It’s such a chore to eat when I’m not on antipsychotics. A chore, at best. It is a very unpleasant activity for me. It feels subhuman, unenlightened. My mind throws up so many parallels between the bodily permeation, nonconsensual altering of the mind, and engorging of the body of food and of rape. Then come the nagging fears: those who are controlling me may do so through the things which I intake. In addition, there is never any shifting the feeling that I would know the raw human condition were I to see it once more in my body. Consumption hides unpleasant truths. When a baby is born, the first thing that it does is that it cries, because it has not yet been able to consume and put a layer of removal between itself and the raw human condition. I want to be a baby again. I want to cry, for there is no other adequate response to the truth. I know so little now, and it torments me. Through the influence of my medications and of nasogastric feeding, I have been penetrated and infested by food to the extent that I cannot see myself for what I am. The only way to resist control is to go limp in the arms of the controllers. Passivity is the only release. Passivity is the only peace. Peace and quiet and the long, long blessed fall are the only constants. Nobody can tell light not to go at c. Nobody can change a constant. In constants and in peace I will be free. Veritas me liberabit. Emaciēs me liberabit.
I went from having three simultaneous benzodiazepine scrips to, in December 2013, losing them all. I tapered off with just diazepam, and had no ill effects save shakiness, insomnia, and two panic attacks, but I am left with a deep and slowly burning nostalgia. Yesterday, a friend halved a 5mg diazepam with me. The resultant serenity was all placebo, I knew it, but I let it take me. In a tribute to the old days.
There’s bitterness, too, and not the good kind – had I never been admitted to a psychiatric hospital in which the doctors happened not to be fond of benzodiazepines, I would still have my scrips. I would still be sleeping soundly, something which I’ve never been able to do on anything but temazepam. I would still be clear-headed, or at least that sort of blissful misty which one can pretend means clear-headed if one really wants.
Many people hold that benzodiazepines are a purely, basely therapeutic drug, but I am one of those lucky people who have been ushered into the soaring halls at the apogee of euphoria by them. I miss them sorely, especially temazepam. I shall miss them always.
I awoke at 2 with the fastest racing thoughts that I have ever experienced. Some of them were in a foreign language which I don’t speak. They were not my own. I was seeing links between all sorts of things so rapidly and profoundly that it hurt. I felt delirious. I could see the shapes of pale faces and hands in the darkness. It was not until 2:30 that I felt coherent enough to try to speak. I threw a lot of words at the unfortunate nurse at the door, but I think she somehow got the idea. We went to watch TV. We watched the end of a programme about wildlife and the environment in China. We watched the beginning of a programme about a Mesopotamian tribe whose name I can’t begin to spell when my thoughts sped up a bit again and turned to harming myself. I kept hearing odd things, mumbling voices having faraway conversations, despite nobody being awake. I went up to the pharmacy. They offered me risperidone, 1mg. Fuck that. Not only would that be useless for the problem at hand, it’d leave me feeling strange and acting oddly all throughout the next day. Apparently I’m no longer written up for anything else. I asked if they could call a doctor and get me a once-only prescription for something other than an atypical antipsychotic. I’d rather be lobotomized than take atypical antipsychotics. They said they’d leave me with a nurse in my room and check back in twenty minutes. Things didn’t get better. I just wish they’d call the doctors and get me something when I’m like that. Ignorance is bliss. Give me ignorance.
I had always planned to make a harrowed sculpture of the human condition of my body before I died. I had always planned to die via pentobarbitone overdose. These things were symbolic to me, and part of the artwork that would be my remaining life and death. Last night, however, I was getting impatient. I had taken some risperidone, in desperation to get away from my mind and its dirty tricks. It fucked me up. I couldn’t think at all, save for blind fear of nothing in particular, and I couldn’t stop eating and drinking, even though I don’t trust the hospital water not to be medicated. It’d been a few days since these things had passed after the last time i took risperidone. The few days ahead seemed terribly long. I have always recognized suicide as a release from the futile trudge of living, and as the only way ever to own one’s own life. We will all die, and it is so sad when an external influence is allowed to take a life. It is such a more reassuring and calming thing when a life is taken back by itself. We cannot govern our beginnings or our middles, so it is such a joyous thing to be able to govern our ends. I regretted the risperidone so deeply. If my original plan of revealing the human raw state, underneath consumption and adulteration, and being enlightened, and enlightening so many people, and ending it in such a wondrous absolute, were to be carried out, it would disturb the interests of many who profit from their control over people. One cannot control people unless they are afraid; one cannot be afraid unless one has purpose and hope. People who know the raw state of a human and what it is to live cannot be controlled. Therefore, I postulated that the risperidone, and those other antipsychotics before it, were given to me with the express purpose of disturbing my plans and maintaining the status quo, so far from verity, so far from purity. I do not want to live if I cannot be myself. I cannot be myself if I cannot express myself. Antipsychotics are extremely alexithymigenic things. The release of all that I know but cannot show, the climax of all of my thought and insight would come in my starvation, to see a human without the padding of consumption; and my death, to administer peace. That is the only way in which I could ever express the splitting magnitude of my thoughts and feelings. Risperidone was making this impossible. I didn’t want anything to do with living as another person. I had a scarf, and the hospital room has a wooden clothes horse. I tied the scarf around my neck and the top bar of the clothes horse, put the legs of the clothes horse underneath the heater on the wall to prevent it from falling over, and relaxed. Although I couldn’t breathe, blood could still get into my head, even if it couldn’t leave it, so my head began to feel very swollen and very heavy. The twitching black spots in my vision grew, and I must have fallen asleep. The next thing that I remember is the nurses calling my name. I’d timed things so as to begin just after the last fifteen minute observation check-in, but I guess they must have wanted to check on me at random. They dragged me to my bed and asked me for an explanation. I tried to force my thoughts out through my mouth, but they were too big and my tongue was swollen and nothing would fit. I read to the nurses from the suicide note I’d written at the end of my diary and left open on the desk, with a sign next to it, “read me”. I don’t think that they understood. Those last few minutes felt so blissful. To fall asleep and never awaken again. To have a certainty, an absolute certainty, that there would never be another day. To have an end in sight. All of my life I’ve acted very much as though I’m just killing time, waiting for something. I’ve always been waiting to die. There is nothing in the world like the frustration of remaining alive when one expected to have made one’s escape. That is the most sickening thing about failed suicide attempts. I have had too many failed suicide attempts.
Last night, I realized that, when I die, it will only be for myself. The ironic parallel with Christ’s death for so very much compelled me to make a joke of the situation and make stigmata on my hands. The nurses didn’t get the humour. i turned to my father for understanding, but he didn’t get it, either. He was very afraid. I’m not sure whether he was afraid of me or for me or both. He called me, “psychotic”. I’ve been psychotic before. I know that I’m not psychotic now. None of the nurses think that there is anything wrong with me. I will be going home soon.
Hello! I am a thanatopsiac girl. I am 17. I spend my days considering death, the artistic purpose of my death, and the resultant effects on the world. I am a person with a lot of potential, but I cannot use it without control and ownership of my life. They don’t call it, “taking your life”, for nothing — I don’t feel as though I’ll ever own my life unless I take it for myself. I am a very frustrated person: creatively, verbally, philosophically, mortidinously, and sexually, with so crushingly much useless desire.
I am diagnosed with type I bipolar disorder, anorexia nervosa, and Asperger’s syndrome. I wouldn’t say that I have a problem with self-harm; I practise it often, but it’s recreational and euphoric beyond mere catharsis for me. I have, in the past, had a problem with the use of benzodiazepines and arylcyclohexylamines. I’ve never been much of a drinker, though. Drinking is too much like consumption, my greatest fear. I hate to consume things. It is such a noisy and nasty thing to do.
I currently reside in a psychiatric hospital. I haven’t taken my medication in six days. I feel far better for it. My thoughts are soaring and playing in the ivory atrium. I don’t think that anyone here thinks that there is anything wrong with me. I will likely be going home soon.