Outpatient Psychiatry wants me in on Wednesday for a 2 hour appointment.

Being questioned...in a small room, by people with white coats (more than one person is going to be involved, I know it, I'll be outmanned and outgunned) in a hospital.

I prayed for this...would have fought for it. But it smells very bad all the same. I feel like I'm being punished. My stomach is doing backflips.

Outwardly, I'll look very calm, I won't even look depressed. Just smile, nod for the people, be very polite...give them the quickest answers and get out...

scratch that last one...I'm bringing a massive stack of my writing. Everything that I can find that I've written on here about myself and my letters to Doug. 20-40 pages worth. I'm locked in emotionally and saying "I feel terrible" is hard.

Saying with my voice "I want to die," is near impossible.

But it's all there. Every gesture, every thought, every emotion, or at least a lot of the emotions and more are surfacing daily.

It's all there in written texts that I felt compelled to share with someone. All of these events that I would normally bury and repress, at least this time, I have a written record of what's going on.

Writing is my only safe way of communicating. It is my salvation. My sanity. Everything else taken from me (like yelling and crying, by my father).

I'm not certain I'm ready for this. To walk into Hell, where I am triggered and lay everything bare, but I have to.

This time I have to fight my depression all the way to the finish and I have to fight to win, until it is completely purged from my system along with whatever other demons are there. I only fought part of the way the other times. I was frightened of confronting my demons.

In my writing, I have to confront them.

I'm prepared to do what it takes to make their job easier, even if it means hurting me and betraying me. I'll read my texts aloud to the shrinks. I'll tell them every screwy thing that's gone wrong in my life. About being a hermit, about the isolation, about Montreal, about my father, about the psychiatric institute, about being afraid of the hospital to the point of panic.

They'll think I'm irrational and I've always prided myself on being a rational woman. Just one more nut they have to deal with.

I care about that very much, but this monster has ruled my life for too long and it's time to take it back.

And I'll do whatever it takes to make myself feel safe in there, short of breaking the laws of G*d and man. So far, I can only think of singing hymns and bringing a small white teddy bear that I've had since I was fifteen.

I'll even sign a contract with them not to harm myself if it'll make them feel any better. (Once signed, the contract cannot be broken.)

And they are free to do whatever it takes, short of physically harming me (electroshock), except in cases of self-defense. Whatever they will to break down my defenses, even if it leaves me sobbing on the floor.

Too bad, I can't take you guys with me.

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