Helldal.... Yeah.

 The Haldol is a miracle drug. Since I started taking it, I haven't had the images show up in my thoughts very often at all. But it quiets all the noise in my brain so I'm not being bombarded 24/7.

No good thing comes without a heavy price. And I'm learning what that is for Haldol. It makes my muscles cramp and my joints feel like they're all on fire. It's agony. But there is a magical med called Cogentin, and it pretty much eliminates the aching. I might still be shaking like I have Parkinsons but at least that makes it not painful.

I'm pretty sure I have to give up the Haldol. It's getting so painful... And the Cogentin doesn't seem to work as well as it did before. Oh well..

Cursed Sleep

 I fell asleep earlier than usual tonight. But that also means waking up at 1:00am and having no chance to get back to sleep.

There are some nurses here who are angels. As they do their checks on everyone each night, she noticed I was awake and not making any headway in the sleep direction. So she offers to see what I can have.  My choices are Ativan, Zopiclone, and Haldol. Ummmm, haldol is the only real choice here.

So now I'm waiting for it to kick in, and I should sleep the rest of the night. 

Thank God for angels like this nurse who know when they see someone in trouble and ask if they can help.

It's all Haldol!

 It's been a long couple of weeks since I last wrote. I hadn't forgot, it was just physically a tough thing to do. It still is, I'm cringing pain with each word.

Yesterday was a particularly bad day for me.  I woke up feeling anxious and my mind was already racing. It hadn't been like that for a few days, ever since I started the haldol twice a day. No more blood everywhere, and waking up feeling like I slept was wonderful.

Well, not every day is a winner. But yesterday... repeatedly the only thing I could think about was carving up my left arm like a Christmas turkey. My mind picks something to fixate on, and until I complete what it's asking or am able to steer it away for a bit. I'm safe here though - no tools or makeshift items to achieve that goal. It becomes exhausting though - when everything in your being is pushing you to do the one thing that you know shouldn't be done.

One nurse noticed my struggle. I guess I must be an open book to them, and I'm okay with that. She noticed me hanging onto the plastic knife at lunch. Every 15 minutes after that, someone was coming to check on me. 

The cravings got the best of me and I tried to use that plastic knife to draw some blood... Well that didn't work at all. I tried to put an edge on the plastic, but it's so soft it just crumbles.

By this time, I must be putting out flashing lights that say "self harm guy" because my new nurse corners me in an office and we talk about what's happening. She checks and I'm still good for a PRN dose of 10mg of Haldol. Bring it on. 

For the next few hours my mind is clear. It's bloody glorious, the way my brain settles and I am not simply stuck in a revolving door. I can think, I can relax, and I don't want to self harm. Did I mention it's glorious?

Haldol isn't a long term thing though. It's got some pretty nasty side effects. One of them being the reason I don't write much - it makes my muscles hurt. I get another med  to help with that. 

So for now, I wait until Monday to see what other plan the doc can come up with. 

The Curse of the Kettle

It's the middle of the night and I'm sitting here in a strong jacket with a strong blanket. How did I get here is what you might be asking.

That fucker of a kettle started it all. I was fine and then whamo, I can hear it calling me. Not literally, more like a magnet pulling in an iron bar. It's begging  me to pour water over my arm again. So I tell someone and off goes the kettle. Fine.

So I go to bed and take all my meds. Sleep, ahhhhh. For an hour. FUCK ME SIDEWAYS WITH YOUR SISTERS CUNT. Now I know nothing good is going to come off this night. Me plus zero sleep equals trouble.

i’m finding it really hard to type my hands really sore.

I'm post more later 

The Dog on Drugs

 I'm laying on a mattress on an empty room. I kinda feel like a dog with his sleeping mat. I'm a c$&t hair away from losing what little I have right now and that scares  me. Okay everything scares me but that's one thing I can't handle.

If you've ever been in restraints, you'll know what I mean. They tie your arms down so tight you can barely move. Like literally you can maybe mive them each a couple of centimetres. It's NOT pleasant. I kinda wish they had drugged me at the same time so I didn't have to remember it. 

So imagine a 12x14 room, completely bare. One side is windows about 10'x4'. These are unbreakable (as I found out the hard way). On the other side is a literal jail cell door. I'm talking 6" thick steel with what I'm guessing is 4" thick glass. It opens and closes on a slider, with a magnetic lock you'll never bust open.  That's where I'm living, on a mattress, on the floor, like a dog.

I can't remember what drugs I get. The nurses are nice and tell me but I don't remember very well. I know haldol, zopiclone, and ativan. I don't think the ativan works worth shit but maybe that's just my brain telling me that. 

I have a new neighbour. I call him Crazy McLooneybin. He talks to himself and seems violent. I really hope they lock his door for the night.

Seems like bed time now. Meds are coming so I'm out for now. 

Fractured Glass

 Fractured Glass

My mind is like a sheet of perfect glass. It's clear, shiny, lets in the sunshine. Hung smartly in a beautiful frame, it's almost picturescque. Calmness and gentleness, the man I used to be.

At some point I let my guard down. I stopped protecting that pristine sheet of glass from the constant rocks and stones.

And I sit here, a fractured mind. The pieces fall and slice everything on their way to the inevitable dusty floor. Slicing my soul, chopping my thoughts, and killing what little I thought of myself. Each shard digging into a different part of my being, cutting and slicing like a trained butcher.

So now I sit on the dusty floor, surrounded by the jagged edges of what was once me. The doctors treat my wounds, but nobody attempts to put that pane back together. Someone who tries will only cut their fingers or worse, so I sit alone. Bleeding out from every cut. Nothing left to live for, I await certainty in the quiet, as the dark envelops me with its cold fingers.

A sheet of glass, waiting to be swept up and put in the trash. That's me.

Open Studio

 So I’m laying in my bed trying to think of what to write. I wish I knew what else to say about today. I did have a good sleep last night I guess that’s one good thing. I was supposed to have open studio such is where you can choose what art or craft you want to do. But someone on the unit has covid so they shut that down.

The idea of open studio freaks me out. I know I'm going to just sit there and draw some kind of massacre. There’s supposed to be another session this afternoon but I can’t remember what it is. My memory is worse than usual. I’m tired of fighting my brain. Psycho losing war.

The images that I have in my brain are so disturbing. I see my arm completely sliced open my muscles and veins and arteries. And then when I look around at other people I see them with hands cut off for your neck or some kind of slice to their body from a sword or something. All of it revolves around blood. They give me meds to try and help but I don’t know if they help or just make me sleepy.

The doctor said I might get to go home next week. He said if things are stable and everything looks OK and maybe I can go home. That kind of scares me too. When I think of all the objects I have at home like razor blades and knives power tools stuff like that I don’t exactly feel comfortable. I wish I lived with someone that could keep an eye on me.

I guess today I just feel sad. Not for any particular reason just sad. I think maybe it’s because I’m locked up I can’t go outside. I don’t know. But I guess I’ll just stop writing for now I don’t really have anything else to say.