Looking For Dr. Lisa Sanders, Dr. House, The Mayo Clinic?

Dear Dr. Lisa Sanders, Dr. House, New York Times, The Mayo Clinic or any doctor, active or retired that wants to save a life and help a really nice, frustrated, sick woman.  If you are looking for just the money, trust me, you are not the doctor, if you are looking to make someone who is desperate, happier, even if there is no answer, you’re my person. My medical person.  (if you watch Gray’s Anatomy you would understand this, if not ask someone who does.)

I am desperately seeking a miracle, yes, a doctor or a team of doctors who will put all my different symptoms together (for the last eight years) and try, just try, to figure out the root cause. Believe, I have an idea but not the credentials. I don’t have the knowledge or the education, just an inner voice. That leaves me with nothing. If there is nothing that comes out of it, I UNDERSTAND but I will know, someone really tried.

I have an internist who gives me 7-8 minutes and two specialists who are absolutely amazing but they send me to different specialists and it is too much for me to handle and take in. You understand, right?

The Mayo Clinic in Rochester.

The Mayo Clinic in Rochester. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know the Mayo Clinic would take me! I have about six doctors who would gratefully write a letter to get me inside the Mayo Clinic and off their backs. Do they have the equivalent of financial aid?  I probably would be the most interesting and mystifying patient they have seen in a long time. Trust me, I’m not bragging. Living in my body and brain is pure hell.

 

I asked, okay, begged, two of my nicest specialists today, my cardiologist and my nephrologist if they could assign me to a medical student to take on my case, you know the way they charmingly do in Gray’s Anatomy. They both shook their head within a second and laughed. Sure, they would like to help but they can’t. Of course if I had A LOT of money (which I don’t at all) I could hire a private concierge doctor and maybe that would help me, yet break us financially and there’s no guarantee. Honestly, I never heard the word “concierge doctor” in my life. As for random medical students to assign them to my case alone, they laughed out loud. Gray’s Anatomy is truly a fictional fantasy. I want to be someone’s person. (Ask a friend.)

 

I’ve thought of the Mayo Clinic, Johns Hopkins and I need to do more research on that this week. At today’s nephrologist’s appointment he literally ( a 58-year-old) referred me to a pediatrician. Yes, it is not a typo. Supposedly, there a doctor who specializes in low blood pressure and syncope who sees children and on occasion, if begged, a woman of thirty, helps. My doctor is going to talk to him and plead with him to see me. P.S. he said no  but referred me to a pediatric neurologist,  (what?)

DO YOU SEE WHY I NEED HELP?

He also suggested a fat biopsy. A FAT BIOPSY? What on earth is that? I googled it and it really made no sense to me plus it’s always a bad idea when I research something, a very bad idea. He also recommended Hormone Replacement Therapy. My jaw dropped. He said what?

Yep, the dreaded  (my own personal view) of adding more medicine to my body?

I also have Eppiglottitis, and have had this three times already. Figure that one out. I have posted many articles about it, it’s deathly pain, its sword-like plunge  beneath your throat. Many readers have read this article and many ask me questions. I know there is a vaccine to prevent this for infants, I’ve asked several doctors about giving it to me. There answer is a confused look on their faces and they say “we can’t.” Why, I pursue, “because it’s for children.” Take a chance, do some research, you can’t even try?? Have you ever had that horrific pain? I also fall down from low blood pressure (we think) and randomly shake.

I have more symptoms but I don’t want to scare you away!

Does anyone have any connections? I’m realistic, not stupid. Please forward to anyone you may know at The New York Times or Dr. Lisa Sanders or The Mayo Clinic.

Please.

Thank you in advance.

 

 

 

 

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Crazy Looks Like Me, Crazy Looks Like You

It’s raining sheets, like unfolded plastic wrap falling from the sky. The clouds overhead are not dismally gray or black, nor are they white and cheerful, they are just the background for the rain, a neutral color of uncertainty.
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My younger sister, Shelly, sat at the kitchen table in the dining room, alone, her head down, her eyes unfocused. She had a tiny silver spoon in her hand and she was stirring her coffee, over and over again. I don’t think she even realized she was still doing it. I said “Good Morning” to her but she never answered.” She wouldn’t speak to any of us.

 

Shelly was wearing her same  blue striped pajama bottoms, the dingy white tee-shirt and a pair of thick, pink socks. She hadn’t brushed her hair, it seemed, for weeks. She wanted to just stay in bed and be alone, the only thing she would say was “I’m not crazy, do you think I’m crazy, because I’m not.” I bit my lip.

I wasn’t trying to be mean, honestly, but I had begged her to see a therapist and our parents forced to talk to someone and she went with them once, kicking and screaming the entire time. She never even went inside.

 

 

I didn’t know what to do, but I did know that this was not helping her. Staying in bed all day, getting up only for coffee or her one meal, a bologna and cheese sandwich on white bread with mayonnaise  that our mom would leave her in the fridge. Shelly told all of us “it was none of our business” but of course it was our business, we loved her and hated seeing her fall apart, a little more each day.

I didn’t know how long I could take looking at the shell that was my little sister, curled up in bed with the light off and no life coming from that room. She slept all the time. Once, I started playing music in my room, music I loved and thought she loved too. I thought she might enjoy it but she screamed and moaned for me to turn it off in such a violent, out of control way, that my parents immediately came and scolded me, they turned my music off. It was upsetting Shelly.

She needed help, she desperately needed help, she was getting worse and my parents and I couldn’t handle her anymore. Now, she was not sleeping at all and roaming our apartment at all hours demanding attention. I had a full-time job as a Customer Service Representative and I was already in trouble for missing too many “sick” days. Our parents were older and not in good physical shape and our little brother, Josh, was just eight, a mere baby himself and, of course, troubled and confused.

For a week we whispered among ourselves to arrange for an intervention, we knew something had to be done.  Time moved quickly, it was 4 pm on Tuesday and the day had come. I sat in the corner, biting my nails. I wanted my sister to get better but I did not want to be part of the intervention. My parents made me so II also felt like an accomplice and hated that feeling. I hated being in the middle of everyone.

We were all assembled in the living room, Shelly was in her room, sleeping. The people from Edgehill Hospital were waiting right out side the door. They decided that our dad should approach Shelly gently by first calling her name and asking her to come out of her room. She refused.”I’m tired” she murmured.”Maybe later.” After several more attempts and being exasperated, our dad asked her to come out again but I could hear the strain in his voice… Finally, in a fit of rage, he broke the door down, and started yelling at her. He screamed for a couple of minutes, his patience worn and suddenly stopped to find Shelly on the bed, still, not breathing, and cold. He called 911 immediately but we knew she was gone.

She died from an overdose of pills that she had accumulated for many years. We found two empty bottles of alcohol on the floor next to her bed. The note that she scribbled with a purple pen said this: ” I hate my life, it’s all black an” that was the end. She couldn’t even finish the sentence about her young life.

No one could speak after the initial gasp of horror, we each sat in our own corner, after the ambulance came and pronounced her dead. No one  spoke to each another, harboring our own guilt, our own excuse, our own irresponsible part we had in Shelly’s life.

All of us thought we killed her. I know I did, for sure.

 

 

 

The Day After Robin Williams’ Died

I sit in shock even as the news about Robin Williams’ death is sweeping the country on every possible news outlet. Shock moved to sadness and even though I didn’t know this marvelously talented man or his demons, I am feeling his pain. Everyone’s pain. The world is so fragile right now, you can feel it in the the heaviness of the air, the full moon,  in the tension of the world. For some of us, called Empath Intuitives, we feel more deeply, we take on other people’s pain as if they were our own but I am trying hard to separate this one.

I wrote this in response to my friend, the great Jenny the Bloggess, aka Jenny Lawson on her wonderful post about the death or apparent suicide of Robin Williams. Please take a look at Jenny’s site (I reblogged it here if it worked) to read the whole thing, if you don’t know Jennifer Lawson, you really should. My goal in life is to be mentioned on one of her side bars one day! She will cheer you up, crack you up and has been one of my inspirations. She has really creepy (sorry Jenny) habits/hobbies like taxidermied animals but she also does beautiful things for others and that makes you want to be as awesome as she is.

Not to mention, you have never really met the true Beyonce that we, in the Jenny Fan club know. “Knock knock Motherfucker.” You’ll see. It makes perfect sense.

Jenny wrote a heart breaking and heart warming post about suicide and mental illness and all of our challenges in life. This was my reply to her:

I’m usually good for a laugh or a witty response but sorry, I just can’t this time and that’s okay. I know I will get it back but Robin Williams’ suicide hurts in a place where childhood was, we grew up with him. WHY DOES MENTAL ILLNESS STILL HAVE SUCH A NEGATIVE STIGMA, IT SHOULDN’T. WHAT IF CANCER WAS SUBSTITUTED FOR MENTAL ILLNESS? I don’t understand. It is an illness like any other illness and needs to be treated by a professional. I have an anxiety disorder and take meds for it, like Jenny, and it is treatable. Sure, there are some bad days but there are some bad days for everyone. Isn’t it time that mental illness can come out of the closet and be accepted by everyone instead of being a hushed secret? Come on, people, give those of us who struggle with something different, ( I have an anxiety disorder) an encouraging word, a smile, a chance to say “I feel sad/anxious today.”

More money is needed for mental health providers but I’m sure Robin Williams could have provided that for himself. PLEASE, talk to each other or call a suicide hotline. If not for yourself, then for your children, your mother, brother, best friend, your partner, your pet, for me and for Jenny. There’s always someone waiting to listen. I promise. Signed, your friend, Laurie F. hibernationnow.wordpress.com

Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

1-800-273-8255

Search results

  1. www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

    “Because Hope Is A Marvelous Thing” by me.

Zemanta, Images And Ghetty Ghosts

Dear CEO of Zemanta Support,

(oh sure it works now)    HA HA HA IT DIDN'T WORK!!!!!!!!!!

I am one second away from having a serious nervous breakdown. I mean it. Feel free to call my psychiatrist, she’s wonderful. It has been at least two, if not three, weeks that I have contacted support@zemanta to help me find my missing images that I try to post on my blog hibernationnow.wordpress.com to accompany my blog.

Do you know how many emails and request for help I have sent? Exactly. Too many times to count. Yes, one person made an effort and I’m sure he did it with his heart in the right place but then he disappeared for quite a while. Days after, I wrote again and another woman tried to help. That was it.

I’m done. Maybe by writing this they will pay attention? I know, not likely. Is it time to move my blog to another address where they use another system because right now I am very flexible.

Does anyone know if other blog sites come with a BETTER or working program of images than the one that wordpress has now. They changed from Zemanta which was working fine without ANY notice to something called Getty images. I have nothing against Getty images, they seem delightful. I’m just wondering what I need to do to make them APPEAR ON MY BLOG?

Anyone else have this problem? Can someone help me? I would really appreciate it. It would bring me blood pressure down, I’m sure.  The only tag words I need are Zemanta Support.

What else can I do before the inevitable breakdown. Help me please.

I’m begging.

So, Mr. or Ms. CEO of Zemanta Support, can you please get in touch with me NOW?

TIA.

Food. GASP!


When I have NO food cravings I know there must be something wrong with me. I live for food, I think about food, write about food and I talk about food. I also fantasize about food and now I watch food porn on The Cooking Channel, The Food Network and more. My favorite shows include Master Chef when Chef Ramsay is nice and Hell’s Kitchen where I practically hide under my bed with all his screaming.

I also love, LOVE Junior Master Chef and the new (but not improved) Supermarket Sweep (Supermarket Games?)

My fantasy is to eat food, write about food and eat Phish food (Thank you, Ben & Jerry’s) maybe one day get paid for eating food. Yeah, right.

 

 

 

 

I inherited my love for food from my dad who loved food dearly. I remember one winter when I was a teenager my mom sent him out shopping for bread and milk. He came back two hours later with blackberries, he forgot the bread and milk. He couldn’t resist, he just had to have them and he knew we would all love them.  I can still hear my mother yelling about how much money it cost him. He didn’t care. I don’t care either.

 

 

 

The only difference between my father and I was that I can eat only eat small portions during the day and my appetite revs up at around 9:30 pm. My father never felt full. Ever.  He could keep eating and eating…. There’s a word for it called appestat, he had no appestat or barometer to ever feel full, he was constantly hungry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have the anti-appestat for the last four days. Thus, I have no appetite. What is wrong with me? No food cravings, no food fantasies, no planning of what I want to eat for dinner tonight (even though it’s only 9:00am.) This is not me. I’m not even planning what I want to eat tomorrow night or the day after. Mind you, I do not even pretend to be a good cook.

 

 

 

The lack of appetite must be leftover (no pun intended) from the horrific migraine I had on Thursday night (see: Thursday, While I Was In The Emergency Room) because I am still forcing myself to eat.

 

 

 

I bet my friends would even prefer if I was eating pizza with grape jelly (or banana slices!! as I just saw photographed.)

 

 

 

 

 

Also, and this seems tragic, I can’t even play the food fantasy game. One of my all-time favorites:

 

 

 

You are seated in an expensive restaurant with a person of your choice. The restaurant is known for it’s superb dining skills, everything from scrambled eggs to the highest quality beef wellington and exquisite sea food. What do you order” Three meals minimum:

 

 

 

Usually my answer would be something like this: Warm, Just Baked Bread with Butter, Room Temperature, I hate cold butter, (Shrimp Cocktail, Deviled Eggs, Beef Wellington/ Filet Mignon with sauteed Mushrooms and Brussell Sprouts AND the berry pie that explodes in your mouth with a slice of chocolate layer cake that has raspberry jam in between the layers. An Americanized version of a Sachertorte. Home made whipped cream or as we know it, Schlaag,(no Reddi-Whip) is essential on the side.

 

 

 

I play this game often and with ease and sometimes just with myself but today, the closest thing I can come up with is a graham cracker. That is pretty pathetic. I know, now you are jumping up and down in your seats screaming “NO D ???”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And I would have to shake my head, lower my eyes and sadly say “No, I don’t even want dessert.” This is the strongest indicator that something is wrong wiith me that I can come up with. I am so sorry. I have no doubt that my appetite will come back any day now with relish (eew not that kind)

 

 

 

 

 

 

and I will be sure to write about the very first meal I get ridiculously excited about. I don’t want to let you down. I think I have, forgive me. Maybe if you give me your fantasy meals I’ll get some inspiration?

PS  And, Judith, dear, Judith ice cream for all three is cheating.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, Dear Ones, I DO Eat Healthy Food

I love all my readers, I really do, you’ve become more family to me than, well relatives. However, I have one reader who gets very upset when I write about eating pizza with grape jelly or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with mashed potatoes and Baked Lays.

Big Salad

Big Salad (Photo credit: kattebelletje)

It’s true, I do like weird combinations at times. But, my goodness, give me some credit. I don’t eat this ALL the time, just once in a great while as a treat. Now, I know that most people don’t think pizza with grape jelly is a treat BUT, I only do it if the pizza is dry and sub par. Try it sometime, give it a chance. Wink Wink. Let me know?

I gave eating fish a chance and now I like some of it, except for salmon which was ruined for me forever. (See the post I Hate Salmon…) I will eat mild fish and I only myself to try it when we were in Florida on vacation. I tried it several times and I can kinda sorta say “I like it.” If I had to choose fish or a petite filet mignon, would I pick fish? Not a chance but I am open to the idea of eating it and we don’t eat red meat very much at all.

Another thing to consider is that there is no income coming in to our house and there has not been any income coming in for almost a year. I’m not complaining, it’s the worst job market ever but we do eat scrambled eggs and toast once a week and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches once a week. You can’t blame me for that.

When we go shopping we buy chicken not steak, good food is for good news only and we haven’t had any of that lately. We keep saying that if any good news happens, we will go out to eat and celebrate. I’m not sure we believe in good news anymore.

Our condolence prize is a pizza pie once every two weeks or so. It’s not the end of the world. My husband is a good cook and when I try I am adequate cook as well. Lately, there hasn’t been time to cook since I am literally spending each day going to a different doctor trying to find out why I pass out and end up face down on the floor.

The medical factory that I go to has lined up every single test in the world. I understand why they do it and that is why I have cooperated pleasantly but it’s not as if I am home, watching Orange is the New Black and eating ice cream bon-bons.

Strawberry rhubarb compote

Strawberry rhubarb compote (Photo credit: Kitchen Wench)

So, while I appreciate your concern, please do not worry, (biological sister and twin) because it’s not as bad as it seems. On the stove now I am cooking a fruit compote with rhubarb, strawberries, blueberries and a few prunes in a slow simmer with Sugar In The Raw. I’m not even using fake sugar (yet.) I love this stuff and I love cooking it.

We had a huge green salad for dinner, steamed asparagus and half of a leftover lobster roll with cold cucumber yogurt dill soup. See?  Do you feel better? I do have good food habits but writing about them is not nearly as entertaining as the other stuff. Is it?

PS THANK YOU FOR CARING!

Read Comfort Food, Larry and Lola

FWF: Kellie Elmore

English: Broken Heart symbol

English: Broken Heart symbol (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The What ifs and The Should Haves Will Eat Your Brain by John O’ Callaghan

Learn from me.  I allowed your flesh-eating amoebas steal pieces from my soul and heart as if I was no longer a person with feelings, but a mass of rusty, mechanical parts. You won the round for a number of years but not the fight, no definitely not the fight.

You played unfairly, with aggression, the intent to severely wound with a fake smile plastered on your pale face.  I meekly, crept under a colorful fall red leaf, my sense of self, like a worm stepped on in pieces, buried deep down in the tough, brown unyielding ground.

How could you be my best friend one night yet not the next? No one could help me understand, no one understood either. Pain can either kill you or make you stronger. It’s a toss-up. I won in the end. I pitied you and you loathed pity.

There was not a single thing I could have done more than I had done already. Letters and phone calls, messages. I just wanted to talk to you but your holier-than-thou attitude refused my attempts. You ignored me, forgetting about the closeness we had for years. You were mean, hateful. I started, very slowly, noticing your flaws, the discrepancies in your behavior. My conscience was clear, like a clean pane of glass that smelled like freshly cut lemons. You were self-destructing in front of everybody’s eyes.

But I did not forgive you for destroying what should have been one of the happiest days of my life, you stole that from me, like a big, bold bully snatches and stomps on a little boy’s new toy. The night I invited you to your favorite restaurant, nervous and excited; you stole my special joy from me when I told you I was pregnant and you put your head in your hands and wept. I was flabbergasted, shocked, hurt, confused. I imagined joy, “congratulations” squeals of delight. I got nothing.  No, you sat in your seat, head down, tears falling into your soup. I stopped asking what was wrong when all you would do was shake your head from side to side signalling “no.” Our friendship was over. Your cover, blown.

I used to always defend your insecurities and phobias: driving, flying, going on a boat, or a train, going in elevators, the list got longer every year. You made your husband fly on vacation, alone. You didn’t have the decency to show up at your in-laws funerals. Everybody gasped in shock and horror; there was no turning back from that. You crossed the line there, there were no excuses for that type of behavior.

Everyone knew that you were a psychologically impaired person but there are some things people do for those that they love. There were medications and therapy but you refused to go, to try to get help,  therapy was fine for “other people” but not you. You refused to try, you were too scared to go. After awhile even your husband threw up his hands and gave in. Ice water ran through your veins.

Your husband, our friend, had the grace to tell us the truth, he confessed and told us everything, You continued to lie. You changed your mind about a deal you made with your husband, yet when we tried to talk to you, you lied to our faces.There was a cruel side to you, one you tried so desperately to hide, but it would escape when you let your guard down, didn’t it?

I could see the hatred that you harbored deep inside. It came out in whiffs like a puff of smoke or perfume, I couldn’t grab hold of it but I knew, for sure, it was there. I knew something was wrong with you since the first time we met as you handled my laundry, inappropriately, crossing boundaries.You hated that I knew all your secrets. I thought I knew you, and I did, on that very first day when my instincts whispered in my ear and I told them to go away.

I should have followed my instincts on the first day we met, I knew there was something off, something strange about you but I didn’t listen. That lesson, I have learned forever. For this, I thank you.

Take Me Home

Members of the United States Navy serve the ho...

Members of the United States Navy serve the homeless at Dorothy’s Soup Kitchen in Salinas, California (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We had run into each other before a couple of different times, I just didn’t who she was. I saw her at the food pantry waiting in line with her kid, one day we saw each other at the soup kitchen. We knew each other, all of us. We just didn’t acknowledge each other, we kept ourselves private, looking down at our kids or in our bags of free food or me, down at my worn pink sneakers. I heard her name once but nothing else. She was so tall and skinny why I could almost see through her, she looked so frail, like a bird thats broken. What I remembered of her were her frozen green eyes that seemed like they were stuck in her head with glue, like they never moved or blinked.

I guess the only thing we had in common was we were both moms on a mission to protect our children, to protect ourselves. Months later we met at the shelter, The Home For Abused Women And Children. I had been at The Home for a month now, she was just coming in. As soon as we saw each other we nodded, she took the bed next to mine. Her daughter and my daughter looked about the same age and they hit it off,  children were great like that, they were best friends in less than five minutes.

She and I probably took a good couple of hours to speak, none of us were good at trusting but we were  friends pretty soon. Once she made up her bed, with me helping her, we started talking. Not good stuff like you see on funny television, that’s for sure, but stuff we had in common. Both of us had been in abusive relationships; I felt guilty being here but she felt proud. That was what she was like, all the time.

She made me promise to talk to her first if I was ever tempted to run away from here and go back, and I was tempted often. So, when my kid said she “missed her daddy” I would want to leave straight away but Alison always knew before I even packed. She would come over, sit me down and she would not let me leave. We would go back in time, and tell her out loud when Brian hit me so hard my head cracked open and blood was everywhere, how I  saw it on the green tile linoleum, thinking it would be hard to get out. It was kind of out of my body, why would I be thinking that?  The pain so bad I wanted to die. She reminded me of what he said he wanted to do to my daughter and what he had done with my niece and that stopped me cold.

That changed my mind back to reality and she started reminding me of why I had left him and how he was still the same monster he was when I finally got out. Then she and I would hug and I would thank her until the next time it happened and I’d like to say it never happened again but it did. Lots of times.

We stood by each other, like real friends, and we joined a job training group together so we could get jobs somewhere. We all moved to another state, changed our names and started fresh. We shared a one bedroom apartment but we made do; the girls slept in the living room, we shared the bedroom working different shifts. We had “beat the odds” they said at the shelter, we were safe, we had our own home and we were proud.

FOR MORE INFORMATION AND HELP:

The hotline number is (630) 469 – 5650.
Why should you call Family Shelter Service’s hotline?
  • You want to talk about your situation with someone who understands, or
  • You want to learn more about services and how to obtain information and help.

I like knowing there is somebody I can call at any time.”
– A Victim of Domestic Abuse

Plinky Prompt: Best Friends

Friends

Friends (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

  • We all know someone who could use a pep talk… so write them one! See all answers
  • The Meaning Of A Friend
  • Dear Janie,
    I want to tell you that I am here for you, anytime, day or night. Please do not hesitate to call me if you need company, or are scared or just feel sad and don’t want to be alone. I love spending time with you and as much as I am a big talker, I’m equally a good listener. We’ve always been that way for each other.
    It will be wonderful and as I have told you before, you are NOT a burden on me. You can make us your famous hot chocolate (which you know I love!) and I’ll bring the cookies and we will be together. I’ll even bring a pair of my jammies just in case we have a sleepover.
    I know, hon, that what you are going through is rough, believe me, I know. I am not here to tell you any cliche because that is useless. You WILL get through this, and it will be painful at times, but you are strong, I know you. You also have so many friends to support you and we will do anything you need. Besides, just in case you are going to say “NO” we’ve already arranged a food, housekeeping, and babysitting schedule. As we used to say as kids “NO BACKSIES.”
    Sweetie, life is hard enough, please lean on me and on our other friends to help you through this. I know you would do this for me. I love you and will do anything for you and the kids.
    I’ll be over at six o’clock with dinner and a few treats for the children. I love you, love, Nikki

Blood Moon, FWF: Kellie Elmore/ Mark

Blood Moon

Blood Moon (Photo credit: AZAdam)

Blood red moon

when the stars stop twinkling out of fear

there is a different air, like holding your

breath way too long, past the point

of sanity.

Crimson streaks of blood are streaming down the bold

crisscrossed striped lines on her wrists and her arms

like a colored waterfall,

past the point of pain.

This was the day, the day she had been waiting for,

to ease her troubled, drug induced life.

Heroin was her hero,

this was the only way she could be free, she knew that.

Blood red moon, outside the window, looking in.

Finally, she was slipping away, she would be successful in death.