First, some categorization

In the first few posts, I'm going to try to convey what happened in VITA (Vanderbilt Institute for the Treatment of Addiction). I was in that ward because the other adult wards had no available beds. It was actually quite useful to be in the VITA ward. For once, I was the sane person in a room full of crazies. More on the ward itself later. First, some sense of the schedule.

• Vital signs: blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. They collected these "signs" three times a day: 6:00a, 9:50a, 3:15p
• Meals three times a day: 7:45a, 12:00p, 5:15p
• Groups: 9:00a, 11:00a, 1:00p, 4:00p, 6:30p, 8:00p. The last time I list here was devoted to AA meetings. 
• Sleep: lights out at 11:00p, with little dispensation.
• Other activities filled up the spaces in between. Here are the times that were unstructured: 8:15a–9:00a, 10:15a–11:00a, 12:30p–1:00p, 2:00p–4:00p, 6:30p–8:00p, 9:00p–11:00p. A total of just over 7 hours, dispersed through the day. Part-time time you might say.

In the coming days, I'll encapsulate material from my journal. Much of it is raw. Some of it may be crude reckoning of my faults, but I hope that by evaluating it, I'll remember how dangerous and terrible were the events that got me to this point in time. Finally, I may give additional commentary on those journal entries that are unfair or unreasonable.

Please know that I do this to help, not to indulge in self-pity, or punishment, or in any way boastful. I deeply regret what I did.

Next, an account from the inside

For the next weeks, I'll write about what I found in my journal. It'll hasten (I hope) my catharsis. I hope it will ease your own. 

Hiatus broken

I tried to kill myself. It's a senseless act, and the only one responsible for it is me. Now that I've figured some things out, I'm going to spill them on this blog. 

The first (and most important) issue is horrifying to me and to my friends: If a person wants to kill herself and thinks about death constantly, she's not going to let on how awful she's feeling. Otherwise someone could stop her. So, please don't think that anyone's at fault except for me. I struggled with bipolar disorder, thought I was don't all the right things (therapy + meds), and I still felt miserable. I'll always struggle with my illness on some level. But I must never again fall for the illusion of suicide as an answer to the constant questions that plague me. I'm making my promise here: I will not do it again. I plan to learn how to come up with solutions and how not to dwell on death as though it were a sweet exit from an otherwise terrible life. 

The second insight: I should have called someone first and I should have been emotionally open enough so that I could figure out who I should have called. I isolated myself. It's no one's fault but my own. I tend to deflect my feelings by intellectualizing them, like researching the best ways to killing myself. (It's actually quite difficult to do, apparently.) Too often have I tried to keep up my emotions at bay, until it's too much to bear. So I need to let my guard down. It'll hurt but not nearly as much as I have hurt in the past.

Third, suicide leaves no notes. It silently embraces the abyss. The abject punctures the myth of self-knowledge. As Kristeva puts it (and yes, I'm doing this even here), "The corpse, seen without God and outside of science, is the utmost of abjection. It is death infecting life." She believes that we trail our abjection through life, like the shadow one wants to flee but is always attached to us. 

Again, with a little less drama: each person carries her own corpse around, hurrying away from death as much as she fastens herself to it. I guess that is still a little too poetic, and I'll try to say it better next time. The long and the short of it is that my mistakes will dog me for life. My regret, my shame, my despair. 

S., I'm so sorry that I did this wrong to myself and to my friends and to you. I cannot say it enough. 

Hiatus

So, again, I wrote a long post and reconsidered. The length wasn't worth the subject. Basically, I'm again starting to feel really bad about myself; I'm hearing gossip about me; and I feel generally suspicious of people in my life, with few exceptions. It's a nasty little cocktail. Because I already have another blog in which I spill my stupid feelings and fears, there's no reason to do that here. Because I'm having trouble focusing on other things besides my stupid feelings and fears, I don't have a lot to say here. Also, I'm getting tired of all the Is. So. 

Please see attached: my breaking heart.

To interdict

According to my computer's Oxford American Dictionary, the word interdict is related to interdictum, a Latin past participial form of the infinitive interdicere, to interpose or dictate by decree. It carries with it a linguistic sense of a past prohibition against a grammatical object. Not object as in thing, but object as in Lacan's parle-etre.

Tedious? Perhaps. It speaks, however, to a key reason for my tattoos. They represent, to me, an interdiction against suicide. The locations are symbolic and maybe a little tawdry. (I've never slit my wrists.) Of course, you can't just going around saying the first thing that comes to your mind when someone asks, "What do your tattoos mean?" How awkward that would be.

Still. Something between remembrance and moratorium (mora, not morus). If I had one wish, truly, it would be not to be sick. Being sick, I'm not good at conveying my emotions, and I'm terrible at figuring out how to respond to others' emotions. (Those traits contribute to some people's sense that I'm odd.) So instead of trying to find a bigger, better way to tell Sam that I'm sorry, I'm writing about etymology, itself originating from the neuter singular adjectival form etumon, or true. 

Dave and the long, dark nighttime of the night

Dave didn't come home last night, and it's really hard to find out (from the internets) how cold is too cold for a kitty. Easier is finding resources about first aid for kitties with hypothermia and frostbite, which wasn't reassuring at all. 

I worried all day. Sam said Dave would be okay, and my pnp said he'd be okay. (They're both in the business of keeping me as chill as possible.) Late in the afternoon, when I was working, Sam came in and said, "Look." There was Dave, chilly and trying to wiggle out of Sam's arms. Now he's lying on the coffee table, stretched out all warm and fat and purry.

So, if you're keeping score: Sam and Chris were right. And 30 degrees F, with slush on the ground, is not too cold for a kitty to be out all night.

 

Dry

Sam's decided to go dry for a while, and I'm very proud of him. Yes, I'm proud of him for making a decision to take a break from drinking, but that's not all. I'm proud of him for the way he made his decision. What's more is that he's doing it for all of the right reasons. 

Now, I know that one of Sam's personae is the happy-go-lucky, super-friendly, "shots are on me!" kind of guy, and that he loves meeting new people in bars. (Thanks!) This persona won't become dessicated by a break, and I like to think that Sam's new temperance might be in service of his bar-loving side. In the meantime, I get to enjoy a heightened view of Sam's other wonderful sides. All in all, this is very good.

I'm proud of you, Sam, and I love you a trillion, million love units.

It wasn't Mary who was contrary

I was a resistant child. Whenever my mother told me to do something faster, I slowed down. Regardless of what started this reaction, it's become a reflex for me. An authoritative deman doesn't even have to be stated--any tacit requirement or exhortation can be cause for rebellion. An example: I know Sam hates to be late, and I love him and want him to be happy; however, this knowledge and love does not keep me from dawdling when we have to be somewhere. It's a pretty terrible thing to do and difficult to work against, for me and for others.

I resist even my own self-directed urging. I know I have to write. I want myself to write, and I chose to be at Vanderbilt so that I can do this work. I chose this work. I need to get it done, and I will feel so much better afterwards. If I can just get started on it, I'll even enjoy it. I love doing this work.

But that certainty does not quell the voice of my six-year-old self: "I don't want to. You can't make me. Ow! Stop pinching me! Okay, I'll do it, I guess." 

Contrary. Intractible. Recalcitrant. Truculent. Obstinate. Obdurate. Stubborn. Headstrong.

Headstrong's good. Now, if we can only phase-shift that quality into a more productive kind of determination, maybe I can trick myself. 

Bonus: a new phrase I learned today is "lissajous curve." Here's an example of one.

Biting off more than I should; Or, Pie is wonderful

I've done (according to Sam's and my recollections) six of the ten turkey days we've had together, and I love doing the cooking and baking. This year we had a lovely Thanksgiving with Brian and Mary, Sam's mom and dad. 

This year my plan didn't quite work out. I won't publish the details, but in short, over several days, I accumulated a 5-hour-delay. We ate close to 9 pm on Thursday. I like the rush of moving fast to complete last minute tasks to ensure that everything is hot all at once. I do not like last-minute delegation and general triage. Nevertheless, the fundamentals worked out just fine. The pies were tasty, and best of all, the crucial element of the meal was great: the gravy. Even if the turkey is dry (it wasn't), the stuffing bland (nope), and the potatoes lumpy (not in my house), gravy covers it all up. 

So, this year, I'm thankful for Sam (!), for my family, and for not turning into a big sodden mess. 

**Addenda: Sam, you were a wonderful support at the most stressful points. Also, as a general note, I love my ricer. Everyone should have a ricer, even if it's only for potatoes. And I love my pastry blender. Everyone should have a pastry blender because pie is wonderful. 

Sweet Sam, patient in my hour of need

My headache isn't that bad, my nose isn't too runny, and my throat doesn't hurt that much. But the fatigue and congestion are starting to get a little old. I slept almost 20 hours yesterday, and my head feels like a gnocchi. 

I'm under whatever is under the weather.