Reading "The Quiet Room"

I first read this book when I was perhaps 12 or 13, before I identified with the content so intimately. Now, seven years later, her words of the quiet room bring about my own recollections of being thrown in seclusion. Strapped to a board with my body bound in a thick vinyl pad. I recall being brought into the room, hearing the countdown from three before the team unfastened the velcro that held me and bolted from the room.

I remember my hair, wild from struggle, being plastered to my face with sweat. Caught in my mouth, my eyes, tickling the inside of my ear. Tied to the bed in five points my only hopes of relief were to drag my face across the bedsheets, with luck I could clear my tear soaked face. And in the following days, bruises on my wrists and ankles, constant reminders that control was no longer mine for the taking. 

I can still feel the slight pressure of the cold handcuffs on the gurney. The harsh tug of the Welbutrin as I stared through the ambulance window.

I remember it all. The searches, restraints, incarcerations, and in these seven years I’ve learned that you can never promise you won’t return to that dark landscape, but you can promise to come back, and I will never make depression my home.

The Bridge.

       Years ago I met a girl of about 14. I can't recall her name, but I can remember her story. Well, the short and sweet, the bit you would swap with the other teenagers on the unit. She rolled into the community room a couple weeks into my stay. Her extra wide wheelchair knocked each chair lining the dining table, filling the air with that special screech generally reserved for school lunch rooms at dismissal. All heads turned to scan the new addition and the cardinal question, "What'd you do to get here?" was narrowed down quite definitely by the casts covering her legs, one blue, the other purple, and the brace covering her, breast to hip. Taking the rest of her in I made note of her hijab, the multitude of pillows supporting her various injuries, and the smile spread across her brown lips, accompanied by the brightest eyes I'd seen on any patient over the age of twelve. She reminded me of a girl I'd known as a child,  and I loved her instantly.

       Emotions run high in institutions such as these, and boundaries held firmly in place on the outs simply melt away after your first 72-hour. Among fellow kinsman of mental illness, bonds are formed. Bonds that last only days but somehow run deeper than friendships you've had for years. Several months prior to her admission, in the midst of yet another fight with her mother, she ran from the family's parked car. Feeling the chill that often surrounds instances of suicidal action, her mother and sister ran after her. Coming upon a bridge, they saw her standing on the ledge. The girl cast one pained look back and stepped off. 

       She spoke of the incident almost gleefully, and I gathered it had been not only an act of desperation, but also an act of defiance. In a family and culture that shamed her so deeply for her illness, and tried so fervently to hide it, she'd given the greatest ultimatum: To grieve the death of the daughter they had, or to grieve the loss of the daughter they'd wished for.

       It was not her first stay, nor was it mine, and soon enough we endured groups side-by-side. I borrowed her books, knit her a straight blue doll with button eyes, and ran full speed down the halls, pushing her chair in front of me. I was so glad to hear the squeals of a kid far too unfamiliar with happiness, such a stark contrast it was to the tortured screams of psychotic adults and the frightened wails of children. In a place like that... You take care of your own. 

You've touched me.

We never had a goodbye but you've made an immeasurable impact on me. You saw me as who I could be, and in turn, I saw in you what I could have. I will have it. Even if you see it from only heaven, it will be known, I came from you, and I will remember you always.

Grate on me.

Red, raw, and seething. My company quantified and traded for dinner and a hotel. Seated shotgun with the man who has essentially bought me. Glances in the rear view reveal happy couples, cuddled and content. A car cabin has never felt so vast. I want to reach out for a hand to hold, company to pull from the dense buzz of melancholy. To my dismay there are no desired vacancies. Long has it been since my disillusionment, yet the dull ache hits me just the same. 


I've got me. I like me. But I can not quash this desire. And I've grown so tired.

Tears

You know it's bad when you wake up in tears. You know it's worse when you wake up in tears and your first thoughts are a thanks giving for a respite lasting no more than twenty hours. A praise to god that you made it through a tangle of dreams, simulated loss rivaling your worst reality. How long must I be tortured by my own body? The titches, the hot flashes, the shivers, the spasms. Nightmares fraught with physical pain. Mother, you told me they couldn't hurt me. Why then do I awake doubled over and crying out? 

The pills barely bring me to normality.

I long for the simplicity that followed the overdoses. I recall the sheer possibility I felt coursing through my limbs, elevating not only my mind but what seemed my body to a state of ecstasy. I was alive, surpassing all odds, I was alive. More remarkably I was happy. 

I could do anything. 

Here I sit in the bath, a basin I have stained in blood, 

my sense of self as stagnant as the water surrounding me.

205 days. 
It's time to run.

Here I Lay. Where Frustration and Desire Collide.

I went to the gun range yesterday. Something about my grip on the gun, the force when it fired, and the scent of gunpowder and testosterone...

My Tumblr dash is full of sex. Well, sex and Doctor Who... But if it's a Tennant gif it may as well be the same thing.


There was a post about morning sex. The desire to be awoken by a woman. I think back to the nights I spent unable to sleep, next to the boyfriend. Tracing circles on his nipples, tongue and fingers exploring; his mind asleep but his body responding. I recall sliding myself along his penis; moistening it with my desire, his already very apparent. A kiss to the hollow just below jaw, a nibble to the lobe of his ear. Moving his sedate hands across my body, hips maintaining a rhythm. Whispering dirty thoughts to wake him, sliding him inside me, and feeling the sharp inhalation pass his lips. Throbbing. Thrusting. Fulfillment... 

I want a summer romance. Or any romance really. Genuine attraction and reciprocated desire. I'm not asking for love, but I need some satisfaction.

Naked.

I want to appreciate and be appreciated.

I miss the slight give of passionate lips.

The sweep of a tongue across my body.

Feeling complete when interlocked with another.

Fulfilled to the brim, making room with a thrown back head.

 Ecstasy embracing my vocal cords with a rush of wind.

Moans and inhibitions freed.  

She asked for words.

The greatest writer I know. With tears in her eyes and a panda in her lap she asked. Overtaken by the fiercest enemy of the creative mind she asked. I hope, in the days that have passed, that she has found comfort in the words of her many friends and followers. 

Any words I grapple for seem feeble. Talented, genuine, humorous, and inspirational can be used to describe this woman but don't quite capture the tragic beauty of a soul so strong despite being repeatedly torn with trauma. You have the faith of so many. One day the words you find to describe this time in your life will strike the hearts of many who identify so deeply. Enjoy being home. Take care of you. I can't wait to see what you'll become.

I Took a Plane, I Took a Train... It Always Ends the Same

Just so you know, you ruined The New Pornographers for me. That's far from your greatest infraction but still... How am I to get to Myriad Harbour now?

It plays on my speakers and I'm transported to our car rides. All the burns we took; the smiles we made. And then I recall the mustiness of your breath. The perversion in your nature. I remember how you fucked me. From behind. No eye contact. I may as well have been a Fleshlight. I think back to how you collapsed after you reached your climax. I, on the other hand, let out not a single moan; moved not once to meet your thrusts. My arguments were feeble, I'll give you that, but you certainly met resistance. You pushed through though. You're such a trooper. You raped me. Maybe not violently, but it was plain to see I was not in my right mind, and under the influence of more than your wanton desires. You drifted to sleep as I collapsed in my dorm shower. Scrubbing you out from inside of me, trying to feel empowered over ashamed. I threw you out, you had seen my naked body but you will never see me this exposed.

A few come to mind.

I want to be naked with a man.

I want to feel pulsation pressed against me.

I want to bathe with someone who makes me wet before I enter the basin.

And we wait.

I want wounds.

New ones.

The scars are fading.

I miss accomplishing something.

No matter how sick.

I overcame.

But I want to revisit.

It's strange though.

I want to revisit to create something of aesthetic value.

Scarification.

How does that differ from cutting?

I want to see the insides.

A photo of the gaping wound.

Not just the aftermath.

It's becoming harder and harder to recall.

The puckering of skin as it buckles to accommodate.

A perversion of the human condition.

It's hard to find reason to avoid.

If I'm not incredibly sick does that make it worse?

I just want something new.

I don't think I'm okay right now. 

I want to feel.

I want to feel sexy and powerful.

I want to exhibit this power over someone. 

''Tell Me Why You Support Ron Paul!"

Is it weird for my sexual fantasies to include a certain man I can't have with dirty talk consisting of why his political views are outrageous?..Also, lots of spankings.

My life.

Blerrg.

Can't I be normal for like 3 minutes?

Coercion

I think back to that night.

Drowning on air.

Choking on food.

Dissolving in water.

The damage he inflicted.

Regrets that may never be shed.

The Dreams.

Fear of sleep.

It's an unnatural thing for me.

From the blissful breaks to the heart of the darkness,

Sleep has been my salvation.

These nightmares have stolen it away from me.

Small dots have punctuated my sweet haven in the past.

But never like this.

My mother tells me it's the traumas manifesting.

Trauma...

To many my demons are the result of a spoiled mind.

And not in the sense of it being diseased.

The mind of a petulant and lazy child creating excuses.

Trauma...

Is that what I believe?

Yes.

It's not the label I struggle with, but how the label resulted.

Did I bring this upon myself?

Could I have handled this all?

Am I truly to blame?

...And if so, have I found my way back?

Sometimes I wonder.

And then I think back to my childhood.

Children are not malicious.

Yet, as a child, I hurt people.

I hurt people deeply, and often.

I threw knives at my sisters, and fists at my mother.

Manipulated to the best of my ability.

Though I was not hit, nor neglected, nor abused, I hurt.

Every night I hurt.

Every day, I hurt back.

I was an innocent.

Because of this I know I was truly ill.

I was stunted.

I was searching and reaching for help I couldn't conceive.

But now...

I've received so much 'help'.

But at times like these I wonder if I've progressed.

I'm still a child.

But the mourning of my childhood is ongoing.

Will I ever heal?

It's been a few months now, since I've caused physical harm to myself.

Tonight, I want it back.

I want to drag a blade through my tissue.

I want to sever vessels and spill pain.

Will the desire ever leave?

I'm unsure if this is numbness.

Or if only I ache so for the simplicity of it.

Will the questions ever cease? 

The Light of The Morning.

I don't know what to write about today,

But I know it's been to long since I've written.

I feel large.

I'm struggling with my body lately.

I want it to be better.

I want to be better.

I don't really feel like I'm worth much lately.

I know I am. Or rather, I feel like I will be.

But I wonder if that is what my life will be,

A constant state of waiting to be worth it.

It's possible a reversal of fortunes is in the works.

Just as I feel less than capable, I am desired.

This does nothing to dispel my feelings of being phony.

Projected confidence is all fine, but a solid sense of inner self would be better.

But is it only projected confidence if you do frightening things of your own accord?

I asked a boy to dance this weekend. A stranger. 

I asked him to be my cowboy while Big & Rich's Save a Horse played.

He seemed scared. 

I got his phone number.

Turns out he's a nice Lutheran boy who teaches Sunday school.

A pastor's kid.

Then there's MJ,

He's also a very nice man.

I'll be seeing him this afternoon.

Curious.

Michael is ever-present, and I just want him to go away so I can move on.

He needs to stop liking everything I post on the facebook.

Reminding me that he thinks we're perfect.

The problem is I don't really like him at all anymore.

Just go away Mike, please? 

Stop being selfish.

I kind of want to post this on his wall.. That'd be bitchy though.

Embracing Ghosts.

My last two posts were drunk posts of which I have no recollection.

Proud.

I feel haunted.

Some days have passed since this photo graced my tumblr.
Ice froze my veins, a mixture of fear, shame, and loathing prevailed.
Originating from a bewitching hour long passed.
A prepubescent in a state of emotional suspension.
 Suddenly thrown back to Earth.

Continued on a night full of substance.
Perceptions of omniscience coupled with impotence.
Reduced to a frightened child pleading and screaming for validation.
Reality warped, I am broken.

Passenger to a blue Beretta.
Traveling down a dank dirt road.
An old white church, smaller than most homes.
"The meeting place," he tells me.
My mind jumps to these doctors.
Come to declare me as no longer viable.
The Birdman brings confirmation of what I've long feared.
Mental Illness of the terminal nature.

Locked in my own mind.
The corn gives birth to doctor upon doctor.
The rows converge in a vanishing point.
Closed eyes bring only more vivid impressions.

"Wouldn't it suck if  the car broke down out here?" he questions.
My mind reels with possibilities.
I beseech him to retract his words, lest he tempt the fates.

We're unwitting cast in a horror film.
The fabrication of my God complex, Karma is plentiful.
The screaming starts as he plays with the pedals.
Puppeteer of a woman no longer a real girl.
He admits it's his own doing.
But in this D-grade picture it's the lull before the tragedy.
I blather of our assumed victory, tell how fully it will rebound.
Soon the car will stop for real.
The doctors will come.
They will bring me to their temple, they will carry me home.
The church is some distance back now but still achievable.
Again he plays.
We slow and stop.
I scream and gouge my nails further,
deepening the crescents in the apples of my cheeks.

They are coming.

Accepting my fate I curl into my seat.
Ears plugged, eyes squeezed, and jaw clenched I await my reckoning.
Time passing with my resolve.
I come back to the world.
The surrealism of the night leads me to question my reality.
Crawling so far back into my head I'm unsure what was expressed beyond it's walls.
All I ask of him is to tell me what has happened.
Were my screams internal? They must have been for him to be so cruel.

His answer?
"I don't know what you're talking about, you've been
staring out the window for the last five minutes ignoring me."

I trust him.
I believe him.
I begin to doubt my sanity.
The terror of the Serotonin Syndrome recrudesces.
The Shadow Creatures beckoning to me.
I demand the truth from him.
He confirms my experiences.
But the doubt lingers.

I ask question upon question, hoping his answers coincide.
With each right answer relief flows through me.
With each breath the panic drains, and betrayal swoops in.
Mingling together these emotions take the last of me.
Sinking into the upholstery, I'm done.


...

I am haunted by the ghosts and the trauma. 

Shadows of a child's mind.

Ill at ease as it once was, my innocence tainted.

Flashbulb cognizance of moments insignificant to others.

Drowning.

Simulated despair.

Turmoil belatedly expressed.

Screams lost in layers.

Foresight forgotten.

I Want Gaping Holes.

I want the absence. 

If that makes you feel special so be it.

But leave that shit away from my feelings.

A special distance between the care and concern.

The care placed on Kelly, the care placed on Katee and Lindsay.

I feel more than pathetic.

Most importantly for not taking care of you.....

One day darlings...

One day...

NORTH, EAST, SOUTH, WEST....

I am very much losing touch with who I am.

Let's Descend.

Mild spiral tonight.

A brief visit to madness.

Refreshing and terrifying.

Five feet high and rising.

But I'm 5' 9" and it will not overtake me.

Not tonight.

I miss cutting.

Slicing what binds.

A personal parting of the Red Sea.

Demons washed away with the blood I've spilled.

Relief awaiting on the far shore.

Coming to Terms.

That's what I'm doing right now.

Relieving the events of last night. 

Filing away what needs to be hidden.

I don't know how I feel.

I should have said no.

I should have taken control.

I should have stopped it.

He would have stopped.

I think.

I am re-evaluating my values.

And if nothing else, last night set me against sleeping with those I have no feelings for.

I am guilty.

I am reconsidering my self worth.

It is terrible.

I despise it to the last fiber of my being.

Fuck any hope I had of a man worth it.

Fuck it all.

Fuck my best wishes.

One day.

Maybe.

I hate myself.

To an insane degree.

All of it.

School.

Life.

Sex.

None of it is worth it at this point.

I don't know what to do with myself right now.

I hate every single person right now.

Five, maybe six are exempt.

I want to write something of consequence.

Share something of meaning.

Impact anyone.

That's a lie.

I am nowhere near healthy enough to impact anyone.

Fuck my life.

Sideways.

Clever.

So proud.

I love myself right now.

I'm under the influence of alcohol.

I should stop it.

I should take care of myself.

  I should love.

Myself mostly.

It's so damn hard.

So fucking difficult.

I want to be healthy, I swear I do.

I think.

I'M STRUGGLING.

And I'm jealous.

Of Grace.

Even though her relationship is unhealthy.

As far as I know.

I don't know much though.

Thank you Bicardi.

I really appreciate all you've done in my life.

You deceitful being.

Control.

Can I have all of it?

I'll give a fair price.

As long as it's under what I make in a day.

Which is nothing.

I'm quite the prize.

Fuck.

That's exactly what just happened.

Fucking.

And I feel terrible.

I hate myself right now.

I hate myself so incredibly much.

I am failing.

I am failing at so very many things right now.

School: Failing.

Medication Adherence: Failing.

Social Skills: Failing.

Valuing Myself: Failing.

Depression: Winning.

I need my mommy.

I need my dad.

I need help.

Suicide: Appealing.

I am drunk.

Not for the first time in a while..

I got drunk last night too.

But, now I am alone.

And it sucks.

Typing is hard. 

Because I am drunk.

And I am alone.

And I am sad.

and...

There's so much.

And There's nothing.

Fucking alone.

ForeverAlone.jpeg

Fuck..

I'm so lonely.

Reid facebook chatted me tonight.

He said almost nothing.

It was real lame.

I want to punch him in the groin.

Or fuck him.

Except not really.

I'm kind of a prude.

Kind of..

Maybe.

It depends on your thought processes.

Saadi thought we went on a date today?

I thought it was food I was paying him back for?

Fuck My Life,

Sideways.

Congratulations to the dry eyes.

Consolations to the nice guys.

And condensations' on the underside,

Of everything I touch, I seem to chill the objects that I meant so much to love.

Fuck.

I'm so something.

Drunk? Lonely? Tired?

Everything fucking above.

I miss companionship like no other.

It's crazy.

How much I miss a man to turn to.

I hate it.

But once I have it I love it!

I crave it.

I want to be caressed right now.

I want to be fucked right now.

I want someone who wants me back.

And I hate it.

Steven is texting.

He's bad at stuff.

I should sleep.

FUCK.

I am in mourning.

Maybe we visited a place so dark that we couldn’t see anything but the trauma or our loved one’s absence and maybe when we came back, part of that place stuck to us like a layer of soot across our eyes. Or an iron weight in our throat. A shadow that filters how we feel and think about the world, tinging everything with shades of gray. 

One Settled Comfortably in the Cuckoo's Nest

Dani Burlison 

Today has been difficult.

The laundry isn't done.

Neither are the dishes.

My bed isn't made.

My classes came and went without me.

And I am mourning.

I am mourning myself.

The loss of who I thought I was going to be.

 How very first world.

I am in pain.

Dull and Throbbing alike.

Without a wound.

Without a source.

I was going to be great.

I was going to be fearless.

I became a great disappointment.

I am fearless for the wrong reasons.

Nothing can hurt me.

I am lost.

The buoyancy of hope that once bubbled behind my breast has been filled with lead.

Valentine's approaches.

I am lonesome.

I'm taking a break from Facebook.

For a week.

I hope.

I was hoping to write something of consequence today.

Another goal left underachieved.

I am so very lonely.

And awkward.

Apparently.

I kind of want to cut myself.

I do. Want to cut myself.

It's a different desire than normal though.

The routine more comforting than the wound.

I don't miss Michael.

But, I do miss the company.

And I feel terrible for it.

I want compatibility.

I want to be desired by someone worth desiring.

I want to tell you everything.

I want you to read what I write and be moved.

Even though it's pity party in text.

"If we are children, we just get lost."

ONE SETTLED COMFORTABLY IN THE CUCKOO’S NEST.

I just read it. 

It was stressful.

So stressful I needed company to read it.

Too bad the only company I had was a cigarette.

It was comforting.

Last night. It was difficult. In a lot of ways it was the hardest it's been in a while. In one way it was the easiest it's been ever. The tree. The tattoo. The goal. It's not for forever. It's 5 years. It's attainable. I looked at pictures. At pain. At wounds. I knew it would be detrimental to my efforts against self harm but I searched anyways. A midst the tags of  self harm and suicide were images of hope that did not belong.

There is always hope.

Station 30.

I don't want to write about this.

I really don't want to write about this.

I must?

Perhaps it is a part of the healing.

Facing my demons. 

My behaviors.

The ramifications.

I am lost.

I don't know where to begin.

But of course I've already begun.

And the shame is already seeping in.

So far from impenetrable is my armor.

Lost.

While on Station 30 I learned a lot.

I learned nothing in the groups.

I learned everything from the people.

I really don't want to write this post.

So I'm not going to. 

Maybe later.

Time to Collect.

Last night I thought of seizures.

I realized I haven't written of my most recent collapse.

Considering I hope it to be my last I should probably capture the feelings before they slip away.

It is, however, rather unpleasant to revisit.

On most levels.

On others there's a strange pleasure gained through reveling in the despair.

I can't quite recall what drove me to it.

Probably nothing.

Or rather the summation of many seemingly inconsequential events.

Whatever the driving force the destination was the hospital. 

Or was it?

I haven't quite decided if it was a passive attempt.

If I knew I doubt I'd admit it to myself.

I emptied the bottles.

I filled my stomach.

I waited.

I sent a manipulative message.

I ignored his response.

All 12 of them.

And then I told him everything was fine, I loved him, and that I would talk to him tomorrow.

I lied.

Straight through my crooked teeth.

I told myself it was justified.
That if I died he'd be left with clear conscience.
But I knew that wasn't true.
My death would mar him for life.

Selfish.

I ignored the calls of my father.
I told myself it was justified.
That if I died he'd be left with clear conscience.
But I knew that wasn't true.
My death would mar him for life.

Hateful.

I told my mother she'd regret everything in the morning.
I told myself it was justified.
If she saved me she'd be left with clear conscience.
But I knew that wasn't true.
My antics have weakened her for life.

Regretful.


Police officers arrived.
A man and a woman.

I was in my underpants.
I was in a button-up.
I was in my mother's bed.

Lady Cop was a bitch.
"My partner as a wife. He's got two toddlers at home.
He doesn't need to see an eighteen year-old in her underwear."
The shame had run it's course by then.
Anger moved in to take it's place.

Shame is not an effective vehicle for change when dealing with a suicidal person.
The callous Lady Cop had disdain in her eyes.
In her voice.
In her stance.
Her presence was toxic.
She spouted of respect, though she had shown me none.
I moved toward the bureau to clothe myself.

She grabbed me.
I did not know I needed authorization to move less than two feet in my own home.
She pulled.
I pulled.

She called for backup.

Four officers.
Two paramedics.
Over pants.

I fought.
I fought hard.
I fought the officers.
I fought the emotions.
I fought the pain.

I inflicted pain.
Not only on the officers.
I inflicted pain on my mother.
She watched her youngest child, her baby, be taken to the ground.
She watched as I was handcuffed.
She watched as I struggled.
Demons personified.

I scratched through gloves.
I bit through clothes.
I writhed in pain but refused to surrender.

Haldol is threatened.
Injections are readied.
My mother is pleading.
I, am screaming.

They lift me.
They pull me.
I make it to the hallway.
Something snaps.

On the ground again.

Lady Cop is goading me.
Ginger Paramedic is goading me.
The carpet is goading me.
I am a wreck.

The Lady Cop is pushing for Haldol.
Ginger Paramedic gives me one more last chance.
A calm possesses me.
Inexplicably.

An officer pulls pants onto me.
I refuse the shoes.
Rebellious until the end.
Hurting no one but myself.

There's snow on the ground.
And Ice.
Hands cuffed behind me.
I dread falling.

The paramedics are kind.
I am cooperative.
I answer the questions.
What pills? How many?
They retrieve the bottles.
I am cuffed to the gurney.

I can sense their curiosity regarding my calm.

Taken from the presence of the woman who tried to shame me I am at peace.
I had overdosed.
Not only on pills. Not only on pain.
I had overdosed on shame.
My body rejected the massive amounts she had to offer.

I am at peace.

My family, however, was not.
My sister was witness to these events.
My mother was blamed for these events.
I'd inflicted irreparable damage.

But I was at peace.

I arrived at the hospital.
I was searched.
I was given a gown.
I still had my underpants.
They tucked me into bed.
No more handcuffs.

  I vaguely recall an E.K.G.
Then, nothing.

I awoke in a single room.
My leg was twitching.
Violently.

I saw it as though on a television screen.
My eyes wandered to the nurses desk outside my sliding door.
"Wow they need some attention." I thought,
"Why doesn't she just say something?"

A nurse came in.
"Nicole, you're having a seizure, I'm going to push Ativan  through your IV."
Then, nothing.

I awoke in a single room.
But I was not alone.
There were creatures.

Creatures made of shadows and malice that crept under the counters.
Controlling the webcam underneath the TV, they made it follow me.
Nod or shake in response to my unspoken questions.

I pushed the call button.
My nursemaid returned.
"You're hallucinating Nicole, it's just you and I in this room."

The shadows told me she lied.
But she was my angel.
They creatures were my demons.
I clung to her words.
Then, nothing.

I awoke in a single room.
A woman's face was inches from mine.
She told me her name.
I've forgotten it now.
She told me I had Serotonin Syndrome.
Seventy-two hour hold.
 Then, nothing.

The next few hours were filled with Shadow Creatures and
dreams heavily colored by the dramas unfolding on the television.

The next day I began using the commode.
It was then I discovered I was wearing mesh underpants.
I did not recall removing mine and was perturbed at the thought of
some faceless nurse undressing my near-lifeless form.
But that was not important.
Standing was.

My body was retaliating.
I was so very weak.

My mother called to check in on me.
Other than those calls I was alone.
For the first time no one came with me.

My father called.
I remember trying to dance around my being in Intensive Care.
As if he didn't know.

I was not myself.

That afternoon I was moved to another room.
It was a double.
I was to be there for a few hours until a psych bed opened up.
Being wheeled down the hall was exhausting.
I was so very weak.

After an uneventful and indeterminate amount of time I was transferred to Station 30.
An entirely different post all together.

Theatre Notes?

I've been dreaming of catastrophes.

It's truly awful.

Different scenarios unfolding.

Consolidating my most precious possessions into a series of duffel bags.

Trekking to unreliable vehicles laden with more than practical to carry.

Little to no time to deal with the perceived loss of my family members.

Misplaced trust leading to the decimation of my character.

Awakening in a cold sweat the demons who colored my dreams linger.

Responsibility outweighing my childish desires to lock the door.

To jam the closet. 

To neglect my hygiene.

To be an overall mess.

Power through Nicole, power through.

Desire elicits fear.

Rejection is ever-present.

I so strongly desire the company of a man who ignores me just enough to capture my attention. 

A man who drives me back to him just as he reaches the outer realms of my mind.

This hide and seek effect translates into innumerable areas of my life.

Magnetism refreshed just before it's expiration.

Responsible Note Taking. -1,000 Adult Points.

KIX

Kid Tested. Mother Approved.

Those are the kinds of friends I've had.

Until a couple months ago.

Mostly last month.

Red Wing.

Not a good place to make new friends.

Skeevy dudes.

Teen Moms.

I am not excited for my date on Saturday.

I don't want to call it a date, but

I know that's what he thinks it is.

Perhaps I'm being too judgmental, but if 

the highlight of your birthday is hanging out with a girl

you've known for a week...

At least don't announce it to me.

I'm tired of hanging out with people who

desire my company so strongly.

Apparently I don't think too highly of myself.

That's a lie.

I don't think too highly of him.

I want a new friend that texts in complete sentences.

AND uses punctuation. 

AT LEAST 60% of the time.

I'm not in collage.

And you're not in fifth grade so you should learn to spell it right.

I'm not better than anyone.

I'm not better than anyone.

I'm not better than anyone.

How is it I feel simultaneously superior and inferior?

Typical behavior.

Adolescent feelings.

Adult growth.

Hopefully.

Hope.

I like it.

I have it.

Mine.

I wish I was in a collage.

One of the happy magazine photos

they want you to paste to paper while in the hospital.

Inspiration.

Fuck that I don't want that.

I've got my own brand of inspiration right now.

I feel so powerful.

New Courses:

First Aid & CPR

Intro To Theatre

Scary.

Scary.

Scary.

I'm scared of Theatre.

But I know want to do it.

And it's time to push myself.

Last night was...Great.

Wine, chocolate, and women friends.

And hair dye.

I whip my newly dyed hair back 'n forth

No more muddy/green sheen in the sunlight.

I would have been happy ending the night there.

Then came weed.

I'm trying new things.

Being as safe as I can in the process.

It was...Strange.

The second time I've smoked.

The first time from a piece.

Sitting on an old college kid futon I inhale deeply.

I can recall the feeling of being tugged backwards by a hundred painless fishhooks.

Conversations starts forgotten halfway through.

Beauty and the Beast.

Faulty logic, inexplicable to others under the influence.

Unsure of how to feel.

I remember.

The first time I remember sitting on a stool laughing

my ass off in her kitchen.

After the teddy.

After the bites.

 Nothing was funnier than the frying of that organic beef.

Still unsure how to feel.

But I know that I am feeling.

And it was good.

And I am glad.

I shared my story with Michelle and Kelly.

The long one.

Of handcuffs and hallucinations.

Of Seizures.

An expectation of secrecy.

But no shame.

None.

I'm done with shame.

Shame is a twat.

I will no longer feel it when telling my story.

I imagine it will still creep in my everyday life.

And I'm okay with that right now.

I know I can contain it for the moment.

Ringleader of the A.N.T. circus in my head.