This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

And a Really Real Trauma post.

Can you really separate them?

TW: Suicidal Stuffs, possibly mention of completed suicide, who knows where this will go.

I washed my dishes.

I’m out of bed.

I played my game.

I gathered the trash for Wonder Woman to take out.

I’m listening to a playlist called “Wet-faced and hopeful” that a friend put together and sent to me.

And, I washed my dishes.

My sink is always a pretty good indicator of my mental health. Lately though, it’s stayed pretty empty.

I’m fine.

And then I’m not.

And then I’m fine again.

When I’m really not fine, one or two lined Facebook posts come off of my fingers, rapid fire. Normally from my phone while I’m laying in bed, the only place that feels safe when I’m that far in the hole.

It’s hard to type a long winded post when I can’t even hold my head above water.

When my buoyancy is the only thing keeping me alive.

“I’m not afraid of that hurricane,” my aunt once said, “people are only afraid of hurricanes because of the water. I’m not worried because I’m fat. Fat floats.”

Fat floats.

But anyway,

I washed my dishes.

Rubber gloves on my hands because of a nasty cut I got the LAST time I was washing my dishes.

Knives and I don’t get along. Fingers scared from wayward blades.

Ask kidlet the story about the Eversharp Knife sometime. It certainly was sharp.

My brain is still scattered. The remnants of suicidal thoughts still floating around in the back of my head.

I filled out the form for a virtual crisis intake appointment. When it asked for details it felt pertinent to explain that not only am I suicidal, but that I’ve lost 2 people close to me to suicide, and I’ve been there for both of them.

When you look up the risk factors for suicide, number one is often “Family history of suicide.”

What does it happening twice do to my risk?


I washed my dishes.

Headphones on and music blaring.

Writing this post in my head.

Figuring out what needed to be said.

Figuring out what I needed to get out of my head, through my fingers, into the keys, and onto the screen.

When I’m rapid firing those one and two line posts on Facebook, the comments flow underneath, people reaching out, messages sent, people checking in.

People letting me know I’m loved.

I can’t always feel it. I used to think they were saying it out of obligation. Now I just think I’ve got everyone blinded, or that they are blind or seeing something that isn’t really there.

I still don’t see what’s so important about me.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it. I need it.

Otherwise I wouldn’t fire off those cries for help.

It would be easier not to. It would be easier to get out of my bed and find the way out.

I fight before I post. I wonder if I’m just whining, just being dramatic, just stirring up a fuss over nothing.

I used to say “It’s not like I’d be able to follow through anyway.”

But now I’ve got two people in my life who have completed suicide.

I know with my own two eyes that it isn’t all that hard. Staying alive is much harder than getting dead.

Some lyrics in one of the songs caught my ears. One of those songs on that playlist that my friend sent over.

A song I’ve heard a dozen times before.

But this time I actually listened.

“When it rains, it pours, but you didn’t even notice
It ain’t rainin’ anymore, it’s hard to breathe when all you know is
The struggle of staying above the rising water line
Well, the sky is finally open, the rain and wind stopped blowin’
But you’re stuck out in the same ol’ storm again
You hold tight to your umbrella, well, darlin’ I’m just tryin’ to tell ya
That there’s always been a rainbow hangin’ over your head”

Even when I see that rainbow, there’s often a storm still brewing in my head. A storm made of memories and past traumas. A storm made of worthlessness and hopelessness. A storm made of my history. Of what I see as my future.

I may end up inpatient again. My moods are swinging too wildly and I’m having a hard time staying centered.

There’s nothing wrong with going inpatient, I’m just trying to avoid a holding cell, with patients locked down in rooms because of covid.

Isolation is not the answer, it might keep me safe, but it won’t let me heal, and I’ll come home in the same position I’m in now.

The last time I got put in a fish bowl, where they watch you and keep you safe but give you nothing to heal, I came home and was inpatient again within the week . . . at a different place that was more involved.

So, I filled out the form for a virtual crisis intake appointment. I’ll ask them what kind of units are available.

A year or two ago my therapist tried to get me on the trauma unit at this hospital. A six week, intensive, inpatient stay.

My trauma wasn’t recent enough though.

I wonder if I just needed something more recent. Maybe they’ll want me there now.

Or maybe just a crisis unit where they can play around with my chemistry and make sure I’m back on dry ground.

Who knows, I should hear from them tomorrow. I guess part of it will depend on what part of me is present when I have the appointment.

I’m still not okay, and that’s okay.

But at least I’m safe.


I washed my dishes.

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