Writing Gold, Coming from Hardship

Cops, drugs, booze, Kushiel’s Dart, Kill la Kill, BDSM, needles and blood! This day had it all.

So my day begins with a cop standing above me (while I lay on my apartment floor drunk) asking me the plot to Kushiel’s Dart. She had read a note that I hadn’t intended to show, but they found while rifling through my things. This is while another cop asks me about why I have a big ass knife (which I told them to expect) by my bed. I then had to go into detail about what ‘BDSM’ means.

I swear I’ll get back to talking about media soon. I have a project in the works, and actually the end of this article gave me an idea.

This happened because I briefly attempted suicide, before the side that wanted to live again saved me and forced me to immediately vomit up the pills I swallowed (after drinking and with whiskey). I called 911, they sent over paramedics, was not expecting cops but they’re decent folk. Very nice people.

On the way to hospital I was just drunk (fortunately I purged the drug out pretty fast), so I had this weird chat with the paramedic about their indestructible laptops. You know, those ones you see on Homeland and the like. They’re really cool to see, but the tech specs seem terrible. Or at least it was funny as he tried to show off some of the programs while it kept freezing up at the worst moments. I think I admitted to him that I have a crush on my apartment’s security guard.

Then after 8 hours of the most boring episode of ER ever conceived, my father arrives and we have a talk. We try to relate to each other a little more, as we haven’t always had a great relationship (and we still don’t, but we’re working on it). He suggested that we talk about other things than what happened, so I said that since he had been discussing TV he liked, I would too.

Fifteen minutes later my father is sitting there reading my article Kill la Kill is Kinky as Hell’ on his phone while I’m seen to by a doctor. Now originally I just wanted an excuse to test how much he really meant by ‘You can tell me about any of your interests’. His response to me was: “You think I have much narrower interests than I do.” So that’s vague enough to be interesting.

This doctor warned me that she had to take my blood, and that the needle might sting a bit. I responded that I’ve had my sternum tattooed, but that her concern was appreciated all the same. She let me briefly hold one of the vials, because blood is cool.

So they don’t have a bed, discharge me (against my wishes, because seriously I was convinced they were legally required to hold me. But that’s North American mental health for you) and I go home here. Honestly, without any of the drug I was to OD on, and the thought of whiskey makes me want to vomit, I think I’ll be okay. I’m registered with them and I’m certain that the psychologist already seeing me will be in touch after she hears I was in their ER.

My father took me out for some dinner, which was nice. We talked a bit, and while it’s still kinda difficult, the fact that we aired a lot of things I think helped in the long run.

So I get home, find a letter saying that my bank wants to increase my credit limit. I hate being in debt and always pay my credit card off immediately, which apparently means that my credit score is godlike. Also apparently they were more than happy to extend my credit limit 5x higher than the letter suggested because apparently my credit score is so good it can cure cancer. I’ll never go that high in debt, but it was a strange thing to hear someone gush over my finances.

I finish packing away the paddles, floggers, strap-on, leather gauntlets, skirt, and vest, that one cop had thrown over my bed (interesting guy that one). I finish cleaning up the aftermath of the rest of their search (seriously, they were nice people but dude- I was on the floor and cooperating, you didn’t need to search my kitchen cupboards!). Then I figured there were enough weird things to post here, as I’m sure as hell not doing so on Facebook.

I think that, even if I can’t deny that my brain tried to kill me, I survived, and the part of me that wanted to live beat the part that tried to kill me back. I won. Again. I’m actually relating to Kill la Kill a lot lately, which I might go into sometime to describe some of my experiences with my brain being my antagonist. Basically sometimes it feels like my brain is Junketsu, and I’m Satsuki.

In the very least over the past two weeks which have been hell at times, I’ve been treated to meeting some of the nicest and most interesting people, and I’ve had to deal with situations that I never thought I’d ever see. I can’t say I’m glad that I’m depressed (although getting out of hospital knowing I’m still alive certainly has elevated my spirit for the time being), hell- this depressive cycle has been nearly lethal. But… George Orwell was once shot through the neck, and that was terrible. But he lived. And then he got to write about being shot through the neck, and describe how that feels (in Homage to Catalonia). That’s sorta what I feel right now, or I’m at least in shock. If I’m going to survive this, the moment I hit hypomania again I’m distilling all of this utter bullshit into pure writing gold.

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