The women on this ward have a lot to complain about. Not in the big ol' grand scheme of things, maybe, but in little niggles with staff, rules and the drama of all this oestrogen muddled up with the usual fickle moods of BPD, 24/7. We complain together about staff and rules, like blokes complaining about the visits of their mothers-in-law in the sanctuary of their local. We assert that we don't need to be here, how we've been much worse and have done insane- for want of a better word- things (I once thought I had a chicken leg instead of a thumb and tried to carve it. True story), that we don't do now or haven't done since we've been on this ward. We decide that the staff are keeping us here for various, personal, reasons and that they're just trying to punish us with whatever restrictions we're currently subject to.
Sometimes, I think we have good points; I was once refused my tweezers because I'd skipped breakfast. Other times though, we, or maybe I should switch now to 'I', vent and I know deep down that the nefarious reasons I see behind rules, and my general detention in this hospital, are just the ramblings of my mind and quite unimportant in the whole context of, to be perfectly frank, keeping me alive.
Some days are really dark. Really, really dark. I've written before about absconding, something I've only done twice since I got here. That count of two would be far greater had I not learnt that voicing the urges is far better than acting on them and being dragged, in restraints, back. The dark days though, I want to run from the monsters in my head, stop to take an overdose, and then carry on running until I fall away from this world. I fantasise, plan every moment. Those days, if I wasn't in hospital, would be suicide attempt times. And who knows if I'd survive another. Or if I'd want to. I can count the amount of times I'd have died, since I've been here, and not just on one hand. Other times, like today, I know that I can control the urges and that I don't NEED to escape. There's a lot about escapism with me, I always need to run and hide (which you'd not believe if you saw the amount of different colours I usually throw into an outfit).
Days like today, although I feel relatively in control, I can understand my hospitalisation. I know why I'm here. I was chatting with two of my friends on this ward, about whether or not we need to be here, and how long we'd realistically survive in the outside. Me, I know that it wouldn't be long. And even if it was, I had no quality of life 6 months ago, just before this string of hospitals started. It wouldn't be fair on my mum, for me to be outside, either. When it was decided I'd be away in hospital for a long period, my mum had to agree and she did so because she didn't think I'd still be alive by Easter, if she didn't agree. I want to live, and I'm starting to think that if I take all I can from here, maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to live a real life. It's the only way forth.