Not Ok

I have to get out. I just don't know how.

I'm pretty sure that all I am learning in here is to be quiet. The less I tell them, the freerer I remain.
If I tell them I want to hurt myself, they'll post a 24/7 watch on my door.
Today I actually packed my entire room up and told them I wanted to be discharged. This was, admittedly through a haze of ugly crying. Just like that, talking to a doctor. More hospital protocol being lectured at me.

I can't stand it. I actually think I am becoming worse just being here.

There is an ever growing list of things I can and can't do. Don't use unsterilised water for your baby bottles. Don't enter the art room in only socks. Don't eat your meals in your room (granted, I haven't actually been caught on that one yet). Don't use a hot water bottle. Don't use a wheat bag. Don't use a heat pack. Don't try to escape.

Definitely, don't try to escape.

But I haven't felt normal in over a week now. I have felt dizzy and nauseas every one of those long days. A nurse suggested it was anxiety, but dizziness isn't one of my anxiety symptoms. I want to stop taking the respiridone. I don't think it's helping. My moods are swinging with more severity and to further extremes than they have ever done before. I can't sleep. I have no appetite. I was happy and feeling good within myself for twelve whole hours, from last night to lunchtime today.

I wrote 1000 words on my novel. I rang my sister. I wrote poetry. I went for a long walk in the sun with Bean and on the way we sang and I composed two songs in my head. Neither of which I can remember.

Our lovely walk - kind of. Source: www.christchurchtop10.co.nz

But all it took was for one nurse, to say one thing and I crashed so hard, that I still haven't got back up.

I am so tired. I was falling asleep by seven. But it's closer to ten now and here I am. Writing furiously because I actually don't feel safe.

There, the truth.

I don't feel safe with myself right now, and I am afraid to tell anyone because all I want to do is go home.

I am looking at my pinboard (which is now covered in pictures of trees and other nature things I ripped from magazines in the lounge) and desperately trying to imagine myself in a secluded cabin. With no one but myself for company, and nothing but a book to read and a novel to write. Two weeks of nothing but freedom and nature.

I think, that that is what would get me well.

This drug trial prison is going to kill me. But if I say anything like that, the walls will only close tighter.