Hello blog readers, this is Julia.

I’d like to share a story from when the body was 16 years old. I’m going to write mostly from my personal memory, but not everything that happened was when I was fronting, so I’m going to mostly use “we”. I hope that’s not too confusing.

*Trigger Warning*

*Trigger Warning*

So this would have been in 1999, during our fourth hospitalization. We’d been discharged from our third hospitalization one day after attempting suicide (yes, we were still a patient IN the hospital…if you can figure out how that makes any sense, I will give you a prize). After trying to kill ourself, the psychiatrist from the facility told the parents that we “scratched ourselves” (that was 16 years ago and you can still see the scar running up our left wrist….some “scratch”. Fucking asshole.) He also told the parents to kick us out and let us fend for ourselves. The parents apparently didn’t think this was a good idea (although they eventually did kick us out for being gay) so they asked the mother’s parents if we could live with them. They said yes, so when we got back to town all of our things were at the Grandparents’ house. The mother’s childhood bedroom was now our bedroom. (Talk about repeating the cycle).

That lasted from Monday until Thursday, when I got really out of control and took all of our prescription pills and overdosed. We had to go to the Emergency Room (again) and this time the school psychologist (the person we now call “Mom”) helped us get admitted to the state hospital instead of being sent back to the private hospital that just discharged us even though I’d just slit our wrist open. The private hospital had been threatening to “send us to the state ward” which was apparently much, much worse.

Which, whatever, it wasn’t great, but it was better than the damn private hospital. The private hospital was fucking awful. There was essentially no supervision there. We did all kinds of shady stuff there. One time our roommate, Tricia, caught our hair on fire after River turned her in for smoking in our room (guess she forgot to mention where Tricia hid her lighter). We also had a lot of sex with other patients and did a lot of drugs. Sometimes other kids’ parents would bring us the drugs. Sometimes this one girl would sneak out through a broken window, get drugs from the streets, and bring them back. She was basically from the streets because her Mom was a prostitute who started pimping her out at like 3 years old. She was a tough bitch, but she never washed her hair. This was all just when we were a minor. There are even worse stories from when we were back in the private hospital at 18 (don’t worry, I will save those for another day..).

Continue reading