(no subject)
The psychiatrist said that I should write my thoughts down, and while I’m not a diary type of guy, I’m willing to give anything a try at this point. I told him it feels stupid; he replied that most people say that, but they get used to it. We’ll see if he’s right. Then I said I don’t know what to write. And he said to write whatever popped into my head. Doesn’t have to make sense, and I can ramble, since no one but me will see it. So. Here it is. Pulitzer prize winning writing it won’t be. But… in the grand scheme of “let’s get Karl sane again”… I guess it’ll do.
I’m torn between “I can’t believed I had a mental breakdown” and “I can’t believe I made it to 34 before having one”. Dr Rivera came to see me for a session today. Thank god. I can’t talk to the hospital psychiatrist about my service-related shit, because 99% of it is classified. The 1% that isn’t is shit that I don’t NEED to talk about. Since he has Top Secret security clearance, I’ve been cleared to talk to him about anything I need to. And there’s definitely shit that I need to talk about.
I told him that I feel pathetic for having a breakdown. He asked me why. I feel like I should be able to handle everything… like I’m weak for this. He said the weak ones are the ones who need help and never get it. It helps, hearing it from him. He served in the Rangers when he was active duty, so he’s not a stupid pogue. While it ain’t SEAL-level, Ranger’s nothing to disrespect.
People gave me such shit for snapping at Alana. If they could just see inside my head… yeah, I definitely picked the wrong venue to say what I did. But it’s just so damn shitty to have to read about the wedding and her babies every time she posts something.
I’ve known Tommy for almost 24 years. I’ve loved him-been in love with him-for 20 of them. He’s the first guy I kissed, first guy I touched... So being together… it was a dream come true. I knew we’d have to work through shit, but I figured we’d be together. I even let myself dream about marrying him. I don’t think even he knows that. So him leaving me… then finding out that he’d been with Alana… that she’s pregnant by him and marrying him… well, why not just rip my fucking heart out through my chest wall and spit in the hole?
How can she not know that it kills me? Someone with even a modicum of common sense should know that, if your fiancés ex can see it, you should probably cut the post so he has the option of not reading about it.
Then know-it-all-Nick with his post about real Karma and shit. Like seriously? I mean, yeah, accuracy is great, but… when a word has a common connotation, and it isn’t specified that it means something else, just accept the goddamned common-use meaning and get the fuck over it.
And Kat with HER 2 cents (I REALLY shouldn’t have lost it in a public forum). And can I just fucking remind everyone (who’ll never read this but what the fuck ever) that I never said that bitch STOLE Tommy???? Jfc on a fucking pogo stick (sorry, Father, I’ll say 20 Hail Mary’s for that).
And Patrick with HIS damn 2 cents about his “sister”.
Like, yeah, it’s not OBVIOUS that Karl is hurting or anything, so hey, let’s FUCKING FLAME THE SHIT OUT OF HIM FOR FINALLY LOSING IT!!!
WAY TO FUCKING GO ASSHOLES!!!!!!
But of course no one knows I feel like this. It’s like I’m not human or something. I mean… yeah, part of it’s my fault-I work so damn hard to hide my feelings. I guess I can thank Gus for that. “Strong and Stoic makes a man, son.” I can STILL here his fucking voice. Spent so much time trying to be a “real man” that I forgot how to be human.
And with me being pregnant too… I’m so fucking hormonal. I don’t do hormonal well. It translates to rage. As if I need help with that. Thanks for that too pop…
I’m torn. Part of me is glad Gus is dead. Part of me regrets killing him* wishes he was still alive. The one thing I can thank him for is writing the manual on how NOT to be a father. God, please, if I EVER start to act like him, I pray that someone bitch slaps me…
Jack is here now. It’s nice to have a friend here, especially someone that gets me. But I’m conflicted. I like Jack. A lot. He’s the only other person I’ve let myself care about at all. But I’m still in love with Tommy. Doc says that’s expected. I loved him for almost 2/3 of my life, I’m carrying his baby, and the breakup wasn’t long ago. I asked him if I’ll always love Tommy. He said he doesn’t have a crystal ball. And that it’s not uncommon or unreasonable to always carry some love for your first love. Especially if there’s a kid involved, and “moreso, if you feel things as intensely as [I] do”.
I broke down on Tommy tonight. More specifically in his arms. Nothing hinky… just… like he’s my brother. Which sounds kind of skeevy since I’m pregnant by him, but whatever. It’s the kind of friendship we have. If we can’t be partners then that’s the next closest description. I told him about Gus being bi, and how he hired one of James’s goons to kill mama. And I just… lost it. I cried. For the father I lost, for the father I never had, for mama… for my stepmother… He just held me, and let me cry.
Thank god he’s bringing me a treadmill tomorrow and god help whoever tries to say no I can’t have it. If I have to be stuck in this goddamned nuthouse with rejects from One Flew Over the Cuckoo Nest, with Nurse Ratchett’s (Ratched?? No clue how to spell it) evil, gay, twin brother-THE MOTHERUCKER THREATENED TO FUCKNG SEDATE ME!!!!!-then I need to be able to exercise. Obviously they’re not going to let a psych patient just leave and go for a run. So they can goddamned well get over me having a treadmill in my private room that I’m paying through the fucking teeth for. Sorry folks, but I don’t do yahtzee. Or clue. Or Monopoly (dear god no….) I’d rather jam a spork in my fucking eyeball. Repeatedly. I REALLY hope they let me out of here soon. I think I have to be here for 72 hours. Which is tomorrow night at like 2300. So maybe they’ll let me go home Thursday morning. I can hope.
And now, dear diary (gag), nurse wretched is giving me the evil eye. I suppose that means it’s lights out time. So… farewell? How DOES one end a diary entry?
*assume the struck through words are completely unreadable-they’re left in solely for context
I’m torn between “I can’t believed I had a mental breakdown” and “I can’t believe I made it to 34 before having one”. Dr Rivera came to see me for a session today. Thank god. I can’t talk to the hospital psychiatrist about my service-related shit, because 99% of it is classified. The 1% that isn’t is shit that I don’t NEED to talk about. Since he has Top Secret security clearance, I’ve been cleared to talk to him about anything I need to. And there’s definitely shit that I need to talk about.
I told him that I feel pathetic for having a breakdown. He asked me why. I feel like I should be able to handle everything… like I’m weak for this. He said the weak ones are the ones who need help and never get it. It helps, hearing it from him. He served in the Rangers when he was active duty, so he’s not a stupid pogue. While it ain’t SEAL-level, Ranger’s nothing to disrespect.
People gave me such shit for snapping at Alana. If they could just see inside my head… yeah, I definitely picked the wrong venue to say what I did. But it’s just so damn shitty to have to read about the wedding and her babies every time she posts something.
I’ve known Tommy for almost 24 years. I’ve loved him-been in love with him-for 20 of them. He’s the first guy I kissed, first guy I touched... So being together… it was a dream come true. I knew we’d have to work through shit, but I figured we’d be together. I even let myself dream about marrying him. I don’t think even he knows that. So him leaving me… then finding out that he’d been with Alana… that she’s pregnant by him and marrying him… well, why not just rip my fucking heart out through my chest wall and spit in the hole?
How can she not know that it kills me? Someone with even a modicum of common sense should know that, if your fiancés ex can see it, you should probably cut the post so he has the option of not reading about it.
Then know-it-all-Nick with his post about real Karma and shit. Like seriously? I mean, yeah, accuracy is great, but… when a word has a common connotation, and it isn’t specified that it means something else, just accept the goddamned common-use meaning and get the fuck over it.
And Kat with HER 2 cents (I REALLY shouldn’t have lost it in a public forum). And can I just fucking remind everyone (who’ll never read this but what the fuck ever) that I never said that bitch STOLE Tommy???? Jfc on a fucking pogo stick (sorry, Father, I’ll say 20 Hail Mary’s for that).
And Patrick with HIS damn 2 cents about his “sister”.
Like, yeah, it’s not OBVIOUS that Karl is hurting or anything, so hey, let’s FUCKING FLAME THE SHIT OUT OF HIM FOR FINALLY LOSING IT!!!
WAY TO FUCKING GO ASSHOLES!!!!!!
But of course no one knows I feel like this. It’s like I’m not human or something. I mean… yeah, part of it’s my fault-I work so damn hard to hide my feelings. I guess I can thank Gus for that. “Strong and Stoic makes a man, son.” I can STILL here his fucking voice. Spent so much time trying to be a “real man” that I forgot how to be human.
And with me being pregnant too… I’m so fucking hormonal. I don’t do hormonal well. It translates to rage. As if I need help with that. Thanks for that too pop…
I’m torn. Part of me is glad Gus is dead. Part of me regrets killing him* wishes he was still alive. The one thing I can thank him for is writing the manual on how NOT to be a father. God, please, if I EVER start to act like him, I pray that someone bitch slaps me…
Jack is here now. It’s nice to have a friend here, especially someone that gets me. But I’m conflicted. I like Jack. A lot. He’s the only other person I’ve let myself care about at all. But I’m still in love with Tommy. Doc says that’s expected. I loved him for almost 2/3 of my life, I’m carrying his baby, and the breakup wasn’t long ago. I asked him if I’ll always love Tommy. He said he doesn’t have a crystal ball. And that it’s not uncommon or unreasonable to always carry some love for your first love. Especially if there’s a kid involved, and “moreso, if you feel things as intensely as [I] do”.
I broke down on Tommy tonight. More specifically in his arms. Nothing hinky… just… like he’s my brother. Which sounds kind of skeevy since I’m pregnant by him, but whatever. It’s the kind of friendship we have. If we can’t be partners then that’s the next closest description. I told him about Gus being bi, and how he hired one of James’s goons to kill mama. And I just… lost it. I cried. For the father I lost, for the father I never had, for mama… for my stepmother… He just held me, and let me cry.
Thank god he’s bringing me a treadmill tomorrow and god help whoever tries to say no I can’t have it. If I have to be stuck in this goddamned nuthouse with rejects from One Flew Over the Cuckoo Nest, with Nurse Ratchett’s (Ratched?? No clue how to spell it) evil, gay, twin brother-THE MOTHERUCKER THREATENED TO FUCKNG SEDATE ME!!!!!-then I need to be able to exercise. Obviously they’re not going to let a psych patient just leave and go for a run. So they can goddamned well get over me having a treadmill in my private room that I’m paying through the fucking teeth for. Sorry folks, but I don’t do yahtzee. Or clue. Or Monopoly (dear god no….) I’d rather jam a spork in my fucking eyeball. Repeatedly. I REALLY hope they let me out of here soon. I think I have to be here for 72 hours. Which is tomorrow night at like 2300. So maybe they’ll let me go home Thursday morning. I can hope.
And now, dear diary (gag), nurse wretched is giving me the evil eye. I suppose that means it’s lights out time. So… farewell? How DOES one end a diary entry?
*assume the struck through words are completely unreadable-they’re left in solely for context