inside the nuthouse

I've been carrying around a bottle of pills for a few weeks now. My intention is not to die but the idea of dying doesn't scare me, in fact it's quite appealing at times. The pills are like the scars and the bones, they are my words. They are my way of dealing and, at times, my way of saying "HEY! Look, I'm not okay, things are not okay." I take my bag double check to make sure I have my cigarettes, lighter and wallet. My feet crunch in the snow as I walk. My hands, already numb from the cold, struggle to light a cigarette. I pace back and forth as I wait for the bus. I stare at the houses, some are obviously awake while others are fast asleep. I try to take in the surroundings and begin to personify things. Life is overwhelming, overrated and does not, contrary to popular belief, beckon. The recent snow storm has caused this city to come to a standstill. I have no idea when the bus will arrive and I am meeting someone at a bar for a few drinks. I walk down the street to a different stop to kill time. I stare at my shadow that has been cast by a street lamp, wondering if it has a mind of its own, wondering if it is thinking the same things I am and just wants the brain the stop. The bus finally arrived and the passengers are tired citizens anxiously waiting for the comfort of their own home. I've recently taken to riding the bus at odd hours. Most night I can't sleep and am so restless and anxious and have to be anywhere but where I am. I need something to remind myself that I am real, I am here. I have found myself wandering streets that aren't safe for a female especially not at four in the morning. I walk along the interstate feeling the cars rush by knowing that all it would take is a couple of steps before I become roadkill. Other nights, like tonight, I have a specific plan whether it's a bottle of liquor, bottle of pills, razor blade, food or a combination. The bus driver is incredibly kind, it's almost as if he knows. I miss my stop and decide to ride it around again. I'm the only passenger on the bus so we have a conversation. He stops at a gas station and buys me a diet coke, his kidness almost hurts. I pull the cord signaling my stop. At this point my friend has left so I sit at the bar by myself order a few drinks and swallow a few pills. I pay the bill walk out the door and to the hospital. I step through the revolving door which is quite ironic seeing as I am what some consider a "revolving door" patient. Resistant to treatment. Unwilling. Undeserving. Flawed. I head for the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. I keep my head down and my tail tucked between my legs like a dog who has chewed a $500 pair of shoes to pieces. I get a salad, some fruit, two pieces of bread, a last supper if you will. I suppose my actions are both stupid and brave at the same time. I could have, of course, gone to a place I wouldn't be found until it was too late and the thought it incredibly tempting. I am not desperate enough yet that I could that to those I love. Instead I find myself sitting in a hospital cafeteria downing the last of the pills. My vision quickly begins to blur and I am finally calm. I do not remember leaving but I was found unconscious in the bathroom.

I open my eyes and am surrounded by bright lights, faces and questions. I am embarassed by my inability to speak coherently. I cannot answer their questions ass they poke, prode, stick and push. Needs in my arm, electrodes on my ches. All of this simply because I could not say, "I need help." I have exhausted all of my options, burned all available and open bridges. Instead of the boy who cried wolf there is the girl who cried crazy.
---------------------------------------------------

I was hospitalized in February for a little over three weeks and this is what I wrote about the experience.  I am no longer living with my friends mom, it just got to be too much.  I was taking care of every member of the house and the 15 year old kept getting caught doing things like smoking cigarettes and pot and the mom immediately wanted to blame it on me(even though I was not buying cigarettes for her, didn't try to stop her because I know that's futile because my mom told me to stop and I didn't)  Lived in my car for a bit, found a place with a guy I work with, the management changed for the worse and now my hours have been cut drastically to the point I have no money for anything and have to wing it on a daily basis(which means searching my car for any silver coin to buy cigarettes and taking wads, not rolls, of toilet paper from work)

I overdosed and was in ICU for about two days or so medical for a week and psyche for two, a total of a little over three weeks at Duke.  They gave me an ultimatum either eat and get in enough fluids or you will be forced so I ate and they gave me a ridiculous and dangerous meal plan.  My weight gain was too fast and dangerous.  My weight went from 117(I had been bingeing and falling asleep) to 138.  In the last three weeks or so I've lost 17 pounds and am now at 124, partly because my eating disorder is the only way I know how to handle this stress and partly because I am so poor and have been living in my car and every cent I make goes towards my car insurance, gas, necessary prescriptions alcohol and the room I'm staying in.  I haven't made more than $115 a week and my rent is $125 a week and I was able to work out an agreement where I painted the room in preperation for future tenants but since my bitch of a manager has decided to run the store into the ground and cut everyones hours and bring new people in(the store is going to crash because all the reliable people, the ones that can handle a store like this are transferring or quitting).