Three South

My friend is in the hospital.  I am sobbing my ass off.

I know she needs to be there.  I know she is safe, and being well cared for.  I know her husband is being the awesome, loving, supportive guy that he is, and will be with her every single minute that he can be.

But I also know how long tonight is going to be for her.  I know how it feels to be stripped of your autonomy, and have strangers poking at you.  I know how it feels to be away from your home, when all you want is to be in bed.  I know how it feels to be branded officially “crazy”, and confined to a space with no sharp edges, no weight bearing anythings, and an imposed bed time.  I know how bad the food is going to be, and you can’t even get a cocktail in that place.

I want, so badly, for things to be better for her.  For her to not hurt.  For her to not be scared.  For her to happy, healthy, and normal. 

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Oh fuck, noT you too TUMBLR….

I can’t do another day of ramen.

I just fucking can’t.

I’d rather starve.

I have 5 dollars to my name, and the only food in the house is ramen.

I don’t even have shit to put IN the ramen, to make the ramen palatable.

I do not recommend poverty, when you’re dealing with depression.

Just had to ask my mom for money to put minutes on my cell phone.

All the calls from Montreal, for a job that evaporated, have cost me 75 bucks so far, and now I’m out of both money, and minutes.  Messages are stacking up in my voicemail, which I hope are responses to the many, many applications I’ve spammed out this week.

Being out of money, before being out of month, sucks.

My social worker and I are working on re-enforcement exercises.  Mostly to reset all the negative tapes I have that play in my head when I have to do something difficult.  Last week, she suggested that I slap up post-its all over my apartment, with positive sayings on them.

Sounds lame, I know.  But since I am genuinely trying to make therapy work this time, I dutifully did it.  Those suckers are all over the place.  All positive.  And as I was putting them up, I was idly wondering how quickly I could take them all down when company came by. 

So, there was a practice run.  Takes me about a minute to get them all down, stuck back together in a pile, and tucked safely away on top of the fridge.  Cool - now I know they won’t be out to embarrass the shit out of me if unexpected guests knock on the window.

Fast forward to today.  A former co-worker dropped by, and I was so happy to see her, I went out to let her in, totally forgetting about the fucking post-its.  So she walks in, chattering away and comes to a total stop upon seeing them all over my walls.

“Ummm, what’s this?”
“Oh…yeah, it’s something my therapist has me doing.  I totes forgot about them.”
She reads a few of them.  “Oh, the power of positive thinking?”
“Something like that.”
She rifles through her purse, and comes out with a pen.  “Gimme one.”
“What?”
“Gimme one.  A post-it.”

I hand her the pad of post-its.  She quickly writes on one, and slaps it on the wall.  Then another.  And another.

I BELIEVE IN YOU!

YOU WILL DO THIS!

I LOVE YOU!

“Oh don’t tear up like that, you big baby.  Come on, let’s go get coffee!”

I’m off the shots now.  No more days of stuttering, or dropping everything I touch, or muscle stiffness that makes getting out of bed difficult.

Awkward Moments Lady showed up to group today with fresh skin pops, a glazed look, and vomit on her shirt and purse.

Addiction is a bitch.

So, the scary thing I had to do was take the bus to the university, and walk around the grounds.

Might not sound like a big deal, but I carry a lot of negative shit about school around with me.  In the past, it’s gotten to the point where I’ve dissolved into hysterics and panic at the mere thought of leaving my apartment, and going to school.  So, hopping the bus, and just getting there is kind of a big deal.

And I did it.  No hysterics required.

I cry my head off at the single sessions.

It’s hard, inventorying your flaws.  Even if the nice lady counselor is busily pointing out your strengths, and hands you tissue after tissue, it sucks to have to face a seeming laundry list of things I fucked up, things I continue to fuck up, and things I will most likely fuck up in the future.

And now she wants me to journal them for her.  Cause that’s what I really need - a hard accounting of the ways in which I fail.