sanctuary
Originally uploaded by Abstract Magdalene.

I haven't had anywhere that I would particularly like to be. Not for a long while. No place to rest my head and feel that I was ok, normal, loved and most importantly, safe. This past year has meant a lot of changes for me. The first, obviously moving to this new writing space. Which I am still not sure I will maintain, future food for thought.

When I lost it, my mind I mean. I never thought I would have any kind of meaningful support other than an imaginary kindly old nurse that would pat my knee reassuringly while I was being fitted for the straight jacket. I know that in myself, in my speech and some beliefs I have, I perpetuate the old myths of mental health. I know this, it's not intentional, at the same time it's not something I can see changing any time soon.

Given the events of this past week, I now know a few more things. That when you check into emergency by sliding a note stating "I'm going to kill myself" across to the receptionist behind the bullet proof glass partition, they whisk you away only to make you wait in a chair next to a drunk throwing up what seemed like gallons of red wine two seats over.

From then on it was completely "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest". You can all cheer and think it was a great thing when the indian guy broke the water fountain and walked away from the institution, but shit like that doesn't really happen. Instead, I was held in a room painted blue, they told me to put on the gown, I declined until further notice. I hadn't yet seen a doctor. The door, I remember, had a round fishbowl-like window in it, and they locked from the outside.

I lay down on the gurney, wrapped a sheet around myself and tried to be as small as possible until the ordeal was over. This is the latest in events that have been my effort to seek help for the severe depression I've been suffering.

I hear things like 'bi-polar', 'crazy', 'she's just one of those that are never happy people'. In ways I can't even explain, moods come over me and I'm helpless to stop or manage the emotions. It feels like I'm crazy, so I often refer to myself as such. It could be a lie, who really knows.

My family is angry and hurt that I didn't reach out to them for help. But even if I had, I wouldn't have had the words to tell them what's wrong.

I still don't.

Until then, I'm floating on a very thin carpet. I eat icy green grapes for dinner and pet Buckley whilst reading old Margaret Atwood books in the hope I make it through another night in my sanctuary.

Labels: cry, depression, how not to be an idiot, insomnia, layers, lockdown, lorazepam, Matthew Good, melancholy, neurotic, pharmacology, Sylvia Plath, writing, zopiclone

I've just noticed that I have a lot of movies from the 80's in my meager collection.
But I can't find my copy of Pride and Prejudice. I guess I am lonely for Mr. Darcy.

Reruns of Six Feet Under, The Ice Harvest and fevered hours staring at the Documentary channel have been how I've passed the time. Tried to back up my system a few times, but apparently it's idiot-proof, I can't figure it out.

A really long hot shower, and the guy who lives upstairs thumping on the floor because my music was too loud. I may complain here about his penchant for Shania Twain at 2 in the morning during the week, but never have I thumped on my ceiling for the volume let alone for his bad taste. I left it on. Let him call the police on a sunday afternoon on May-long weekend.

No matter what I do, I can't shake the bad taste friday night emails have left in my mouth, it's my own ego that won't stop telling me what a moron move it was.
Wish I had some ativan left.

Labels: lorazepam, neighbours, neurotic

Matt Good
Originally uploaded by Dan Lilly.

This is a photograph from Dan Lilly who has the excellent opportunity to take in studio photographs on the work of the new album.

It's hard to look at pictures like these and not feel jealous. They're clear, sharp and evoke something in my head that won't shut it up. Nag, Nag, Nag.

Just the past few hours I feel like I'm slowly going invisible. Like a ghost that never was. We can be invisible without being dead. I look at the girl's insulin vials and push thoughts from my head. Their blood is too sweet, I suppose.

I'm alone right now, except for Buckley. There are some I can call, but I don't feel like talking to them. I feel like talking to someone who knows how it feels to slide under the haze of the lorazepam pollution and not feel the guiltiness that should come hand in hand with how often I feel I need to slide one into my mouth.

The job is making things worse. No routine, no set sleep schedule so I feel like I'm high when I'm at home, and part of the real world when I'm outside.

I thought I was getting better. You know? Getting away from somewhere, setting back up in a 'real' life, fighting my moods, and the stupid highs and lows, my impossible thoughts and aruments about existentialism and my place in the world.

Like water going down the drain, I wonder what happens when we shut off the tap.
Won't someone help me hold this flashlight?

Labels: Gish, how not to be an idiot, lorazepam, Matthew Good, neurotic, underwater