Good Things

I’m a bit saddened by the negative comments on my second-last post, it reminds me that not all my readers are behind me. I could make the blog invite only, or not allow comments, but I want to know the thoughts of others – even the ignorant ones. I don’t know who most of my readers are, the only ones who know my identity are those I’ve enabled to see the link through facebook, others are just random net folk – some sympathisers, some who would probably commit genocide if they were to rule any nation. I wonder why the latter feel the need to comment, if my blog offends them so, all they need to do is hit the “next blog” link to find something that may be more suited to their tastes, or go read a book, clean the kitchen, do some work, take the dog for a walk – and think about me longing for my Great Dane whilst doing so. Thanks L for fighting for me, I lack your ferocity.

Preamble over

I might be going home tomorrow, I have to write up an ‘action plan’ for what to do next time I feel like taking my whole drug stockpile and feel too rebellious to seek help. This is going to be a difficult task, because when I don’t want help it’s because I’m thoroughly convinced that what I’m about to do is a fantastic idea, how are a few words scribbled on a sheet of A4 going to convince me otherwise? I said I might be going home; it is not a definite because bed brokers still have some time to get back to us. I’m not holding my breath. I know that good things are what happen to other people – you may think continued hospitalisation is not a good thing, but when it provides therapy, little stress and zero access to dangerous things, it is good. But not - as two of my readers believe - forever. I have to go to uni, participate in the community – in my case the church, I have to make art – the only thing I can do well. Having a hard to treat illness does not deserve punishment, after all, involuntary admission is little different to prison, the punishment isn’t the surroundings (though they are mostly unpleasant) but the deprivation of freedom.

I went to church last night, I made a special effort to get there for the baptism of my friend. It was the first time I’ve sung since coming to this church, the first time I’ve felt anything and the first time I really knew I was in the right place. (though I have been fond of this church since my first visit). Maybe the cement slab blocking the passage from brain to heart is beginning to fracture.