Saturdays in the nuthouse are pretty quiet. Especially today. The clouds are heavy outside and it feels much the same inside, but figuratively.
I busted out of this joint earlier with a lovely lady I first met when I was in here last year. We “did” coffee. All the cool kids “do coffee”. All the cool kids just aren’t on a bunch of pills and in intensive therapy. Their loss I guess.
I’m in a weird space. Some place in between one sad state and another. A leg in each. A little bit suicidal, a little bit numb and a lot of bits of sad. My nurse came in before and asked how I was so she could write something on my chart. I couldn’t begin to explain the above, so I said I was okay. When that wasn’t enough, I said “A little bit flat I guess,”. Understatement. But how do you even explain? I know it doesn’t make sense. I know I am “intelligent and high-functioning” (their words) but I can’t help feeling this.
I want to be alone but being alone is difficult. Being with people is difficult too. Being is difficult.
My scars are sore. A constant reminder. Love-hate.
I’m tired and frustrated and cooped up and smothered and angry and numb and lost and sad and far away and hurting and hateful and selfish and scared and fragile and stuck.