entries ● about ● links

I know I don't write in here very often. Mostly because nothing significant has been going on in my life. I could have wrote about how I got drugged that one night, but that wouldn't have been entertaining to ya'll cause well, I can't remember that whole night. No memory equals no blog.

But yesterday, after four hours of sleep I got up at eight thirty to leave my house at nine thirty to catch the bus to go to the hospital. Why? Well, a brilliant idea of my sister's, that's why.

We had a talk a couple days ago how "Grady" (memorial hospital) can be a huge resource for those who have mental disorders. When she tried to commit suicide they set her up with an individual therapist for herself and her daughter, as well as family therapy. She had also seen people get help with jobs and housing because hell, for all intensive purposes I do consider myself homeless. If it's not mine, I don't have it, according to my brain.

So I go, hoping to get therapy, maybe some new meds, and help with getting myself back on my feet.

I take Marta - public transportation - a bus to Innman Park station, a train from Innman to Georgia State Station. Walk three blocks to the hospital. Sit outside for a bit, not beliving I'm actually going to do this because it makes me feel sixteen again, suck down a couple cigarettes, and in I go, through a door that doesn't have any metal detectors (keep that in mind, will be relevant later).

Fill out your form. Name, age, address, do you have insurance... all the bullshit little fields everyone fills out. And then the last little line that says "What brings you to Grady today?".

I scrawl, "I'm going to kill myself if no one stops me." Feel like a jackass for even writing that, and stick it in the little bin where everyone sticks their stupid little forms. Waiting ensues.

I have half a mind a half an hour later to get up and scream if I have to actually slit my throat to get any attention around here because number one, it would fall into my plan of being "suicidal" and number two, I might actually get seen before all these other people. Unfortunately, my pride and intense urges to not screw myself over more than I absolutely need to kick in. I sit still and be quiet.

Some guy tries to hit on me. I glare at him. I'm in the emergency room, are you fucking kidding me? Seriously?

I go to the bathroom and stuff some cigarettes and matches in my bra. Why? Because you can't smoke in there, so says my sister. And fuck NO is that about to happen.

My name gets called, the lady makes me fill out more paperwork until she actually looks at my reason. Her eyes go wide.

"Are you serious?"

No, I'm here for shits and giggles, lady. "YES."

She calls some other nurse, all emergency-like which I find even surprising in an emergency room, and puts me on a stretcher. By this time I actually have to act crazy. Which I've found my "crazy" is a mix between Callisto from Xena and Parker from Leverage. I mimic Callisto's actions, her looks, her eery fascination with moving her fingers, yet I have this airy nonchalance about everything like Parker can have sometimes. People are successfully creeped out, score one.

When you act crazy, which I've been a pro at since the age of fourteen - cause gotta play it up to get the better meds, right? - you have to constantly be aware of how people look at you. You have to gauge their reactions to see if you should play it up just a little bit more or take it down a notch. I don't want to be in a straight jacket after all. Those things are never fun and they have the same uncanny ability as being in handcuffs has - no matter what, when your hands are unusable you ALWAYS have to itch something somewhere where you can't reach. And no, that didn't mean to sound dirty, I meant like your face or your leg or some other mundane body part you can't seem to get your hands at.

That sounded dirty too.

Anyway, I get put into a temporary observation room in the emergency room. Great, because I love to get "observed". Sigh. The bad thing about acting crazy is it gets incredibly tiring and difficult to keep up with after three or more hours. You start slipping, start acting a bit more normal. You go in and out like waves of sanity that just may happen to pass through your brain.

I'm not allowed to get off my cot. I have to get put into one of those hospital dressing gowns. I tell the lady I have no underwear on - because I never fucking do - and there's no way I could move and show my business to everyone else around here. I don't get too far with that one, only get a second robe to cover most of my areas. Great, so far, not so good. I'm usually better at manipulating people than this.

There's this woman outside with a beard, a serious BEARD, moaning in pain. I have the thought cross my mind to be rude, cause aren't all crazy people? But I can't, I'm too human for that sort of pointless stuff.

I'm hungry, so I ask the nurse for food.

"I don't think you'll get food."

I cock an eyebrow at her and say with that creepy little smile that's so Callisto-esque. "That's alright, if you want to starve me I defenitly have no problem with that. That's one way to go."

Needless to say, my hungry ass got me some food. Yeah, don't start with my food, woman. It's starting to look up a bit.

Keep in mind, they have yet to search my purse or anything of that sort. I didn't think I should be worried about that, but then again I forgot I had something very bad in there. They just lock it up, away from where I can get it. I want my phone back, it has music.

I'm bored. For four hours I'm just bored.

I get talked to by two nurses, and then the doctor. By the time the doctor comes around I'm thoroughly annoyed at having to repeat myself and I rock back and forth, glare in place, nails scratching my skin while I tell him, "Can't you just look at your fucking charts? I'm sick of being asked these stupid fucking questions over and over."

I'm never that rude to people, but he brushes it off since he believes me a suicidal disaster. Oh well.

Then I get told I'm going to be brought to the thirteenth floor (where the crazy people and drug addicts go). I get my clothes, I get my purse, but it's back to sitting on the cot again for awhile. I'm told not to touch the contents in my purse, it annoys me. I want my music, but apparently I cant play with the wires or else I might strangle myself or some other such nonsense.

Then I get my first "roommate" in that temporary observation room. He comes in strapped to a wheelchair, four security guys around him. Oh great, won't this be fun.

It takes about a half an hour just to get his belligerent ass on the cot. Then he looks at me. I show an intense interest in my fingers.

"Hey blondie, you have such pretty green eyes."

"They're blue." I don't look at him as I answer, you never make eye contact with the crazies. The real crazies.

"I love you." I blink, but ignore. My hands are so pretty and fun, aren't they?

"Sir, don't talk to her," the nurse says to him. He looks over to her.

"Because she's white, right? The black man can't talk to the white woman, I get it. You know you're a beautiful black woman too, you shouldn't be jealous."

He gets restrained to the bed after about a half an hour of his crap. Trying to get up, trying tp touch me - which makes me hiss at him - trying to constantly talk to me.

Then we get our second who is short lived. An inmate from the jail - smelling like a fuckng inmate from the jail, mind you - getting laid on a bed and after ten minutes of not shutting up about "the dope" and "the government" and something about a fucking duck, she leaves.

Then I get taken to the thirteenth floor. Yay me. Little did I know, it'd be just as bad.

The crazy act is gone now. I got where I wanted to go, now it's just a matter of getting what I want and getting out of there. I get rolled up on the stretcher and the security guard at the crazy floor checks my bags. Getting my cigarettes, my lighter, my headphones (wires, people), my pens, and...

"How the hell did she get past security with this big ass knife?!" Seriously, she said it just like that too.

I try not to snicker, but the look on her face is so funny. It's the pocketknife I got when I broke into the guys car that tried to like molest Nicole one night we were out. You fuck with her, I take your knife. Anyway, I needed another one. Cops always take them away from me. Single, white female, people, I'm a statistic. I need a knife.

"I don't know," the nurse that brought me up.

"And she's a suicide watch?!"

Anyway, after much amusing arguments between the two of them later, I'm brought into the crazy house. They take my shoelaces, but let me keep my piercings, my earings, my jewelery, and my bobby pins... all things I could easily hurt myself with. Way to go, people. You're on top of your game.

I sit down, waiting to be interviewed. Not five minutes later some crazy ho somehow gets herself a pen and comes after me. I sit still and just stare at her, if she stabs me I'll do something about it, if not then I couldn't care less about that animal.

"I'm going to kill you all, starting with this fucking white bitch!"

She's restrained, thrown in containment. Awesome start to the day, right? Then the nurse comes over, asking silly questions like I'm five that are like: "What makes you happy?" and "What upsets you?"

"I like to write... and I don't want people touching me in here." I'd feel contaminated. These people... they aren't even people. I'm getting a holier-than-thou attitude quite quickly.

Theres a bunch of shit over them giving me a pencil and allowing me to write my Leverage fanfiction in my little notebook. It's always because I'm white that I get things, right? No people, it's because I'm not fucking insane. I'm high functioning. Which still sucks, because it's like saying I'm the smartest of the dumb people, which would still makes me dumb.

I dominate the television, like always. Last time I was locked in the loony bin I forced everyone to watch a Xena marathon. But the Bones season finale is on, and I want to watch it. Ever try to watch a TV show you're really into when theres crazy people screaming and freaking out? Yeah, it's difficult. I get the gist of it enough to know I'm unhappy with it. They promised the fans Booth and Bones being in bed together wouldn't be an delusion or dream - it was a dream. And then Booth getting amnesia? Come on. UNHAPPY. ME. RIGHT NOW. But moving on. My Booth/Bones shipper moment was destroyed, but that's not important.

TNT has sports on by this time, so we get USA. It's quickly becoming my new TNT since I've been forced onto it because of all the damn basketball. Everyone watches House and Law & Order: Criminal Intent with me through the morning.

Please keep in mind I've had four hours of sleep the night before, and am confined to a chair. The only places that have beds are where the people go that freak the fuck out, so basically you have to be an animal to not be treated like one. Noted and filed, pissed off about it.

One of the orderlies has the balls to try to figure me out. Because here I am, sitting there acting normal while everyone around me is stark nuts, I don't blame his curiosity.

"Why don't you talk to anyone in here?" he asks me. I watch as the lady who said she's stab me - after getting out of confinement for being good - stuff a sheet under her shirt becoming "pregnant" from some sedated man next to her. He was her new husband.

"I don't consort with human subspecies." He blinks at me, I get amused. Well, don't ask then.

"Are you anti-social?"

"Seeing as I don't particularly like interacting with others, I would say that'd be a yes. I find it healthier than feeling like my IQ is dropping from listening to psycho babble and other people's petty problems." My IQ actually isn't that high, it's only 127 which is not close to being genius (140), but I still feel that way regardless. Not that I'm a genius, because I'm not, but that I'm just generally smarter than most people. More logical too.

He's looking at me really funny now, and I know I'm sounding like I have delusions of grandeur, which if I'm to be honest I might actually have because that's how I really feel most times. Like people aren't good enough to converse with me. But I drop it, because I don't need them having anything else against me. Especially something that might be true.

I get seen by the doctor finally at two am. "What brings you in here, Ms. Bryan?" I'm so sick of being called 'Ms. Bryan', its what everyone's been calling me all day. I hate it. Maybe just because I hate my last name in general.

"To be honest, I lied." She looks taken aback. Yeah, well, time to get to the point. "I said I was suicidal to get a therapist and some meds, because I'm trying to actually fix my problems before they get to this point." I indicate the place around me. All the crazy mother fuckers.

"Oh. Well, we have some standard questions we need to ask," she says. Of course, can't ever just get right to the point, can we?

"When you're feeling upset, what helps you cope?"

I inwardly roll my eyes, I feel like I'm being treated like a child. "Leverage," I tell her. She looks confused.

"What do you mean, 'Leverage'?"

"It's a television show," I tell her, with this tone of voice like she should already know that.

"Oh, so you watch TV?"

"No, that's not what I meant. I write fanfiction, make fan videos, build my website for one of the actresses... that sort of stuff," I say. "I'm creative, always on the computer. I like to exercise that, its one of the things that releases my endorphins."

She looks surprised I even know what those are. God, I don't want to be here anymore. "Would you say you have an addiction to the computer?"

Heavy sigh. "Yes, but it's completely healthy." That's probably a lie, but I'm over it. It's the only thing that keeps me sane.

"It says here you're anti-social, do you think your computer use gets in the way of that?"

I narrow my eyes, "My computer use makes up for it. That's where my social interaction I need comes from."

This entire interview is stupid and annoying. I cut her off after a couple more questions and just say, "Look, am I going to get a therapist or not?" I'm just annoyed. Tired and so fucking annoyed.

"Well, we won't start you on meds, but we'll give you a number to call for a therapist and we'll start to paperwork to release you."

Great, lovely. Get me the fuck out of here.

I need a cigarette.

Into the bathroom, stick my hand down my bra and find myself one and my matches and light it up. Theres no smoke detector in there, which surprised me, so I smoke half than flush the rest down the toilet. No one notices, thank god. I'd figure I'd reek like it, but fuck it. I needed it.

I try to sleep on the god damn chair. It's not working. I'm getting pissed off. Finally at eight I'm released, with that stupid little number that proves this entire fucking thing was pointless:

The number to the Georgia Crisis Hotline: the fucking number I called to get my ass into detox. SERIOUSLY?! So this last 24 hours have been insanely pointless then, right?

I want to cry, I want to scream. I kind of want to hit someone, which I don't do. Violence against others is barbaric.

I go home and pass out, and now here I am, awake, just fucking angry. So there's what happened, there's the entire pointlessness of it all.

Fuck the system.

Labels: bones, crazy, leverage, mental hospital

I know I don't write in here very often. Mostly because nothing significant has been going on in my life. I could have wrote about how I got drugged that one night, but that wouldn't have been entertaining to ya'll cause well, I can't remember that whole night. No memory equals no blog.

But yesterday, after four hours of sleep I got up at eight thirty to leave my house at nine thirty to catch the bus to go to the hospital. Why? Well, a brilliant idea of my sister's, that's why.

We had a talk a couple days ago how "Grady" (memorial hospital) can be a huge resource for those who have mental disorders. When she tried to commit suicide they set her up with an individual therapist for herself and her daughter, as well as family therapy. She had also seen people get help with jobs and housing because hell, for all intensive purposes I do consider myself homeless. If it's not mine, I don't have it, according to my brain.

So I go, hoping to get therapy, maybe some new meds, and help with getting myself back on my feet.

I take Marta - public transportation - a bus to Innman Park station, a train from Innman to Georgia State Station. Walk three blocks to the hospital. Sit outside for a bit, not beliving I'm actually going to do this because it makes me feel sixteen again, suck down a couple cigarettes, and in I go, through a door that doesn't have any metal detectors (keep that in mind, will be relevant later).

Fill out your form. Name, age, address, do you have insurance... all the bullshit little fields everyone fills out. And then the last little line that says "What brings you to Grady today?".

I scrawl, "I'm going to kill myself if no one stops me." Feel like a jackass for even writing that, and stick it in the little bin where everyone sticks their stupid little forms. Waiting ensues.

I have half a mind a half an hour later to get up and scream if I have to actually slit my throat to get any attention around here because number one, it would fall into my plan of being "suicidal" and number two, I might actually get seen before all these other people. Unfortunately, my pride and intense urges to not screw myself over more than I absolutely need to kick in. I sit still and be quiet.

Some guy tries to hit on me. I glare at him. I'm in the emergency room, are you fucking kidding me? Seriously?

I go to the bathroom and stuff some cigarettes and matches in my bra. Why? Because you can't smoke in there, so says my sister. And fuck NO is that about to happen.

My name gets called, the lady makes me fill out more paperwork until she actually looks at my reason. Her eyes go wide.

"Are you serious?"

No, I'm here for shits and giggles, lady. "YES."

She calls some other nurse, all emergency-like which I find even surprising in an emergency room, and puts me on a stretcher. By this time I actually have to act crazy. Which I've found my "crazy" is a mix between Callisto from Xena and Parker from Leverage. I mimic Callisto's actions, her looks, her eery fascination with moving her fingers, yet I have this airy nonchalance about everything like Parker can have sometimes. People are successfully creeped out, score one.

When you act crazy, which I've been a pro at since the age of fourteen - cause gotta play it up to get the better meds, right? - you have to constantly be aware of how people look at you. You have to gauge their reactions to see if you should play it up just a little bit more or take it down a notch. I don't want to be in a straight jacket after all. Those things are never fun and they have the same uncanny ability as being in handcuffs has - no matter what, when your hands are unusable you ALWAYS have to itch something somewhere where you can't reach. And no, that didn't mean to sound dirty, I meant like your face or your leg or some other mundane body part you can't seem to get your hands at.

That sounded dirty too.

Anyway, I get put into a temporary observation room in the emergency room. Great, because I love to get "observed". Sigh. The bad thing about acting crazy is it gets incredibly tiring and difficult to keep up with after three or more hours. You start slipping, start acting a bit more normal. You go in and out like waves of sanity that just may happen to pass through your brain.

I'm not allowed to get off my cot. I have to get put into one of those hospital dressing gowns. I tell the lady I have no underwear on - because I never fucking do - and there's no way I could move and show my business to everyone else around here. I don't get too far with that one, only get a second robe to cover most of my areas. Great, so far, not so good. I'm usually better at manipulating people than this.

There's this woman outside with a beard, a serious BEARD, moaning in pain. I have the thought cross my mind to be rude, cause aren't all crazy people? But I can't, I'm too human for that sort of pointless stuff.

I'm hungry, so I ask the nurse for food.

"I don't think you'll get food."

I cock an eyebrow at her and say with that creepy little smile that's so Callisto-esque. "That's alright, if you want to starve me I defenitly have no problem with that. That's one way to go."

Needless to say, my hungry ass got me some food. Yeah, don't start with my food, woman. It's starting to look up a bit.

Keep in mind, they have yet to search my purse or anything of that sort. I didn't think I should be worried about that, but then again I forgot I had something very bad in there. They just lock it up, away from where I can get it. I want my phone back, it has music.

I'm bored. For four hours I'm just bored.

I get talked to by two nurses, and then the doctor. By the time the doctor comes around I'm thoroughly annoyed at having to repeat myself and I rock back and forth, glare in place, nails scratching my skin while I tell him, "Can't you just look at your fucking charts? I'm sick of being asked these stupid fucking questions over and over."

I'm never that rude to people, but he brushes it off since he believes me a suicidal disaster. Oh well.

Then I get told I'm going to be brought to the thirteenth floor (where the crazy people and drug addicts go). I get my clothes, I get my purse, but it's back to sitting on the cot again for awhile. I'm told not to touch the contents in my purse, it annoys me. I want my music, but apparently I cant play with the wires or else I might strangle myself or some other such nonsense.

Then I get my first "roommate" in that temporary observation room. He comes in strapped to a wheelchair, four security guys around him. Oh great, won't this be fun.

It takes about a half an hour just to get his belligerent ass on the cot. Then he looks at me. I show an intense interest in my fingers.

"Hey blondie, you have such pretty green eyes."

"They're blue." I don't look at him as I answer, you never make eye contact with the crazies. The real crazies.

"I love you." I blink, but ignore. My hands are so pretty and fun, aren't they?

"Sir, don't talk to her," the nurse says to him. He looks over to her.

"Because she's white, right? The black man can't talk to the white woman, I get it. You know you're a beautiful black woman too, you shouldn't be jealous."

He gets restrained to the bed after about a half an hour of his crap. Trying to get up, trying tp touch me - which makes me hiss at him - trying to constantly talk to me.

Then we get our second who is short lived. An inmate from the jail - smelling like a fuckng inmate from the jail, mind you - getting laid on a bed and after ten minutes of not shutting up about "the dope" and "the government" and something about a fucking duck, she leaves.

Then I get taken to the thirteenth floor. Yay me. Little did I know, it'd be just as bad.

The crazy act is gone now. I got where I wanted to go, now it's just a matter of getting what I want and getting out of there. I get rolled up on the stretcher and the security guard at the crazy floor checks my bags. Getting my cigarettes, my lighter, my headphones (wires, people), my pens, and...

"How the hell did she get past security with this big ass knife?!" Seriously, she said it just like that too.

I try not to snicker, but the look on her face is so funny. It's the pocketknife I got when I broke into the guys car that tried to like molest Nicole one night we were out. You fuck with her, I take your knife. Anyway, I needed another one. Cops always take them away from me. Single, white female, people, I'm a statistic. I need a knife.

"I don't know," the nurse that brought me up.

"And she's a suicide watch?!"

Anyway, after much amusing arguments between the two of them later, I'm brought into the crazy house. They take my shoelaces, but let me keep my piercings, my earings, my jewelery, and my bobby pins... all things I could easily hurt myself with. Way to go, people. You're on top of your game.

I sit down, waiting to be interviewed. Not five minutes later some crazy ho somehow gets herself a pen and comes after me. I sit still and just stare at her, if she stabs me I'll do something about it, if not then I couldn't care less about that animal.

"I'm going to kill you all, starting with this fucking white bitch!"

She's restrained, thrown in containment. Awesome start to the day, right? Then the nurse comes over, asking silly questions like I'm five that are like: "What makes you happy?" and "What upsets you?"

"I like to write... and I don't want people touching me in here." I'd feel contaminated. These people... they aren't even people. I'm getting a holier-than-thou attitude quite quickly.

Theres a bunch of shit over them giving me a pencil and allowing me to write my Leverage fanfiction in my little notebook. It's always because I'm white that I get things, right? No people, it's because I'm not fucking insane. I'm high functioning. Which still sucks, because it's like saying I'm the smartest of the dumb people, which would still makes me dumb.

I dominate the television, like always. Last time I was locked in the loony bin I forced everyone to watch a Xena marathon. But the Bones season finale is on, and I want to watch it. Ever try to watch a TV show you're really into when theres crazy people screaming and freaking out? Yeah, it's difficult. I get the gist of it enough to know I'm unhappy with it. They promised the fans Booth and Bones being in bed together wouldn't be an delusion or dream - it was a dream. And then Booth getting amnesia? Come on. UNHAPPY. ME. RIGHT NOW. But moving on. My Booth/Bones shipper moment was destroyed, but that's not important.

TNT has sports on by this time, so we get USA. It's quickly becoming my new TNT since I've been forced onto it because of all the damn basketball. Everyone watches House and Law & Order: Criminal Intent with me through the morning.

Please keep in mind I've had four hours of sleep the night before, and am confined to a chair. The only places that have beds are where the people go that freak the fuck out, so basically you have to be an animal to not be treated like one. Noted and filed, pissed off about it.

One of the orderlies has the balls to try to figure me out. Because here I am, sitting there acting normal while everyone around me is stark nuts, I don't blame his curiosity.

"Why don't you talk to anyone in here?" he asks me. I watch as the lady who said she's stab me - after getting out of confinement for being good - stuff a sheet under her shirt becoming "pregnant" from some sedated man next to her. He was her new husband.

"I don't consort with human subspecies." He blinks at me, I get amused. Well, don't ask then.

"Are you anti-social?"

"Seeing as I don't particularly like interacting with others, I would say that'd be a yes. I find it healthier than feeling like my IQ is dropping from listening to psycho babble and other people's petty problems." My IQ actually isn't that high, it's only 127 which is not close to being genius (140), but I still feel that way regardless. Not that I'm a genius, because I'm not, but that I'm just generally smarter than most people. More logical too.

He's looking at me really funny now, and I know I'm sounding like I have delusions of grandeur, which if I'm to be honest I might actually have because that's how I really feel most times. Like people aren't good enough to converse with me. But I drop it, because I don't need them having anything else against me. Especially something that might be true.

I get seen by the doctor finally at two am. "What brings you in here, Ms. Bryan?" I'm so sick of being called 'Ms. Bryan', its what everyone's been calling me all day. I hate it. Maybe just because I hate my last name in general.

"To be honest, I lied." She looks taken aback. Yeah, well, time to get to the point. "I said I was suicidal to get a therapist and some meds, because I'm trying to actually fix my problems before they get to this point." I indicate the place around me. All the crazy mother fuckers.

"Oh. Well, we have some standard questions we need to ask," she says. Of course, can't ever just get right to the point, can we?

"When you're feeling upset, what helps you cope?"

I inwardly roll my eyes, I feel like I'm being treated like a child. "Leverage," I tell her. She looks confused.

"What do you mean, 'Leverage'?"

"It's a television show," I tell her, with this tone of voice like she should already know that.

"Oh, so you watch TV?"

"No, that's not what I meant. I write fanfiction, make fan videos, build my website for one of the actresses... that sort of stuff," I say. "I'm creative, always on the computer. I like to exercise that, its one of the things that releases my endorphins."

She looks surprised I even know what those are. God, I don't want to be here anymore. "Would you say you have an addiction to the computer?"

Heavy sigh. "Yes, but it's completely healthy." That's probably a lie, but I'm over it. It's the only thing that keeps me sane.

"It says here you're anti-social, do you think your computer use gets in the way of that?"

I narrow my eyes, "My computer use makes up for it. That's where my social interaction I need comes from."

This entire interview is stupid and annoying. I cut her off after a couple more questions and just say, "Look, am I going to get a therapist or not?" I'm just annoyed. Tired and so fucking annoyed.

"Well, we won't start you on meds, but we'll give you a number to call for a therapist and we'll start to paperwork to release you."

Great, lovely. Get me the fuck out of here.

I need a cigarette.

Into the bathroom, stick my hand down my bra and find myself one and my matches and light it up. Theres no smoke detector in there, which surprised me, so I smoke half than flush the rest down the toilet. No one notices, thank god. I'd figure I'd reek like it, but fuck it. I needed it.

I try to sleep on the god damn chair. It's not working. I'm getting pissed off. Finally at eight I'm released, with that stupid little number that proves this entire fucking thing was pointless:

The number to the Georgia Crisis Hotline: the fucking number I called to get my ass into detox. SERIOUSLY?! So this last 24 hours have been insanely pointless then, right?

I want to cry, I want to scream. I kind of want to hit someone, which I don't do. Violence against others is barbaric.

I go home and pass out, and now here I am, awake, just fucking angry. So there's what happened, there's the entire pointlessness of it all.

Fuck the system.

Labels: bones, crazy, leverage, mental hospital

My name is Mary. I'm a 24 year old creative mess. I like to tell stories in anyway that I can, though mostly through visual artwork. I enjoy film editing, writing, modeling, photography, dancing, and website design. I'm a lesbian. I'm bipolar. I'm stronger than I usually give myself credit for. I'm a recovering drug addict. I'm passionate as all hell. I'm a beautiful disaster. I want to be free. I want to fly.

put your cbox/shoutmix code here. max width 500px

Obsession Is The New Black
TwentyPoundsOfCrazy
RuiningYourSelfImage
Twitter
MySpace
FanFiction.Net