What a mess.

06/07/2009

I feel so ill, I don't know if I can form sentences.

Rich is in the hospital.

I came home from work at 12.30am, and I don't know what made me look in for him - yeah, I'd got some of the birthday cake from the function, and went to give him a slice, only to find that he'd cut himself worse than I've ever seen. It was everywhere, he looked... dead - my heart pounded wildly until I was reassured that he was alive by him laughing at my scream of horror.

I ran and got a towel, wrapped it round his arm as he laughed at me and pushed me away. "Do you think this is fucking funny?" He did, apparently. I told him I was driving him to the hospital, he needed stitches, and he refused, laughing, telling me to fuck off. "If you won't come with me, I'll phone an ambulance!" Fuck off, fuck off, you wouldn't dare - I took out my phone. 9 - 9 - get in the car unless you want one more 9. He decided the car was the better option.

I kept stalling the car, too panicked to even get it into first as he just sat back and laughed at me. I don't know what was so fucking funny. "Stop it, it's not a joke! Stop laughing!" just made it even more hilarious.

Eventually made it to A&E - god, a Saturday night in A&E, it's hideous - although we didn't wait long at all, probably because the towel was soaked through and he was getting paler and quieter - the laughter fading as the reality sank in. I know that someone from the psychiatry department came to talk to him - I know, because while they stitched him up, she talked to me - not about Rich, but me. "I know, I know - but what about you? Are YOU okay?" He's the one bleeding everywhere, and am I okay?! I kept saying - I'm fine, I'm fine - what's happening? But the more she brushed off questions about him and continued to ask if I was okay, the more panicked I became - was I okay? Not really, no. I told her everything - that I was living with him, that I was trying to help him, look after him, but he doesn't want my fucking love... and before I knew what was happening, I was crying my eyes out to some random psychiatrist I hadn't even intended to speak to. He's the one bleeding to death, and I get the counselling?!

Well. He's staying overnight, because of the amount of blood he lost - and the psychiatrist wants to talk to him - although she told me she doesn't think he's suicidal, because it's his forearm, not inside - it's a cry for help - and I guess, maybe it's best that he did it - at least now... someone is going to talk to him and find out what's going on in his head.

And am I okay?

I think so. Shocked, upset, worried... but okay.