Psychotic Bitch!!

So, I have a few updates, the first would have to be that I had yet another confrontation with Ashley, but I'm managing to keep Brooke at bay.. I acctually think she's afraid of us now.. anywho, a few people got to see Ashley's ugly side, which is good for me because at least I'll have more backup to the fucked up lies she likes to spread. I came to school wearing the uber boots, and Bob's friend said they were cool, and so I said thanks. You see this is where it gets messed up, as I thought that Ashley had then said they were "dirty boots", and got all pissed, but John later informed me that it was actually Cassie that has said "they're bitch boots" (in the end it boils down to be just as bad, but moving on). I retorted with "like your hair, Ashley". So she told me she didn't say anything, I told her I heard her. "Well, maybe I did, but it's not like it was ment to be mean". "Everything you say is ment to be mean, Ashley. I've learned that." Then she gives a smirk. Later John told me he told her to shut up. That made me happy. Anywho, after I let the issue drop, I could hear her saying "oh yep, see what I told you? She's a psycho bitch." Heh, Bob's friend told me seconds later that he thought she was the psycho bitch. That also mde me happy.

That was a few days ago. Today I got the last half of the day off to have my first assesment at the Canadian Mental Health Clinic (or CMHC). They decided to send me to the clinic on Woodlawn, and my only method of transportation was the bus, so I thought I was going to get lost and such, and was freaking out inside. Luckily the bus drivers were really nice and got m on the right bus (#22 Conastoga), and the lady let me out at the light across from the plaza. After a few minutes in the plaza freaking out because I can't find the suite, I come across a sign (very vague, I might add) that at least pointed me in the right direction, so I eventually found it. Went up the stairs, round a corner, came face to face with a kind-looking woman, and introduced myself and my reason for being here. She asked me who I was supposed to see. "Umm.. I know his name starts with a G..." "Georgie?" "Yeah, that's it." "Go sit down, he'll be right with you." Now mind you, this man, "Georgie", does not spell his name "Georgie" at all! In fact, he's Yugoslavian, and his accent is as thick as a brick wall. Anywho, the man walks up to me and asks, "Are you the mother of the child?". I try to desipher what he's acctually just said to me through his pronounciation, and the question didn't really help me in my confusion. "What?" "Are you the mother of the client?" I'm shocked. "I'm.. Devin Foley.. I AM the client." "Oh, well.." he stumbles over his words, which must really suck since his first language isn't English. "ah, well then, If you'll just follow me..." we walk a short distance down the hall into an office. Piccaso on the wall opposite to where I'm sitting, birthday banner on the wall parallel to the door I just came through. Apparently, it was his 50th. "Happy Birthday!" "Thank-you, uh.. sorry I thought you were the mother, it's just I normally deal with younger children." I look beside me, and there are kids toys and markers on the table I'm next to. "Ah, that explains the toys." So he starts looking at my file, and the session begins. He asks me to go a chart of my friends, making me place them in a bulls-eye to indicate how close they are to me. I do it, and I mange to come up with a couple dozen names. Only a few I place on the outside of the circle. He asks me questions. Why did I come here? Did anymore refer me? What are you allergic to? We get a little deeper. What was your past like? What were you like as a little girl? I tell his about how I was bullied, my low self-esteem, my thoughts of suicide, my attempts, my cutting. I tell him how it always gets worse in the winter. February, he concludes, is my destructive month. Why wern't you close to your parents? Did you tell anyone? No, how could I? I was alone, afraid to speak, afraid of letting my feelings show. I told him how my parents used to always fight at night, and how I used to scream at them to stop...

It was all very hard, letting this get out of my system. My voice began to break, and my face grew warm like tears were about to spring. But my eyes remained dry, my heart in one. I continued on. I was tired of feeling low, not being able to concentrate, tired of feeling empty, afraid of what the winter months would bring to me if I stayed like I had in the past. I was bloody well tired of not talking to someone who could help me. Sick of finally being able to bear my heart to the core, but not having anyone there that could help me patch it up to listen. I was tired of my defence mechanisms, like talking to just anyone or writing poetry, not working as time wore on into the depths of the winter. I decided it was time to try this. And so here I was, ready to have someone help me.

At the end of the session, I was told that the waiting list for a normal case was 8 months to a full year. I obviously don't have that kind of time. He told me he thought I was a special case, and acknowledged that winter was coming, and I was just going to get worse and worse. Just him alone, he said he might be able to get me in within a month. It was still too long. He agreed, and suggested I talk to my family doctor about some anti-depressants for the meantime, and even some sedatives to help me sleep, since I also informed him I'm an insomniac with an average of six hours a night. He also suggested I seek some private counciling, even a psychiatrist if I felt like I needed one. I was, however, to go through my doctor for this route. Ah, well, I guess I really am a psychotic bitch afterall..

Distractions & The Male Monkey Patrol

It seems no matter what I try to do, or to accomplish, I always screw up. Either I forget something, or I can't concentrate, or I'm not able to understand. Unfortunately all of these things I have tried to overcome, but have failed. Even now my body is filled with a numbness that blocks out all other thought and understanding. I can here the noise of the people chattering around me, but I am unable to comprehend what they are saying without pausing my train of thought in this writing and calculating their odd and primitive sounds into comprehensible language. This repetitive halting of my train of thought is forcing my writing to be just as broken as my concentration, and to run off course. The numbness is now pressing itself on the frontal lobe of my brain. My eardrums are ringing from the overload of ignored sounds and my eyes are itching to lower and close. It feels slightly like I am no longer part of my body, and yet I'm more than aware both mentally and physically that it is most definitely holding onto me. My brain needs sleep, but even if I had the chance, I doubt I'd be able to lull myself into the sweetened state of unconsciousness that I so crave. But, enough of the red herrings. I am, inevitably, a screw up. Perhaps I need some drugs to stamp out this problem. After all, it has been following me for about half of my life, so I'm sure I deserve the Prozac more than most. Still another 50 minutes left. Did I mention I was in English? Well, I am. Slacking away the time I could be using to finish my essay or something, but I can't concentrate on it! I can barely concentrate on getting out the random thoughts that are popping into my brain. I might as well do something with this time, and getting my thoughts out may as well be it. Did I ever say that most of my internal writing is done when I'm in this state? Yeah, probably why there are so many run-on sentences and forgotten or incomplete thoughts (insert collective sigh here.) So, I have a banana.

The male monkey patrol seems to have found out about this banana and the word of it is spreading life wildfire. I might write a letter to the boy who had founded the banana tree with me, but I'm thinking talking to him face to face is a better decision. He's the one who first dropped the banana. Now the other monkeys know about the banana, when the banana tree was supposed to be ours alone. Now the male monkey patrol is sure to be after me. And I never ever told any monkey in the female monkey patrol, and THEY are the trust-worthy ones who I feel would keep my banana safe from harm. So how the hell is it that the male monkey patrol knows but not the female? It's a terrible situation I've gotten myself into.

Yellow Tape

They had all sat down to dinner, eating silently, repetitive motions of the spoon to the bowl, scoop up some of the soupy liquid, bring to the lips, swallow, repeat. The mother reached for a napkin. "We drove past there, the place where they found the skull, the road was a huge hole in the ground, and it was sealed off by yellow tape." The youngest looked up, "oh yes, because yellow tape is going to keep everyone out." The mother laughed "You're so sadistic, Meaghan. There was also the railway post, you know, at the corner of Paisley? Yeah, that one, it was knocked over, must have been some accident. Dee and I drove past it, didn't we?" The oldest looked up "Yes, it too was covered with yellow tape. Wonder if it would have been hit if we had wrapped the tape around it beforehand?" A small chuckling arose from around the table again, fell, and became silent once more.

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She sat on the floor, rustling through papers for a project she had been putting off but finally forced herself to do. She felt tired, her bones, her muscles, her body refused to move freely. Her mind, however, was racing. Traveling outside of her body to anywhere but where she was right then. In a graveyard, dancing with a masked stranger, climbing the stairs of ancient and abandoned ruins, scrambling through the pipes of the underground in the city. Walking freely around the sunlit meadows of a valley, walking through the moonlit forests of the mountains. Her dreams took her to these places, but her body was stuck in the same wretched place day after day after day. She didn't know how long she could stand it. She had felt this way before, the isolation, the wishing to be free, the call for change. Always in the fall did the feelings come. They lasted for what felt like forever right up until the spring came and liberated her from her inner limbo. The effects of these longings were fatal to her everyday life. They kept her distracted, itching to move, daring to sleep. Anything to escape to the life that lay just upon the boundaries of her imagination. She felt something wasn't right, maybe something wasn't.

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She sat in her chair and tapped the keys in front of her. She felt empty. Her life was escaping her, she didn't know how to gain it back. She thought of him. Never has she felt so complete before he had entered her life. She felt, for once, like she could truly breathe. She kept that ability, even long after they had gone their separate ways, though now she thought of him and her heart leapt. Something else, sensing this disgraceful action on the heart's behalf, grabbed the beating thing and held it tight. Though it continued to pump the blood throughout her body. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. The heart relaxed, and the hand, or whatever it was, let go. She knew they had missed their chance. Both very much still attached, the moments shared between them could never be the same again. Too much had changed. Though she would continue to dream of him, and he would continue to hold his breath when he thought of her. Life was never a happily ever after. There was always a story after the story, but they never let you in on that.

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All the restrictions to be out done, all the hate to be forgotten, all the rules to be broken, are as simple and as easy as crossing over the yellow tape.

Music; Today & Tomorrow..

Okay, well I'm sitting here listening to REM, looking up the lyrics to the songs that are just going way too fast to hear, and I'm just starting to think about generations and our parts within them. My grandparents knew of the Depression, the terrible day of Black Friday 1929. They served in the World War and developed some questionable habits of pack ratting things away in case the bottom of the economy drops out again. My parents were born in the mid fifties, and grew up right as things started changing. They were front and center for the 70's, and learned about parenthood as the 80's came to a close. All you really have to do to get a sense of what they grey up in is listen to the songs from that time. I couldn't imagine it. I guess I'm also making this connection because a kid in my school contracted TB and my mom told me about how TB was a large scare for her growing up. I wonder what it was like growing up under fear of nuclear war and disease. Probably just the same as growing up under fear of anthrax and terrorist bombings. We, too, are under threat of hidden nuclear arms, though we simply serve as an airspace to our American neighbors to the south. I mean, come on, who would really want to hurt Canada? We only have our igloos for protection!

Another point I'd like to make, amongst the comparisons and contrasts between my generation and that of my parents IS the music. REM, who experienced the same events as my parents, have written some songs that can really give you insight into what they went through. All we have at the moment is "Let's see how loud I can scream", "Oh my god, my life is shit" and "Oh baby, let's have sex again". No documentation through creative song writing of the traumatic events that we as a generation have experienced. Is it that we don't care? Is it that those who have the spotlight at the moment grew up in a grey area of the slate and really have nothing to express other than their own ignorant and selfish views on their own individual lives? Is it that those of our generation who do have the spotlight are just too young to fully comprehend the power they hold and the message they could share? Or is it that these people are trying to share a message, but I have been raised in such a way that my views of expression are similar to that of my parent's generation and that I just need to evolve? Could it really be that all we really have to say in this day and age is about sex, drugs, and self-pity? Have we finally lost the care to try to change what we find is wrong?

Some of these questions are rhetorical, others I'm really pondering. I'll let you know if I come up with an answer, if ever.