Are we measured by the worth of the words we speak? Or the words whose ears we reach.
I can remember in a strange foggy, yet with surreal clarity, the moment I gripped the razor in my hand and pushed it down into my wrist. I still have the scars. I remember watching the blood flow behind the razor and it didn’t really feel like anything. I recall thinking I could see inside of my flesh. The veins and at some point realizing I wasn’t bleeding very much and I would have to cut deeper. So I did, this time I could see what I thought were tendons.
|AMHI After Closing 2005 – Front Admissions|
I wasn’t afraid. I just remember it didn’t look like me. It was a part of me I had never seen. Apparently I wasn’t aware of how to cut my wrists the most efficient way. I would learn that After I was admitted to AMHI. They had plenty of tricks to teach you once you got there.
I have a terrible head cold right now. I am listening to Johnny Cash “Hurt”. One of my favorite artists and songs. The lyric in this song that says “everyone always goes away in the end”. I’ve said that for a long time, even before I heard this song. It doesn’t seem like people keep their word anymore. Once upon a time that used to mean something. I don’t promise anything to anyone because I don’t want to be able to not keep my word. *Sigh*
On the day my son, Hunter died, I thought I kept hearing him make noises. I know now it was just my mind playing tricks on me. Some kind of sensory tricks. I kept going back in to check. Even when I think back now to the memories I have, I have them in two different ways. Seeing them from my point of view and seeing them as a bystander. –
Giving him CPR… that’s about the only thing I can see is a brief snippet. Holding him, in my hands for a moment before laying on the bed. Then I’m back out. Looking from behind us. Shaking, my hands are shaking. I’m desperate again in my head; desperate. My thoughts are racing. I put my mouth on his, but it’s wrong. Over his nose and mouth. Push, push, easy on his little chest. I am trying to breathe for him. Over and over. I’m not there anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. It’s just not working. I keep going back to it being from my point of view to being a bystander. That doesn’t stop for weeks. Maybe months.
My memories have faded and sometimes that’s a blessing. But I’m so afraid some day I’m not going to have any real memories of Hunter left. The memory of his first smile I can’t see in my mind anymore. I certainly don’t have the pictures because there never were any.
I couldn’t even begin to count how many nights I have stayed awake or how many hours I have spent in therapy trying to understand and get to a place of acceptance. Forgiveness, tolerance. People on the outside, who often think they have a front row seat into your life, want to judge and throw stones for all of your abominations instead of taking a closer inspection at their own lives.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Knowing myself the way I do, I am pretty sure I will make more. My biggest hope is that I just won’t repeat many of them.
It’s difficult to get your feet completely under you when everytime you try to stand up, someone comes along and decides it’s up to them to give you a little push back down.
~Bonus just added~ If you’ve never heard this Warren Zevon “My Shit’s Fucked Up” do it and listen twice. Anyone who’s reading this blog should love this song. I find some kind of solace and I just heard it as I was finishing up this blog so I added it.
Now there may be times when I just take a breather and lie there on that floor for a day or two. But Postpartum Psychosis be damned; I will always get back up!