Suicide Prevention Day

September 10, 2012

My aunt committed suicide at a young age, my mother attempted three times, and I have also attempted. This is a very important subject to talk about.

mouse love

August 21, 2012

It’s finally here! My first Canvas post. Please forgive any messy mistakes. I’ve been somewhat absent from the bloggie world this last week and a half. My laptop is still broken and a lot has been going on (when doesn’t a lot go on?)

Anyway, the immigration papers/forms came out for deferred action, so I’ve been looking through those. Let me tell you, it’s a pain in the ass and I can’t see the lawyers until the week after next. But at least my frantic, maddening anxiety has gone down a notch. I’ve been swimming every day now instead of every other day. And between that, playing my ukulele, cuddling with little Luna and taking the bus to therapy, I’ve had little time to catch up on reading. 😦

Also, I went out Saturday despite my bro flaking out on me two nights in a row. And for someone with BPD (read: someone with intense fear of abandonment), I think I managed well by writing this post and accepting a ride from Mansie. He did call to apologize yesterday. 🙂

Anyway, without further adieu, here it is!

*possible trigger warning in which P whimpers like a blind, bald baby mouse*

The community hospital I go to doesn’t have very good services for some things. For others, it’s fine. But that first therapy appointment I had was a HUGE dissapointment. I had wanted to write about it. It was only twenty minutes and they could only schedule every 4-6 weeks. yeah, that’s not gonna help!

I’m not having very good nights. Suicidal ideations are reaching what I like to call “worrisome, realistic peaks” which for me are not merely suicidal thoughts I can brush off, but rather urges, URGES SO STRONG you thingk you just may this time.

There have been many triggers I HAVEN’T been avoiding obviously… And I need to be more careful. And that’s on me, I know…

But there were two triggers I had no control over. I had two very disturbing dreams about L last week, just a few days ago. Well, one was about his godfather. And I’ve had a few dreams about him since his passing almost two months ago, but the last one I had last week was the worst. In my dream I was at his apartment, only it wasn’t his apartment–he was living with all these other people–and I was trying to dump out some cocaine I’d found in his room. I was so angry at him. I was furious, “You’re doing this shit again L, really?!” I yelled. Things were said. I ended up taking a bump from the bag before I flushed its contents down the toilet. Then when I got back out, it was no longer his room; it was a hospital room and he was nowhere to be seen… A nurse was there making the bed. That’s when it got disturbing. I couldn’t understand what the nurse said. A lot of crazy shit happened afterward. It was just messed up. I woke up with that shivering feeling. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t until later that evening.

And I don’t know why thoughts of my hearing keep popping up. Maybe it’s ’cause I was taking that Wellbutrin that I kep thinking was messing with my tinnitus. If you go COMPLETELY deaf P, what’s the point P? You were a musician. Why does everything you love destroy you in the end? Oh don’t give me that Beethoven bullshit! First of all, you’re not Beethoven! No where near! And even HE wanted to do it; he too wanted to off himself. Remember his Heilenstadt Testament–it was basically a fuckin’ suicide letter to his brother. That’s why you’ve obsessed about it so much.

Last night and the night before I just sat from 1am until around 3 (I don’t remember), but I sat there on my bed crying and thinking about all of the pills I had in my possession. I was taking inventory. Will this be enough? I’ve never wanted to go out on pills. I’ve wanted some more distant, more quick way of doing it… I don’t know what I’m thinking.

I just looked at the left over clonazepam from last year, the hydrocodone, the zolpidem/Ambien, and one of those Pretty  Little Demons wouldn’t leave me, kept egging me on.

Just go P. Just go and do it once and for all. It’s got to end. It’ll end anyway, sooner or later, so why not sooner? YOU WON’T LIVE WITHOUT MUSIC! YOU JUST WON’T! What kind of life is that? That’s not. It’s not getting any better P. Fuck it all, it’s not. All these years and you still deal with this? This suicidal ideation. This other shit. What is it with you and death anyway? YOU LOVE IT! YOU WANT IT! You want to–you-I want to want to so bad. There’s the three bottles of pills, the rum and wine in the kitchen and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the bathroom to chase it with…

Then the other me, what I call the “REAL” me fights back.

No, no no. You’re so fuckin’ wrong! SO FUCKIN’ OFF! FIRST OF ALL I’VE TAKEN YEARS IN BETWEEN WHERE I PUT MUSIC ASIDE AND I WAS OK. You, YOU, P, were meant to live, to do, to CREATE, to LOVE. You’re so strong. You’re not deaf, not completely, not yet, maybe never even will be. NO no no. You’ve been loving yourself so much lately. Look at all that you’ve accomplished. Just one more day. Remember, one moment at a time. You were born to live. To live, to live. To TRHIVE. You’ve gotten this far, there’s no fuckin’ way you won’t go farther! If you’re going through hell, just keep on going remember? This is just a feeling, just a thought. It too shall pass. Think of your family. They love you. You don’t want to hurt them. Sleep my love, lay down and feel the soft things, call little Luna to stroke her if you have to… 


I just need to go somewhere. I want to tear my skin off completely.

I don’t think I’ll be able to finish that Hulk review, I mean Avengers or whatever, or anything. It’s absurd anyway, though that IS what I write, what I tend to write–absurdities.

Then I think of all that I have to do, the immigration shit, the two restorations which is the least of it. Finding work! HA. That’s a joke. Then my dad criticizes and complaining about the financial situation day and day out. ANd he keeps asking me if I could be his right hand man. I’m ALWAYS helping my mom because she can’t seem to do anything for herself….

I’m tired of that shit. I just want out. I want independence. I’m tired of the constant crying. Are these epsidoes getting worse with the years?

Just go to bed, just sleep. But I keep waking up. The restless legs things is just so much worse. My legs flail all over theplace.

My dad asked me if I’d been sick last night because he noticed I wasn’t right today. I didn’t say much. I didn’t say shit. I think he’s in fuckin’ denial about a lot of things like he’s always been. But maybe I shouldn’t push him away. Poor papi, I can’t blame him.

So hospitalization came to mind.

I’ve never been, not even when I had the monumental mental breakdown in 2008 and my brother called a psychiatric clinic on me. When the receptionist asked my brother if I was a “threat to herself or anyone else?” he said “no”, but the truth is I WAS.

It’s not like those places make you feel any better. NAAAH. They don’t. Do they? ESPECIALLY not a dreadful, overcrowded ole county places. That’s were they put people who’ve been arested and shit… I don’t mean this as offense to arrested people because I could be an arrested person too.

NO, then they won’t let me out, right? What’s it like at county psych hospitals? I mean, it’s kinda REALLY fucked from what I’ve seen and heard. I pass by there all the time on my way to my other doc appointments. What do they do there anyways besides drug you? I want to be drugged though. ha. Like that Ramones song. I sure as all fuck “want to be sedated”.

Could it be the added stress of these last few days and the recent change to fluoxetine/prozac and that I decided I wasn’t taking bupropion/wellbutrin anymore.

Night before last, I came very close to cutting. I just scratched thighs with nails all night to release some of that tension, well then I did some other little things I won’t talk about. I wasn’t drinking thankfully. I don’t do that now. I just couldn’t manage any mindfulness.

Should I call my psych instead? But then she won’t call me back until Thursday. Even if she calls what can she do? This reminds me of the story my dad tells when my mom wouldn’t leave her room for months so they called a priest on her. A PRIEST!? A PRIEST ON THE POOR GIRL (My CHILD MOTHER)! Know what priest said? “Girl needs a doctor.” Turns out she had the post partum, but no one knew that then.

Fuck all this man. I’m good. I’m good. I’m good. No, no, I’m not good but I WILL BE GOOD. I’m going to maintain. I know I can!

This is quite possibly the most ridiculous post I’ve ever made.

*le desperate, confused mouse cries*


“Face your life
Its pain,
Its pleasure,
Leave no path untaken.”
~ Neil Gaiman in “The Graveyard Book” ~