up here. I don't know why, but I need to try and explain myself
---
When we came to their road, I kept wlaking. Emily made no objections until I started trying to send her home. The want to die is like this rising tide in your head tht feels a bit like acid but never burns away the sensory receptors. It's an insatiable motivating force that puches you until you lose the will to move against it, and then lose the will to even stand against it as it pushes you in the direction of suicide. It's a thousand voices all chanting your faults, but in such a way that you catch them one at a time and have a chance to mull it over before you make out the next one. It's the little red devil character sitting on your left shoulder and making bad but completely logical suggestions. The will to die is like unto death itself. It is the empty abyss into which you slip and can't seem to find a way out. And when you get in far enough, when you truly begin to forget life and its logical arguments, at that point you can't even hear yourself screaming. You won't feel the knife in your vein. You won't recognize the drug overdose as anything bu the the welcome darkness of sleep. And by the time you come truly close enough to it, close enough to reach out and touch death itself and realize that it's hollow and empty, the water will already feel warm on your skin like sunshine on a spring afternoon.
They sat that when you die you see your life flash before your eyes. I think that your regrets come to you, even as these thoughts can usher you to a premature death, so do they come to the dying in order for them to make peace with it all in their final moments. I'll probable never make peace with some of my mistakes. They'll haunt me until I forgive myself and I'm bad enough at forgiving other people that I have little hope for my own chances.
I've spent what feels like ages desperately seeking a new way home. When I have my little chats with deaht, when we go for a waltz on the dance floor and say screw it to the dapper, young suitor Life, it's then that I'm convinced that death is the calmest, nicest, easiest road home. It's then that I find my burdens too hard to carry and not worth the costs.
....
Coming home, well you know what coming home is. It's the wind in your hair, the smiles on the faces of your friends, the rushign whoosh of the world as its many multitudes take in a breath and exhale again. It's coming home to where you already are. Finding peace where it never was before.
----
I'm done for now.
This is rather a long post.
Hope I haven't tipped your boat over with it.
You know what they say: "whatever floats your boat..."
I'm better.
I'm not going to say that I'm okay, because I'm not and really can't be unless someone figures out WHAT is wrong with me.
Details that aren't exactly that:
I went to the hospital thursday night.
Gitti called 911.
My mother showed up.
So did Ms. Mather.
(I find it odd that I appreciated Ms. Mather's presence more than my mother's)
I was relieved of one (1) red swiss army pocket knife.
I was suicidal.
Very.
Things were out of my control.
I scared Emily out of her mind.
I scared Katja, too.
And my mother.
And my father.
And Ms. Mather.
And the cops.
And the medics.
Everyone really.
So they took me to children's hospital.
I was admitted for...hmm...8 hours?
I was released at about 5:50am.
I came home.
I called Gitti.
I ate graham crackers.
I went to sleep.
I woke at 2.
And retrieved my car from Kat's house around 3.
There is obviously something wrong with me.
I don't know what it is.
Neither does anyone else.
Things have become incomprehensible.
Various people think that I am at various levels of psychotic stuff.
No, I am not hearing voices.
Except for my own.
Which keeps accusing me of worthlessness.
And I'm tired of this.
All of it.
And I just reached a point where I didn't want it anymore.
I'm convinced that this is how I'm going to live for the rest of my life.
The idea is not pleasant.
Neither are most of the other ideas I'm having these days.
I'm going to see the psychiatrist on Monday.
Until then I'm under strict orders to obtain attention if I feel like hurting myself.
I promised.
So I will.
I need help from everyone.
It is unreasonable to ask everyone to babysit me.
So I won't.
But if people could call me...
I need the attention.
I need the love.
I need things that I can't even articulate.
But more than everything else I need safety.
I desperately need to feel home.
Even though I don't know where or what home is anymore.
So, just talk to me, keep track of me.
Don't let me go.
I lied to the psychiatrist.
But that was because I really didn't want to be hospitalized for any real length of time.
I told him that it was like last time.
That I had decided not to die.
And I had even convonved myself of that.
Though I had less trust in myself.
And less control.
So looking at my own mind at that time.
It was true.
But now it's more a lie.
I'm sitting in a precarious limbo.
I need to keep track of myself.
But I don't know if I can.
So I need help with that.
Keep after me.
And I apologize for asking you to do things that I won't appreciate.
I'll do my best not to snap at you.
Or get mad.
But be prepared for tears.
Because they're easy to come by these days.
And I love you all.
But I can't explain this properly to myself.
So don't expect to understand.
I won't expect you to.
________________________________________
I just need to say...that death is both hard and easy. When I'm so far gone in my own head and my own misery I'm still intellectually aware. I'm not stupid just because I want everything to stop. I'm not entirely logical, but I try. If you try to be logical with me, I'll do what I can to follow you and understand. And trust. But I won't feel things normally. Everything will be a bad thing. Everything will be another reason to die, or something that I think has no worth to keep me from dying. Contradict me. Tell me I'm wrong. Be strong, but calm. Don't get mad at me. I'll be a test of your patience. What I need to hear more than anything else is that you love me, but I also need to give you control. The best way to interrupt all of this is to ask for control. Ask for me to trust you on this because you know and I know that I'm not seeing the world correctly and I need your help. Ask me to stop. Don't say "do it for me" because that jsut triggers a whole load of things that I can't deal with very well. I know this hurts you guys, and I'm sorry, but mostly I can't help it and hearing that it hurts you will only make me feel worse. Ask for control, and even if I don't say I'm giving it to you, start making decisions. Start deciding what to do with me. It's commonly a good idea to put me to bed, or to feed me, or to just sit and talk. If you can't deal with me, then I NEED you to call on someone else. I NEED you not to try to do what you don't feel up to, because I will respond to your lack of confidence by trying to be in control, and I'm not safe when I'm in control. Ms. Mather, Brigitte, P-Lady, and various other people would be more than happy to help. Ultimately I would rather not have my parents come, but if you're calling 911, or if you want them there, I've already given up control, and I will understand.
I love you. And thank you.
I wrote while I was waiting in the hospital, and I want to put my bits about death up here. I don't know why, but I need to try and explain myself
---
When we came to their road, I kept wlaking. Emily made no objections until I started trying to send her home. The want to die is like this rising tide in your head tht feels a bit like acid but never burns away the sensory receptors. It's an insatiable motivating force that puches you until you lose the will to move against it, and then lose the will to even stand against it as it pushes you in the direction of suicide. It's a thousand voices all chanting your faults, but in such a way that you catch them one at a time and have a chance to mull it over before you make out the next one. It's the little red devil character sitting on your left shoulder and making bad but completely logical suggestions. The will to die is like unto death itself. It is the empty abyss into which you slip and can't seem to find a way out. And when you get in far enough, when you truly begin to forget life and its logical arguments, at that point you can't even hear yourself screaming. You won't feel the knife in your vein. You won't recognize the drug overdose as anything bu the the welcome darkness of sleep. And by the time you come truly close enough to it, close enough to reach out and touch death itself and realize that it's hollow and empty, the water will already feel warm on your skin like sunshine on a spring afternoon.
They sat that when you die you see your life flash before your eyes. I think that your regrets come to you, even as these thoughts can usher you to a premature death, so do they come to the dying in order for them to make peace with it all in their final moments. I'll probable never make peace with some of my mistakes. They'll haunt me until I forgive myself and I'm bad enough at forgiving other people that I have little hope for my own chances.
I've spent what feels like ages desperately seeking a new way home. When I have my little chats with deaht, when we go for a waltz on the dance floor and say screw it to the dapper, young suitor Life, it's then that I'm convinced that death is the calmest, nicest, easiest road home. It's then that I find my burdens too hard to carry and not worth the costs.
....
Coming home, well you know what coming home is. It's the wind in your hair, the smiles on the faces of your friends, the rushign whoosh of the world as its many multitudes take in a breath and exhale again. It's coming home to where you already are. Finding peace where it never was before.
----
I'm done for now.
This is rather a long post.
Hope I haven't tipped your boat over with it.
You know what they say: "whatever floats your boat..."