Saint Therese and Chocolate Imitation Ice Cream.

Dear Hearts

The Feast Day of Saint Therese Lisieux “The little flower of Jesus”

"Little things done out of love are those that charm the Heart of Christ… On the contrary, the most brilliant deeds, when done without love, are but nothingness."

Chocolate ice cream. Well, imitation ice cream, but still. After I OD’ed and was in the hospital, before I was sent to The Warehouse, I remember being in a hospital bed with a catheter. I really don’t remember how long I was in ICU, on dialysis, or even in the hospital. Even the dreadful 72 hours at The Warehouse is vague thanks to my ECT memory, trauma, and the 150 pills I took. Looking back, I don’t know how I made it through The Warehouse.

T. He came and prayed with me and visited me every day. I’d like to think that was the real T. Perhaps also the guilty T. But, I digress.

A person—and Nurse’s Aide or someone—sat with me the entire time I was in the hospital bed conscious. Again—I only remember flashes of memory—like snap shots. I remember after the female doctor condemned me to The Warehouse, I cried. I tried so hard to act as though I were not suicidal. But, 150 pills, dialysis, and possible organ and brain damage stole the Oscar. The woman was doing her job. She didn’t know me.

In some ways, I think maybe The Warehouse was my punishment for OD-ing. I have checked myself into a private facility six months earlier. Compared to The Warehouse, that facility was the motherfucking Waldorf Astoria! Seriously. Another purpose of The Warehouse was that it scared the hell out of me. Next time I will not use pills because they are no guarantee.

The priest, for whom I asked, says, “What do you want?” Okay, not a lot of compassion there. The nicest guy was the guy with staples in his head and neck. He tried to kill his family and then slash his own throat. He was tall and bald—kinda White Supremacist looking. The Black girl who had fits actually saw Jesus Christ being crucified in her bathroom. Really? I would think he would choose to show himself in a vision other than the bathroom. I really have no idea what her real name was. There was no therapy that I recall. Except, that I did watch I remember watching a bit of Good Morning, Vietnam! with Staples. And, knowing that Robin Williams killed himself made me feel like less of a loser for being depressed and trying. But—at least he succeeded.

I asked no questions, did not shower, (sponge baths and deodorant), took whatever meds (the wrong ones) they gave me, kept my situational awareness at DEFCON 1, ate the shit food, and didn’t complain when I got no food. I knew they had to hold me for 72 hours. But, the shrinking lying to me about going home early was not cool. Don’t fucking lie to a Failed Suicide.

A real Nut House has a full schedule of therapy—group and individual and activities to, um, help you get better and not want to die. Being in The Warehouse made me want to kill myself more, because I was “felt” as though I were being punished for a crime.  So, no therapy—but the highlight of many women’s mornings was the Make-Up-Hour. Yes, a whole hour was set aside to for the women to primp their hair and make-up. This girl, Maybelline, (I really don’t remember her real name), had been in The Warehouse three weeks. She loved Make-Up-Hour. And, she thought The Warehouse was really nice too. Whatever drugs she was on—I wanted those.

The idea was if you feel like you look good on the outside, then you’ll feel good on the inside! Good idea, but poorly executed. I think some group therapy or counseling would have been more helpful. Yes, my memory is sketchy, but I have my snap shots—the priest, the shrink, my never-got-out-of-bed roommate, the med-giver, Staples, Crucify Girl, Maybelline, not eating because my food was forgotten, talking to my dad on the phone, T. coming—but not one snap shot of meaningful therapy. You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig. Hence, a Nut House is a Nut House. Putting lipstick on a suicidal woman—she still wants to slit her wrists. (Remember vertical—not horizontal).

I so totally digressed from my intended point. Today was the last Burning Bed class. We talked a lot about suicide this morning. Serious flashbacks. Someday I will write in detail of it.

Yes, T. coming to see me is was a Saving Grace, but I can’t be too charitable with my credit toward him right now.

I give credit to them letting me keep my rosary. (Duh! I coulda choked myself by swallowing it or using the crucifix to sit my wrists.) I slept a lot I remember always keeping my cowboy boots on—so when I slept on the bed during the day, not putting my feet on the bed. Linens were not changed every day. I said a lot of Hail Mary’s. I would do what I had to, do my Non-Suicidal scenes, and feel asleep holding my rosary and saying Hail Mary. After all, I just wanted to be with Mother Mary.

Chocolate imitation ice cream. When I was in the hospital before I was put in The Warehouse, I guess I ate lunch and there was chocolate ice-cream.

I know that for sure, because of the aide (Penelope is my name for her—I have no idea of her real name) who was tasked with making sure I didn’t try to off myself again. After the doctor left me in tears knowing that I was going to The Warehouse, Penelope felt bad I was crying. I was probably sobbing. She offered to get me another chocolate ice-cream.

My paternal grandfather was the first person to make me smile as a baby by feeding me ice-cream. So, I pretty much love ice-cream with a passion.

That second chocolate ice-cream…it was such a “little thing,” but I remember it was good. It was good. Penelope will never know that of all so-called professionals in that place—I remember her and her compassion and mercy the most.

A second chocolate imitation ice-cream.

That “made all the difference.”

Maybe she was an angel. Maybe St. Therese or Mother Mary worked through her. Or, maybe she just recognized suffering and did the only thing she could think to do to alleviate it.

God Bless You Penelope. My Little Flower that day.

It's the little things--you never know what can make a difference.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

PS: Rabbit, Rabbit. Or.  Run, rabbit, run. It’s good luck to say this on the first of every month. Someone whom I never met, but to whom I felt a kinship, followed that tradition.