(She gets speed and xanax out of her striped should-be-cosmetic-case-but-is-a-pill-vault, looks at them for a moment and swallows 'em down with a swig diet pepsi.)
I'm not sure why I wanted to watch it; to be comforted perhaps or, I really don't know. I don't think I intended to stir up my innards as much as I did, but my 'crazy' has been on my mind non-stop. My 'crazy' and medicating said crazy are in the forefront of my thoughts.
(She closes her eyes and listens to the hum in her head and pulls the blanket tighter resenting the fact that it's 74 degrees F in the house and she's freezing.)
Image by onkel_wart via FlickrAs a teenager, I got used to being locked up. I spent time being locked up when I was 14, 15, 16 and 17. Surprisingly, the first time I was hospitalized, I hadn't really done anything. I mean, I had tried to OD earlier that year, but my parents didn't know about that. No one knew about that...except my boyfriend. I was an honors student; a dancer; an invited-to-the-seniors-parties, popular ex-cheerleader; a pretty girl with brains, talent and a bright future.(She puts the weight of her head in her left hand, pausing to capture the thoughts as they fly past in images and starts thinking about how hungry she is.)
Those years of my life when I was held captive, forced into powerlessness and driven mad are something I like to avoid thinking about; yet, the lasting impression made by that first, long term, unjustified hospitalization is like an ever-present undertow pulling at both my conscious and subconscious thoughts.
(She hides her head in her hands, presses on her eyes and wishes herself to vanish.)
I can't make it make sense. I can't explain how I got from there to here. And I don't understand why my psyche doc doesn't think I'm insane. I'm fucking crazy. Sane people don't hurt themselves. Sane people don't think about suicide day after day. Sane people leave their homes when they want to. Sane people don't have food and weight phobias making the rules that make up the moments of the day.
(She lets out a long sigh.)
The eating disorder patients had to come to our wing when theirs was getting repainted. There were three of them. To me they seemed sophisticated, mature and in control; they were bored, old moneyed girls. With fascination I'd listen to them talk at night about weight, about calories, about throwing up, about exercise. Then, after a couple of days, they returned to their wing.
Inspired, I decided that I wanted what they had. I wanted a problem; anything would have been better than having a psychotic mother who hated me and just wanted me gone. How could I explain that to anyone? No way. The kids there, they had stuff like scizhophrenia, rage disorders, criminal histories, major depression. They took meds, smoked cigarettes, swore and talked about sex. I was out of my element, but I was a quick study.
(She gets up to stretch her legs, sweeps over her surroundings with a judgmental eye and crouches back down tucking her legs beneath her.)
I don't want to think about this anymore. Enough already. Fucking stupid movie stuck me in the past. It's a trigger. Girl, Interrupted is nothing but a god damn trigger.
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