can’t remember the whole year, 14 months now stolen from me by the fuckers. it did help me for 6 weeks before the madness of pain came back once more…
cut my throat that year. and the second psychosis, each of them a kind of disassociation i had no control over as they seized my body and as a puppet made me try to kill myself, well – i had been fixated on cutting my face. i managed some kind of influence somehow and instead put several hundred nails into my face instead. they have not scarred, not much. the scar on my neck remains.
lisa has lied to me about the entire year and what she did; even what i did in that time… one of her recent emails included the comment about her partner, kate, at that time (yes she was a lipstick lesbian and yes i ‘turned’ her) the comment “kate, too, threatened me with suicide.”
implying that this is what i had done. that i had THREATENED HER WITH SUICIDE. narcissism… how obscene to say such a thing to me. she found me bloody and half dead with my throat a second smile gaping, because i had forgotten she was coming to see me. that is how much it was about HER. for some reason i remember the cutting, chewing through a safety razor and watching myself from a distance howling in my mind to stop my marionette body from its death walk. slashing my throat HARD, with all my gymnast’s strength. she takes some kind of credit for that now… as she knows that the memory is for me almost gone. she also told me she visited me in hospital, the mental kind, every day. my old friend and lover whom i trust, who actually did that, my other friends, and recently my PSYCHIATRIST each tell me the same – she came to see me a total of three times in all the five months i spent there. she’s a fucking professional bodybuilder now. narcissistic personality disorder. fucking bitch.
so… a small part of what i wrote, to begin. hard then. hard to post it now. but i will tell the truth, i open my wounds for you. in time, i will eat the world. i WILL.
Trust me. I know secret things… RANT FROM HOSPITAL 2004
Well, ok, no more real excuses left I suppose I had better write at least something or later rue that I did not.
I have just had my first treatment of ECT – electro-shock therapy. I had it at around 7.30 and it is now 9.
I am wearing purple underwear and multi-coloured socks that do not match and I am typing at my desk in a room at the Perth Clinic.
I feel ok, no worse than usual and better than most as I am not in the depths of the deep blue as I often am. I have a headache and I neglected to mention two of the things I am wearing – a hospital wrist-cuff and some kind of electrically sensitive sticker on my chest.
I was not afraid in the morning that led with stalking inevitability to the procedure (by the way there is a doctor here called “Dr Assumption” – what’s the prognosis Dr assumption? Looking GOOD huh? Is this arm broken? Are you SURE? Are you really really SURE?). I have done my fucking research like I always do and not only that but so have my father, my sister, and my mother read a BOOK about it. And they all agree that the unusual and devastating diagnosis appended to my usual manic-depressive diagnosis seems to leave little choice (an underlying and time deep despair; a manifest and pervading depression.) Shock treatment is the best path, rutted with reasonable fear and speculation though it is.
The staff keep trying to explain to me what it does. Sure, they understand it better than I do, but the truth is that I have read experts from on high depict the brain as the final frontier and something about which we know practically nothing. And it has to be thus. If it were simple enough for us to understand, we would be too stupid to understand it… ah, a catch 22, there are so many in life are there not??? I was struggling with a nasty pointy one yesterday myself – you see I could find no reliable account of the memory loss involved in having ECT because the people who have had ECT have got memory loss. So how would they know?
But my fears were assuaged to an extent by the Doctors that I saw subsequently, though I didn’t trust the guy with the Monet tie – passionless limp artist he is.
I know why I was not afraid, I suppose. My primary fear was that I would lose the depth of my long term memory – what I have worked so hard to remember over so many many years (“our memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.” Guillard Appollinaire. Hah. I guess the quotation facility is intact.) Once I had learned that this was immensely unlikely and all I was going to lose were these moments themselves – around the time of the procedures, the truth came out vomited in my mind that ok fuck it I do NOT care.
Though memory loss in itself is a very odd thing. The memories are masqued and yet YOU appear in them. And… “Who WAS that masked man?” I am kind of cool with it since I have drunk so much in my life. Not that I wish for it to continue, but hey I mean if it works, if it actually really in real reality works, I will have traded two weeks of a hazy existence for really what amounts to… well perhaps that in itself requires some serious prose.
My head is ok… the headache has abated somewhat and all I have to remind me is the memory and the knowledge that it did in fact happen, since I was under a sense-occluding anesthetic – the two pieces of time before and after I went under. I remember up to the point where the nursey said now you will feel a sharp pain and then a cold sensation up your arm.
I don’t remember where I woke up – I infer that it was in my bed though I am certain that I do not know. Now. Hmm. I DID do that a great deal when I was drinking though it was more of a surprise where I went to sleep. Other ends of the loop, catch a timeline by the TALE!!!!
I require nicotine. I must make my way hence. ACH. I have at least begun.
Trust me. I know secret things… RANT FROM HOSPITAL 2004