Sometimes I fantasize about slitting my wrists while I am in a tub full of scorching hot water. In all honesty, death seems better than having to face tomorrow. Better than the relentless thoughts that swim in my head. Unfortunately for me, that will never happen because part of the regulations at Piaget Jean Centre is for a nurse to observe a patient while they take a bath. I am pretty sure someone in the past did what I wanna do and I am sure as hell I am not the only one who feels this way.
I absolutely loathe talking to doctors. During therapy sessions, it's always the same dull and repetitive questions but always starting in the same dreadful manner; 'How are you doing, Marie?' This person has a whole masters or whatever in psychology and all she can ask on is how I am doing? Like how the hell do you think I am doing?
How do you even begin to tell someone that your chest always hurts because you've become accustomed to being so sad? That you always want to cry but you've become too weak to so you're always nonchalant, barely saying anything to anyone not because you hate them, but because you believe you deserve isolation.
When you look in the mirror, somehow all you see is a broken, pale, sickly looking stranger with empty eyes. A stranger indeed yet she kind of looks like the old you. The you that was so graceful, energetic and happy. That girl you desperately want to be again, but she's gone for good because when her family died, she died too.
I found myself at Piaget Jean Centre shortly after a suicide attempt and it only took them a few days to diagnose me with manic depression. Sure that's all, Freud junior? Doctors told me that with my cooperation, I'll be better and maybe even out of here in less than a year. But its already been a few months and I'm only getting worse. I feel myself getting worse. So when any of the psychotherapists ask me how I am doing, I give them the same rehearsed response:
"I'm okay"
