She even messes up suicide, ladies and gentlemen!
Today I woke up suck-ing a le-mon.
Everything is not in its right place. I woke up this morning in the hospital.
I went to my therapy appointment yesterday morning and scared the shit out of my poor therapist, so she brought me to the hospital and instructed me to get myself admitted long-term.
The doctors, of course, don't want to admit an otherwise healthy 23-year-old "girl." (I shit you not. How condescending is that??) I should have done it. Just jumped. If I'd shown up in a bodycast then maybe they'd let me stay. But not now, with a few stupid shallow cuts and some fading bruises.
And another thing: One nurse told me, I've been married longer than you've been living. Besides the question of whether I've really been living at all for the last 23 years, I still say whoop-di-fucking-doo. The Pyramids have been around much longer than he's been married, does that mean he's obligated to force his marriage to last just as long? It's completely fucking unrelated. He meant well, so I didn't say anything, but... fuuuuuuuuuck. If one more person tells me you're only 23 or you've got your whole life ahead of you, I'm going to fucking scream.
That is the POINT, you fucktards. If I was close to the end of my life don't you think I'd just ride it out? The problem is that there's so much more of it coming.
And I
do not
want it.
So, surprise surprise, I left with a new diagnosis and cheerful instructions not to come back. (Yes, I am rolling my eyes.)
For shits and giggles, check out the new diagnosis: "Borderline Personality Disorder." At least the doctor has finally agreed that meds won't help. Like I could afford them anyway. But I hate that it's called a personality disorder. It feels... well... personal. I thought mental illness was supposed to be all "anyone-can-have-it," like a cold or cancer. This feels like a clever, cloaked way for the doctors to call me an asshole.
:/
And as a final WTF: I think the nursing staff of Montreal have got a strange sense of humour indeed. I was admitted to St Mary's first, and when I asked for a water the giggly nurse tittered that she'd bring me an orange juice with vodka. I tried to think nothing of it - she was being friendly. Stupid, but friendly.
But then, at the Jewish General after they transferred me, the nurse there was fastening a second ID bracelet to my wrist. I commented that it was nicer than the St Mary's one. Her inexplicable comment: "Yeah, pity it doesn't come with booze!"
*headdesk*
I repeat: Montreal's nursing staff share an odd sense of humour. It took serious willpower not to have a verbal smackdown. The only thing stopping me was knowing I'd be overreacting. But STILL. *frustrated face*
Fuck today. I'm going to just avoid living any more than I have to right now. The Internet is a beautiful tool for that. After drinking and random hookups have been removed from the list of options, there's really just this. At least it lets me vent.
I wish I had a phone.
Click to viewEverything is not in its right place. I woke up this morning in the hospital.
I went to my therapy appointment yesterday morning and scared the shit out of my poor therapist, so she brought me to the hospital and instructed me to get myself admitted long-term.
The doctors, of course, don't want to admit an otherwise healthy 23-year-old "girl." (I shit you not. How condescending is that??) I should have done it. Just jumped. If I'd shown up in a bodycast then maybe they'd let me stay. But not now, with a few stupid shallow cuts and some fading bruises.
And another thing: One nurse told me, I've been married longer than you've been living. Besides the question of whether I've really been living at all for the last 23 years, I still say whoop-di-fucking-doo. The Pyramids have been around much longer than he's been married, does that mean he's obligated to force his marriage to last just as long? It's completely fucking unrelated. He meant well, so I didn't say anything, but... fuuuuuuuuuck. If one more person tells me you're only 23 or you've got your whole life ahead of you, I'm going to fucking scream.
That is the POINT, you fucktards. If I was close to the end of my life don't you think I'd just ride it out? The problem is that there's so much more of it coming.
And I
do not
want it.
So, surprise surprise, I left with a new diagnosis and cheerful instructions not to come back. (Yes, I am rolling my eyes.)
For shits and giggles, check out the new diagnosis: "Borderline Personality Disorder." At least the doctor has finally agreed that meds won't help. Like I could afford them anyway. But I hate that it's called a personality disorder. It feels... well... personal. I thought mental illness was supposed to be all "anyone-can-have-it," like a cold or cancer. This feels like a clever, cloaked way for the doctors to call me an asshole.
:/
And as a final WTF: I think the nursing staff of Montreal have got a strange sense of humour indeed. I was admitted to St Mary's first, and when I asked for a water the giggly nurse tittered that she'd bring me an orange juice with vodka. I tried to think nothing of it - she was being friendly. Stupid, but friendly.
But then, at the Jewish General after they transferred me, the nurse there was fastening a second ID bracelet to my wrist. I commented that it was nicer than the St Mary's one. Her inexplicable comment: "Yeah, pity it doesn't come with booze!"
*headdesk*
I repeat: Montreal's nursing staff share an odd sense of humour. It took serious willpower not to have a verbal smackdown. The only thing stopping me was knowing I'd be overreacting. But STILL. *frustrated face*
Fuck today. I'm going to just avoid living any more than I have to right now. The Internet is a beautiful tool for that. After drinking and random hookups have been removed from the list of options, there's really just this. At least it lets me vent.
I wish I had a phone.