Hello, World!!! Today, hasn’t been the easiest of days for me. Especially, since I’ve come to the realization that my case manager’s supervisor is providing me with therapy. I came to this realization today when I saw him and at the end of our appointment we scheduled another one for this Friday. It appears from my end of things or perspective that he (my case manager’s supervisor) is attempting his best to gain my trust with him and the rest of my treatment team after what happened three weeks ago when my therapy services were pulled. The reason, I’ve come to the realization of him providing me with therapy is because this will be the third week in a row where I’ve had three appointments with him in one week. I am a little suspicious of this for several reasons but it appears that he wants me back in therapy services and working with me to get me back in it.

On that note, my “temporary” therapist and I discussed a little about my safety with self-harm and suicide ideation stuff which led me to showing him one of the mandalas I colored last night. I would have shown him the other one I colored but I gave it to the therapist I had right after Diana left but the one before my last former therapist. Anyway, my “temporary” therapist and I discussed how coloring is quite helpful to me. He thinks that me being creative is a good thing, whether its with writing or some sort of art work.

So when I got home, I rested for a while, ate and then went to a local art supply store. A store with in walking distance of my place of residence. I pick up some paint supplies including canvas. The picture below is what I painted this evening with my newly bought paint supplies.

I realize its not the best photo of my newly painted piece of art but it resembles what my recovery has been like throughout my life.

Another thing I did after my painting was write a couple of poems. Poems that represent the not so good head space I have been in lately. Below are photo’s of the poems I wrote.

The first poem is as follows:

Shit Hit The Fan

by Gertie

Shit hit the fan.

Nobody seams to hear, what the fuck I am saying.

How loud do I have to get to be heard?

How much shit has to hit the fan before its noticed?

Why can’t I get a break?

Even for an hour.

The second poem is as follows:

Searching For Lost Hope

by Gertie

Looking for a sign.

Any sign, for a sign of hope.

Hope that seems to be no where to be found.

Searching for the lost hope is becoming more hopeless as the search drags on.

As I painted and wrote some poetry, I listened to some music. Music that appears to be helping drown out the voices I’m hearing. Voices that nobody hears. I also am just realizing that when I am doing art, writing or even playing a musical instrument, my voices get quieter. They’re still quite intense but not as intense if I weren’t doing the above mentioned activities. I think I need to share this with my case manager and her supervisor.

As I end this post, I want to thank you for reading and allowing me to share my creative side with you. Peace Out, World.

(Side Note: I realize people might think after reading this post that I am suicidal or thinking about self harm. I am NOT suicidal and am NOT thinking about self harm.)