a very brief history of the crazy
(Leaving out my teens and twenties and early thirties.)
In February 2005 I made a half-assed attempt, was hospitalized briefly, and my first DBT therapist helped me survive the departure of my boyfriend. I took a lot of meds, some of which really helped.
In December 2009 I made an even more half-assed attempt, was hospitalized briefly, and my second DBT therapist helped me put my life back together after the departure of my next boyfriend.
Now it’s February 2013 and I’m on my third DBT therapist and my third departing boyfriend. I’d just like to get through this one with less collateral damage, no $20,000 ER bill, no terrified parents & friends, no activated charcoal milkshakes, no contusions, no losing my job, no losing my tattered self-respect, no scaring the cat, no psychotic unit roommates, no heart monitor, no leaving the door open when I pee, no plastic spoons. Above all else I must not scare the cat, who has never hurt anyone in her life, except maybe lizards, and deserves only tenderness & safety & total love.
Everyone who wants to say I told you so, get in line. I just have to get through tonight without being stupid & selfish. It would help if the boyfriends didn’t blame me; but they generally do, & presumably therefore I must be to blame? I mean, we are all to blame. Except Pyewacket, who smiles and purrs and lies next to me on the bathroom floor, where we are curled on the bathmat, my face swollen from crying and blows, wet tissues everywhere. She likes that I am on the floor with her, doesn’t care if I stare at the crack where the bathtub meets the floor, for hours. Something drips steadily. There are so many drugs in this house, an astonishingly lethal variety, I had not realized. This is not a cry for help, I will get rid of them all tomorrow. Tonight is just tonight. We lie together on the bathmat and we wait.