Suicides die lonely. Isn't that their charge?

Our own death is impersonal even to us.

The voices keep telling me I won't make it to my next birthday.

Survival

I imagine sitting down in a circle of chairs at someone's basement where they serve cheap, stale cookies and strong, old coffee in little, white, styrofoam cups. Grief group. EVeryone survived some massive tragedy.

Me? Is it like AA? Where you're allowed to just not speak, skip a turn?

I think of buses hitting me while I'm out walking and trains mowing me over. I wonder exactly what it would look like--hanging in a garage?

CAn't I get through this?

But I'm dealing with it alone. There's no group, no calender day, nothing. IF you survive, people notice you showed up to work or school or church. Nothing amiss.

The truth is, no one cares about my cyclical grieving, around and around we go.

HOw many times did I pull myself up out of the flames of hell? Just to tell the same, boring story about a girl in love with a man who won't stay?

People like to fantasize, but there's a problem with you fantasize about death or suicide. So, I never wrote Jae killing herself, figuring for me it was giving into my own demons.

I always wonder what grief was like, if it was different than depression, if it molded into depression so close you couldn't tell the difference. IF I could walk into a group meeting for grieving, and be accepted as a member or ridiculed into leaving because no one has died yet.

I want to kill Jae for this very reason. Her wedding day, she doesn't go to the chapel instead she drives to his house with no one there, pulls into the garage, one bullet to the chest, one letter to Howard. "I came here because this is where I always wanted to be--with you."

There's something about dying that says something about living. How you die. When you commit suicide is a rebellion against some part of your life. For Jae, it is a rebellion against love, the heartache she bared.

Was I enough to break up two people? Never.

"Only if he misses you enough," my therapist said on the odds that mOrpheus would leave his wife.

My therapist says that I'm in a stage of anticipatory grief over Morpheus.

All I know is: I can barely function. Yesterday, I did nothing. NO school work, no exercise. I didn't talk to anyone.

"I believe you will have more than one 'love of your life,' " My therapist said.

People keep rushing the end of Morpheus. Now, they say. No. Now.

But MOrpheus always comes in at the last minute. Says something grand. Romantic. Saves the day.

YOu're sick, and then one day, you're "healthy."

And you realize certain elements of your life haven't changed.

And for some reason or a lot of reasons, this makes you suicidal.

And whenever you say that in your mind, you hear voices cheering you on.

AS someone who is recovering from a psychotic episode, I have to wonder whenever I make loose associations, i.e. that MOrpheus is the person who is calling me behind the restricted number simply because I can't imagine anyone else doing it.

In my recent world, it's a sign of mental illness to make bad assumptions.

I've been fighting with myself for days. Who would call and just hang up?

Then, on November 15th, I received two REstricted number calls starting at roughly 12:03am.

I answered the second one, "Hello?"

Whoever it was, just hung up.

"The Switchboard Concept

"The Switchboard Concept

I'm facing my second psychiatric hospitalization of this year alone. I have no brave words for myself. It hasn't been fun or exciting even.

When I was more psychotic I became obsessed with behaviometrics, the idea how do you identify people you cannot see up close and personal? Over the phone? Over the internet? Who are these people? Hence, the Switchboard Concept.

I have no proof it exists. I made it the title of my blog because it's a reminder of the wacky things that come from mental illness, the creativity that springs forth."

--Sunday, September 25, 2011

"Every day I take my mouthful of pills thinking that I am safe nowhere. Not here. NOt at Stanford.

That is the life of living with voices. a."

--Sunday, September 25, 2011

"Sunday, September 25, 2011

AS a bipolar, I always kept my symptoms hidden from my family members and my troubles to a close circle of a few friends.

NOw, that's out of the question.

I'm never left alone. I always have one family member with me. We don't like to think of it as babysitting, but it is. d

For my safety, they say. We all agree to it.

Is my illness that bad that I could snap at any time/

NO one really knows. ad

Hence, why I'm watched all the time."

"I'm a loser," I told MOm.

I was out on my walk near my parent's ranch when a guy in a little green truck went by, and waving his arm, almost to flag me down.

Where are you, MOrpheus?

Never Gone

The voices came back, just a little enough to let me know that they will never be gone.

Just as I was feeling depressed and suicidal.

"This is good news!" My therapist said. "It means you're not schizophrenic." Meaning there's a correlation between mood and auditory hallucinations.

The Funeral Parade

For some reason, I was standing by the window, inside a cafe, holding my cup of coffee, and your black Denali truck drove by. I was close enough to read the rear license plate.

I walked around the doorway, and watched you drive down the street, and out of sight.

"So, little kids, huh? That must make it hard to get a divorce" came the reaction from my all too real therapist.