I cry aloud to God, aloud to God, that he may hear me. In the day of my trouble I seek the Lord; in the night my hand is stretched out without wearying; my soul refuses to be comforted. (Psalm 77:1-2) ............................................ A journal chronicling my struggle as a woman, to find my way out of an abusive relationship, and to find myself again.

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Location: Georgia, United States

Monday, June 21, 2004


A little poem from sweet Bert and now I'm mushier than ever inside. I am out of pain medication, and I don't care. Well, I care some, because I hurt, but the only way to get more pain meds is to go to the pain clinic the new doc wants me to go to, and I've had to put it off forever because I had no way to get there, which of course the new doc could not understand. Now I know there's a service for people on Medicare and Medicaid that will take people to doctors' appointments, but ya know, it would be nice if someone had told me that, instead of finding out purely by accident. Also, you have to give them four days notice, (that's on top of the new wait for an appointment) and I honestly can't see that far into the future.

Yes, I know I am suicidal. Yes, I know how easy it is to slip right over that edge, and no, I am not acting to prevent it. It's a scary place to be, but I don't have strength to move beyond or around it. If I slip -- whoops! -- I slip, and who's to say that's a bad thing?

The thing about having lived much of my life in mental hospitals is that I've known, sometimes intimately, those who have slipped.
And I know the torment they were in, and I know they are now at peace. And I envy them. After all, isn't Sylvia Plath a hero?

I think of Sammy mostly. I wish I could find the poem I wrote about him. Maybe I'll look again tomorrow. Tomorrow......

I should get myself to hospital, but I despise that degrading
experience. Still, still, after all these years, they treat mental patients the same. Like dogs. In fact, once I waited so
long that I got so hungry I just up and left. Yep, walked right out of the cubicle, right through the swinging doors, the front door, went home and did a bit of burning, a bit of cutting, and had a snack. You sit in the ER for hours and hours and hours, alone, ignored, while someone, somewhere decides your fate. State or private? Is she faking it, or truly in pain? (Oh, sure, there's just this huge clamoring mass of humanity just praying to be let into the gulag. Yeah. We all fake it.) Oh, and not to forget, a really sadistic person could put me in the locked room with the leather restraints, as further punishment for being depressed.

If Dr. C wasn't on vacation, I'd call him, and he would make it so I wouldn't have to suffer the indignity of ER. But he is not here. And I am afraid of the long night ahead.


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October 23, 2005 at 8:58 AM  

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