It feels as if a week has gone by, though its only been a few days since I last wrote an entry. I also feel as if I�ve been dragged through the mud, and want to beg for mercy.

On Thursday, I had to wake up at 9 am to get ready for an apointment at SF Community Guidance Ctr at 1, for which I had to be picked up at noon, and which, thanks to 30 pages of paperwork, 16 of which were extensive psychiatric and physical health history forms, I didn�t get to see the person with which I had an appointment till nearly 2 pm.

The drive to the Center was an interesting one. At around 12:15 or so, just as the cab was pulling into the intersection on a green light, headed north, I looked over to my left, and there was W, in his car in the crossing traffic, first car in the furthest right lane. I smiled, thinking of the odds that he and I would be in the same intersection at the exact same time, and would have waved had it not been for the fact that I was in a cab with blacked out windows. I was happy to have at least gotten to technically see him, because I knew it would be a while before I did again, as has been the case. As the cab wound its way through the narrow, sometimes flower-lined, streets of downtown, the trafic around us increased. Tourists, in obviously rented sports-cars, driving past people-lined sidewalks, all beneath storm clouds which were quickly building up overhead.

We arrived at the immense, 4 story building, the original Presbyterian hospital downtown. It�s gloomy appearance towered above me, a fortress of bay-window lined walls � walls painted gray-blue over brick, with chips of paint and rust showing through at every edge of window, door, or ground. The windows themselves having gained an odd tint to them from years of exposure to the elements, and doors which look about to fall off their hinges. As I got out of the cab I noticed a patch of grass � real, thick, emerald hue grass, untouched, and growing freely beneath a gigantic tree. A sign warning smokers that it is prohibited to smoke within 50 feet of the building was the first thing I noticed to read of the place I was about to enter. The second was a sign that no weapons were allowed in the building.

We went through the electric, sliding glass doors with two mistmatched mats strewn on the ground outside. I told the woman at the first counter who I was there to see, and she ushered me to another room down the hall, where paperwork is obtained, and insurance information exchanged. A stagnant, unpromising scent loomed in the air, as I was handed a clipboard stuffed with my 30 pages of insurance papers, consent forms, psychiatric and physical health reports, as well as a psychological self-test to fill out.

I sat in the hallway with my mother, as the waiting room which only had, maybe half a dozen chairs, was by then standing room only. I filled out my form with blue ink pen in hand. Dressed in my lacey powder blue cami, and black pants, goddessy sandals, and my sky blue nails. My nervousness grew as each person walked past me, many with burgundy, green, and pink shades of hair, many with obvious problems, many who looked as if they were only there to get more drugs of one type or another. I felt out of place being dressed so nicely.

It took me an hour to fill out the forms, partly because my actual ability to think renders me useless when non-specific questions are asked, and there were many non-specific questions for which I had to think of the many ways they may have intended it to be answered. I also sat perplexed at the one that simply said A B C D E F with boxes beside each, but no question, or �administrative only� notice, I thought � should I choose �E�? Wondering if you do check one, do they consider you more looney than if you leave it blank. And by the time I was done, it was nearly 2 o�clock, and the hallway was crowded with others who had appointments as well.

I went back to the room again, and the woman went over my paperwork, making me sign two of the places I�d overlooked, and write my name in three others. Tearing off all the rights and responsibilities pages, she handed them to me and told me she�d page the guy with who I was scheduled to see.

By then I�d had enough of the psyciatric ward I was standing in, and as my mother went to the restroom, I stood alone at the end of the second hallway watching them all come and go. A woman, dressed in old lavendar pants, and a floral and striped shirt, grey, disheveled hair slowly paced around the hallway, past me, returning, and back again before returning to the waiting room. She looked so appalingly loaded on something sedative that when my mother returned on her second coming, my mother mentioned it to me, something about �medication - it�s their job� obviously meaning the pychiatrists , and I in a moment of brilliance replied � what? To be loaded? Meaning the patients�she laughed.

In that second when I heard myself say that, I realized the truth of it, that it is the crazy person�s job to be loaded, and that alone is all psychiatrists live to do � be the boss of them all, and make sure they get a full days worth of meds inside of them�anything else to life, in the world of psychiatry, is optional. And the price of societally ordained �insanity� is to trade one sence of normality for another sense of drugged �normality.�

I stayed in the hallway, as far away from the other patients as I could. I then saw a 30�s-ish man walk past me, and knew it must be the guy. It was. He made it back, yelling out my mispronouned name, then looking at me. I shook his hand, nervously, and while I had taken my own meds that morning, the stress of that building, and blaring Bi-Polar�s, Borderline�s, and Alcoholic�s was too much. So as he told my mom that she would have to wait outside for me as she wasn�t allowed to come with me I began to panic as well as one can on .12mg of Xanax. Only then did he relent.

The three of us walked past a maze of cubicles. His office, at the very back, had more chairs than the waiting room had had. The window behind me was open, and people walking by, and cars driving past was overly-stimulating. There was nothing exciting about his office, in the least. As he sat down he explained to me that the reason they don�t like parents in the room is because he has to ask some very personal questions, he said it as if I�d never been to an intake before.

So, we went through a very broad, general over-view of myself, my history, my disorders, my health�when I told him I�ve pretty much been in the house since I was 11, he did what everyone else who works for the state has done, eyes popping out, shocked, and in utter disbelief that no one even checked to see if I was alive all those years.

And yes because my mom was there, I lied straight-faced about my �intimate� life, though not entirely, my exact statement to his �have to ever had any intimate relationships?� was �[slight laugh] not really.� Which is sadly rather true, still. 3 months of seeing someone once or twice a week, isn�t exactly much of an intimate relationship, even with the sex.

So, long, too-personal history story later, he gets to the services they have at SFCGC, and � he stops, pauses, and tells me there really isn�t anything that fits my needs, for groups, group therapy, or therapy itself. And that all they really have for me is the potential possibility of therapy with either a social worker, or an LPCC, and that would begin in roughly two months. He then proceeded to rather harshly grill me about my medication, and why I�m not on anti-depressants, and then he grilled me more about how I should be taking anti-depressants�same old, boring, tired�shit.

Yes I got emotional, over all that and a few other things he told me, and I told him how I felt � that I didn�t expect to get help there, that I�d wasted my day, and that I hoped to get help but that I haven�t gotten anything I�ve hoped for since I was 11. And I walked out.

My mother, who hadn�t said a word the whole time, followed behind me. As I made my way back up the hall, the pacing woman, was again pacing. And I went outside to get away from everyone. It was then, in a half-sun-filled sky that a beautiful, jet black butterfly fluttered past me, a single strip of yellow, graced its fragile wings, at the tips.

It was the prelude to my day, and the theme was all symbolic�seeing W, realizing just how much I don�t belong in a psychiatric ward, and the butterfly � which was flying past me�as if it was telling me alone that it was okay to fly to freedom now�

The cab came 20 minutes later, and drove us home. As soon as we drove up to the building, a graffitiid car was being towed away, and a thin woman, in her 40�s, was across the street yelling to absolutely no one, to the air itself, that she was pregnant, and that we all might as well be pregnant. She was repeating herself, as we ignored her to go to the safety and quiet of �inside.�

My lil Shadow, who had his first day to be left home by himself without being locked in the bathroom, seemed almost as if he didn�t know what to do with himself having so much space in which to play � and a view outside as well.

I went in my room, and began to sob. Then I thought of seeing W and laughed, and fell asleep. I woke up a few hours later, still feeling a bit tired.

I remember talking to W on AIM, and then Josh called me, and then I called W to say goodnight. And went to sleep.

Friday, hmm.

I don�t remember much of the day, really�I tried to do math and am getting a dreadful average of 3 out of 10 correct. And the conversation with W, was the worst I�ve had since I taunted him �holy grail� style, over being Sir Gallahad and screwing virgins over�A few days ago I asked him if there were any songs that made him think of me or of me and him, and well, he said this one had: turn me loose But I of course got terribly hurt after reading a song so obviously about a guy who has sex with a girl just to use her, and when she gets attached he can�t stand it so he wants to leave�so after that the ball was in my court, and I let it fly. Crying most of the way through the rest of the night�s chat with him, asking if he really hated me that much, more than once, to which he said �no.� And, I most likely blabbed too much about how I still feel about him. For which he seemed to feel nothing.

Lastnight, Saturday, was all math, really. Math and Josh. I briefly talked with W by AIM, after I talked with Josh. I had woken up at 7 am, and being unable to go back to sleep, decided to do math. The math went as dreadful as it�s been going, and Josh was as wonderful as he�s been. What I did inbetween the 16 hours, I can�t say, as I don�t really remember.

Josh gave me some very good advice. Very very good, actually. The first thing I�m going to do is create that garden, and I�ll try to do in here. A flower for something I like or love about myself.

I�m so happy I have Josh in my life. I wish it were literal, in the physical sense.

So, after we bid eachother goodnight with two I love you�s each, he went to sleep and I signed online again, not really intending to talk to anyone. W was on, so I went to say goodnight, and ended up talking for about an hour. He about cessna�s and me about the gorgeous bird that was outside my window that afternoon � a deep steel grey body and head, elongated beak, and an amazingly beautiful, and long, dusty prussian blue tail. It makes this wild call, almost as if it were a car engine trying to start on a winter morning. You all know that sound.

So then, out of the blue W says to me : hey, do fifty push ups. And advises me on how to do them. To which I reply � that the last time I tried, I was good for 3, so then he said - do 4.

And yes, I said �luv u� and after saying �I love me too� he relented and in less than a minute later, typed �I love you� back to me, completely un-provked by myself�yay�

So now it is Sunday, geez�

I have new neighbors, and while I don�t like to stereotype people, these two guys are so sincerely �gay� in all of their mannerisms, that its hard not to laugh as one guy, in a high-pitched dramatic twang, is advising the other on the �fabulous� positioning of the flower pot, and the colors he chose that match the d�cor. Not to mention his wearing of a white robe and shorts, and blue sunglasses to go swimming in the pool, literally prancing down the walkway, as if he were a star in Hollywood. (I admire it!, I have to say, I might take it up) Now, I also have to say, I�m not sure which book my building is becoming, but were definitely out of the Alice in Wonderland phase. I think�

Today I did math, again, and I did a little bit better, but not enough that if I don�t work on getting this stuff stuck in my head in the next two weeks, I�m not going to have financial aid in August. I can�t believe college starts in 7 weeks�its freaky. I just got the college catalog, and will go through it tomorrow after I get back from the vet�s.

Other than that, I cleaned my room a bit today, and thought about how my agoraphobic world is actually getting smaller�age 11-20, I had 10 windows and 3 views � east, north, and south, age 20-23 I had 4 windows and two views � east and north, here I have 3 windows, and one view � east, facing a wall of an another building to boot�no wonder I�m feeling so bad.

Anyway, after I digest the things Josh told me, I�ll tell more, I�m still processing it.

What a week�

~e