December 10, 2013
I’ve been in the institution for maybe a week. I was checked into the crisis center early Saturday morning on November 30. I had been up all night so they let me sleep before they did all the paperwork. I was there for a few days before a bed was available at the hospital, not sure which day that was. That Saturday, Pete brought me some clothes, my journal, and more cigarettes. Since Gary Oldman (II) is only an emotional support service animal, and not a psychiatric service animal that performs specific duties, she couldn’t come with me, but Pete can take her to visit. He also takes her out to work and wherever he goes because she’s not used to being in the apartment all the time.
I wasn’t allowed visitors at the crisis center, other than when Pete brought my stuff, though my parents called. I wasn’t talking yet, so I couldn’t say anything over the phone. They have come to see me at the hospital. I use the word hospital interchangeably with institution because they don’t really call it an institution, or a mental ward, just hospital. I only recently started talking. And they’re forcing me to take depression medication, which I will get off of as soon as I’m out of here.
I sleep as much as possible. They get me up for group or counseling or to eat, but I don’t eat much. I go do what I have to do then I go lay down again. I don’t think I’ve slept so much in my life. I don’t like being awake because then I think too much. I go out to smoke when they have the scheduled smoke times. I’m not ready to leave. I won’t be ready to leave until I’m ready to live. Right now, here in this place, is like a limbo between life and death for me. I don’t want to live, but I don’t want to want to die. I don’t trust myself, so I’m here until I do. I know I will decide to live fully again, and get back to my ambitions, I’m just not sure when. I have 30 days covered by insurance. I suppose I could get more if I really needed it, but I’m hoping I need less. It would be good to be out by Christmas, but I don’t think I will be. I was looking forward to Valentina’s first Christmas.
I only recently started talking because it was annoying not getting my point across at times, but I still don’t say much. I avoid the other patients as much as possible. They’re all very friendly and try to talk to me. It’s like a community of misfits who are only understood by each other. One guy comes and goes from the institution he said in order to get away from his wife. He said she drives him nuts. He comes to the hospital and has a bed and food and that’s all he needs. He plays unsafe to escape reality. In confidence, he claims to be psychologically fine. But I think if that’s what you have to do to avoid reality, that’s not essentially psychologically fine.
Another girl didn’t try to kill herself but her mind just broke, as how she describes it. She was picked up by the police because she was just wandering around the Boston Common aimlessly for a few days. She’s a poet and a writer. She writes constantly and has filled several notebooks since I’ve been here. She has writing in the margins and everything. It kind of inspires me, being here, and I decided to take the opportunity to begin writing as well, not just in my journal. I haven’t done much journal writing, because everything I want to say is too painful to express. But I decided to start a novel, so what I’ve been doing is plotting a story in my mind. When I’m sleeping, I might not be fully asleep, but instead my mind is creating characters and scenarios. I’m bringing it to life inside of me, and it’s been a great help to not dwell on why I’m actually here. I just want to formulate it a little more solidly, and then I will begin to write it. I really like this poet girl, though I don’t say anything to her. She talks a lot. She’s the only one I really care what she has to say, because she’s brilliant. She’s pretty, so it’s unusual that I don’t even think about her sexually, rather I’m just kind of infatuated with her mind. She inspires me and I admire her.
I’m not thinking much about sex at all as a matter of fact. I haven’t been horny. I haven’t masturbated. In fact, I don’t want to be touched and the thought of being touched seems violating to me. This is a strange experience for me. I don’t even want to touch myself because it seems like I’d be raping myself or something. Maybe it’s the medication stifling my sex drive. Maybe it’s just trauma finally slapping me in the face.
There’s one girl here who is thinking about sex all the time. I don’t know what her problem is, meaning, why she is here. She’s cognitively impaired so her mentality is that of a child in many ways. She follows me around and tells me she loves me and asks me if I want to fuck her. She’s so childlike it’s disconcerting to hear the things she says which can be vulgar at times. She said one time that she likes how my penis looks in my pants and it seems big and she wants to touch it. She follows me around and says all these things and touches my chest and face and arms as much as possible. It’s not very pleasant considering what I’m going through regarding sex. But even if my sex drive were normal, I’d never do anything sexually with her because that would be completely inappropriate, since she’s not really cognitively at an adult level. Otherwise, any other girl following me around asking to suck my dick, when my sex drive is normal, would definitely be given the opportunity.
Anyway, I’m just here, sleeping, showering infrequently, eating very little, losing weight, smoking, not participating in therapy, using very few words, listening to others talk, plotting my novel, and not masturbating. I’ve only shaved once and I need a haircut. Also my hair’s still blue but since it’s grown, I have my roots which are almost black. I look stupid. But I’m anticipating hopefulness.