"The Potpourri Diaries"

Freudian Friday

HI FOLKS, I HAVE THERAPY FRIDAY sometimes, SO I THOUGHT I WOULD FIND SOME FUNNY PSYCHOLOGICAL CARTOON  TO CELEBRATE THE FRIDAY VISITS TO MY SHRINK SIGMUND FREUD

 

  

My mentally ill support group "adventure"

I finally made myself go on Tuesday. Lets just put it this way, I DID NOT HAVE FUN!  IT was one of my first attempts at getting OUT IN THE REAL WORLD!, it was fucking tough, anyway they have the meeting every 1st and 3rd Tuesday of the month.

So, for my first attempt at real socialization, I was disappointed. When I got there, i decided that I wasnt gonna talk because it was my first meeting. I got there late because i got totally lost trying to find the church where the meeting took place.

I felt like an idiot when the facilitor told me to get up and put on a name tag, so I sat down and there were only about 7 people there including me! NOT MANY! I immediately recognized a woman that i had sorta known at another support group that i used to attend years ago, so i was kinda embarrassed and creeped out (because i'll get to that later)

 The thing is, i had NOTHING in common with any of the group members, I have severe depression and anxiety for which i take MANY MANY Pills, but no one else there was talking about anything like that. After a few minutes a black lady with a very pronounced birth mark or scarring all over her face and arms came and sat down. She told everyone her name and that "she was hearing voices" all the time" (Suddenly, i thought, god, maybe im not so mentally ill after all).. (but only for a minute).

She said that they hadnt diagnosed her with schizophrenia yet, but she was on medication for it, and that the only things that kept the voices away were her friends, family and keeping busy (I thought great, i have no family, no friends, and i sleep all day) good thing im not hearing voices-YET..

Then two shy men who were there because of their OCD-Obsessive compulsive disorder, started to talk about all the "rituals" that they had to perform before they could leave the house, and the two became instant friends, leaving the group with each others phone numbers.. and laughing that they were gonna chat about some good ol' OCD.  (well i dont have OCD EITHER) 

Then the leader of the group, a heavy set man, mentioned that he was in his mid-forties and still lived with his mom! So, as he talked he was trying to figure out how to keep conflict to a minimim when him and his mother wanted to watch the same TV SHOWS (ROLLS EYES) and he was terrified about what would happen to him at FORTY! if his mother died on him, he said he mother did everything for him, payed all the bills, got all the food, he just got to stay in his mental illness and worry about nothing else (i felt really angry about that) thinking how ive been supporting myself since i was 23, and my mother died. (thinking how unfair it was)

The woman who i mentioned earlier that i knew from another support group was the only one talking about having suicidal feelings and not much family. The problem with that is.. SHE SCARES ME.. she always has.. Shes like skin and bones, weighs something like 90 pounds and she cant seem to ever sit still in her chair, Shes always got to be picking at her fingernails or kicking her feet, and it DROVE mE nuts then and it drove me nuts this time..

Anyway, once the meeting was over, seems like everyone was doing GREAT NOW, except for me. The woman who heard voices.. said she felt so much better now.. (i have no clue why) and the two men who had made friends talking about their OCD compulsions left the meeting babbling on happily about it. THen the 40-year old who still lived with his mother asked the 90 pound anxiety lady if she wanted to go to mcdonalds and get a soda... He didnt ask anyone else of course... so i had to walk out of the meeting alone and feeling stupid.. so i just had a smoke and drove on my way. So, it seems i have nothing in common with even the REALLY MENTALLY ILL!

I wonder if i should waste my (valueable)-not time going back a place that made me feel bad and with people that i have nothing in common with.... Geez, so severe depression and suicidal thoughts arent the (cool) thing anymore, U need to have OCD or be HEARING THINGS! Well thats what happened at my first support group in years. i guess i could go for feedback on this post, if its nice.. u know on wheter i should go back or not!

 

Sincerely, your severe depresso,

Your-so-called life Woman

OH my god! lane Bryant dude, Un-COOL! I gained the weight from all my psychatrict meds

Nope, i dont know any of these wonderfully large women, i got there photo from photobucket but I imagaine that they have to order their clothes from layne bryant, just like i just ordered a fucking pair of pants from there. While, i havent reached HIPPO size yet, Lanyne bryant for anyone who doesnt know is a store for PLUS SIZE women.  I cant get out and shop and the size 14's that i ordered from target just WERENT BIG ENOUGH, so i thought well i just buy my some size 16! shorts from the layne bryant website... and boy did it do a blow to my non-esxistant self esteem.. I mean man!  I feel like i wanna just keep sleeping on the couch and never moving like ive been doing and make sure i smoke a lot so i wont eat anymore.....

. I aint ranting.. im just sayin.. Ladies if youve been skinny and suddenly circumstances cause you to gain... IT HURTS DOESNT IT!!!! SO thats what im sayin!

SuicIDE Myths/Facts!!! and I really am a shut-in!

I found this in a magazine--This info....
COMMON MISCONCEPTIONS ABOUT SUICIDE

MYTH: more people die by suicide around the holidays
FACT: Someone dies by suicide every 16.6 minutes, not based on when the holidays fall on the calendar

MYTH: repeated thoughts of suicide are common
FACT: Thoughts of suicide are a signal that you or someone you know is in pain and suffering. These thoughts could lead to suicidal behavior which is not common and not normal. 

If you or someone you care about is thinking about suicide, helop is availavle by contacting a medical professional for the proper diagnosis and treament.

WANT TO LEARN MORE MISCONCEPTIONS AND ABOUT SUICIDE PREVENTION?

GO to www.save.organd learn how you can SAVE A life IF YOU CARE ENOUGH, YOU CAN RECONIZE THE SIGNS AND SAVE SOMEONE!!! PLEASE GET EDUCATED!!!!



 HERE IS MY STUFF NOW..... WRITTEN IN RED, IS MY GIVING UP MESSAGE IF U WILL...


When i was layin in the bed for the past two days... I saw a community access program about mental illness... They were doing an interview of a mentally ill man who lived alone and was about to manage his illness because of his huge support system. The man would talk about his neighbor..who was a pastor. came to check on him everyday..   The mentally ill man didnt think he could make it if he didnt have such a system of support.   I thought. wow that must be nice.

Now, im drunk and i want my mommy....   I want my mom.. I want my mom.. I havent been drunk in so long... cause it makes u fat.. and i took a shower and i didnt feel like going to the store or getting cough syrup so i drank three straight shots of my barcardi 151 instead.  Im writing down my psychatirct records from when I started therapy at 9.. on that typepad site.. I had to go to the E/R twice in four years for alchohol poisoning.. The second time i dont remember anything. I told paul that I was really sick and to call an ambulance and he did.. and they really came and they strapped me to a strecher and everything and they took me to the hospital and i still dont remember any of it.. I cant remember how much i had to drink that night..

im outta soda and im fat.. i miss my mom.. i miss my mom.. I miss paul too. why doesnt he love me..  No one will be my friend except Kai.. cause im sick.. I wanna take care of baby zoo animals but you gotta go back to school and major in zoolology.. and i dont think it takes that.. It just takes love.. I mean i have hand raised 10 cats.. and it takes a lot of love.. See, like casey and J.J.. they were strays and they were about 2 weeks old and i remember they werent even as big as my hand.. and they were both covered in MASSIVE fleas.. and i was so sad for them.. I took them one at a time and i bathed them in baby shampoo and it took hours to pick all the huge fleas off of their little tiny bodies.. And they could barley see.. there eyes were hardly open.. but they screamed so loud. and Paul and me finally got all the fleas off of them and we covered them each up with a towel and we petted them and fed them a bottle until they both feel asleep and then we put them to bed and then i would get up in the morning really early when they cried and feed them a bottle and make them go to the bathroom.. and comfort them both.... and i did the same with Madeline and Sucky.. and with georgie.. and with charlie... pauls cat...    how come u need a degree to love animals.. i mean to get payed for it

SERIOUS SUICIDE IDEALAZATIONS HERE.. IF YOU KNOW SOMEONE WHO FEELS LIKE THIS... GET THEM HELP IMMEDIATELY!!!!!!!!! THERE IS NO STIGMA.. THE LIFE U SAVE COULD BE YOUR OWN..

ten years.. 1999, to 2009.. i dont wanna do it anymore. i finally looked up "how to commint suicide" as if i didnt know how.. as if i havent attempted.. a trillion times with drugs.. I hold my  .38 in my hand as i have since 1999, and i know that if i could just pull the trigger.. even if i was playing with the gun and it was an accident.. cause i play with the gun.. loaded a lot.. Throughout ten years.. ive pulled the hammer back and ive stuck the gun in my mouth.. to my head.. to my heart.. ive even had my finger on the trigger... but of course ive never pulled it.. tonight as i look at it... and as the words from paul ring inside my ears, "I dont wanna live with you" "i dont wanna live with you"  I look at the loaded silver shiny 5 shooter with so much longing.  Its been ten years.. ive called the suicide hotline tons of times... they have always been ass holes.. complete ass holes..  there is no point in ever calling them again.  Its been ten years of grief and heartache and vomit and drinking and blood and black eyes and lonliness and rejection.  See, people dont understand that ive done everything i can do.. to save my life within 10 years.. ive been in mental hospitals, ive had therapy, ive taken all my meds for ten years.. ive been so close to the edge that i call the Suicide hotline and they basically yell at me.. every time... they say.. "whats so bad about your life, Loser"   they are total evil evil people on that hotline..

Im tired.. im so tired.. i cant count the nights and the days when ive begged god for a reason to stay around.. ive begged for tomorrow to be better, but it never has gotten better.. it always gets worse and worse.. with each day..  ive called chruches.. when ive been on the brink.. and they have been terrible to me too. See, ive exhasted every option.. ive tryed to save my life.. but it never gets better. and i know inside that it never will..  

God or none of my tons of relatives in ten years.. have never come to me.. from the other side.. even in a dream and told me not to do it.. not even my own mother.  AS, i scream and cry for probably the trillioneth night in my life.. i wonder more and more.. god.. ten years.. i just want to pull the trigger and in one second.. what i told sydney.. before they put her to sleep.. will be what happens to me too.. no more of this.. no more waking up tomorrow and hearing pauls voice in my ear.   I think, that im so terrified of the way that sydney died because it will be that quick for me too.   I didnt hold her.. because i couldnt do it.. but see no one is here to hold me either.. to witness my last breath on this planet. 

but even though i couldnt hold her.. what i told sydney is true.. when i told her that just in the blink of an eye.. she would be at peace.. in the blink of an eye she would be in mothers lap.. in the blink of an eye there was nothing to be afraid of.. because  Jesus would take her.. in just a second as soon as the lethal medication killed her.. Jesus would take her.. i swear there is no way on this earth.. that a loving God could condim someone who is in so much pain as myself to a lifetime of hell... Its just not possible.. A loving god.. will take me as quick as he took sydney.. in the blink of an eye..   and even though  my brains would be all over the wall.. I wouldnt be here.. I will be with a loving God and i wont miss my mom anymore.. and paul wont reject me anymore..

Ten years i have fought. i have fought the good fight.. i have fought hard.. I am tired. so tired now.. did jesus not say.. come ye all those with heavy burdens and I will give you rest..... I want rest.. rest and peace

its not fair.. im a shut in-2003 all over again.


 




OKay, i feel like im totally falling apart. I dont have anything to do, and i have everything to do. Earlier today, i got up with an extreme headache. All i wanted to do was to lay in bed... But i couldnt.. both the cats and me were out of food.. I have NO ONE TO HELP.. NO ONE.. just to go down the street and buy some cat food or me a can of soup.. (If i called one of my neighbors, they would have asked for cash and i dont have any) I am so Damn alone.. so.. i had to just pray.. (i had to say lord. fine theres no one to help. please let me take a shower through this pain and go down to walgreens)... So. i did.. I showered with the horrible headache and went down in the freezing cold to walgreens to get the cats some emergency food and cat litter. and i bought myself some soda and some cans of soup.. and unfortunatly, another bottle of cough syrup, which i drank around 6:30 Pm.. Its 8:30 pm and it hasnt done anything.. so i dont think this bottle is gonna work...

but the point is.. I feel like im coming apart mentally. Im reading this book about a woman with schizophrinia... and i feel like im losing it.. just like this lady.. Im totally alone.. When paul and I broke up. he kept assuring me that things would not go back to the way they were in 2003. but last night when i was coming down from two bottles of cough syrup (which makes u cry and makes u depressed and makes U understand what reality really is) I thought, Im turning back into the person of 2003. its happeneing and theres nothing that anyone can do.. It doesnt matter that im supposted to go out to cali on the 22. Whats gonna happen when i get back? Things are becoming too overwelming. I know that ive made a big big change within my body... im now totally off all opiates or pain meds. (Thats a huge change) I havent drank a drop of alchohol for like oh almost two weeks.... (when i used to drink nightly) ive hardly smoked when I was smoking about three packs a day. I know all these chemical changes can make a body go wacko.. I have no appetite.. which is cool... but im not losing weight... I am not able to make it to the grocery store.

I feel like im going crazy.. and if paul just hadnt dumped me back here i wouldnt be alone.  Im terrified of another 2003... (as ive explaned before there were 8 months in 2003 when Paul didnt want to see me)  so i basically went nuts.. I could not leave the house, i was completly crippled by anxiety, depression and agorophobia).. I called all around Memphis for a church to PLEASE help me with food.. but no one would.. Paul had to have food delieverd here... from california..  I had to hire a nurse to take me to a psychiatrist appointment. An appointment where I thought I wanted to be hospitlilized only because of my severe anxiety and i couldnt go anywhere)..

its happening again.. the exact same thing.. except this time i know there is no where i can go for help.. There is no one who will listen to me.. I HAVE TO DO IT MYSELF.. NO MATTER HOW ANXIOUS I AM.. NO MATTER HOW JITTERY I FEEL.... THE CATS HAVE TO HAVE FOOD.. GEORGIE HAS TO HAVE INSULIN.. I HAVE TO DO IT.. AND THERE IS NO ONE TO HELP.. This is a nightmare.. When paul and i broke up, this was  my worst fear.... and its started to happen..  That i would be a 31-year-old shut in..... in the ghetto.. for the rest of my life..  That i have totally no hope.. nothing.. its really happening to me.. I need help.. I REALLY REALLLY NEED HELP>>.

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My story about mental hospilization- nov 9, 07 and Dealing with BPD.

 

 

 

I WAS SCARED AT HOSPITALS.. I WAS SCARED HAVIN ECT.. NO ONE CARED. This is how I felt..

 

"On the Inside" A Short Story BY Fuzzy Purple Hat
My Real Life as a psychiatric inpatient

I would like to introduce myself as a 31-year-old women who has battled mental illness all of my life. Ever since the age of 13, I knew that something was different about me. I was not interested in the things that other children did, I was always sad. I have been in therapy for most of my life, however there were four times when I had to go one step beyond therapy, and that is private psychiatric hospitalization. I would like to tell you about three of these experiences, one at the age of 13, the next at 23 and the final at 26. During my experience in one of the hospitals I also received the very controversial treatment of Electroconvulsive therapy.

The trouble began in 1984 when I turned eight. My parents had decided to separate and my father wanted to put me into therapy even though I was young. By the time I was ten in 1986 they finally divorced. I remained with the same therapist until I was around twelve. As I mentioned above, it was about this age that things started to drastically change with my personality. I began to sink into a depression, there were things in life that were just wearing me down inside. For instance, all the children at the fancy new public school which my father had forced me to attend two years earlier were taking full advantage of my weakened state. I was very shy, sad and lonely; I just was not able to make friends with these rich kids. They all loved to make fun of me and degrade me every chance that they got. During the summer of 1989, I developed a mild form of OCD. (Obsessive compulsive disorder) I thought that if I washed my hands every time a bad thought entered my head then when I started school the children wouldn't be so hard on me.

My parents and therapist of course noticed these changes so in late August of 1989 when I was thirteen I was checked into a private hospital called Lakeside against my will. Luckily, I landed on the children's ward even though I was in my teens; since I was there for depression rather than drug abuse I was spared the horrors of the teenage floor and got to stay with the 1-12 year olds.
I kicked and screamed my way through the admission process. I felt totally betrayed, shocked and angry at my parents, however when the doors closed behind me, I knew that my tantrum was futile.

My roommate was a plump little girl of nine and as I looked around I noticed that most of the kids were extremely young. I had no idea what a six-year-old could do, that could make her an inpatient. When I finally began to settle in for my month long stay, I learned the hospital routine. All of the children started out on "Level One", and moved up to "level three" according to their progress.

Everyone got up very early, and we had school in the morning, for a few hours. Next we had lots of group therapy and fortunately lots of individual therapy. Unfortunately, "family" therapy turned out to be a waste of time for me, during each of my sessions both of my parents would argue amongst themselves, which barely gave me a chance to speak.

As our day went on we did a lot of physical activities, such as swimming, going to the hospital gym and playground.
As my days in the hospital went on, I realized that because of my age, I was quickly becoming one of the most popular children on our ward. The younger kids were fascinated by my adolescent pains, things like pimples and my period and hair on my legs.

Bedtime was one of the best times on the ward, sometimes we were allowed to watch TV, but we were encouraged to socialize. Some of the kids played board games and did puzzles; we also had a weekly sing-a-long night. The staff would hand us all some music and we would belt out the John Denver tune, "Take me home country roads"
Sadly, each day we did have punishments, during these times the staff and nurses were not very sympathetic even to the little children. Some kids were put on diets and called, "to fat", I was one of them. Others had to sit in a corner if they made a "nasty" comment that the staff did not agree with. I was one of the children who rocked back and forth crying silently when I made a mistake.

However, most of the time the nurses and staff were very good to us, and I actually enjoyed my experience. It was almost like going to camp to me. Sadly, I left on "Level two" so I did not get a goodbye party. Also, at 13, I didn't understand that when the insurance ran out then you were suddenly cured, however later in life I would understand this very well.

Luckily my next hospitalization was not necessary until 10 years later. One day, I was at my part-time job at a mall and an odd feeling came over me, I felt as though I was sweating or would faint. I did not think that I could stand up straight; I was unable to get my breath. I thought I was having a sudden nervous breakdown. I wanted to run, to flee, I was terrified but my feet felt like they would carry me nowhere.

I had to stop going to work and to college, because they were just too difficult to attend. A month later, I became virtually housebound, even a tiny trip to the grocery store was a terrifying chore. Throughout my short 22-years of life, my father had passed away; I had acquired severe panic attacks as well as new self-injuring tendencies. Lastly, "out of nowhere" my mother was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I was one of the few people who knew that the tumor was inoperable. I knew that my mother was going to die. I did not know when it would happen or how it would happen; I just knew that it was going to happen.

I do not remember being admitted to the 14th floor of the Methodist Central psychiatric center. I have no recollection of the usual intake process. However, almost immediately I felt somewhat comfortable here in my new home. Our ward was certainly a much nicer place than I was used to. Everyone had a phone in their room and phone

privileges until "lights out" There were very little rules for an adult ward as long as we behaved. Most all of the patients had a great deal of freedom; we were allowed to walk around the hospital grounds without supervision. Sadly, I was so anxious when I first arrived that I had to sike myself up just to go downstairs to the gift shop. My mother actually was in the same hospital with me at the same time, but she was of course on the oncology ward. We did not visit much.

The hospital routine was very similar to my previous admittance, we all woke up around 7 a.m. and went to bed at 10 pm. When I first arrived, I had no idea that I was about to be introduced to psychiatric drugs. During breakfast, the nurses and the patients would all gather in the "day room" and wait for the "drug cart" We did this both morning and night. I remember being very nervous as I stood in line for my individual cup of multicolored poison's. This was the first time that I had ever taken any drug at all. During the first week of my stay, I met my psychiatrist, Dr. Jackson. He was a jovial black man who had decided to treat me with any and all drug combination that he could imagine. I certainly felt like a human psychiatric guinea pig running around and around on my own little wheel.

After breakfast we all went to group therapy. Sadly we didn't have any individual therapy here and I don't believe that I ever said a word in any of my groups; all I did was listen. During group, I met a very inspirational black woman who had tried to slash her wrist. The injury was so severe that she needed a great amount of stitches. I seemed to identify with the things that she said in group. Sadly, I don't remember this woman's name but she made me feel more at ease and comfortable when the occasional uprising occurred.

As time went on, all of the patients mostly behaved because of their fear of the 12th floor. I was not aware of this now, but I would soon be going to the "dreaded" 12th floor, myself. The 12th floor was where the hospital housed the "severely mentally ill" for example those who could not take care of themselves, severe schizophrenics, etc.

One day, in group we all witnessed a terrible uprising and broken rule by a woman who was talking about past sexual abuse. It was traumatic on everyone one to see a patient taken by force downstairs. (One reason I never spoke up in group, is because I never felt that I had it bad enough) Anyway, as the women in group spoke she became more and more irate. The doctor in charge tried to calm her down but to no affect. She was beginning to pose a threat to the group. When threatened with the 12th floor she still did not calm down, so the only choice was for the staff to come and get her. They literally dragged her out of group kicking and screaming and pleading not to take her downstairs. I cannot remember if they put her in some kind of restraints or gave her tranquilizers, but she soon disappeared from the 14th floor. I don't know what happened to her downstairs, but most likely she was put in some kind of isolation.

There were times on the ward when things were rather tolerable. I made a few friends and we would chat about our different experiences. A nice lady named "Lisa" even bought me a flower upon her departure and told me to remember that, "I would bloom again." As had occurred with my former hospitalization when my insurance ran out, my doctors decided that I was not any better. So unlike my previous experience they had an idea.

"ECT" or according to Wikopedia, "Electroconvulsive therapy also known as electroshock, is a controversial psychiatric treatment in which seizures are induced with electricity for therapeutic effect. Today, ECT is most often used as a treatment for severe major depression which has not responded to other treatment, and is also used in the treatment of mania, catatonia, schizophrenia and other disorders".

This was the doctor's idea. A much older doctor than my own Dr. Harris approached me as well as an elderly woman about undergoing the procedure. I read books about the procedure and my stepmother (who is NO LONGER in my life) took me to visit a man who had had the procedure done and had his depression cured or lessened. Unfortunately, this man was in his forties and I was in my twenties, there has been and still is controversy about ECT being a good choice for the young. For some reason it works much better on older adults or the elderly.

Even though I had done a fair amount of research on what I was about to endure, it seemed that there was really nothing very conclusive that had been gathered about ECTs effectiveness, what I was doing was basically a shot in the dark.

My memory is foggy when it comes to each treatment; it was certainly an extremely difficult decision to make. According to Wikopedia, "ECT first gained widespread use as a form of treatment in the 1940s and 50s; today, and estimated 1 million people worldwide receive ECT every year; usually in a course of 6-12 treatments administered 2 or 3 times a week."

I cannot remember but I assume that I received about 10 treatments which were done a few times a week. ECT was given ONLY on the dreaded 12th floor; during treatment I learned why the "back ward" was such a scary place. Upon my first visit to the 12th floor I was literally horrified. This ward was nothing like the 14th floor with our comfortable schedule, TV time, socialization and phones in our rooms; it was much more like a holding cell for those who were completely incapacitated.

The floor was very small and it honestly had a distinct odor in the air of urine. Most patients roamed the halls dressed like the mental patients that my father had preached to back in 1983; they wore hospital gowns, some of them weren't even able to dress themselves and the gowns were always falling off in some sort of manner. There was no routine here; there was only a small "day room" with a Television that only got about two channels. There was nothing else.

I was literally amazed and terrified that human beings could be treated the way that everyone who was receiving ECT here was treated. Here I was in the United States (the greatest country in the world) and people were being looked at almost as animals rather than humans.

The morning of a treatment, I would arrive at the 12 floor and then go to the small "day room" I happened to notice that stretchers were lined all against the wall with people in them, like a cow awaiting a slaughter. Once, someone's treatment was over, they pushed them back out into the cattle line and came for the next person.

When it was my turn, I would slip into a hospital gown lie on a stretcher and wait to be wheeled inside. According to wikopedia, "the aim of ECT is to induce a therapeutic clonic seizure (a seizure where the person loses consciousness and has convulsions) lasting for at least 15 seconds".

The most frightening thing to me was going under the anestisia. Since the procedure only took about 30 minutes, the amount of anestisia administered was much more concentrated than it is in a usual surgery. It felt like nothing I had ever experienced before. As soon as Dr Harris filled my IV with the medication I would have almost 60 seconds until I went under. It is hard to explain this feeling, but I believe it felt something like dying will feel. I was fully awake one second and then suddenly my head and extremities would tingle, then everything would go black. I would go into a little tunnel as If the medication was squeezing the life out of me, then I wake up with a terrible headache.

After all the treatments were completed, I knew that I had done the wrong thing. The ECT did nothing for my depression, it seemed to help my anxiety but otherwise it was more of a terrifying experience than anything else. I believe that ECT is a barbaric and dangerous approach to treating depression. Now days, I still have memory loss as well as confusion from this ordeal. . Fortunately, research has found that ECT causes no permanent brain damage, however the jury is still out about long term memory loss and other crippling side effects.

Afterwards, I attended a hospital sponsored after-care program for about a month, even after the ECT Dr Jackson still continued to try cocktails of medication on me.
On November 23, 2000 my mother finally died of cancer. She passed away knowing nothing about the severity of my psychiatric problems. She didn't know what I had been through or what was to come.

During the next three years, I was treated as an outpatient at a state funded psychiatric center for people with low incomes like mine. The doctors there were all interns and even though each doctor only had a 6 month rotation with me, they all spent this time desperately attempting to find cocktails of antidepressants, anti-anxiety, or antipsychotic drugs that would alleviate my suffering. According to the therapists, now instead of just being diagnosed with severe depression I also had multiple diagnosis, things such as Borderline Personality Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Bipolar Two, basically anything that was in the DSM was fair game. These are things that I still struggle with today in late 2007.
Sadly, my agoraphobia began to return, once again house bound and I found it harder and harder to even put one foot outside my door, much less drive to the psychiatric appointments.

The next major occurrence in my life happened at the end of 2001, I was using the internet to chat on a depression help board when I happened to meet my long distance boyfriend of 5 years. He was mildly depressed and it seemed we had a lot in common. So, as I struggled for the strength to drive to therapy we got to know each other, little by little.

Things were nice for a while, we would fly back and forth across the country to see each other, it seemed that we were really getting along and that life might be looking up for me. However, like all things in my life, the relationship started to go south. He decided not to visit me for 8 months straight in 2003. These eight months become some of the worst of my entire life. I was completely housebound. And (Paul) had to send me food through the mail or I refused to eat. This is how bad those things got. I was losing weight, throwing up, and screaming and crying so loud everyday that even my neighbors could hear my wails. I don't believe I have ever felt such heart wrenching sorrow. I cried for my lost youth, (because I was now 26) I cried for my dead parents, I cried for love, I cried because I felt in my heart I would never claw back to the top of the well of depression, I mourned for what a waste my life had been.

My third hospital stay began when (Paul) who is now my ex-boyfriend called me from his area in Northern California. I was living at my home In Memphis at the time, so I could not be near him. He told me that he had been taken to the hospital and that the doctors thought that he had had a heart attack. I waited on pins and needles for three days as the doctors did test after test on his heart, the good news happened to be that it was only a panic attack and that he would be fine, However this was not the end for me, I had suffered so much, just waiting and worrying that I simply had a "nervous breakdown" This was the only time, that I ever checked myself in voluntarily.

I was 26-years old and the "intake" process was very different from what I remembered of my other hospital stays. A nurse on the tiny floor took me to a small area and riffled through all my possessions. As she searched through my purse, throwing things that I was not allowed to keep to the side, I began to wonder if this had been an incredibly large mistake on my part. Simple things such as tampons were not allowed; I even had to hand over my car keys. I begged the nurse to let me keep my small plastic frame which contained my ex-boyfriends photo. Fortunately, even though it did have some sharp edges, she finally relented.

Once the intake process was completed, I struggled to sit up front at the nurse's station. To my right was a bulletin board with all of the patients names printed in erasable ink. It also showed which doctor and psychiatrist that they had been assigned to, as well as their possible release date and medications.

As I sat there waiting for a doctor to come in and take my blood pressure and temperature, I begin to get more and more nervous. Politely, I asked the nurse for some kind of anxiety pill-just anything. Unfortunately, they would only allow me one pill every few hours, and no matter how hard I begged or how bad I felt, this was the rule.

A few new patients wondered in for "intake" during this time. I felt shocked and scared when one lady who "seemed like a regular" was basically dropped off by her husband through the locked double doors. It appeared that she was happy to be back, there was a huge wound on her arm which she had cut into letters of the alphabet with a knife. The word HELP, was clearly visible.

The first night was terrifying. I tossed and turned, sadly everyone was supposed to wake up around 6 am. Lights out was around 10 pm. The only thing to do during the day was to go to groups. Also we had about 30 minutes of individual therapy a day. The therapist that I got helped my decision to leave after just three days. She was extremely uncaring and unsympathetic. The first thing she harped on was my facial piercing and odd hairstyle. This seemed to be the only thing that she wanted to talk about, even though the lady with the word HELP carved into her arm had purple hair and facial piercing as well.

I did not make any friends, even though I tried. I was up late eating ice cream out of a small cup, desperate for someone to chat with that wasn't a jerk; I started a conversation with a young severely depressed mother. To my surprise, after we chatted she just got up and left, not even saying goodbye.

As I mentioned I did leave after three days, finally at the end of my stay a received a bit of good luck.
My ex-boyfriend decided that he wanted me to move to California with him for a while. He thought perhaps being around someone would stop all the anxiety and depression. It seemed to help for a little while, however after 4 years of disaster I am now back in my native Memphis after being dumped in July 2007. While I was there, I was totally dependent on him, I had no life apart from him, I could not work, nor could I do simple tasks such as going to the store.
We did have some very nice times during those four years and some wonderful memories; however we have a great deal of bad ones as well I was not well at all and I desperately looked to a professional for help, but I just could not find one that would fit. While I was in California I attempted suicide several times, I experimented with drugs and alcohol I never did find a good therapist. I lived in a constant fog of mood swings, drugs suicide attempts and boredom.

Since I've been back here in Memphis I have had to start all over looking for mental health professionals, luckily I have not been put on the walls "of the inside" anymore, but I would not rule a fifth hospitalization out if I became a danger to myself. I found a Memphis psychiatrist about three months ago and he has seen me twice, sadly I find that he just goes back to my old drugs, the ones that didn't work in the first place. So, I have not yet had any relief from my mental illness and I do not believe that I ever will, there is no happy ending (drug wise) for me.

I just keep climbing up the walls of the deep dark well that has been my 31 years, but even if I never make it out I want readers to realize that Depression and anxiety are just as serious as the cancer that killed both of my parents. It is a real disease that many people were just born with, they cannot wish it away, they cannot just snap out of it. It does not work that way! NO, one takes the mentally ill seriously and this has got to STOP!

Suicide can happen in the blink of an eye, for example my ex-boyfriends next door neighbor shot himself while I was only a few feet away in the next house. He just gave up because he could not find the right treatment or any kind of treatment. As for me, I feel I have the most dreaded form of the disease, Treatment resistant depression. This means that I will always be stagnant, always wishing desperately to die so as to end my misery, but on the bright side, also always wanting to educate others on the warning signs of suicide. NOT ANOTHER LIFE LOST! NOT EVEN MINE! "WE ARE NOT ALONE" AND WE MUST STAND TOGETHER AS PROUD PEOPLE, EVEN IF WE NEVER GET TO THE TOP OF THE WELL! IF YOU FEEL SUICIDAL PLEASE CHECK INTO A HOSPITAL, IT MAY BE A SCARY ENVIROMENT SOMETIMES, BUT IT CAN SAVE YOUR LIFE!

I hope you enjoyed this story,
Yours truly
Fuzzy Purple Hat

WELL THATS THE END!!! ANY GOOD COMMENTS!!!

BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER, DEALING WITH, PLUS SOME GRISSLY PHOTOS


THIS WAS POSTED ON MY MYSPACE PAGE YESTERDAY.... I posted it, of course, because of the seriousness of the post, and because i figure if i ask for comments here on livejournal, all i will get are "haters" comments.... The thing is, no one reads this journal.. and as of now, im thinking that im gonna just stop posting anything serious on here for a long time....    Maybe, i will just post stupid little movies or slides when i feel like it.... but i totally feel this journal is a WASTE of TIME.. because of the lack of readership, the shitty comments, and because of all the unrecognized work that i put into it..

IF ANY FOLKS WOULD LIKE ME TO STILL POST HERE, PLEAZ COMMENT!!!! OTHERWISE IM GONNA GO TO A DIFFERENT JOURNAL SITE AND JUST LET THIS ONE LAY DORMENT FOR A BIT..
SINCERECLY...ANONYMOUS ANNA...

Posted on myspace Sunday october 13, 2007--MAY TRIGGER IF YOU ARE A CUTTER OR SUICDIAL.. PLEAZ TAKE CAUTION!!!

help,,  somebody... i cant believe i just went and cut myself..  it dont mean nothin no more.. its only a sign of strength to me, if i can bleed then i be without anyone and without any hope of any kind. i went to church tonight, and the sermon was so bad i had to walk out on it.  i just had a huge fight on the phone with paul.. i drank 3 shots.. even though i gotta drive out to my accountants tomorrow.

it was bad, a bad fight.. why i cut myself.. i havent done it, in months. its just a bunch of dripping blood. no one will even
LawyerCountersee it.  i was mad, mad cause  its been a month and i havent seen him.. and he says he really misses me, but he doesnt wanna live with me.. and even though hes given
me a chance in the future.. with my bpd.... he gave me no chance tonight. he said all kinds of shit that just basically said..... fuck off..... so i said the same thing.   in my mind, my hopes of getting out of this hell hole gone.. my hopes of ever being happy again, gone.

i refuse to see that minister at the church, i refuse to go to AA, i can take whatever drug i want. i can swallow as many cough syrup bottles as i want. if something happens to me, hopefully, the lady at georgies vet will take the cats. or maybe my former roomate. i dont care.  without hope there is nothing

i said.. i never wanted to talk to him again.. which probably wont happen... but i dont know.. I said.. but we are still boyfriend and girlfriend.. neither of us is seeing anyone.. and he says.. no we broke up... and i said.. okay.. forget your ass, i dont need u.. even though its not true.   i said that i had accepted him, flawas and all.. but he hasnt accepted me.. flaws and all..

i need him more than anything. but i dont want him as family..   as ive said so many times before, therapists have said that at times  my mind functions at the level of a child.  A child doesnt know how to get along without an adult.

Still, what i wish is what my moms boyfriend said to me when he got me arrested, "he said, I wish you would just kill yourself, your pathetic, useless"..   hes totally right.. if only God would give me the courage to pull the trigger,, but he hasnt yet.

I pray for the courage to pull the trigger. ive prayed for this courage for many years, but it hasnt come.  Now, tonight, i pray with all my soul, for the courage to die.

there is no point in praying for help.. i have prayed and begged and moaned and screamed and been sick and vomited for help.. for years and years.. and no help has come.. only sadness and more terror and more sickness and more alienation.

I pray to die. I pray to die.  i pray to die. I pray to die..

 

 

 

I WAS SCARED AT HOSPITALS.. I WAS SCARED HAVIN ECT.. NO ONE CARED. This is how I felt..

 

"On the Inside" A Short Story BY Fuzzy Purple Hat
My Real Life as a psychiatric inpatient

I would like to introduce myself as a 31-year-old women who has battled mental illness all of my life. Ever since the age of 13, I knew that something was different about me. I was not interested in the things that other children did, I was always sad. I have been in therapy for most of my life, however there were four times when I had to go one step beyond therapy, and that is private psychiatric hospitalization. I would like to tell you about three of these experiences, one at the age of 13, the next at 23 and the final at 26. During my experience in one of the hospitals I also received the very controversial treatment of Electroconvulsive therapy.

The trouble began in 1984 when I turned eight. My parents had decided to separate and my father wanted to put me into therapy even though I was young. By the time I was ten in 1986 they finally divorced. I remained with the same therapist until I was around twelve. As I mentioned above, it was about this age that things started to drastically change with my personality. I began to sink into a depression, there were things in life that were just wearing me down inside. For instance, all the children at the fancy new public school which my father had forced me to attend two years earlier were taking full advantage of my weakened state. I was very shy, sad and lonely; I just was not able to make friends with these rich kids. They all loved to make fun of me and degrade me every chance that they got. During the summer of 1989, I developed a mild form of OCD. (Obsessive compulsive disorder) I thought that if I washed my hands every time a bad thought entered my head then when I started school the children wouldn't be so hard on me.

My parents and therapist of course noticed these changes so in late August of 1989 when I was thirteen I was checked into a private hospital called Lakeside against my will. Luckily, I landed on the children's ward even though I was in my teens; since I was there for depression rather than drug abuse I was spared the horrors of the teenage floor and got to stay with the 1-12 year olds.
I kicked and screamed my way through the admission process. I felt totally betrayed, shocked and angry at my parents, however when the doors closed behind me, I knew that my tantrum was futile.

My roommate was a plump little girl of nine and as I looked around I noticed that most of the kids were extremely young. I had no idea what a six-year-old could do, that could make her an inpatient. When I finally began to settle in for my month long stay, I learned the hospital routine. All of the children started out on "Level One", and moved up to "level three" according to their progress.

Everyone got up very early, and we had school in the morning, for a few hours. Next we had lots of group therapy and fortunately lots of individual therapy. Unfortunately, "family" therapy turned out to be a waste of time for me, during each of my sessions both of my parents would argue amongst themselves, which barely gave me a chance to speak.

As our day went on we did a lot of physical activities, such as swimming, going to the hospital gym and playground.
As my days in the hospital went on, I realized that because of my age, I was quickly becoming one of the most popular children on our ward. The younger kids were fascinated by my adolescent pains, things like pimples and my period and hair on my legs.

Bedtime was one of the best times on the ward, sometimes we were allowed to watch TV, but we were encouraged to socialize. Some of the kids played board games and did puzzles; we also had a weekly sing-a-long night. The staff would hand us all some music and we would belt out the John Denver tune, "Take me home country roads"
Sadly, each day we did have punishments, during these times the staff and nurses were not very sympathetic even to the little children. Some kids were put on diets and called, "to fat", I was one of them. Others had to sit in a corner if they made a "nasty" comment that the staff did not agree with. I was one of the children who rocked back and forth crying silently when I made a mistake.

However, most of the time the nurses and staff were very good to us, and I actually enjoyed my experience. It was almost like going to camp to me. Sadly, I left on "Level two" so I did not get a goodbye party. Also, at 13, I didn't understand that when the insurance ran out then you were suddenly cured, however later in life I would understand this very well.

Luckily my next hospitalization was not necessary until 10 years later. One day, I was at my part-time job at a mall and an odd feeling came over me, I felt as though I was sweating or would faint. I did not think that I could stand up straight; I was unable to get my breath. I thought I was having a sudden nervous breakdown. I wanted to run, to flee, I was terrified but my feet felt like they would carry me nowhere.

I had to stop going to work and to college, because they were just too difficult to attend. A month later, I became virtually housebound, even a tiny trip to the grocery store was a terrifying chore. Throughout my short 22-years of life, my father had passed away; I had acquired severe panic attacks as well as new self-injuring tendencies. Lastly, "out of nowhere" my mother was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I was one of the few people who knew that the tumor was inoperable. I knew that my mother was going to die. I did not know when it would happen or how it would happen; I just knew that it was going to happen.

I do not remember being admitted to the 14th floor of the Methodist Central psychiatric center. I have no recollection of the usual intake process. However, almost immediately I felt somewhat comfortable here in my new home. Our ward was certainly a much nicer place than I was used to. Everyone had a phone in their room and phone

privileges until "lights out" There were very little rules for an adult ward as long as we behaved. Most all of the patients had a great deal of freedom; we were allowed to walk around the hospital grounds without supervision. Sadly, I was so anxious when I first arrived that I had to sike myself up just to go downstairs to the gift shop. My mother actually was in the same hospital with me at the same time, but she was of course on the oncology ward. We did not visit much.

The hospital routine was very similar to my previous admittance, we all woke up around 7 a.m. and went to bed at 10 pm. When I first arrived, I had no idea that I was about to be introduced to psychiatric drugs. During breakfast, the nurses and the patients would all gather in the "day room" and wait for the "drug cart" We did this both morning and night. I remember being very nervous as I stood in line for my individual cup of multicolored poison's. This was the first time that I had ever taken any drug at all. During the first week of my stay, I met my psychiatrist, Dr. Jackson. He was a jovial black man who had decided to treat me with any and all drug combination that he could imagine. I certainly felt like a human psychiatric guinea pig running around and around on my own little wheel.

After breakfast we all went to group therapy. Sadly we didn't have any individual therapy here and I don't believe that I ever said a word in any of my groups; all I did was listen. During group, I met a very inspirational black woman who had tried to slash her wrist. The injury was so severe that she needed a great amount of stitches. I seemed to identify with the things that she said in group. Sadly, I don't remember this woman's name but she made me feel more at ease and comfortable when the occasional uprising occurred.

As time went on, all of the patients mostly behaved because of their fear of the 12th floor. I was not aware of this now, but I would soon be going to the "dreaded" 12th floor, myself. The 12th floor was where the hospital housed the "severely mentally ill" for example those who could not take care of themselves, severe schizophrenics, etc.

One day, in group we all witnessed a terrible uprising and broken rule by a woman who was talking about past sexual abuse. It was traumatic on everyone one to see a patient taken by force downstairs. (One reason I never spoke up in group, is because I never felt that I had it bad enough) Anyway, as the women in group spoke she became more and more irate. The doctor in charge tried to calm her down but to no affect. She was beginning to pose a threat to the group. When threatened with the 12th floor she still did not calm down, so the only choice was for the staff to come and get her. They literally dragged her out of group kicking and screaming and pleading not to take her downstairs. I cannot remember if they put her in some kind of restraints or gave her tranquilizers, but she soon disappeared from the 14th floor. I don't know what happened to her downstairs, but most likely she was put in some kind of isolation.

There were times on the ward when things were rather tolerable. I made a few friends and we would chat about our different experiences. A nice lady named "Lisa" even bought me a flower upon her departure and told me to remember that, "I would bloom again." As had occurred with my former hospitalization when my insurance ran out, my doctors decided that I was not any better. So unlike my previous experience they had an idea.

"ECT" or according to Wikopedia, "Electroconvulsive therapy also known as electroshock, is a controversial psychiatric treatment in which seizures are induced with electricity for therapeutic effect. Today, ECT is most often used as a treatment for severe major depression which has not responded to other treatment, and is also used in the treatment of mania, catatonia, schizophrenia and other disorders".

This was the doctor's idea. A much older doctor than my own Dr. Harris approached me as well as an elderly woman about undergoing the procedure. I read books about the procedure and my stepmother (who is NO LONGER in my life) took me to visit a man who had had the procedure done and had his depression cured or lessened. Unfortunately, this man was in his forties and I was in my twenties, there has been and still is controversy about ECT being a good choice for the young. For some reason it works much better on older adults or the elderly.

Even though I had done a fair amount of research on what I was about to endure, it seemed that there was really nothing very conclusive that had been gathered about ECTs effectiveness, what I was doing was basically a shot in the dark.

My memory is foggy when it comes to each treatment; it was certainly an extremely difficult decision to make. According to Wikopedia, "ECT first gained widespread use as a form of treatment in the 1940s and 50s; today, and estimated 1 million people worldwide receive ECT every year; usually in a course of 6-12 treatments administered 2 or 3 times a week."

I cannot remember but I assume that I received about 10 treatments which were done a few times a week. ECT was given ONLY on the dreaded 12th floor; during treatment I learned why the "back ward" was such a scary place. Upon my first visit to the 12th floor I was literally horrified. This ward was nothing like the 14th floor with our comfortable schedule, TV time, socialization and phones in our rooms; it was much more like a holding cell for those who were completely incapacitated.

The floor was very small and it honestly had a distinct odor in the air of urine. Most patients roamed the halls dressed like the mental patients that my father had preached to back in 1983; they wore hospital gowns, some of them weren't even able to dress themselves and the gowns were always falling off in some sort of manner. There was no routine here; there was only a small "day room" with a Television that only got about two channels. There was nothing else.

I was literally amazed and terrified that human beings could be treated the way that everyone who was receiving ECT here was treated. Here I was in the United States (the greatest country in the world) and people were being looked at almost as animals rather than humans.

The morning of a treatment, I would arrive at the 12 floor and then go to the small "day room" I happened to notice that stretchers were lined all against the wall with people in them, like a cow awaiting a slaughter. Once, someone's treatment was over, they pushed them back out into the cattle line and came for the next person.

When it was my turn, I would slip into a hospital gown lie on a stretcher and wait to be wheeled inside. According to wikopedia, "the aim of ECT is to induce a therapeutic clonic seizure (a seizure where the person loses consciousness and has convulsions) lasting for at least 15 seconds".

The most frightening thing to me was going under the anestisia. Since the procedure only took about 30 minutes, the amount of anestisia administered was much more concentrated than it is in a usual surgery. It felt like nothing I had ever experienced before. As soon as Dr Harris filled my IV with the medication I would have almost 60 seconds until I went under. It is hard to explain this feeling, but I believe it felt something like dying will feel. I was fully awake one second and then suddenly my head and extremities would tingle, then everything would go black. I would go into a little tunnel as If the medication was squeezing the life out of me, then I wake up with a terrible headache.

After all the treatments were completed, I knew that I had done the wrong thing. The ECT did nothing for my depression, it seemed to help my anxiety but otherwise it was more of a terrifying experience than anything else. I believe that ECT is a barbaric and dangerous approach to treating depression. Now days, I still have memory loss as well as confusion from this ordeal. . Fortunately, research has found that ECT causes no permanent brain damage, however the jury is still out about long term memory loss and other crippling side effects.

Afterwards, I attended a hospital sponsored after-care program for about a month, even after the ECT Dr Jackson still continued to try cocktails of medication on me.
On November 23, 2000 my mother finally died of cancer. She passed away knowing nothing about the severity of my psychiatric problems. She didn't know what I had been through or what was to come.

During the next three years, I was treated as an outpatient at a state funded psychiatric center for people with low incomes like mine. The doctors there were all interns and even though each doctor only had a 6 month rotation with me, they all spent this time desperately attempting to find cocktails of antidepressants, anti-anxiety, or antipsychotic drugs that would alleviate my suffering. According to the therapists, now instead of just being diagnosed with severe depression I also had multiple diagnosis, things such as Borderline Personality Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Bipolar Two, basically anything that was in the DSM was fair game. These are things that I still struggle with today in late 2007.
Sadly, my agoraphobia began to return, once again house bound and I found it harder and harder to even put one foot outside my door, much less drive to the psychiatric appointments.

The next major occurrence in my life happened at the end of 2001, I was using the internet to chat on a depression help board when I happened to meet my long distance boyfriend of 5 years. He was mildly depressed and it seemed we had a lot in common. So, as I struggled for the strength to drive to therapy we got to know each other, little by little.

Things were nice for a while, we would fly back and forth across the country to see each other, it seemed that we were really getting along and that life might be looking up for me. However, like all things in my life, the relationship started to go south. He decided not to visit me for 8 months straight in 2003. These eight months become some of the worst of my entire life. I was completely housebound. And (Paul) had to send me food through the mail or I refused to eat. This is how bad those things got. I was losing weight, throwing up, and screaming and crying so loud everyday that even my neighbors could hear my wails. I don't believe I have ever felt such heart wrenching sorrow. I cried for my lost youth, (because I was now 26) I cried for my dead parents, I cried for love, I cried because I felt in my heart I would never claw back to the top of the well of depression, I mourned for what a waste my life had been.

My third hospital stay began when (Paul) who is now my ex-boyfriend called me from his area in Northern California. I was living at my home In Memphis at the time, so I could not be near him. He told me that he had been taken to the hospital and that the doctors thought that he had had a heart attack. I waited on pins and needles for three days as the doctors did test after test on his heart, the good news happened to be that it was only a panic attack and that he would be fine, However this was not the end for me, I had suffered so much, just waiting and worrying that I simply had a "nervous breakdown" This was the only time, that I ever checked myself in voluntarily.

I was 26-years old and the "intake" process was very different from what I remembered of my other hospital stays. A nurse on the tiny floor took me to a small area and riffled through all my possessions. As she searched through my purse, throwing things that I was not allowed to keep to the side, I began to wonder if this had been an incredibly large mistake on my part. Simple things such as tampons were not allowed; I even had to hand over my car keys. I begged the nurse to let me keep my small plastic frame which contained my ex-boyfriends photo. Fortunately, even though it did have some sharp edges, she finally relented.

Once the intake process was completed, I struggled to sit up front at the nurse's station. To my right was a bulletin board with all of the patients names printed in erasable ink. It also showed which doctor and psychiatrist that they had been assigned to, as well as their possible release date and medications.

As I sat there waiting for a doctor to come in and take my blood pressure and temperature, I begin to get more and more nervous. Politely, I asked the nurse for some kind of anxiety pill-just anything. Unfortunately, they would only allow me one pill every few hours, and no matter how hard I begged or how bad I felt, this was the rule.

A few new patients wondered in for "intake" during this time. I felt shocked and scared when one lady who "seemed like a regular" was basically dropped off by her husband through the locked double doors. It appeared that she was happy to be back, there was a huge wound on her arm which she had cut into letters of the alphabet with a knife. The word HELP, was clearly visible.

The first night was terrifying. I tossed and turned, sadly everyone was supposed to wake up around 6 am. Lights out was around 10 pm. The only thing to do during the day was to go to groups. Also we had about 30 minutes of individual therapy a day. The therapist that I got helped my decision to leave after just three days. She was extremely uncaring and unsympathetic. The first thing she harped on was my facial piercing and odd hairstyle. This seemed to be the only thing that she wanted to talk about, even though the lady with the word HELP carved into her arm had purple hair and facial piercing as well.

I did not make any friends, even though I tried. I was up late eating ice cream out of a small cup, desperate for someone to chat with that wasn't a jerk; I started a conversation with a young severely depressed mother. To my surprise, after we chatted she just got up and left, not even saying goodbye.

As I mentioned I did leave after three days, finally at the end of my stay a received a bit of good luck.
My ex-boyfriend decided that he wanted me to move to California with him for a while. He thought perhaps being around someone would stop all the anxiety and depression. It seemed to help for a little while, however after 4 years of disaster I am now back in my native Memphis after being dumped in July 2007. While I was there, I was totally dependent on him, I had no life apart from him, I could not work, nor could I do simple tasks such as going to the store.
We did have some very nice times during those four years and some wonderful memories; however we have a great deal of bad ones as well I was not well at all and I desperately looked to a professional for help, but I just could not find one that would fit. While I was in California I attempted suicide several times, I experimented with drugs and alcohol I never did find a good therapist. I lived in a constant fog of mood swings, drugs suicide attempts and boredom.

Since I've been back here in Memphis I have had to start all over looking for mental health professionals, luckily I have not been put on the walls "of the inside" anymore, but I would not rule a fifth hospitalization out if I became a danger to myself. I found a Memphis psychiatrist about three months ago and he has seen me twice, sadly I find that he just goes back to my old drugs, the ones that didn't work in the first place. So, I have not yet had any relief from my mental illness and I do not believe that I ever will, there is no happy ending (drug wise) for me.

I just keep climbing up the walls of the deep dark well that has been my 31 years, but even if I never make it out I want readers to realize that Depression and anxiety are just as serious as the cancer that killed both of my parents. It is a real disease that many people were just born with, they cannot wish it away, they cannot just snap out of it. It does not work that way! NO, one takes the mentally ill seriously and this has got to STOP!

Suicide can happen in the blink of an eye, for example my ex-boyfriends next door neighbor shot himself while I was only a few feet away in the next house. He just gave up because he could not find the right treatment or any kind of treatment. As for me, I feel I have the most dreaded form of the disease, Treatment resistant depression. This means that I will always be stagnant, always wishing desperately to die so as to end my misery, but on the bright side, also always wanting to educate others on the warning signs of suicide. NOT ANOTHER LIFE LOST! NOT EVEN MINE! "WE ARE NOT ALONE" AND WE MUST STAND TOGETHER AS PROUD PEOPLE, EVEN IF WE NEVER GET TO THE TOP OF THE WELL! IF YOU FEEL SUICIDAL PLEASE CHECK INTO A HOSPITAL, IT MAY BE A SCARY ENVIROMENT SOMETIMES, BUT IT CAN SAVE YOUR LIFE!

I hope you enjoyed this story,
Yours truly
Fuzzy Purple Hat

WELL THATS THE END!!! ANY GOOD COMMENTS!!!

My paper on Borderline Personality Disorder-READ IT MIGHT HELP!

paper that I wrote in college on BPD.. IT GOT A BIG FAT A PLUS!!!:

Trail Of Bloody Tears     "A self abusers story and informative news letter"

( here are some of the injuries I have done to myself to the left AT THE TOP) 

I had a disease which in the psychological world really does not have a "firm" label. However, it is very serious and should NEVER be taken lightly. Back in 2002 when I wrote this article for a college assignment I was deeply affected by my self-injury, however now I am happy to say that I only "hurt myself" now periodically; whenever things seem too out of control for me to handle.

Back then, self-mutilation was spreading so fast that movies, support groups nor medications could keep up. According to a study conducted by Armando Favazza of the University of Missouri, self mutilation was extremely widespread. The survey found that 1,400 people out of every 100,000 or 2 million Americans purposely hurt themselves.

I wrote this article from a first person perspective because I wanted to tell others about the horrors that I experienced. I also sincerely hoped that anyone who read it might change their mind about the stigma surrounding the disease.

The typical profile of a self-abuser is a teenager or young woman, however men do engage in this behavior also. Self abuse means that a person purposely cuts or burns their skin. It can also involve hitting themselves or breaking bones. All this is done in order to relieve any inner pain that the person is suffering or unable to release any other way.

The traits of most self-abusers are the same. They are normally shy, lonely, ignored and have suffered from some type of post traumatic stress. They have no one to listen.

I, myself was 22 years old when my battle with this began. My father had passed away from a rare liver cancer when I was 17. According to Marilee Strong's book, "A Bright Red Scream" many cutters start because of a severe loss.
"Cutters almost uniformly report the same sequence of events and emotional states before and after episodes of self-injury. Cutting bouts are generally precipitated by an experience-real or perceived-of loss or abandonment"

I know that I was angry and afraid. I could not find a healthy way to express that anger or fear. In high school, I was never involved with drugs or alcohol so that was not an option for me. However, one night in November of 1998 I was watching an episode of "Dateline NBC." The episode was about a girl who hurt herself. Finally, I seemed to have found a way to release my anger and fear. I became a "cutter" too.

Although, I do not remember my first actual cut. I know that I did it with a box-cutter. Most likely, inside my fathers old Toyota Camry. I do know that once I began to "bleed" out my self-loathing I was hooked. According to a boy who was quoted in Marilee Strong's book he felt the same way.
"I hate myself," the boy said. "Its almost an insult for people to refer to it as a self-esteem problem. I am talking about active, passionate hatred."

At first, I tried to keep my "dirty little secret" away from my mother. Whenever, I knew that I was going to cut I brought along a red plaid shirt. I affectionately dubbed it my "blood shirt." Sadly, not to long afterward a friend that I had confided in told my mother what was happening.

My mother immediately started to hide all the kitchen knives and scissors. She was convinced that I wanted to commit suicide. This, in itself, is the biggest misconception about this disease. Suicide was never an option for me. The cutting was keeping me alive.

According to another girl that was quoted from Marilee Strong's book, she felt the same.
"There is no hazy line, the girl said." "If I'm suicidal I want to die. I have lost all hope. When I am self-injuring, I want to relieve my emotional pain and keep on living. Suicide is a permanent exit. Self-injury helps me get through the moment."

All hell broke lose one spring day when I came home to my mother encased in blood. We had just engaged in a massive shouting match and I sped away in my car, I didn't quite know exactly where I was going. Finally, I stopped at a local park. Nature had a certain calming effect on my nerves sometimes, but this was not one of those times. Sitting down on a swing-set I noticed a family grilling and I became depressed.

As I swung, I took out my box-cutter and began to slice my arms. I kept swinging and slicing for a long time. I watched as the blood began to drip down from my arms onto my clothes and legs. When I came home to my mother I decided just to see how she would react to the situation. I did not wash the blood off of my legs, nor did I hide it with my shirt.

My mother suddenly became absolutely infuriated. She threatened to call the police. I was terrified of being arrested and thrown back into the mental hospital. Here now in 2007 I still wonder why she failed to comfort me or try to understand the pain that I was experiencing.

My sincere hope is for parents to please help your child if you find yourself in this type of unfortunate situation. Threatening your child with the police, therapy or involuntary hospitalization is simply not the answer. The only thing this will do is drive your already fragile relationship much further apart.
Here is a quote from a boy named "Steven" that proves love not punishment or threats is the best way.
"No one was there to help me. No one was there to say 'Hey I understand.' And even if they did I don't think they would have listened."
Marilee Strong's book expresses some important information on the subject of parents and their misunderstandings.
"Emotional attachment from the parent makes a child feel connected and supported, not alone and helpless. Abused and neglected children never learn from their parents how to soothe themselves and cannot trust others to help them do so. So they may turn to cutting and other forms of self-injury as a means of self-soothing"

In late August of 1999 my self-soothing abilities would be put to the ultimate test. The unthinkable happened; my mother was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. Mother was 58 and I was 23. Early in the year 2000, she was taken out of the hospital and put into a nursing home. I became more and more paralyzed by my own demons during this time. We all knew that both of her "attempted" brain surgeries had been futile. At first, mother was able to speak and talk normally, however I don't think that either of us understood that her mind would be going soon.

I desperately wanted to talk to her about what was going to happen after she died. I had so many questions:How do I manage by myself because I am an only child with no close relatives? Was mother scared of going to heaven? Would she be looking down on me when I graduated from college or got married?

Unfortunately, no conversations like that ever transpired. We both swept the inevitable under the carpet. As her mind got worse I became extremely depressed. I basically slept all day and stayed up all night. I didn't go to work or school, all i did was self-abuse.

After about six months mother became completely incapacitated. Whenever, I came to visit she didn't recognize me. It didn't matter how many black eyes that I had given myself or how badly my arms were scarred, she just didn't know who I was. It hurt so much. I couldn't handle the horror she was going through or the terror I felt inside. Soon, I would be completely alone.

Mother finally passed away on Thanksgiving morning in 2000. At the funeral, I proudly showed off my scarred and burned arms. I showed them to my cruel and ignorant relatives. I chose not to hide them because having them was the only way I could handle the pain. Now, I was an immature 23-year old adult orphan, I was stuck, I had no where to turn, so I turned it all against myself.

Two years after mothers death my self abuse seemed to reach its peak. It seemed that I wasn't in control of my actions anymore. It felt like the devil himself had taken over my body. The abuse became much more violent and psychotic. I decided that I was going to hurt no matter how unbearable the pain. It was normal for me, during that time to smash walls, shatter glass, throw knives with my bare hands, punch myself in the face, carve letters and numbers into my arm, hit my arm with a crowbar, slam fingers into the car door and to take chances with my new vice (prescription antidepressants) Some of these things I would do in public, such as at my college or at the mall.

Looking back at the five years where I would do these things everyday, I am not quite sure where I got the strength to handle such tremendous physical pain. However, since my last cutting and burning session was only about over a month ago, I certainly realize that I am not completely cured and that I may never be. These days, Borderline Personality Disorder is becoming a way for therapists to help patients put a "label" on what seems to be just out of control at times. I was finally diagnosed with BPD a few years ago, sadly even with all my medications I still have not gotten much relief.

Please, for all the self abusers out there, Please do not give up because there is help. You can get better. Here is one resource that I found, its called "THE S.A.F.E. treatment center and its number is 1-800-Don't-Cut. Especially if you are a teenager or a young woman who is facing these feelings for the first time tell your pastor anyone, if you cannot talk to your parents.

I would like to dedicate this article to the walking wounded. "May they no longer suffer in silence," Marilee Strong.

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paper that I wrote in college on BPD.. IT GOT A BIG FAT A PLUS!!!:

Trail Of Bloody Tears     "A self abusers story and informative news letter"

( here are some of the injuries I have done to myself to the left AT THE TOP) 

I had a disease which in the psychological world really does not have a "firm" label. However, it is very serious and should NEVER be taken lightly. Back in 2002 when I wrote this article for a college assignment I was deeply affected by my self-injury, however now I am happy to say that I only "hurt myself" now periodically; whenever things seem too out of control for me to handle.

Back then, self-mutilation was spreading so fast that movies, support groups nor medications could keep up. According to a study conducted by Armando Favazza of the University of Missouri, self mutilation was extremely widespread. The survey found that 1,400 people out of every 100,000 or 2 million Americans purposely hurt themselves.

I wrote this article from a first person perspective because I wanted to tell others about the horrors that I experienced. I also sincerely hoped that anyone who read it might change their mind about the stigma surrounding the disease.

The typical profile of a self-abuser is a teenager or young woman, however men do engage in this behavior also. Self abuse means that a person purposely cuts or burns their skin. It can also involve hitting themselves or breaking bones. All this is done in order to relieve any inner pain that the person is suffering or unable to release any other way.

The traits of most self-abusers are the same. They are normally shy, lonely, ignored and have suffered from some type of post traumatic stress. They have no one to listen.

I, myself was 22 years old when my battle with this began. My father had passed away from a rare liver cancer when I was 17. According to Marilee Strong's book, "A Bright Red Scream" many cutters start because of a severe loss.
"Cutters almost uniformly report the same sequence of events and emotional states before and after episodes of self-injury. Cutting bouts are generally precipitated by an experience-real or perceived-of loss or abandonment"

I know that I was angry and afraid. I could not find a healthy way to express that anger or fear. In high school, I was never involved with drugs or alcohol so that was not an option for me. However, one night in November of 1998 I was watching an episode of "Dateline NBC." The episode was about a girl who hurt herself. Finally, I seemed to have found a way to release my anger and fear. I became a "cutter" too.

Although, I do not remember my first actual cut. I know that I did it with a box-cutter. Most likely, inside my fathers old Toyota Camry. I do know that once I began to "bleed" out my self-loathing I was hooked. According to a boy who was quoted in Marilee Strong's book he felt the same way.
"I hate myself," the boy said. "Its almost an insult for people to refer to it as a self-esteem problem. I am talking about active, passionate hatred."

At first, I tried to keep my "dirty little secret" away from my mother. Whenever, I knew that I was going to cut I brought along a red plaid shirt. I affectionately dubbed it my "blood shirt." Sadly, not to long afterward a friend that I had confided in told my mother what was happening.

My mother immediately started to hide all the kitchen knives and scissors. She was convinced that I wanted to commit suicide. This, in itself, is the biggest misconception about this disease. Suicide was never an option for me. The cutting was keeping me alive.

According to another girl that was quoted from Marilee Strong's book, she felt the same.
"There is no hazy line, the girl said." "If I'm suicidal I want to die. I have lost all hope. When I am self-injuring, I want to relieve my emotional pain and keep on living. Suicide is a permanent exit. Self-injury helps me get through the moment."

All hell broke lose one spring day when I came home to my mother encased in blood. We had just engaged in a massive shouting match and I sped away in my car, I didn't quite know exactly where I was going. Finally, I stopped at a local park. Nature had a certain calming effect on my nerves sometimes, but this was not one of those times. Sitting down on a swing-set I noticed a family grilling and I became depressed.

As I swung, I took out my box-cutter and began to slice my arms. I kept swinging and slicing for a long time. I watched as the blood began to drip down from my arms onto my clothes and legs. When I came home to my mother I decided just to see how she would react to the situation. I did not wash the blood off of my legs, nor did I hide it with my shirt.

My mother suddenly became absolutely infuriated. She threatened to call the police. I was terrified of being arrested and thrown back into the mental hospital. Here now in 2007 I still wonder why she failed to comfort me or try to understand the pain that I was experiencing.

My sincere hope is for parents to please help your child if you find yourself in this type of unfortunate situation. Threatening your child with the police, therapy or involuntary hospitalization is simply not the answer. The only thing this will do is drive your already fragile relationship much further apart.
Here is a quote from a boy named "Steven" that proves love not punishment or threats is the best way.
"No one was there to help me. No one was there to say 'Hey I understand.' And even if they did I don't think they would have listened."
Marilee Strong's book expresses some important information on the subject of parents and their misunderstandings.
"Emotional attachment from the parent makes a child feel connected and supported, not alone and helpless. Abused and neglected children never learn from their parents how to soothe themselves and cannot trust others to help them do so. So they may turn to cutting and other forms of self-injury as a means of self-soothing"

In late August of 1999 my self-soothing abilities would be put to the ultimate test. The unthinkable happened; my mother was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. Mother was 58 and I was 23. Early in the year 2000, she was taken out of the hospital and put into a nursing home. I became more and more paralyzed by my own demons during this time. We all knew that both of her "attempted" brain surgeries had been futile. At first, mother was able to speak and talk normally, however I don't think that either of us understood that her mind would be going soon.

I desperately wanted to talk to her about what was going to happen after she died. I had so many questions:How do I manage by myself because I am an only child with no close relatives? Was mother scared of going to heaven? Would she be looking down on me when I graduated from college or got married?

Unfortunately, no conversations like that ever transpired. We both swept the inevitable under the carpet. As her mind got worse I became extremely depressed. I basically slept all day and stayed up all night. I didn't go to work or school, all i did was self-abuse.

After about six months mother became completely incapacitated. Whenever, I came to visit she didn't recognize me. It didn't matter how many black eyes that I had given myself or how badly my arms were scarred, she just didn't know who I was. It hurt so much. I couldn't handle the horror she was going through or the terror I felt inside. Soon, I would be completely alone.

Mother finally passed away on Thanksgiving morning in 2000. At the funeral, I proudly showed off my scarred and burned arms. I showed them to my cruel and ignorant relatives. I chose not to hide them because having them was the only way I could handle the pain. Now, I was an immature 23-year old adult orphan, I was stuck, I had no where to turn, so I turned it all against myself.

Two years after mothers death my self abuse seemed to reach its peak. It seemed that I wasn't in control of my actions anymore. It felt like the devil himself had taken over my body. The abuse became much more violent and psychotic. I decided that I was going to hurt no matter how unbearable the pain. It was normal for me, during that time to smash walls, shatter glass, throw knives with my bare hands, punch myself in the face, carve letters and numbers into my arm, hit my arm with a crowbar, slam fingers into the car door and to take chances with my new vice (prescription antidepressants) Some of these things I would do in public, such as at my college or at the mall.

Looking back at the five years where I would do these things everyday, I am not quite sure where I got the strength to handle such tremendous physical pain. However, since my last cutting and burning session was only about over a month ago, I certainly realize that I am not completely cured and that I may never be. These days, Borderline Personality Disorder is becoming a way for therapists to help patients put a "label" on what seems to be just out of control at times. I was finally diagnosed with BPD a few years ago, sadly even with all my medications I still have not gotten much relief.

Please, for all the self abusers out there, Please do not give up because there is help. You can get better. Here is one resource that I found, its called "THE S.A.F.E. treatment center and its number is 1-800-Don't-Cut. Especially if you are a teenager or a young woman who is facing these feelings for the first time tell your pastor anyone, if you cannot talk to your parents.

I would like to dedicate this article to the walking wounded. "May they no longer suffer in silence," Marilee Strong.

Laneys plan.

Well, its been two days into it.. paul is gone and he called a few hours ago. I didnt answer the phone.  Im really drunk as i was yesterday, i barfed for the first time ever. 

Anyway, my point is, i know folks dont read.. i have to fake it when chris calls, all i can think is the first plan i had. I saw an episode of intervention when Paul was here... (i even mailed my uncle henry to tell him how i was, but no response)  anyway, there was a woman named Laney who had an extremely bad alchohol problem.  Her family had tried for years to help her, but with no results. She was apparently paranoid that her family was "after" her.   So, during the show, while the camera crew was there, Laney took an entire bottle of trazadone. ( I have some old trazadone laying around)  with her alchohol.   

So, obviously, they had to abandon the show and call an ambulance.  At first Laney told them not to treat her (apparently by law in some states if the paramedics come and someone says "dont treat me"  they cant.   
So, Laney, told them to leave her alone for about 15 minutes, and her family was freaking out.  Then Laney passed out, and they took her to the E/R. Laney is about my age or a bit older...... Anyway, for a few days, she was in intensive care..   she almost did not make it.. just from an od of trazadone and alchohol.  It was touch and go for her, for several hours. she almost passed away, several times.

However, she finally came out of the coma.... and she was still a total bitch to her family.  (i couldnt understand it) she almost lost her life and she still hated her mother and her cousins and her sister.
so, she finally was released and the intervention went on... Laney just wouldnt go, she called the cops to get her relatives off of her property.  And the next damn day that she almost passed away, she was drinking again.  Finally, her cousin convinced her to go to rehab. 

Since, it was a special case, the folks let laney and her counselor drive all the way to Florida, when she lived somewhere in wisconsin.  She, said that she wouldnt go without her cat, so the cat went with her..
When she got to florida, they had to take the cat, and laney freaked out, she said that after all that had been done for her, she couldnt do it, she couldnt stay at rehab..
and it happened, she left after about a week...... I figure that she passed on... I dont know...

but that was my plan, to do to same thing as laney, except without all the family to care about what happened to me. I am drunk and crying and i knew this would happen.   I wrote ron and said, that it was pretty essential that i go down there and make out my will.  I even told him that i wanted my mommy---very embarrassing when one is sober....    Ron is my accountant.

Alison Jones, the only friend that i have in Memphis or had... cussed me out real good before i left CA.. she said i was "a rotten friend" and that "obviously i never gave a rats ass about my mother passing away" because i never mentioned it...( HEY AND MUTHER FUCKER SHE STARTED THIS, GO HATE ON HER PAGE) LEAVE MY PAGE ALONE

Gee, alison, you retard with a 30 iq, i cry for her every day... then she told paul that she had been through more deaths than i had.." a blatent untruth... i made a list of everyone who i have lost on myspace.  the list was about as long as both hands.

i told him i couldnt do this, i have so much old medication everywhere.. I mean ALL KINDS>... remeron, trazadone, wellbutrin, zyprexa.
My fat bitch of a roomate isnt gonna stay if i start to scream and cry...  i c ant even cry in my own house.
she is lying, i know she is... she said that, " my neighbors could hear me crying, and they ran into her one day and they asked her, "where is that nutty screaming girl"?   Yeah right its been four years.

I dont know what else to say, but Laneys plan or just her impulsiveness is always in my mind

i wanna put a nude photo, so maybe folks will look, but im getting to tired..
CUM PLAY WITH ME BABY...

fantasies and adopting the mentally ill Uniform

EVERYTHING IS GONE WRONG TODAY, MY SOUTHERN CHARMS UPDATE DIDNT WORK, BECAUSE IT WAS SENT INCORRECTLY, SO FOR A WEEK I COULD HAVE BEEN "MAKIN THAT MONEY" BUT NOPE...  ALSO, NOW SINCE ITS AFTER MIDNIGHT AND IM A BIT MORE SOBER I was reminded THAT IM THE UGLIEST CREATURE IN EXISTANCE.. I HAVE A FUCKING BLACK MULLET----HAIR CUT---I HAVE BURNS ON MY ARMS THAT LOOK LIKE SMALLPOX, I HAVE A HUGE SCAB OF THE CROSS I CUT I NTO MY ARM LAST WEEK,   ALSO, MY FACE IS BREAKING OUT--YES AT ALMOST 31-YEARS OLD--AND I HAVE NO DAMN ACNE SOAP.... SO, I HAVE SOME SMALL ZITS.. THEN, THIS MORNING.. I FISHED OUT A HAIR ON MY FACE WITH A KNIFE AND I HAVE A HUGE SCAB FROM DOING THAT....PLUS... JENNY STILL HAS NOT SENT MY PHOTOS, WHICH WERE TAKEN ON MARCH 25.. ITS APRIL 14, FOR CHRISTS SAKE....

SO, THE REST OF THIS IS ABOUT THE FACT THAT I HAVE ALSO NOW ADOPTED (THE MENTALLY ILL UNIFORM)

LET ME EXPLAIN: So, I went down, around 8 pm, because Paul (ex) whatever was gone to Lafayette to do Taxes--HMMM??  (in my MENTALLY ILL UNIFORM) TO GET THE LIQUOR.... See, a MENTALLY ILL UNIFORM is basically pajama bottoms (with or without underwear) and a nasty ass t-shirt... It is something that U wear day afer day... ALSO, to count as a true MENTALLY ILL UNIFORM--IT HAS TO SMELL!! AND MINE DOES!! I FINALLY SHOWERED AFTER A WEEK THIS MORNING... YOU USUALLY HAVE DIFFERENT VARITIONS ON THE UNIFORM--SUCH AS DIFFERNT HUGE XXXL T-SHIRTS AND PAJAMA PANTS--BUT THE REASON FOR ADOPTING THIS SLOVENLY ATTITIDUDE IS BECAUSE U ARE HAVING BASICALLY A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN--AND YOU DO NOT FEEL LIKE CLEANING YOURSELF OR DRESSING YOURSELF...

NEXT, HERE WE HAVE A VIDEO FROM YOUTUBE (WHICH BASICALLY KICKED OFF A LONG A INSANLEY PRODUCTIVE FANTASY LIFE)::


 

This is a two hour (Baywatch movie) called (Paniac at Malibu Pier)  This is how (baywatch) all started. It first appeared on NBC in 1989.  So, as a kid with an already (VIVID FANTASY LIFE) (I ALREADY LOVED KNIGHT RIDER and was wanted to sleep with David Hasselfholf when I was 12.  (Yeah funny huh) but hell to be honest, fake boyfriends are a lot of times better than real ones... So, when a lonely, pathetic 13 year old, got out of a mental hospital and then saw this--It was rather appealing.  (So at 14, I got my lifeguarding certificate) at the YMCA... The youngest ever in Memphis to pass the test.) because i wanted to be a fucking lifeguard...  I almost fucking died on one of my tests..  I alsmost drowned.  If i had dropped the man, I would have failed.. so that wasnt an option..Bringing up a 200 pound man in 8 feet of water.... but i did it... (I often wonder what my life would have been like if I had went back at 16 and gotten re-certified.  (I could have been one of these baywatch bitches--and slept with David too).. THis was basically the beginning of the end of the good relationship between my mom and me... She used the show as a punishment..-

I also wonder where the only family i really ever had is now...  If U wanna know a real guy that a little ugly 14 year old virgin wanted to fuck-it was my swimming instructror.. We spent lots of time alone together in the pool-or he would sit on the side while i swam laps.... (dont worry he told me I was fat and to cut down on the potoato chips---GOD MEN)!!!! He had blond hair and his name was Kurt and he was going to the University of Memphis at the time.. I just dont know his last name... God i wish i could remember....   Anyway, my mom must have gotten to him, because I was in his (sorta office) one day when he like hugged me and said, "look if theres ANYTHING, you need to talk about.. and he made sure I got the ANYTHING part.. just talk to me"   oh.. i am still in love with him..

Anyway, my mom on the other hand, got herself hit on for real... My other coach who was a HUGE BLACK fella named ERIC..  Hit on my mom every damn time that we went to the Y.... IT was NASTY... God, Eric used to blow his fucking--black nose into the pool... UGH!!  But mom kept telling (eric) no.. thank god..

Then there was more family... other lifeguards... other girls who were training and were alot older than i was.. they all talked to me and made me feel accepted---especially the GUYS.... cause i was THE UGLY BITCH AT SCHOOL AT 14.. and I am still the UGLY BITCH...  Shit.. I really mourn for those folks if i think about it.. especially Kurt... Oh well, im sure he has a NICE WIFE AND FAMILY NOW--BARF!!!!!

ME, AT 14 (THe little mentally ill "Lifeguard)  I was so depressed at 14, in this photo, that i would not shave my legs.. so the girls in gym class.. had a field day with that one--I didnt wash properly.. I never got my hair cut.. If you look closely you can see a huge scab on the front of my nose--I used to scratch at the oil) On my big ol nose (before the nose job at 19)  Kids had a field-day with the HUGE NOSE TOO.. (ANd look at my clothes)  A JOKE.. I didnt care...  NO one would buy me any FAshionable clothes anyway... even if I had asked...  but it was bad..




-FUCK, I WAS GOING TO PUT A POLL RIGHT HERE.. ASKING WHICH FANTASY MAN FROM AGE 13 TO NOW WOULD HAVE BEEN COOLEST TO FUCK?  BUt, I CANT GET THE HTML CORRECT.. SO NEVER  MIND!! BUT I WILL....!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

UK Casino

REALITY AND MYSPACE ART

For the Lonely and Depressed.  FROM

This prayer comes from, http://www.beliefnet.com/.

I suppose, it was rather a coincidence that I got this particular prayer in my e-mail today. See, i tried the cough syurp pills last night, now even though i feel no high. to be honest I am much better on this drug than when i am not.  Paul, sees the drug as just a pain in the ass. While the DEX is still in my system, I feel just human. Human enough to fuck around with him. (what i mean is tickiling) annoying shit he hates. annoying shit that anyone would probably hate. When i am not then I can show what i feel like, look like, am. 
Uh, i actully found thi s art looking for myspace stuff. so come could be there too... sorry!     So,  I think this art work is not so new if you use it for how you feel when you are depressed. this is obviously, hopelessness, lonliness, despair, and only one tiny piece of light, through the window.            Looking around, you are I may have nice things, but when someone feels this way, they cannot see them, all they see is nothing. At least thats how i am. So if the only cocksucker that likes me is to dumb to know that i would rather have DEX than this, then maybe fuck him... HE SUGGESTED I GO HOME several times tonight.   

                                                                            

                                                                         


This one to me, is man, i can't think when i have stayed up all night.. opinions?

My therapist didnt work and BPD

HI, I'M THE BPD MONSTER!!   





  SIGH.. WEll my new therapist is very expensive and i really can't afford her, However i had a second session with her and i just didn't want to work with her anymore. I know my b/f will be totally pissed. I dont know what to say to him.

                         I just feel like i do everything WRONG.. I have BPD.. I wonder if anyone else on the board does too?

                     Borderline personality disorder, I have read so many books on it.. I finally understand it, but this therapist did not even ask me what i had been diagnosed with.. I though it was odd.

                         when you are borderline, you hear things differenly than other folks.

My therapist said, " In order for you to get better, you have to go out in the world, and i don't think you are ready to do that.

Well, what i heard was, In order to get better, you have to go find a job, right this second, otherwise there is not much point in treatment if you don't do what i say"

Now, that wasn't the comment she made, but thats what i heard.. I walked out feeling very bad about myself.

I thought she would be my "saving grace" so to speak.. Now, i guess i am screwed.

With a personality disorder that is soooo hard to treat.. I just cannot find a doc that understands at all. I never have been able too.

One of my biggest problems right now, is turning or acting like a bratty kid or selfish teenager, when i turn the BIG 30! (in a month) HOLY SHIT.. but thats another story!

So, bratty kids don't necessarily hear things correctly and then the real adult inside gets very hurt. Then the situation just turns bad.. (like i don't wanna see that therapist again because of what i thought she said)

THis is a big characteristic of borderline.. its not like Multiple P disorder or anything.. I know who i am.. but If i need to act like a little child for a while, then i think its okay. but noone else does.. or if i need to act really really angry. ETC. borderline moods can change every hour.

It is very hard on a relationship and i know that borderlines have a tough time keeping a boyfriend.. because one minute we can be happy, the next minute we can yell, the next we act like a baby..


I am not ashamed of the disorder at all.. i just can't figure out why i cannot find a therpist who somewhat specializes in its treatment, ya know.

I feel like this therapist did not take me seriously, e ven after i told her her remark had hurt my feelings.. I actually walked out of the office crying a little.

You just don't treat a borderline that way. You sit them back down and explain to them what you just said. So that there is no way that it can be misinterpreded.

Comments that are left misinterpreded can make a borderline feel worthless, like everything is there fault, not good enough for anyone, ugly, loser, lazy.. i mean it goes on and on.

and last but most important.. we are not worthy of love.

So, thats what happened today.. i hate like hell that i did.