When all you are is skin and bones, feelings are a brave thing.
– Herta Müller, The Hunger Angel.
A lot of things have happened this week. Not good things. Scary things. Now I’m safe and unscathed but I can’t really bring myself to recall said events because I will cry. I haven’t cried for so long and then this week happened and everything made me cry lots so I’m pissed off that I’m back at the crying stage considering I’d made so much progress. I’ll write about what happened one day, soon, soon.
My tremors are really bad today, I can’t hold a pen or a cigarette or do very much without getting frustrated because my hands won’t fucking work. My whole body aches. I’m tired. I need to get out of here. Won’t you please take me somewhere nice?
I spent today at hospital in the day unit of the psych ward. No new revelations or breakthroughs. Just lots of talking, hours of talking, but no changes to my treatment plan or meds or anything. As I was getting ready to leave, C and LC suggested that I check myself in to the inpatient ward upstairs for a few days, “for your own good.” I panicked because I know that was just a ploy to get me away from the pub, and away from these men, and away from the booze and straight into Sobriety. Fuck that: I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. So I insisted I was absolutely fine and dandy and I’ll see them at our next scheduled appointment and that they don’t need to do home visits or check on me or anything. But now I’m alone and scared and so, so, so confused about myself and everyone and everything around me.
Not a single thing makes sense to me right now. Not one thing. Too sad to cry, too tired to sleep… I don’t understand anything anymore. I don’t know who I’m praying to but I pray for a brighter tomorrow, for all of us.