I’m not going to make a habit of posting up rediscovered journal entries (not least because I’ve got a fun post about the time I had in Birmingham before the fascists came along, and want to review Naked Boys Reading; and besides, I’m feeling ‘normal’ now so why go over upsetting stuff?), but I happened across this today. I wrote it while an inpatient in psychiatric care. I remember the confusion, the fear, the hopelessness; knowing I didn’t belong in hospital, not knowing where I belonged outside it.
So. This is weird.
I’m not sure I’m meant to be here. Everyone seems far more unstable than me. But then I think how I must look; unkempt hair, three day growth, until recently stinking of BO.
When I got to Homerton the thing that struck me was all the aimless wandering the patients were doing. Drifting slowly across the floor, shuffling through the ward. I assumed it was a symptom of schizophrenia or psychosis or medication; but then I found myself standing, drifting. You see yourself through other’s eyes, wandering. Drifting.
Some are more with it than others, of course; and I’m probably the most with it. Sometimes I think I’m completely fine but then this morning I found myself sobbing, howling, that strange adult keening and gasping, ’til a therapist came, took me aside, talked me down.
Oh, it feels so GOOD to have showered!
I’m waiting in my room at Lambeth. Finally got here this evening. It’s plusher here, and I finally have a proper room. I’ve not really had any privacy since Monday morning.
I wish my life could have turned out different. I wish I could have turned out different. Regret.
I’m not bad enough to be here, I know that. I’m sad, and confused, and maybe I’m unsafe out there. But I’m not bad enough to be here.
What am I going to do now?
What am I going to do next?
Nothing appeals. Not even death. Death only appeals as escape.
Section 3 told me he’d never take his own life since he knows he’d go straight to Hell. Cruel comfort, I guess, keeps you safe. I guess.
Take my life. That’s all I want, something to take my life, give me a new one, give mea new me. One where I have clean sheets and a good bed, and a nice flat and a boyfriend and a fun job.
Not this. Not this life.
I don’t see anything in my future. Nothing. I’ve lost my future and I’ve fucked up my present. All just a chaos of wire and broken glass on the floor.
Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.
I’m going to leave here today, and I’m scared.
I’m scared because I don’t trust myself, still. I’m scared because I don’t want to face that noisy, senseless world. I’m scared because there’s nothing out there for me and I am no-one and it will be too cold, or too hot, and chaos.
I’m scared.
Explosions in Slow Motion 