loony bin memories
being in the psych ward doesn't help. how could it? the nursing staff that filters in and out rarely qualified as a functional mental health role model for my depressed self. also being surrounded by a like-minded group of individuals does not inspire understanding of yourself or your disease. it mostly inspires well-timed play acting to keep each other at arm's length or farther.
i'm very good at the drama for the sake of covering bit when i have the energy.
i didn't much have the energy by the time i met up with the loony bin. sitting in the itty bitty gritty shitty smokers' lounge i felt even more numb than on the outside. why bother hiding anything from these folk? if i was going to start randomly crying or look alarmingly blue, weren't these the people who wouldn't bat an eye? weren't their capabilities for hiding just as taxed as mine?
i got sick of the pretending. i was wearing my only pair of jeans and they had comfortable, inviting holes in the knees. i ground my parliament into my right knee. a group of slightly catatonic patients mobilized, to the best of their ability. they told me to stop. they took my cigarette away. they told the nursing staff. it was the most motivated thing they had accomplished in months and all without leaving their seats.
i am glad that i don't burn anymore. it didn't take away the numbness. it only inspired a more awkward search for it. i stopped but not before leaving twenty odd small scars on my right arm.
i don't want to kill myself. i don't want my relationship with the boy to suddenly rush to functionality. i don't want everything that's wrong at work to suddenly lift off my shoulders and move along its merry way.
i just want to get out of bed in the morning and not feel like my innards are stapled to the ground.
oh what a lofty goal i have set for myself.
