FicWad

Start date: Monday, June 30, 2008

Dear Hellonearth,

Consider yourself named, my dearest diary. I hope you like your name. Please, please, don't thank me for it, thank Dr. Martin Hussein, who sent me to this place, your namesake. Of course, I could have named you Brookhaven, or even Loony Bin, but, well, who gives a crap about what you COULD have been named? Oh, and Brookhaven staff? Yes, I know you're reading this. Dogs know you're reading this. I know you're humorless, stick-up-the-ass kind of folks, the kind of people god has taken one good, soul-searching look at, thrown up his arms, and forsaken, the kind of people who could well benefit from getting a good education in irony and metaphor, and other epithets that amount to "everyone but you hates you," so let me translate this diary's name for you: Big, Fat Joke. I fully realize this place isn't Hell. And I know you think you want to help. Good for you. But you are never the reason anyone ever gets out of this godforsaken, time and money-deleting place - it's the lack of anything else to do but think, and also the other inmates. Crazies helping crazies. Imagine that. Getting back on the rails, HOE (boy, did you get the short stick): myriad people worldwide spend their whole life searching for their purpose in life, but you, my friend, you're lucky. I'm going to demystify your existence for you right at the beginning. Basically, you're here to keep me sane. It won't be easy, since the Brookhaven staff will be trying their damndest to make me want to be someone else. So let me start the next paragraph telling you what my mental damage is.

I have schizo-affective disorder. This is a cute little scientific name that boils down to meaning I got stuck with the delightful double-whammy of having elements of both schizophrenia (no, I have no other personality, that's some other illness, and no, I'm not a serial killer in the making) and depression. Lucky me, I got stuck with elements of paranoid-type schizophrenia and MAJOR depression. It's not fun. I feel like slitting my throat (not that I will, staffers) all the damn time, and I hear voices I can't hear telling me to go through with those throat-slashing plans, and then telling me all the lovely details of what I'll go through once I get to Hell. Simply having this illness isn't enough to make them ship you off to the crazy farm, though, which is something to say in favor of the asylums. The first time I went off to a hospital like this one - about five years ago - I said I cut myself on purpose, and I had the scars to prove it. Yes, it sounds stupid, and it gets even dumber. The cutting wasn't my fault. My daddy dearest did that to me in an alcoholic rage. Was going to take a bottle to my face, but I shielded myself from the blow with my arm. The things a twelve-year-old will do for love and acceptance by their families, right? I almost bled to death, anyway, and I still have the scars. It was stupid. Dad never loved me, and he never will. As far as acceptance goes, he accepted my departure from his life. I live with my mom now - or I did before she turned turncoat and agreed with Dr. Hussein to send me here. This time, it's somewhat warranted, of course.

The day started off bad. I woke up feeling like it was the day after the murder of my boyfriend and entire family and I had been a witness to the massacre. Felt like it. Felt the sorrow bubble up from my marrow, felt it as it made my bones brittle with an imagined chill, enter my blood stream, and settle like a stone in my throat. Like nothing would ever bring me happiness again, not puppies, not good jokes, not Gordon, not the warmth of my boyfriend's body or the sun-like shine of his personality. Today, I hardly spoke to my family, not even to annoy my little brother. I know mom noticed my despondency - she always can - but she said nothing. All day, no one said anything. No music played for a good portion of the day. It was like spending the day in a graveyard. I hid in my room, drifting in and out of consciousness, ignoring the phone altogether. Eventually, I got up and went to the bathroom to take a shower. Afterwards, I noticed my legs were fuzzy, so I took out my disposable pink razor. It started out fine. I cut myself a little - I forgot the shaving cream - twice, but it was soon over and done with. Then I looked at my arms. At the scars left from my old dad. I traced the scars with my shaving razor, detachedly reliving the memories they represented, and surprise, they bled. Um, the scars, not the memories. I freaked my mom out, asking her for the band-aids so I could clean up my scars. I think the blood got to her more than the words. Still, it was an accident. I'll be fine once I get back on track with my pills. As fine as I can be, that is. So, here I am, alone again. Naturally.

People always assume that you remember the blood. I never do. It's not especially noteworthy. I don't even recall what color it was when I was still freshly wounded. It's the pain that's important. This time, even that was inconsequential. And, as ever, it was stupid. I recognize that. Life is...difficult, and often the bad or monotonous parts of life outstrip the best bits 4:1, but hey, look at it this way: at least it's not death. And there's always friends to talk with and brothers to annoy.

I'm a seventeen-year-old female who enjoys Rasputina and other non-heavy rockin' goth ladies (to my shame), hard-rockin' musicians who aren't goth or emo, Hugh Jackman as Wolverine (can I get a hell yes, ladies of the staff?), painting and drawing (I want to do it for a living one day), reading, and writing. Clearly, I have no prospects. I have a big brother, Steve, who is also insane but in a socially acceptable way (he's a Republican, har, har), and a little brother, Gordon, who is the only kid his age (12) I don't resent. Oh, sure, all he talks about is sexual, anime-related, or derogatory to someone's mother in some way, but hey, he's cute. Especially when he mangles the Japanese language. He still pronounces Sasuke Sass-ooh-kay. Uke, indeed. Heh.

So, Brookhaven. No boys. No Stephen Colbert, Jon Stewart, or Lewis Black. No internet or computer, so my fledgling nation on Effebysoft's "Nations" game is left to rot. No music from a source other than the radio, which is ruled by democracy in a ward primarily made up of girls who are essentially Heathers. TV chosen by those Heathers and censored by the "thoughtful" staff, so goodbye, South Park. No video games - not even Pokemon or Tetris. A girl with the brains of, literally, a six-year-old for a roommate. No family, except on weekends. Now, here's what I want to know. How the hell am I supposed to get better? But, of course, I don't expect to actually get out this time. Not for a long, long while. Why? Because I'm writing again. Last time I wrote a diary like you, HOE, they were reading it. They didn't like your predecessor, not at all. And that's the problem. You may have a silly name, but you're very dear to me. HOE, you're going to be the harbor for my thoughts to dock in - all of them. The good thoughts, the bad thoughts, and the thoughts disconnected from everyone else's realities (which are the current thoughts - I've been off my meds for four days on accident). I like to keep all of those to myself. So you're effectively on the same level as my boyfriend. Higher, even. You're my thoughts, and you are dear to me. Got it? Stay safe, don't cheat on me, and stay hidden in plain sight. They don't check the drawers as often as under the bed, I don't think. I'll write about my ward-mates tomorrow.

Song for the day: "No Reason," simply because it was the last good song I heard. You remember things like that.

Love,
Ellen White, El Presidente of That Chill Nation