Not Dead…

I shoo the vultures and flies away, clear away the cobwebs of my head and blog, and here I am. I have an announcement:

I’m not dead.

 It wasn’t that I didn’t try, however, to die. My suicide attempt was an epic fail.  Oh well, you haven’t really lived until you try to kill yourself. I don’t recommend trying to end it all, especially near one’s blogoversary, as you might miss the occasion, not being near a computer and all. 

Been an interesting 2 years on this blog, lots of changes. I hope everyone is still around and much love to everyone. I still haven’t finished the story about my mom’s death and here I am  trying to write about my attempt to follow suite. There’s always something to write about.

I’ll tell you the short version and then start transcribing from my journal I kept in the hopes I would one day ride the blogging train again.

Short version: I tried to overdose on ativan, spent 10 days in a mental hospital because no one wanted to take me in, spent over a month in a rest home, and finally returned to the safety of my Soul Brother.

Here are the beginning entries of the journal I kept at the rest home. Somewhere in there I tell about my suicide attempt in detail, but that’s later on in the journal..

Home?

 

To say I’ve been through some things these past 5 months is an understatement. I’ve been through and am still going through so much. On September 13, 2011 my mother died and on February 10, 2012 I tried to die. As of March 9th, I still can’t say whether I’m glad I didn’t succeed.

The rest home I live in now that no one wants me, is never quiet. The majority of the people who live here have schizophrenia, exhibited in its many forms, or have varying levels of mental retardation. A few of us have a grip on reality, or at least have enough medication in them to simulate normalcy, and those left over have physical issues or dementia. People scream, fight, and sing at all hours. The bathrooms have no locks, so expect getting caught relieving yourself at least once a day. I can’t bear to think that I belong here, that no one wants me now that I tried to kill myself. I’m stuck here in the middle of Nowheresville, USA, long distance from everything and worse, from everyone I know.

 

Love

 

The mentally challenged lesbian that lives in the room two doors down, has a crush on me. I am repulsed by her ugliness and annoying ways, but I empathize with her at loving someone who will never love you the same way. My Lesbian isn’t as “special” as some of the folks around, but she repeats everything she says and is always hunting me down. She tells me she loves me and I say “Thank you.” If she persists, I say, I like you, but I’m not into girls!”

It’s a fact that at a place like this I’m considered flirtation-worthy, my competition being mentally challenged or in the 50s through 80s age range. Herb the Perv, a man in his 40s or 50s who must be a stroke victim, flirts with anyone female from his wheelchair. Another old man asked me to be his girlfriend, then one old man wanted to kiss me (on the cheek of course). I can surmise from this that if you don’t drool or piss yourself, you’re a hit here, and that there’s an epidemic of dirty old men in this joint.

And now my roomie’s semi-boyfriend ia back from what residents here cryptically call “The Third Floor,” i.e., the mental unit at Nowheresville’s local hospital. Love is in the air, but I think she favors another dude who is  much less of a space cadet. I think the semi-boyfriend is starting to like me. The Space Cadet is about as annoying as My Lesbian, perhaps more. He comes into our room to talk incessantly and proclaim his sanity, explaining his talent for discerning things from everyone. He isn’t a Christian. He is THE Christian. Prostelatizing with the zeal of an old-time Southern Baptist preacher. He wants to become a boxer and write his story for an inspirational channel like TBN or ABC Family. Space Cadet wants to become a professional singer and is singing all the time. Too bad he can’t sing worth a shit. Between his delusions of grandeur and my roomie’s delusions of persecution, it’s a recipe for their future connubial bliss.

 

 

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