Tag Archives: Vivian

I keep thinking to myself that I’ve made the right decision. Right? This has to be the right decision. You have to make a good decision to get better. That is what they keep telling me.

They they they they – Every they.

The words seem like they should make sense and it all seems like I should agree.

I should agree. always agree

But there is something terribly off about all these people agreeing that things will be better knowing I’ve made the decision to get help and be better.

Get better.
Feel.
Feel Better.
Get Better.

Things can only get better if we crack you open.
Crack you open and see inside.
See inside.
See inside.
Where all the rot,
and worms reside.

That must be better,
must be better.
I listen to the words all these people say. I nod and agree. always agree

But it doesn’t feel better.
It doesn’t feel better to crack me open and see all the pieces inside.
I feel like I’m letting everyone down.
How very useless I am.
I can’t even keep it together.

I can’t even keep it together.

In some ways psych facilities feel a lot like S&M sex dungeons. They both are way creepier and scarier in your imagination than they ever are in reality. When you actually encounter either place you just manage to find every single cliché alive and well and groping around in the dark just like you.

I didn’t want to be trapped in my head anymore and tried to find a book to read. The book selection – befuddling. There is a Raymond Chandler mystery, in Italian. Then there is Madame Bovary – just what every OCD suicidal depressive needs to conquer – and that one is in French. Every Cat murder mystery book every written apparently, two books from a Jane Austen as a detective mystery series, and two different collections of porn short stories. I found a copy of Flowers for Algernon, that will have to do I guess.

I’m writing with a golf pencil. I can’t have a real pencil, nothing with an eraser, and fuck no I can’t have a pen – and my actual journal with stickers is totally not allowed. I was looked at, looked over for scars and marks and issues, and my bra was taken because it has wires, my shoes because they have laces, and my purse because it had anything remotely normal in it I guess. I know this is all safety related. I know this is all to ground me in to this place, this time, my mind, my issues, where I’m at, this is to keep me safe. But I have a hard time giving a shit what anyone says if they can’t spell aspartame for my allergy wristband.

Suicidal Depressive – I want to go home.