Clear Eyes

Well, it wasn't as bad as I thought.


The house, I mean. The blood-per-square-inch factor was almost zero-to-none (if only crime scene investigators were so lucky). I took away all of the memories I could find, though. I checked on her hermit crab (he's doing fine) and took all the empty alcohol bottles (including MY gin that somebody consumed). I went through everything she owns to make sure that she's not bombarded by unnecessary memories the moment she walks through the door. She'll thank me for it someday (I hope). 
     The hospital was a new experience, though. I'd never been to a mental hospital until now. They're not as scary as the movies make them seem, and not as nice as the advertisements lead us to believe. It is referred to as a 'behavioral health science center', which scared the shit out of me at first. But there were no experiments by mad scientists or nazi-type indoctrinations. Just hopeless, disoriented people shuffling around in their gently-colored, grey-blue robes. 
     I feel a little better and a little worse. I think she's going to be ok, with a lot of loving and some good, hard pushes in the right direction.  But I've been where she is and farther, and I know how hard it is. Waking up will make you cry, because you were praying not to. Actually getting up is near-impossible. Putting on your war paint and dressing yourself, eating, moving, making conversation, working, breathing takes superhuman strength. The future seems a horrible place. Hope has fucking left the building. The mirror is your worst enemy, only serving to remind you of your failures. You can't even look yourself in the eye. 
     However, if she chooses to let her friends help her, if she decides that she IS going to get better, she will be fine. Maybe she'll be even better than she ever was before. 

     I've had a headache since I cleaned her apartment. I think it's from crying. It feels like some kind of burning, toxic substance has conglomerated on the left side of my head. It's not nice. 

     I'm not sure what to do now. I'm exhausted. That doesn't mean I'm going to stop, though. 

      I won't lie. I saw the lacerated mess on her arm and suddenly I wanted to do the same thing. I wanted to wreck myself, wanted to watch my blood drip onto the floor, wanted to feel like I was finally leaving this shitty life behind. And I know that for awhile, just being around her is going to drag up all of my own pain, and I'm going to want to let go. I'm going to do my best to stand strong, though, because I can't help her if I'm bleeding out. 

Hang on, 
Ness