I phoned Father Lindsay last night and openly told him what I was feeling. Like someone had died and I couldn't scream and I couldn't cry. We talked for 20 minutes and then he told me to go to bed and get some sleep, because I was on morphine and was feeling physically and emotionally tired. He offered to drop by in the morning.

While waiting, the hospital phoned, it was about the emergency room visit at the end of April (for what?). They had forgotten to tell me I had be refered to the Clinic for an appointment. I could call them if I wanted to.

"What clinic?" She didn't say, but gave me the number. I'm waiting on a lot of clinics. I thought it was a pain clinic.

I phoned the number. "Outpatient Psychiatry." I was stunned. I told them who I was and they said they had to confirm that I had been refered.

I hung up and was promptly sickened from the morphine. I went to the church and spent the afternoon, praying to my angels: "Please let this be the one. Let this be the answer to my prayers: an end to my emotional pain." (If any psychiatrist reads this, I was NOT hallucinating!!!!!)

I'd been begging for help forever and been ignored, even by my psychiatrist. I told them in emerg that I was in trouble, that I didn't feel safe. Because they forgot to give me a phone number, I could have ended up dead on a riverbank or in my apartment. I had a third suicidal surge only yesterday that was quashed only because I found an e-mail from Doug. (My newest project was/is to crush my will to live and it was very elaborate.)

They have good people at the General. I hope they hear me or I'm screwed. Their plan is to keep me busy in psychotherapy during the day and send me home at night.

From what they said in the emergency room, I thought they were saying: Control the pain, take the narcotics and everything would be peachy.

The physical pain is under control. The depression remains. Thank G*d someone caught me before I fell through the cracks.

I'm playing it smart this time. I'm bringing every depressing thing I've written since November, since I'm locked in emotionally, look so calm and I can't cry. I'll read them whatever they want starting with that bloody song. (I've ended e-mails to Doug with it on really bad days.)

If that doesn't convince them, then they are ALL a bunch of idiots, and are drinking the same stuff my psychiatrist is drinking that is dulling his brain. In that case, only divine intervention can save me.

There is a thing more crippling than cerebral palsy: the prison of your own mind.