Write, Wrote, Written discussion

I quite think that it's about time I come clean about this one thing. Roughly six people know at least a part of the truth, and since this makes for a great story... now everybody gets to know.
All if it.
I shall leave nothing out.
This will be your only warning.

From December 26Th 2014, to February 21st 2015, I was in a mental hospital. Psych ward. Asylum. Loony bin.
These writings will consist of my notebook I had with me, drawings, quotes, and add-ins to help turn this into a comprehensible story.
Questions are encouraged.
Now, it won't start in order and I have to fill in the missing things. Most of what I have are loose pages, and the majority of them are either burnt or waterlogged. Sorry.

WAHT

Ah. That's good, somebody has to be interested. Although I do think I would post it regardless.
I'm attempting to type the first part down right now... very difficult.

Aha, oh my goodness. I just tried to stand up and instead fell over and literally passed out.
So um, I'm not going to post the first journal entry. I'll just do something else...

Trigger warning: Suicide.

(view spoiler)[
It was the dog who found me.
I heard him crying outside the bathroom door, but it seemed very far away.
I wasn't there anymore. I was lying in a field of tall, soft grass. Tall enough to hide me from anyone who came looking. The grass moved around me, but there was no sound. It was like a fish lying at the bottom of a cozy aquarium among sea anemones and multicoloured stones.
I felt a soft blanket like tree-filtered sunlight wash over me, and I wanted to sleep forever. I felt no fear, no panic. I felt relieved. Relieved that I had made my decision and gone through with it. And now there was nothing left to do but wait and lay. Wait and lay. Wait and lay. All my highs and lows, ups and downs, to bes and not to bes were over at last. I had no regrets. I was at peace, and that was a sensation I hadn't known until that moment. I was at peace. I was at peace. I was at peace.
Then, there were arms lifting me up, voices screaming in my ears, and I was being shaken violently while hydrogen peroxide was poured down my throat. There was no sunlight, no grass. Just a dirty bathroom floor with red-tinged vomit on it.
And all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. (hide spoiler)]

Perfume was first created to mask the stench of foul and offensive odors...
Spices and bold flavorings were created to mask the taste of putrid and rotting meat...
What then was music created for?
Was it to drown out the voices of others, or the voices within ourselves?
I think I know.

⊰Aℓιcє⊱ wrote: "Wow."

Such short, much wow

I also happened to skin both of my knees. And now I'm hungry. Laters.

Wow Sora, really, continue. Thank you for sharing this with us.

This is before being entirely admitted, and before I was actually able to write real sentences. I screwed with my mind pretty badly. You should see the actual notebook, jeez. Most of this first entry is things I had to fill in.

(view spoiler)[
"I'm standing at the back of the line in the emergency room. I'm looking around at the other emergency cases ahead of me. Standing if they're well enough, sitting in plastic chairs with plastic arms if they are not. And I feel like a fraud. I'm not bleeding, on the outside anyways. I can walk. And yet it seems that it is absolutely imperative that I be here, NOW, because my mother said so. Because the legal system that my mother answers to said so, since she couldn't care less. Because everybody except me said so!
I've been forced. I would never have willingly come had I not been strapped immediately onto a cold, blue gurney and wheeled into nothing else than an ambulance. I could hear mother through a phone being held near my face, screaming about my transgressions and the immediate cut off of my social life… and just like a break up, is something that should never be done by phone. Neither is being informed that you need to go to an insane asylum, but it was.

Mom: I can't deal with you anymore unless I check you into a psychiatric hospital.
Me: Why?
Mom: Because the moment your faggot friend tells me that you have attempted suicide, you have to be placed into the best mental health facility I can find. You will stay there until the doctors say you can leave. And until you've dealt with yourself and can stop being so selfish, I cannot poison myself of what you are.
Me: ….

I've been here, in the emergency room, for no more than 45 minutes, but I haven't yet seen a familiar face. Either nobody cares or nobody knows, and either way, I am all alone."

Finally it is my turn to be seen by the lady at the emergency desk. The EMT who stayed with me explains the situation to her, and I feel like crying as her eyes sweep over me in the most judgmental way possible. What am I to her, just another stupid kid. What am I to anybody? My thoughts are then interrupted by him grabbing my shoulder and leading me to the rows of chairs where I must apparently wait. He tries to have me sit near a wall, close to the bathrooms and far from any window, but I somehow refuse and move myself for the first time to the center of the room. I do my best to make the hard chair comfortable and try to form words.
Me: Let me explain myself. If you want to be safe, walk in the middle of the street. I’m not joking. You’ve been told to look both ways before crossing the street, and the sidewalk is your friend, right? Wrong. I’ve spent years walking sidewalks at night. I’ve looked around me when it was dark, when there were men following me, creeping out of alleyways, attempting to goad me into speaking to them and shouting obscenities at me when I wouldn’t, and I suddenly realised that the only place left to go was the middle of street. But why would I risk it? Because the odds are in my favour. In the States, someone is killed in a car accident on average every 12.5 minutes, while someone is raped on average every 2.5 minutes. Even when factoring in that, one, I am generously including ALL car-related accidents and not just those involving accidents, and two, that the vast majorities of rapes still go unreported. And, thus, this is now the way I live my life: out in the open, in the middle of everything, because the middle of the street is actually the safest place to walk.
Him: What?

[Note from the future: I hadn't actually said anything comprehensible to the poor guy. Apparently I was just muttering strangely and expecting him to answer. But I clearly recall saying this to at least somebody, so...]

And that's when I fell asleep.

I only remember, upon awakening, that I was sitting in a wheelchair, and that these clothes were not what I had come in, and that I was being prodded at. I know now that I had been dressed into a plastic-y hospital gown so they could go through my possessions, which happened to be nothing more than some articles of clothing.
Everything was confiscated to be placed into "safe keeping". My skirt, for having drawstrings. Boots, for shoelaces. And with my luck, the shirt I had worn was of my own creation and therefore covered in pins and zippers. They took… everything. And in the end, all I was left with was my striped stockings.
After being allowed to dress myself, I was placed onto yet another gurney and rolled into a small room, where I was told a doctor would be in to see me as soon as possible.
I realized then, at that particular moment, that I wouldn't be going anywhere soon. Fine. Bring it on. Bring on the cure. Bring on the fucking happy.
I’m committed. (hide spoiler)]

Entry Number Two.
My apologies if this is a bit confusing.

(view spoiler)[
I know it was said only a moment ago that I would cooperate and trust in the wisdom of the medical community, but I was perhaps a bit hasty.

I had come to believe that this empty, solitary room would be very temporary. The night has passed and no doctor whatsoever has come to me, only the guard always stationed across the hallway has given me a second glance.
I am not allowed to turn the light off, even though the continuous fluorescent flickering is making my head pound. My stomach will likely be the death of me. I am bored.
I am so bored.
My pencil needs sharpening (as is obvious), but I don't think they are aware I even have it in the first place. If I'm not allowed zippers…
I do believe I should mention this, and I'm not sure I have yet. The bunny is still with me. As always, it sits in the corner. Perhaps waiting for something. Perhaps I'll never know.

[At this point, a nurse came and took my notebook and pencil. I was told that I could stab somebody (or myself) with the pencil, and the metal spiral used to hold the notebook together was obviously a weapon and I could not under any circumstances be in possession of it. The next part explains what happened afterwards, in past tense, because obviously I've acquired a writing utensil...]

Allow me to tell you what happened now, book, after i was interrupted.
The guard had started pacing outside of my door, exhaustion apparent on his face. It occurred to me that in the time I had been here, the same man had kept watch. I almost felt sorry for him.
I'm getting away from myself.
As he passed the door again, I waved my hand to get his attention. Boredom apparently can make one brave.

Him: What is it?
Me: Can I please have my things back?
Him: Sorry.
Me: Maybe just a book? I can read. Books can't hurt people.
Him: Look kid, there's rules for a reason. I'm just here to make sure you don't try something funny.
Me: But I'm not even sick. I'm a fully functional member of society and this just isn't fair.

So I pouted, and, bearing magical powers, this made him change his mind.

Him: I can get a book for you, okay?

It took a very long while, but the guard did eventually come to my room holding five or so books. They all looked terribly boring, but I figured that since I asked…
I chose the educational novel on the plague that had terrorized England, and if it were possible, it made me even more bored. Somebody - a woman - was then screaming obscenities that which echoed through the hallway. My guard left, presumably to help deal with her, and I put the book underneath myself and slept.

When I awoke, it slowly became apparent to me that the guard shift must have finally changed, as there was now a rather young looking man standing in place. I knew this was my opportunity. Something in the universe had clicked and decided to help me out.
So I stood, and leaned myself against the door frame, attempting to look demure.

Me: May I have something to write with?
He shakes his head no, looking rather shocked. Afraid, perhaps?
Me: Not even a Sharpie? I couldn't stab myself with a felt tip.All I want to do is write...

This, I am rather proud of. He agreed to request a writing utensil for me, and as it is, the next time a nurse sped by, he told her to find something.
I sat smug on my hard bed, waiting patiently, until she the nurse would return.
She had a crayon.
That's it. Just a crayon.
But as she handed it to me, I instantly decide that I will use the red crayon until there is almost nothing left (because I may never have the chance to plead for another), but that I will then save it and keep it amongst my treasures for all of my life, however long or short that may be.

That happens to be what I am writing with now. I'm using the book on plagues as my notebook, which I find ironic. I may have changed. I've gone from a person who would never write in the pages of a book to one who now scribbles all over them, writing notes in the margins and doodling away her time in an attempt to entertain herself. I continue
this activity before my sleeping pills take affect and inevitably sleep, the bit is left of my red crayon having stained my fingers the same color.  (hide spoiler)]

Did you read the first few comments...?

:p

Can't compliment it unless you read it...lol

I find that difficult to believe.

hey! like the work, sora:)

Wtf?

excuse me? wt do you mean ...

You know what I mean.

Now everybody is deleting their comments and I think I will not continue this series.

I DELETED THEM COS THEY DIDN'T MAKE SENSE, SORA. I dunno why you're making a big deal out of it. i didn't mean to offend you or anything

⊰Aℓιcє⊱ wrote: "I deleted my comments in our conversation, because you deleted your comments."

Because I obviously must have said something wrong in order to receive what I did.

♥Aniza♥_♥CULLEN♥_♥EATON♥_...13 wrote: "I DELETED THEM COS THEY DIDN'T MAKE SENSE, SORA. I dunno why you're making a big deal out of it. i didn't mean to offend you or anything"

I'm not making a big deal out of anything.... you're the only one yelling.

ok, if it makes it any better, shall i repost them messages...if i can remember them?

Nah

ok, so...are you feeling better, sora?

Trigger warning: self harm


(view spoiler)[

And I cut again. The blood was repressed, and would otherwise, without my kind intervention, have been hidden forever, beauty hidden beneath layers of restrictive and unfair skin.... The blood is out now and it says "Thank you!"
My god, it was so beautiful... What a color blood is, really.... Blood is brighter than any red you will ever see anywhere else in the fucking world-brighter because it is lit from the inside with the light of life. Don't you see? I am doing this to remember that I am alive! It is a tiny glimpse into the awesome, wondrous machines that we are, but we never really see it for ourselves, never really see the inside... Maybe if we did, we'd have a lot higher self-esteem, because we positively glow. (hide spoiler)]

Okay. I'm never really sure.

Uh -- Julane? .-.

No she commented and then deleted it.
o:

But I shall ask Alice. I'm not sure what I'm asking Alice, but I shall.

Oh sorry, I posted that but then I remembered this was your Asylum Journal, and then I had a *mindblown* moment where I realized that this was true even though I already knew that, and then I went back and reread this whole thread, and for some reason that prompted me to delete my comment...

Long story short, pretend I didn't delete it. But it's your choice, it's probably fine, as you have a warning, maybe give a little

DON'T INFLICT SELF HARM

or

I AM NOT ENCOURAGING SELF INFLICTED HARM IN ANY WAY

warning? Mm, that's not little, but oh well...

Ahhh... okay.

...xD

Hm. That's actually very interesting.

Really? Huh, I just thought I had too much ice cream when I posted that....

I never even saw the edit though AGH JULANE

AGH sorry I didn't want you to think I haven't been reading these. :)

Oooh. Honestly it's okay. I probably won't be updating it very often, because reading through and deciphering my things is rather difficult for me. So yeah.

But as I said before, I'm always open to questions. ^-^

So was this caused by your BPD like the lows, or a certain event that triggered it, or.... :\ I'm sorry that you have to... Had to go through this.

Mlehhh, don't apologize. It's nobody's fault. :D I'm feeling good today, so don't worry about, mm, offending me. Or whatever. Lol.

So it's kind of a long... weird story. Basically it boils down to my messed up brain. e.e
Lemme tell you. I was eventually told I have schizophrenia. Which sounds strange and scary yeah it is but it doesn't change anything about me. On here, anyways. Ha. So it's not a big deal, but yeah, that's what got me in this big mess. ^-^

Ohhh, I didn't know. I've heard a lot about it, but I haven't known anyone with it. Do you have to take medication for it? And no, it doesn't make me think any different about you, and don't let it, cuz no fancy shmancy word ain't gonna change my Sora Bunny, mm mm no way.

Lol. I didn't know either until a few months ago.
Yeas, I take meds. Hm. Six a day, I think. Plus random things, like sleeping pills and vitamins and stuff. Honestly it's sO ANNOYING. Urgh

That stinks...It will all work out, just you wait. :)

*waits*

Fine. I won't hold my breath, though.

http://bpdpom.org/2015/04/07/1073/

Quite.

what

Advice from my newest therapist that I can actually take seriously for once.

There's swearing and all that fun stuff so go away if you're a little turd.

(view spoiler)[

Okay.. Well there's a couple things I want you to know. Anxiety basically creates a domino effect in your brain. Anxiety releases harsh chemicals and throws off your chemical balance. It unfortunately creates too little serotonin, which controls your nervous system. It is known that a lack of serotonin creates depression. And unfortunately, depression can lead to self harm. Each and every time you self harm yourself, it creates adrenaline and it sends off a shit ton of crap to your brain, making it pretty much addictive. You don't feel real right now, because your brain is hardcore fucking with you. Your serotonin levels are probably super fuckin low causing you to be numb and depressed. And of course you'll want to hurt yourself, because that means you'll feel something other than nothing. Just please try and understand that there are huge underlying issues to everything that you do to yourself. I know that probably didn't help at all, but one of the things that helped my recovery was understanding exactly what was happening to myself. Because just like you, I would feel nothing, I wouldn't feel real so I would cut. Eventually it got so bad that I sort of just snapped out of it and asked myself what the fuck I was doing. Just try and channel your energy into something else. (hide spoiler)]

I am my heart’s undertaker. Daily I go and retrieve its tattered remains, place them delicately into its little coffin, and bury it in the depths of my memory, only to have to do it all again tomorrow.

Women who focus on style over substance usually find themselves in a big fucking hole, with other men who want to fuck the hole. Oh so smooth, and none sophistacted. Because, you know, how sophisticated can hole-fucking really be?

"Hey, look at me! Look at me! Look at me! And...look at me. Will he think I'm sexy enough? Will he find me wholesome enough? Am I fuckable? Is he allergic to feathers?!" 

I feel as though, if I were to extend my hand just a little toward the pool where the ideas ferment, I could grab at the idea and pull it out of the pool and onto the floor where ideas must stand before the jury of the brain. There
, it must present itself, still from the pool, and a bit shivery because new ideas are not given a towel to dry off with, towels being reserved for proven theories; new ideas are simply pulled and stood up, and asked to explain themselves - not a very pleasant thing really, which is why so many people go into the room where the pool is.
The exercise is exhausting not to mention a bit difficult to watch, if you are at all a sympathetic creature.

What was my idea, anyways?

"xx"