from my diary, 19 November 2013
My hair is too long, long enough to be tied back with silk-soft ribbons, and it falls in front of my face far too often. My fingertips flick it back and tiny puffs of breath blow my fringe away from my eyes. Spent my day speaking to women who couldn’t discern reality, women who cried for fear of things that don’t exist. Ophelias drowning in their brooks. I went to the shops today and bought a bouquet of autumn blooms and it felt like buying flowers for gravestones.
"Gelato Pique," Anka Kuryndina, Eleanor Hayes, and Olivia Hamilton by Osamu Yokonami for Elle Japan December 2013
from my diary, 8 November 2013
Looking down and realising my arms and face are bleeding, seeing bits of skin and dried blood curled beneath my fingernails. Somewhere between leaving and arriving home, I’d clawed at my skin so hard, I’d drawn blood. Not surprising, really, but terrifying because I can’t remember actually doing it.
A rather rapid descent back into the chaos I’ve managed to stave off. I don’t think I realised how difficult it would be to do this. To watch the fear on people’s faces when they are confronted with mental illness in all its glory and wretchedness. To know the only reason they aren’t afraid of me is because I’m not a patient anymore. To know the doors will be locked behind me. To know that they will be opened when I ask, every single time. To know they won’t keep me there. To listen and agree. To listen and not agree. To walk out at the end of the day. To walk out.
And, it’s hard watching as staff roll their eyes and turn their heads away. It’s hard not to flinch, hard not to scream, “
We They may be in a mental hospital but we’re they’re not stupid.” It’s hard not to think about the door, locked. No matter how many times they let me out, I always think they’ll keep me here, they’ll keep me here, they’ll keep me here. It’s hard to hear, “I tried to kill myself” and not say, “Oh, me too.”