It was a rough week, and somehow, it feels like the only way to regain some of my humanity is by looking at this week's events in blog form. So I will lay down on this virtual couch and allow the disturbing memories to be head.

When you watch someone literally pull out their hair, a myriad of feelings sweep over your body.

I watch silently as she chooses a little piece of hair and twirls it around her finger, suddenly her finger turns white as her hand grows tense. A sickening rip marks the release of the hair from her scalp. The sound reminding me of velcro. She casually discards the hair, not caring where it lands. She reaches up again and combs her hand through her hair, I are struck by the quiet but rageful affront to the natural order of humanity. This is not the way human beings were meant to live. I don't know why exactly, but I feel like wretching.

She never wants to take her medicine, the one that keeps her from scratching at her arms. Instead she pulls up a sleeve of her green sweater just slightly, and rubs her nails again and again over her tattered and infected skin. She doesn't want to cut her nails, for this very reason. I pull her arms apart, telling her that I will not allow her to harm herself like this. Her muscles are weak from previous medications, and I have no trouble holding her, protecting her from herself. Yet she has a look in her eyes, one that is blank and yet willful and unswaying.

She runs to her bathroom, telling me that I do not have to follow her. I am right at her heals, and catch the door before she closes it. I will not watch, but I have to keep the door open, I tell her. A few moments alone in the bathroom could lead to her death. If you want to kill yourself, you will find a way. I look the other way as she bends to face the toilet, forcing herself to give up what she ate for her last meal. Her throat sounds raw as she chokes and coughs the food up. The sound is pitiful and disgusting.

I'm sitting in the dark now, watching her sleep. I've been sitting here for hours every day, in this dark room. She always ends up takes her medications, one way or another, but I wish she wouldn't force us to give it to her in a syringe. There is no dignity in that. She complained that the medication makes her sleepy. Well dear one, you fought and resisted, but you had to have the medication anyway, and here you are asleep. The fighting did you no good. Gained you no ground. The saddest part was when I heard that you knew what you were doing all along, and you're just choosing this road. Why do you walk this road dear one? I know your sweet face misses the wind against its skin, your body aches to be whole again. Why will you not let yourself heal?

I wonder what song would be playing right now, if I were just going through another plot twist in the movie of my life. "These Arms of Mine" Otis Redding? It's got the right sound, that's for sure. I look up at my china cabinet and see the row of empty wine bottles lining the top...enticing and appealing...wouldn't I love to go out and smash these bottles? Oh yes. I fantasize about climbing up onto our green upholstered chairs and swinging my arms in a rage though the middle of the bottles. They topple over and fly in slow motion to the ground, where the pieces of glass fly all over the room, covering the floor. I swing back the other way, bottles falling all around my chair like raindrops. Big, glass raindrops. I take one that has miraculously stayed on top of the cabinet, grasp it in my right hand, and drive it right through the glass door of the cabinet. Shards of glass fall into the espresso cups in the cabinet and onto my feet. Blood drips from my hand and mixes with the stains already on the chair cushion. I switch the bottle to my left hand, and again it is suddenly crashing through the glass on the other door. What a nice feeling it is. On to the china plates...