Another anniversary

An anniversary I wasn't aware of, or simply chose to block out, is quickly approaching. I found it by reviewing some of my old handwritten journals. Pages upon pages of the mindless rantings of a lunatic. I can tell when I'm me and when I'm completely under the influence of my mental illnesses by the handwriting. I worked for years to perfect my penmanship so that it would be neat and legible and pretty. The chicken scratch I put out when I'm severely suicidal is just an outward sign of the chaos imploding within. A sign that my mind is under the control of someone, of something else.

The anniversary in question, since that's where I started all this, is the first time I was locked up in a mental ward. Monday, August 18, 2003. There were so many times prior to that where I should have been locked up, but this particular date was the culmination of a week's worth of intense outpatient therapy where I was diagnosed with BPD. By the end of that week, with thoughts of just how defective I was and the need to return to work looming above me like a smothering smog, I didn't think I'd survive without admitting myself.

I'd met with the pdoc I was seeing at the hospital outpatient program earlier in the day and apparently he too felt I needed to be locked up but legally wasn't able to do anything cuz I had made no mention of intent to harm myself or others. It wasn't until I offered up the idea myself that the therapist revealed she was under strict orders to watch me like a hawk and if I made any indication, even an ever so slight one, that I was a danger to myself that she had his permission to have me admitted against my will.

I struggled for quite awhile with the choice to go inpatient or test my luck at home. Since I had never made mention of harming myself, they had no basis to lock me up, so it was my free will to decide my fate. I chose the hospital. There's no mention in my journal why, but I know everyone else felt it was the right decision. At the time I probably did too, but now I'm not so sure.

That first admit became my drug of choice, my addiction. I needed to be in the hospital, to be free of all decisions, accountability, daily life demands. When I couldn't make it on the outside, when the stressors exceeded my coping abilities, I searched out ways to get myself admitted. I could never again deliberately admit myself, because a part of me knew I wouldn't get anything out of it except that momentary high of feeling safe, followed by the withdrawal of having no freedom.

It's strange how a sick mind works and it's scary to think that the sick mind is still there. There is still a struggle going on within that weakens me. I may have had the upper hand now since January, but how long will it be before the illnesses take over again. Til that other "being" inside bullies its way into control. I know it's just a matter of time. I can feel the fight raging on inside of me. Who will be the victor this time?