FROM THE BLOG DIARY OF EMILY HUNTER

Entry #8: August 8, 2013

That was embarrassing.  So I feel like I have some splaining to do.

First of all, I don’t always make the best decisions. 

My medication doesn’t mix well with alcohol.  For this reason I don’t drink.  Normally.

Not sure why, because it’s all pretty hazy, but for some reason, I decided to break that rule.  I feel like someone asked me to go out with them, but I can’t remember who.  I honestly can’t imagine who it would be.  Probably someone from work.  Two days are a bit of a blur.  Actually "blur" isn’t the correct term.  A wash is more like it.  I don’t remember really any of it.

I did a pill count, and I didn’t take my meds for five days (I know I missed a few doses, I didn’t realize it was that many.)  The first thing I remember is waking up this morning at 5am in a bed at Malcolm Crisis Unit.  Apparently my mom took me there.  She has found my blog as I had feared.  (Just kidding mom.)  Dr. Harper met us there.  I had an emergency shot of haloperidol, and stayed for observation for a night. I just got home two hours ago.  

Mom said she called me after finding my blog, and I answered crying, begging her to let me come home from the hospital.  Apparently I thought I was back at Sandy Shores.

Great.  Now I have to explain that.  I promise I will.  Let me finish this train of thought first.

So she came to pick me up from my apartment.  I wouldn’t let her in.  She said I thought she was a rapist and I wouldn’t let her into the door. (That’s new.)  So I called 911 from inside the apartment and said some man was trying to get in and hurt me again.

Now I must take a break here, because I know what you might be thinking.  I suffered some molestation or trauma as a child and suppressed it, and that’s where all my issues started.  And after reading this series of events, I’d start thinking that too.  Never happened.  I’ve never even been touched in a weird way.  My parents were pretty protective, almost to a fault.  This rape fear is just a paranoid thing, I’m sure.  And I honestly don’t know why I said "again."  Not only have I never been assaulted, I’ve never even been scared of it in this way before.  If you’re looking for things to make sense while I’m completely decomped, good luck.  I was convinced I killed a staff member at Sandy Shores, and was going to prison for the rest of my life. (Again, more on this later.)  I also had a paranoid fear that I’d become a suicide bomber after watching the news during the Iraq War.  I’d have panic attacks about it.

Anyway, the police show up and see my mom outside the door.  She explains the situation, they see she’s not a big man trying to break in.  They cut the chain on my door and bring me to crisis services.  The rest is history.  Blurry, blurry history.

So.  Sandy Shores.  Here we go.

Sandy Shores is a residential mental health facility.  I lived there for a few years starting when I was 21.  The reason why is a source of controversy, but being that this is my blog, and I was the only one there, it was because I was in an accident.  That’s all.  Nothing more than that, despite what my parents think.

So anyway, I was there for a while.  I met some really interesting people.  The food was terrible, and usually cold.  The staff were horrible assholes.  Seriously, they sucked at life.  Not all of them, I’m not being fair.  A couple were nice.  Not enough of them though.  I could go on.  I won’t.  They were the worst people.  I’ll assume you understand.

Anyway, I was there for about five years until I was no longer deemed a suicide risk, (again, it was an accident, I was never a suicide risk), and I got my own apartment in a supported independent living environment.  I had to check in everyday, go to a central office, (which was just another apartment in the complex,) to get my meds everyday.  I could have visitors and even overnights if I cleared it with the office first.  After being there for a while, I was able to move to the apartment I have now, all on my own. 

When I got out of Sandy Shores, I started seeing Dr. Winchcombe again.  (He was my psych doctor before the accident, and my parents decided it wasn’t in "my best interest" to see him anymore after that.  But being that I could make my own decisions, I went back to him.)  Eventually and unfortunately, he transferred me to Dr. Harper who specializes in "odd" cases of schizophrenia.  (No offense Dr. Harper.  I just liked Dr. Winchcombe a lot. He also was the first person to look past my diagnosis and see I was originally misdiagnosed, instead of reading my file and just assuming he knew me. I wish I still saw him sometimes, but I blew it.)

So, that pretty much brings you up to speed on my life.  The relevant details at least.  I see Dr. Harper every week, take my meds myself (mostly.)

And I’ll give Dr. Harper some credit.  Her idea for me to write this stuff out is helping I think.  It doesn’t always feel like it, but I think I got a lot out this week.  I feel a little lighter.  I’m smiling.  That’s got to count for something, right?

Okay, that’s good.  I have to clean my apartment now.

Adios,
Emily

FROM THE BLOG DIARY OF EMILY HUNTER

Entry #5: July 30, 2013
Not sure what to say.  Not really feeling it.  It’s been a rough week.  Work sucks.  These meds make me feel like shit.  I don’t have anyone.  Fucking bored.  My mom is once again all over my case.  Fucking done.  There’s your entry.

E  

Entry #6: August 4, 2013
Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

No one gets me.
No one wants to.
No one should.

Alone.

This mind in my skull hates me.
Poisoned.

My own worst enemy.
My own best friend.

All alone.








Leave me alone.  

Entry #7: August 5, 2013

Fuck this.

I am so fucked up.  So stupid.

Why a I even writing this?  WHo fucking cares? 

I’m so numb to it all now.  Its all the same, over and ovr.  I should just jump in front of a bus.  Maybe it will work this time.

Ok, I’m not going to kill myself.  Don’t read that Dr. Harper.  I would have delettd it if you’d fucking let me.

But seriouly what’s the point?  Do you want me to write his just so you can write a paper on it or some shit?  This isn’t helping.  I can fel it coming again.  I know how this works.  They’re telling me something.  You won’t listen.  You never listen.  They want to tell me soemtihng.  It sounds like theyre screamiung.  Now.  They’re screamimg.  ITs too loud. I hate this i hat.

its all wroing.  its on the tup of my tonge and i cant hear it.  these meds are Stopping me teyre killing em .  you aren;t helping.  you never help./  ARE OYU LISTENING NOW?  I TELL YOU THIS EERYTIME AND THEY WONTS TOP.  THEY WONT STOP THEY WONT STOP THEY WONT STOP.  SHE NEEDS TO SHOW ME sOMETHNG

is ee her now..