Didn’t get my BP taken this morning. Waking up was hard enough.
A nurse woke me at 8.10 to remind me to go and take my meds. They like to clear us out by 8.30 but I went back to sleep instead and she ended up bringing my meds to my room instead. What luxury. Like breakfast in bed.
There’s a girl with super long, pointy, manicured nails. She ran up to the nurses station early in a panic, bloody scratches all over her forearms – that’s her self harming technique, not drugs, booze and anger like my generation. The incident did make me wonder why they let her keep the nails though. I mean, may as well give her a blunt knife.
Saw the shrink and she’s increased the dose of my new meds. I think they’re working, to be honest, because I barely feel like crying, I barely feel like taking Valium. I barely feel a thing. And I can tell that my writing has become pretty ho-hum.
Jeff said he spoke to the shrink yesterday but he won’t tell me what they talked about. Not that I think they’re conspiring (are they), but I do wonder what “the plan” is (do I?)
I think this new kinda me – quieter, less sensitive to dickheads, not too worried about the future – is the best I can expect maybe.
Last night I watched an episode of Shameless, the US version and, wouldn’t you know it, Peggy Bundy was on it (yes yes I know she’s done lots since Married with Children but I’ll always think of her as Peggy Bundy). So it seems Peggy is bi-polar or manic depressive or whatever they’re going to call it. Her mania is loop-de-loop cray, which obviously attracts Frank Gallagher. But what interested me in the episode was that, after she’d chilled, she told Frank that she didn’t like it when she was manic, that she wants to be normal. But Frank gently tells her that she is normal. I guess if we lived in Frank’s world, we would all be normal.
So it got me thinking, who are doing this for, you know? The meds, the therapy, the talk-talk-talk, the TMS, the ECT, the hospital stays? Is it anybody’s business if we want to be self-destructive?
What if I stopped trying so hard to be a “better kind of me”? It would be easier for me, even if it wasn’t for others.
Should I consider psychiatric anarchy?