The Interogation (TRIGGER)

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.

You tell us what time you will be there and I promise I'll be there with you in my mind. I'll be sending you all the positive energy I can muster.

All your friends here on Babble will think of you and pray for you to get through this interview. You are doing the right thing by opening up to them so they can try to help. I know you had so many bad experiences in the past, but there really are some very good psychiatrists out there. Some who truly care, and love their patients.

Think of us, we'll be thinking of you!

Your friend, Emmy

"Language is a Trojan horse by which the universe gets into the mind. ." -- Hugh Kenner

Just remember we are here for you..

I am, and I am just an email away..
you have ways to contact me..
I want to help you in what ever way I can ok.
i can not even fathom what you are going through, nor can I say I understand, but I can say I am here, I will lend a shoulder, I will lend an ear, and let you cry, if you can, scream if you need to, and write on my computer till your heart is content

I just wanted you to know I am here for you no matter what ok.

<font color=purple>
The light is around me now
I see it so clearly now
I feel him in my heart
Lord God has set me free.
Let me rejoice in you
Let me be free
I love the lord God.
I have been Saved by your Grace and love today...04/11/04

I'm with you too.

You may feel like you are being punished, but they really just want to help you. You don't deserve punishment. You deserve to feel better and to be able to trust people, to have friends, and not to be afraid.

I'm glad that you are preparing yourself to let them in. Sharing your writing is a good way to do that. Although it feels like a violation (right?), making their job easier is ultimately so that they have a better chance of helping you, hopefully making your life easier. You don't sound irrational to me. You sound like someone who has been hurt, and who doesn't want to be hurt again, and that is completely rational.

Maybe we can't be there with you physically, but we'll be with you in spirit. Picture us there to support you and hold your hand, because we are there, even though you can't see us.

{{{{{{{{{{{{{hugs}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}

<font color=orange>"If we are going to insist that people pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, we must ensure that they have boots."</font color=orange>

One more day til Doomsday.

I wanna start another thread, but the board is on the fritz, again and I need to write (and by writing, I mean talking, in a safe way, where no one will yell back at me)

My attendant Donna was here today. She's the one who said I was "letting myself" slide into depression. We've been together 6 years and she knows me.

When you're a hermit and trust no one, that says something.

Her daughter turns 22 today, she said.

(22 is such a %^%$#ty birthday. It was for me)

She made me breakfast and I turned on the TV. Clifford the Big Red Dog was on.

"What did you read when you were younger?" she asked.

Uncomfortable pause "Mr. Mugs," (Did we have to bring this up?)

"Clifford the Big Red Dog was really popular up here," Donna went on, "You had French on one side of the page and English on the other."

"Most of the time, my parents and I were nowhere near Quebec," I replied.

Mercifully. Praise my angels for that.

I would greatly appreciate it if people didn't ask me about birthdays, or my childhood. I want nothing to do with French or Quebec. It just stirs things up for me. I am even painfully aware that what I am drinking for breakfast this morning, cranberry juice...I know where I acquired a taste for it and I can barely stand to have it in the house because of that fact.

A childhood is not something to be cherished. It is something to be hated and ashamed of. It is something to cry about. It is full of pain.

The music I listened to as a child, by Raffi, if by some wild flight of imagination, I were to have children, (I don't plan on bringing any children into this screwed-up world. They'd have a screwed-up mother and besides, sex sickens me.) I would not be reading to them, I would not be singing to them, I would not be playing games with them. I never want to see another child again. When I see children laughing, I feel them suffering. I saw the laughter die in Montreal, at the psychiatric institute.

It died at home.

Interacting with these kids would bring up memories of my own childhood and I don't want to do that. Seeing a book, hearing a song, can do it. You might not see it in my face or in my eyes, but in my mind, something goes off inside and the pain is unspoken, unsaid.

I'm not watching TV. It's not just because I have no right to enjoy myself. I don't want to connect anything I watch to this "happy" time in my life. When I weakened to my shame and had to be punished.

I was collecting notes to write a book on this time. I promised myself I'd do that. I promised a friend. I promised my angels. It was going to be a great book.

A writer doesn't destroy what she writes. She can edit it for spelling and content, but destroying it is like destroying a part of herself. And that's what I want to do with the notes.

No notes, it fades from memory. And if it fades from memory, it doesn't exist. Cut myself off from everything connected with this time and it "disappears" I'm still within reality, but within a day or two, it's like it never happened.

That's how it should work, but my memories can torture me for years. Even if the shrinks are kind, I will block these memories out too. And cut myself off from everyone and everything that is connected with this time in my life, even the Church and Doug.

Cut myself off so I can't be punished, or hurt again. Getting involved with people is only stirring deep emotions in me that I never knew I had: Terrible loneliness. Doug said to allow myself to feel, but I can't let that happen, every day I force myself to get involved is another day I find it harder to cut myself off from a world that terrifies me. Even writing is a form of contact, a bond with humanity that has to stop, for my sake. I want nothing to do with humanity.

Humanity=Being hurt

I'm praying to my angels that things will change, but it's a losing battle. I cannot utter that prayer, because I want to run away.

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