41

I was in the hospital on Friday. Wesley stayed with me, and when he went to get some dinner (didn't know how long I'd be there, and I'd already been there for 6 hours), he went home and discovered that his brother had taken a pack of cigarettes he had hidden.

Today, I went to find something in the bathroom, and found my pill case. That pill case had one klonopin in it when I last saw it; now it is empty. The pill case was in a Coach wristlet inside of my purse. Wesley would have asked me for it; he has before, and I'm fine with giving them to him when he needs them. However, when I went to the doctor last, he wrote me a scrip for five pills so that I'd have them if I needed them before I could get to a psych. Wesley has taken two of them, I've taken one. I now have none left. The only reason I can think of that they would be gone is Wesley's brother. I know he was in our room that day, and I know he took something out of our room.

Whoever took them needs to know this. They invaded my space by coming into my room in the first place (and on a day I was in the hospital, no less!) and went through my things; including my purse (WHO DOES THAT?!). It isn't about the medication that they took (although, I have no idea what I'll do if I have a panic attack between now and my psych appointment on the second). I know, it costs very little to get on the street. The problem is that whoever did this invaded my space and my privacy and the one place I thought I could leave my things and have them be safe. That is not okay. Apparently, I cannot have anything prescribed to me that can be used as a street drug, because unless I have it on my person at all times, it will disappear.

Fuck that.

40

I really, honestly thought that the new drugs were working. But from the past week or so, I've had random bouts of depression and anxiety. I could attribute it to PMS, but I really don't think that's what it was. Usually I just get really frustrated with myself, and it's really hard to say this, but I have been suicidal. I would never act on anything, but I have been. Wesley was sleeping the other day, and I knew there was a razor blade in the room (he had used it to split a pill). I kept telling myself I didn't want to, and didn't need to, but I hate this. I can't feel anything, and that's why I used to cut. Self-inflicted pain was better than no feeling at all. So, yeah, I cut myself. Just once, on my calf. I know there is no reason for it, and it doesn't solve anything at all, but I needed to feel something.

That scares me.