#11::WTF?

I didn't write that.  I didn't go off my meds and black out again.  I seriously didn't write that.  Someone is fucking with me.  Someone has my password or something.  I changed it, so you can't do it again asshole.  Seriously, who does that?  Who gets on a persons blog who obviousy has issues enough and is it and writes shit>? I bet it"s those Coral SHoes assholes.  They laughed atr us all the time.  THey'd make videos of peple to show their friens. They thogt it was funny to watch Jack hit his head Sick fucks.  I can't get away from you.  You have nothing beter to do that to fuck with me?  Of cousre not, youre loser who get a life you son of a bitch all you ever do is fuck with people whell i hope it comes back on thoye ten fold assholes donet ever come near me or my family or i swear il;l kill anotherone of you wyou assholes everythine i try to get my life in order theyre is someone therye woto take it all away again everytime and they keep beating over and over theis noise why wone she open her eyes she always closes them and te she can setill see me everywhere she goes and i go and shes there allways to follow me she can't help it they need me if i cant ehlp them they all are in nowhere its not my fault i didnt hurt anyone i never want anyone to hurt i cant help it save us save us save us

Oh my god.  I just threw up.  I'm not deleting anything.  I remember starting this entry.  My head is killing me.  I don't know what any of that means.  I'm calling Dr. Harper now.

I left a message.  What the fuck?!  I haven't missed my meds.  I don't know what just happened.  I haven't slept very well lately.  Lots of bad dreams.  I don't know what

Dr. Harper is calling back.  Gotta go.

..,,can yous eem,e?

save us










em.ily






















----------------------------------------------------------bluewater

#10: Oh joy, I'm back...

I hope no one was alarmed by my absence.  Although, the two people who read this blog both know exactly where I've been, so it doesn't matter much.

In case anyone else is reading this, I've spent the last ten days up north with my family.  My mom just dropped me off at home about 30 minutes ago, I just unpacked, and now I'm going to hit the hay.  I have an overnight to work tonight. So that's fun.

I was going to write an entry up there, but to be honest, I just never felt it.  It was vacation. Sue me.  I promise though, I'll be back on track here now that I'm going to sink back into my normal rotation.  My good ol' boring ass normal rotation.  I have some stuff I might have to catch you up on.  Maybe.  If I feel like talking about it.

Goodnight,
E

#9: Dr. Winchcombe

In an effort to continue this mental purging, I'm going to write my entry today instead of next week.

So I didn't hurt Dr. Harper's feelings saying that I missed Dr. Winchcombe.  She actually suggested I talk more about him.  I'm not sure how much I can say, or how much I want to say, but I'll let you know he was awesome.  My parents disagree, but they don't really know him.  Plus they're quick to blame what happened on him, and his inability to "fix" me.  It's not his fault.

I started seeing Dr. Emil Winchcombe when I was a teenager.  Like 15 I think.  It was mandatory that I saw him at first because I really did try to kill myself.  (That was the longest sentence I've ever typed. It's hard to look at.)  

I just cried through writing that.  That might be the first time I cried about it.  I've been lying on the floor for the last half an hour.  I know you're reading this.  I'm so sorry.

I get why you didn't want me to see Dr. Winchcombe.  I'm sure you were scared.  You just cared about me.  I can't fault you for that.  I'm so sorry I put you through that.  But you have to admit, Dr. Winchcombe figured out I was on the wrong meds.  And I've told you until I was blue in the face, I wasn't trying to kill myself the second time.  It was an accident.  But I digress.  We don't need to rehash that.  It's in the past now.

I love you.  Both of you. Thank you for putting up with such a fucked up daughter.

Okay, I'm exhausted.  That's enough.

-Emily

#8: That was embarrassing. :(

So I feel like I have some splaining to do.

First of all, I don't always make the best decisions.

My medication doesn't mix well with alcohol.  For this reason I don't drink.  Normally.

Not sure why, because it's all pretty hazy, but for some reason, I decided to break that rule.  I feel like someone asked me to go out with them, but I can't remember who.  I honestly can't imagine who it would be.  Probably someone from work.  Two days are a bit of a blur.  Actually "blur" isn't the correct term.  A wash is more like it.  I don't remember really any of it.

I did a pill count, and I didn't take my meds for five days (I know I missed a few doses, I didn't realize it was that many.)  The first thing I remember is waking up this morning at 5am in a bed at Malcolm Crisis Unit.  Apparently my mom took me there.  She has found my blog as I had feared.  (Just kidding mom.)  Dr. Harper met us there.  I had an emergency shot of haloperidol, and stayed for observation for a night.

I just got home two hours ago.  My apartment has seen better days.  I broke a mirror, and there's a hole in the drywall.  Mom said she called me after finding my blog, and I answered crying, begging her to let me come home from the hospital.  Apparently I thought I was back at Coral Shores.

Great.  Now I have to explain that.  I promise I will.  Let me finish this train of thought first.

So she came to pick me up from my apartment.  I wouldn't let her in.  She said I thought she was a rapist and I wouldn't let her into the door. (That's new.)  So I called 911 from inside the apartment and said some man was trying to get in and hurt me again.

Now I must take a break here, because I know what you might be thinking.  I suffered some molestation or trauma as a child and suppressed it, and that's where all my issues started.  And after reading this series of events, I'd start thinking that too.  Never happened.  I've never even been touched in a weird way.  My parents were pretty protective, almost to a fault.  This rape fear is just a paranoid thing, I'm sure.  And I honestly don't know why I said "again."  Not only have I never been assaulted, I've never even been scared of it in this way before.  If you're looking for things to make sense while I'm completely decomped, good luck.  I was convinced I killed a staff member at Coral Shores, and was going to prison for the rest of my life. (Again, more on this later.)  I also had a paranoid fear that I'd become a suicide bomber after watching the news during the Iraq War.  I'd have panic attacks about it.

Anyway, the police show up and see my mom outside the door.  She explains the situation, they see she's not a big man trying to break in.  They cut the chain on my door and bring me to crisis services.  The rest is history.  Blurry, blurry history.

So.  Coral Shores.  Here we go.

Coral Shores is a residential mental health facility.  I lived there for a few years starting when I was 21.  The reason why is a source of controversy, but being that this is my blog, and I was the only one there, it was because I was in an accident.  That's all.  Nothing more than that, despite what my parents think.

So anyway, I was there for a while.  I met some really interesting people.  The food was terrible, and usually cold.  The staff were horrible assholes, usually more concerned with watching TV or reading magazines than doing anything productive.  A few of us would fuck with them just because we hated them so much, and there wasn't much else to do.  They'd take away our cigarettes or not let us go on activity, (which they rarely went on anyway) just because they wanted to feel like they were important in some way.  Seriously, they sucked at life.  If I saw one of them on the street now, I'd probably spit in their face.  Not all of them, I'm not being fair.  A couple were nice.  Not enough of them though.  I could go on.  I won't.  They were the worst people.  I'll assume you understand.

Anyway, I was there for about five years until I was no longer deemed a suicide risk, (again, it was an accident, I was never a suicide risk), and I got my own apartment in a supported independent living environment.  I had to check in everyday, go to a central office, (which was just another apartment in the complex,) to get my meds everyday.  I could have visitors and even overnights if I cleared it with the office first.  After being there for a while, I was able to move to the apartment I have now, all on my own.

When I got out of Coral Shores, I started seeing Dr. Winchcombe again.  (He was my psych doctor before the accident, and my parents decided it wasn't in "my best interest" to see him anymore after that.  But being that I could make my own decisions, I went back to him.)  Eventually and unfortunately, he transferred me to Dr. Harper who specializes in odd cases of schizophrenia.  (No offense Dr. Harper.  I just liked Dr. Winchcombe a lot. He also was the first person to look past my diagnosis and see I was originally misdiagnosed, instead of reading my file and just assuming he knew me. I wish I still saw him sometimes, but I blew it.)

So, that pretty much brings you up to speed on my life.  The relevant details at least.  I see Dr. Harper every week, take my meds myself (mostly.)

And I'll give Dr. Harper some credit.  Her idea for me to write this stuff out is helping I think.  It doesn't always feel like it, but I think I got a lot out this week.  I feel a little lighter.  I'm smiling.  That's got to count for something, right?

Okay, that's good.  I have to clean my apartment now.

Adios,
Emily

#7sick

Fuck this.

I am so fucked up.  So stupid.

Why a I even writing this?  WHo fucking cares?

I'm so numb to it all now.  Its all the same, over and ovr.  I should just jump in front of a bus.  Maybe it will work this time.

Ok, I'm not going to kill myself.  Don't read that Dr. Harper.  I would have delettd it if you'd fucking let me.

But seriouly what's the point?  Do you want me to write his just so you can write a paper on it or some shit?  This isn't helping.  I can feal it coming again.  I know how this works.  They're telling me something.  You won't listen.  You never listen.  They want to tell me soemtihng.  It sounds like theyre screamiung.  Now.  They're screamimg.  ITs too loud. I hate this i hat.

its all wroing.  its on the tup of my tonge and i cant hear it.  these meds are Stopping me teyre killing em .  you aren;t helping.  you never help./  ARE OYU LISTENING NOW?  I TELL YOU THIS EERYTIME AND THEY WONTS TOP.  THEY WONT STOP THEY WONT STOP THEY WONT STOP.  SHE NEEDS TO SHOW ME sOMETHNG

is ee her noe..

#6:

Alone.
Alone.
Alone.

No one gets me.
No one wants to.
No one should.

Alone.

This mind in my skull hates me.
Poisoned.

My own worst enemy.
My own best friend.

All alone.








Leave me alone.