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If anyone has 50$ they can spare my way, I and my vanity will be very grateful. And a new USB keyboard, which is 11$ at Walmart.

MAKE NO MISTAKE. THIS IS NOT AN EMERGENCY. THIS IS ABSOLUTY ***NOT*** AN AMBER ALERT FOR MONEY. THIS IS NOT FOR BILLS, MEDICINE, FOOD, OR HOUSEHOLD GOODS.

THIS IS JUST ME WANTING TO LOOK PRETTY.


This is to to go to the Dollar Store and rebuy all of the crazy colors - eyeshadow, eyeliner, nail polish, and other assortment beauty items. (I love Dollar Store brands - it seems the cheaper the makeup, the brighter and longer lasting the colors.) And I wear a FUCKTON of makeup.

And If anyone has it, an 11$ replacement for my now defunct keyboard will also be appreciated. The cat chewed through my current one and is not working. Thank God for Jesse's PC.

AGAIN, NOT AN EMERGENCY. DO NOT FEEL OBLIGED, SAD, OR OTHERWISE UPSET IF YOU CANNOT DONATE. THIS IS FOR SHEER, UNADULTERATED VANITY.

Payapal account name: quirkytizzy@gmail.com

And also, Michael, I did not thank you soon enough. The money you sent earlier this month paid for two weeks worth of food, cat litter, and the few remaining dollars on Pip's veterinarian bill. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THAT.
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I am writing this under copious amounts of Xanax, garnered after two straight days in the ER trying desperately to find a psych ward that will take me. None have open beds. I feel defeated and annoyed by my typing skills. I not apologize for needing the calm-down after all that medical fuckery. I do apologize ahead for massive typos.

I also can't find my jeans, to which seems the most annoying part of all of this for some reason. I also have the hiccups, which are maddening enough to drive one to homicide.

Fucking too long nails. Gotta trim them. It does not make for easy typing.

He's terrified I'll worried about being in the hospital. I'm less afraid of that, since that's the place I've been wanting to be in for two days now.

Jesse has gathered all the sharps, shaving razors included. I have no idea where he put them. Granted, there's a million broken projectiles that could do the trick. They're just harder and messier - but not impossible.

The pretty and the morbid comfort me. It only worries Jesse. But what helps him sleep does not help me sleep. Songs, videos, about passing into the void make me less afraid of dying in my sleep.

it seems impossible to keep up on an all the healthy things a person is supposed to do when you're sick. I'm not talking about the million doctors and shrink appointments. I'm talking about the meds, the balance, the side effects, the drunken stumble from room to room that would make less educated sure that I'd been pouring a fifth a day into my bloodstream. No such luck, though, I am the worst wold's drunk, stone cold sober.

I'd say I wish I could run away from all this, but I long ago learned the futility of such a gesture. Wherever you go, there you are. Superhuman speeds do nothing in a mad dash away from yourself.

Seriously, gotta trim down the nails. SO FUCKING ANNOYING. Also these damn hiccups.

I don't feel crazy. In, in fact, feel quite sane, if not drunk off my ass from my medications. Probably means I am an insane to diagnosable levels. How's that saying go? Only the sane doubt their sanity.

There is no doubting, only a dis-attached scan of crazy-acting actions I've been doing.

Slice of life writing. Nothing to prove a point or to communicate something. Just writing for the writing.

Maybe someday Rayhawk the peace will be there with writing. Maybe I can find something worthwhile to write when all my words are not spent just treading water. Its an exciting and terrifying venture.
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Cutting whoring.

I'd lain down for a nap, perfectly happy, woke up and took a coffee cup outside, along with a razor blade I'd left in my purse. The razor was an afterthought, more or less being surprised that it was there to begin with.

Five minutes later, there's new blood pooling on my arms.

Ten minutes later, I am on the phone with every psychiatric unit trying to find a bed. None has one, and the two that might have been left voices mails and/or are busy lines.

I don't know what the hell to do, why it crashed so fast, or why it crashed why I was feeling just fucking fine, thank you.

Today's been a wierd as hell day. When the hell did I turn into my 15 year old self? When the hell did I get the balls to spend an hour on the phone (something that breaks me into a sweat anyways) trying to get help?

Up and down. It's annoying the hell out of Jesse, and I can't blame him one bit. This kind of shit is exhausting and exasperating to go through on a regular basis. Hell, even ***I*** feel exhausted, annoyed, and exasperated. We fight one the problem being my sedative, to which hey, if you don't mind me not sleeping for FUCKING MONTHS AT A TIME, sure, cut out the nighttime meds and let's see what a REAL manic episode looks like.

I wouldn't like it, but for the sheer force that it's being advocated, it's tempting to do just so I can say "I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO, NOW LOOK AT THIS MESS! at the end

That even line I was talking about earlier. Total fucking lie, as it turns out.

Please ring, phone. Just fucking ring.
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We just got the news of a massive, massive building fire in London. I know I have a few friends there.

Are you guys okay? Sound off!
quirkytizzy: (Default)
See, when one med is causing problems (to which could be the Wellbutrin, as you said Alpha Strike) or another med, the temptation to go off ALL meds becomes great.

Sadly, it wouldn't take but a few weeks for my body to collapse on itself, as kidney and blood pressure medication do important shit - namely they keep me from dying. The psych meds allow me sleep (usually) and that's a luxury I've become accustomed to (when it happens, at least.)

Good news: I feel with-it enough that I don't think a trip to the psych ward will be necessary.

Bad news: that could change at any moment. It's really hard to plan a day around "Not crazy right now, but damn well could be an hour from now."

I've googled Wellbutrin blackouts and while most of it seems to happen while mixing alcohol, many report exactly as you and I, Alpha. No intoxicant needed - just hours of blank time in which we were performing tasks quite awake. I'd thank my lucky stars I gave up drinking decades ago, but it seems even THAT is no guarantee from medicinal fuckery.

While listening to a Lana Del Rey song (a happy song paired with a terribly depressing video), I turned and asked Jesse if creepy people - like myself - were born or if we were made. I don't really think there's an answer, outside of "genetics loads the gun, environment pulls the trigger." (Take THAT, nurture vs nature argument!)

I do know it makes me less afraid of sad things. A mixed bag, as it means I can also charge headfirst into the morbid and leave a mess of uncomfortable people littered in my wake.

Life-long lesson, that one is.

At least I can say that I am fully aware of typing this entry. I am not in a blackout. I will remember writing this. I guess, lately, that's definitely in the WIN column.
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So that memory gap between writing entries turns out to have led to something far more sinister. As in, I woke up this morning at 4 AM, went to get a pack smokes, went BACK to bed - and woke up at 6 AM with cuts on my wrists.

Cuts that I do not remember making. AT ALL. Again, there had been the nebulous thought of "Hm. Cutting. Interesting." I smoked a couple of cigarettes, went to bed, woke up, and wrote this morning's LJ entry (of which I was perfectly cognizant for). I then looked down and saw red. Red that had already been seeping open for over an hour.

Shallow cuts, mind you. Very superficial, but I have no recollection of finding a sharp object, making the cuts, and then ignoring it to crawl back into the blankets.

Weirdly enough? Writing out Livejournal entries under a blackout freaks me out WAY worse than cutting during blackouts. Backwards thinking - or else the cutting freaks me out on a level that I don't want to dwell on.

Is something wrong with my meds, which are otherwise working perfectly and I don't want to fuck with at all? Early dementia? Lupus eating at my brain?

So I did what I know to do - called a friend and absconded to the ER. Their psych ward was full, as was the other place they normally send people to. A bed may open in the second ward later, which may be utilized.

My initial labs, blood and urine work, came back just fine. Normally if I go off the edge, it's because of some kind of looming infection. Not so this time. On the other hand, blood and labs don't always show brain troubles.

The thing is, I feel fine. I don't feel at all sad, despairing, hopeless, or sorrowful. I didn't feel that waking up either. I'd slept all day yesterday, waking up to go pee a few times, and woke up this morning thinking only one thing - "Damn. We're out of cigarettes. I'd better go get some."

They did dress up my wounds, though, which felt very nice. They are now wet thanks to me doing dishes. I should probably change them out.

This is wierd and pointing to a much larger problem that I don't at all want to think about.
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I only vaguely remember writing yesterday's entry. As in, I remember a key few phrases I was THINKING about, but had no idea that I'd actually penned. I'd chalk it up to Valium, but there was no Valium to be had yesterday. Ghost writing LJ entries, now two-for-two, is a little disturbing.

Especially the part where you, Rayhawk, had asked if I'd ever wondered who I'd be without writing. My immediate response was "No! No, I've NEVER wondered that. Not even once. Nada. Zilch. Zip. Never." Which, as the last entry written, means it is an idea worth deep consideration.

Maybe that book that everyone says I should write could finally come about, if I'm not exerting all of my writing into just trying to keep my head above water.

And Gonzo, I've decided you're right about the medication. Hearing about how it saved you from the chaos, I realize that I'm in exact same boat. Cutting that anchor would only wind up with my ship being capsized. This distance, like you said, is probably going to be what winds up saving my life.

And Ben, you're iteration of what Gonzo said also drives the point home. So on Wellbutrin I will stay - and I won't fuck with the dosage. You guys are right. Let's see where I can go in a place of stillness instead of utter, constant mental chaos.

Matrix, you're also right in how broken is different than being in a place where you actually learn how to deal with what Life has handed you. Broken means you're unable to pick up the pieces. Broken means ignoring the pieces scattered in the depths of your soul. Thinking otherwise gives a person a chance to sew it all back together again.

And that's what I want. To be back together again. I've spent a year flailing about on the floor of my soul, bleeding and howling. I want to sing. I want to raise above the dust and sharp edges. If I can keep my brain away from the word "broken" and closer to the word "together again", then it will work.

Slowly, I'm sure. Maddeningly slower than I want it to be. But better late than never. Better than the last year. Better than the last forever, it seems.

This can be done.
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Of course, noting the lack of writing Wellbrutin causes, I suddenly find something with plenty to write. Nothing of a grand adventure, mind shattering. But the words are out there, circling closer. It is such an immersive burden lifted.

Not to say that this does anything for my grammatical endevours. (Is that a word? It should be, dammit, because I just made it up and it SOUNDS right now.)

Who would I be without being a writer? I have never given the thought any question, any bearing, any curious glance in my entire life. I found writing earlier and fell into it with the fervor of a religious zealot.

But stripped away of that, I only know a few thing about my self. I love cats and never turn one down. I have a sweet tooth the size of the entire North American seaboard, and I like science fiction and fantasy films. But these are just things I consume.

They are not things that make me who I AM. I've never ascribed to the idea that good writing comes from balanced places. But maybe...just maybe...they are right. YOU GUYS are right. Maybe I don't have to torture myself to make my words concise and moving.

Maybe. As much as I've cursed this idea, there is truth in that the Crazy gives an intensity that sanity does not. But spending my life trying to dig into the Crazy is exhausting.

Maybe there's an easier way, so long as I stay stable, on medication, and learn the trade-offs do not mean not writing completely.

The balance between patience and obsession is such a fine line. Maybe someday I'll figure that out.

With help from all of you, and Jesse and Pat's never ending encouragement over my writing for over the last 30 years..maybe they're onto something.

Now whether or not I get off my lazy ass and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT, instead of wasting it here on a website that became obscure 10 years go...maybe it's time. Certainty I'm feeling better from the lupus, in leaps and bounds, lately.

It' the perfect time to start exploring what writing can be other than self-obsessed shots across the bow of an internet journaling community.

Maybe. I didn't sleep well for a couple of days, which means a ridiculously long nap today. But maybe even in sleep, ideas will percolate and eventually form a picture I can expand on.

Maybe. Stranger things have happened.

Not broken

Jun. 11th, 2017 08:07 pm
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There is something here and I don't know how to write it. Upon further examination, this may be the part of the Wellbutrin I can't stand. Words do not come as easily. (At all?) It's a trade-off, it's always a trade-off, I know. We will see how this further effects my writing, because I can't NOT write.

Who would I be if I didn't write?

I also can't afford to spend weeks where I was, though - insane, unstable, without a handhold. We will see. Perhaps the dosage can be lowered. Perhaps it can't be. I traded some of my creativity when I decided to be on lifetime medication for my bi-polar nearly a decade ago.

I'm afraid of trading off more. I'm also afraid of what happens if I DON'T make that trade-off.

We will see.

I do know something, though. Something that stokes like the fires of old. I will never call myself broken. Cracked, yes. Broken?

No.

I am not the damsel in distress. I will not hole myself away in an ivory tower waiting for my white knight to take me far away from what hurts. I will not pretend to be alone. Your voices are too many for me to say I don't hear - there is no tower I could lock myself in that would or will take that away.

I am not in need of fixing. Who I am is just fine. It's what I DO that needs work. I, as a person, as a fundamental being who exists in this world, am not wrong. So long as I remain open to the suggestions of health and healing from those around me, who I am will continue to expand.

I will get bigger. I will not shrink away from the world like an overly delicate, wilting violet. I will reach further, higher, ever twisting towards the sun. And I will figure out how to continue reaching further. I am not broken. This world, all of the sharp and heavy things in it that can shatter people....

It will not break me.

It never has before. It will not do so now.
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I hadn't mentioned it before, but something of note: I've been on Wellbutrin for three weeks, most noticing its effects over the last week and a half. I haven't written - haven't felt the NEED to write.

All is calm. There are no ups and downs, only a single even line. No need to wake Jesse up every other day and tell him I need to go the psych ward because I feel like hurting myself. No need to write obsessively trying to track the wildly undulating moods.

Just quiet. Quiet outside, quiet inside, quiet...me. I do miss writing, but I do not miss the swings. If this is the "zombie" feeling so many other people report feeling, then being a zombie is pretty fantastic.

I'm sorry I didn't try this earlier. Might have avoided more than one psych stay if I'd had.
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After coming to the realization that I can't care for 9 cats in a tiny studio apartment, I was on the line with the local ASPCA desperately trying to find options that would allow me to keep Pip.

And we found one. A spay that would also terminate the pregnancy. She'd been at the vet for 2 days, as she was older and very pregnant. She's home now and I think I can finally relax.

Like, relax in a way that will allow me to eat something finally.
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Anxiety dreams are good for one thing and one thing only: Catapulting me out of bed to frantically clean and thus burn off the extra, jittery, energy.

Speaking of cat - it turns out the youngest was older than we thought and now Pip is a week away from dropping kittens. That would make it 9+ cats in a 500 square foot studio.

With, furniture taken into account, really equals about 200 feet.

9 or more cats. 200 feet of living space.

I am getting super stressed. Shelters won't take in the kittens until they are weaned and I can't give up Pip. It's not her fault she is pregnant. I'll call shelters and see what they recommend.

I'm a bad cat owner. I didn't get Rupert fixed in time and there will soon be the very real danger of a huge, human foot trying to get to the bathroom accidentally crushing a kitten skull.

That's my biggest concern. That the kittens will be injured by sheer lack of space.
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Never have. But I did write this entry, of which was about who would be the true love of my life.

The one who found this video to beyond beautiful, beyond haunting, and understood it. Poets of the Falls, a Finnish band with a gorgeous talent for twisting the morbid with the pretty.



A few months later, I met Jesse. I showed him this video.

He wept, so moved by it he was. He saw and he understood. The creepy and derelict in his own psyche echoed mine, and I knew it because he found that video to be one of the most bewitching things he had ever seen.

So I've never written a love poem? It turns out that was unnecessary anyways, because we both looked at something and saw the same thing - parts of ourselves in the other.

That's far grander than any love poem I could ever pen.
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I am stuck at 17 years old, pausing at the door of the home I ran away from forever. I am trying to consider all of the consequences of going for a walk and never walking back through this door. I'm too addled from abuse and arguments, though, and my feet begin to move before I have time to change my mind.

But I'd spent months trying to consider the consequences, of which there were two: Cassie and my kid brother, aged 15 and 5. The consequences of leaving them behind, alone to be abused, without me there to try and tell them how wrong what was happening was.

By the time I made that final pause, though, there was only one thing I could do. I could save myself and hope that someday, five years from then, ten years, twenty years later, I could save them, too.

Twenty years later, I am still considering the consequences of leaving home. I have not saved anyone, as eventually I realized we can only save ourselves. And leaving them at home did have consequences - with one kid gone, my mother and stepfather could laser focus on abusing the other two children remaining.

And abuse them they did. So much worse than what they did to me.

I know I made the right call for myself. But the survivor's guilt still has the ability to leap up and begin tearing at my throat. It's rare that it crosses my eyes, that I can see it at all anymore. But it still does run through my blood. I suppose on some level, it always will.

I'm still not - and likely never will be - convinced that I made the right move for them.

And what I'm feeling this morning, 35 years old paused in a doorway at 17 years old, is that it was not fair to have to consider those sorts of consequences. To save myself or try and stay and save everyone else...and now being old enough to where my siblings can tell me what happened to them after I left....things that I could have directed at myself instead of being inflicted on my siblings...

Survivor's guilt is an absolutely normal thing to feel in these circumstances. But it was certainly not fair that I had to make that decision.

No one ever should, let alone a 17 year old girl.

Why now?

May. 26th, 2017 05:00 am
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The question I've been asking myself for the last month is this: Why NOW? Why now, after 20 years of being self-harm free, am I fighting self-harm urges again? Why now, after 20 years of unbroken skin, have I returned to one of the nastiest, most vicious forms of coping that I had ever taken up?

A therapist had a surprisingly simple - and illuminating - answer. I began to cut at 13 years old when I was betrayed by the abuse of my mother and stepfather. I have now been betrayed again by my body. They are different circumstances, but the mind has its own memory - and it remembers what used to work.

The keyword was "betrayal", defined in part as "to be evidenced of."

After the abuse at home, I worked for decades to make sure my core was strong enough to never be betrayed again. I emptied out entire sections of myself, shoved re-bar in them, and poured concrete into the holes. Enough that even if the concrete got chipped or dented, the foundation WOULD HOLD.

Years passed, as they do. Betrayal turned into a stinging wound, then just a scar, and eventually it simply became a part of my history. The concrete, the metal rods, were still there, but I didn't need them and I went on living my life. There was nothing new to be entered into court, to be laid on the witness table, or to show evidence of. Betrayal was no longer a thought, theme, or fear.

Then at 35, the silent prophecy that I was completely unaware I had been born with surfaced and everything changed. But this time the betrayal came from something internal. Suddenly I was the problem. Suddenly the concrete core could not sustain me, because it itself WAS a part of me.

It became evidenced - overnight - that the very body I inhabited was greatly flawed and had spent decades lying to me. My mind remembers this feeling very clearly. It is called "betrayal" and it remembered what used to work.

Betrayal was dealt with by cutting. That's what it remembered. That's what it's trying to do.

You are right, Harvey, in that suicide attempts are often anger turned inward. A loss of control when you realize that you've actually lost control. A fury about that whittles you down to a single, dead-set decision cast in a single, dead-set breath.

As I cut when betrayed before, when trying to survive the anger at my family, I cut in trying to survive the anger at my disease. It is no wonder I would want to lash out at my body. To punish it, to express the anger, to try and find some desperate control over my skin where I cannot control my DNA.

I often bemoan the famous phrase "Knowing is half the battle." Thanks, GI Joe, but I'm already pretty good at the knowing parts. It's the fighting parts of the battle I have trouble with.

But knowing this...having some kind of answer, a new light shone on my own motivations...it does help.

It helps immensely.
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What a night.

I talked ALL DAY to Jesse about my head space; the cutting, the triggers. I didn't realize it, but there's SHIT TONS of old family space coming up. Maybe there's more there that I hadn't worked through over the last 20 years as I thought.

It was getting pretty bleak in here.

By bedtime I was feeling confident about my ability to keep myself safe. Jesse even promised to stay up until 6 AM. 3-6 AM is my danger spot. But by 2:30 AM, I couldn't sleep and I was desperate and I wanted to hurt myself.

Off to the psych ward we went. I wasn't admitted, to which I was relieved. I didn't really want to go there. It's become so routine that the separation from home, from Jesse, from the cats have become a sharp ache. I was given emergency resources.

I came home, couldn't sleep, and am now on my way to emergency walk-in with my psychiatrist. My meds are fucked up. I need to up my sedative, add something else. An antidepressant. Lithium. Something. I don't know what. All I know is I'm drowning and my life-raft, the chemicals that keep my head on my neck are unglueing themselves.

Coming home from the hospital was a hell of a thing. I lived in a "gated community." Outer locking doors. I had no keys. I had to beg two people walking to their cars to get me into the apartments.

Jesse had on earplugs and couldn't hear me knocking, which quickly became me pounding on the door, which quickly became kicking and full on, forearms slamming on the door trying to wake him up. One neighbor woke up and asked if I was okay. If I needed help.

Another wandered out and admonished me that it was 6:30 and people were trying to sleep. I was in no mood to be polite. I snapped at him "Yeah, I just got out of the hospital. Life sucks for everyone." I turned around and resumed attacking the door with every inch of my 5 foot frame.

20 minutes later Jesse opened the door. I had two cigarettes. I tried to go back to bed. I think I got another 3 hours. Maybe 4. Not enough to get through the day unscathed.

I'll go to the professionals. They'll know what to do. Jesse is coming with me. They'll know what to do, because I am out of all ideas, all clues, and all energy to figure this out on my own.

My skin remains unharmed. I had no suicidal thoughts or idealization.

That's supposed to be the positive. I guess it is.

I didn't mean to be a dick to wake up everyone in the building at 6:30 AM. But I also didn't want to sleep in front of my door for another 5 hours till he woke up.

I did just get out of the hospital. So yeah, life sucks for everyone. I almost added "Welcome to apartment living, asshole." Good thing he'd walked away by then.

Even I can handle so much dickishness from myself.

Bart -

May. 23rd, 2017 06:47 am
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I'm sorry, Bart. I wasn't doing so okay. I was on the line with Pat, talking out the urge to empty as much blood out of my forearms as humanly possible without actually killing myself.

I am doing a little better now. At least enough to stay away from the kitchen silverware drawer with the knives. At least enough to try and go back to sleep.

I went one more day without hurting myself.

Sometimes I don't know if that's a victory or if it's simply conceding to the defeat of being a permanently crazy person.
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Somedays all I can do is write.

One entry. Two entries. Three or four entries. It keeps my hands busy. It gives flesh to the voices and brings them into the light. It is the only thing I know how to do - and the only thing I am occasionally good at. It builds the wall around the worst parts of myself, or else it builds the door the monsters can flee through.

My mother was a writer, decades and decades ago. A good writer at that. But somewhere along the line she traded in the pen for a cage. She never realized that a pen can be the very key OUT of that cage.

She tried to destroy my key when she burned my journals. But she also didn't realize that while keys can be hard to find, pens are readily available. There was never a pause in the words I continued to write, no matter how many times she tried to take them away from me.

The pen may not really be mightier than the sword, but what's written lasts far longer than any spilled blood that melts into the earth. I hold onto that as sacred.

I ramble. I babble. I do this to fill the time. The endless hours where I cannot sleep or cannot hide under the blankets, cannot pick up a book, cannot engage in meaningful verbal conversation with Jesse...this is my busywork.

This is also to track the ups and downs, each chasing the other on their heels, hot and heavy breath with teeth just bursting with eagerness to sink themselves into my skull. It raises and falls so fast lately. Typical bi-polar stuff, made less typical by lupus, ungodly medications, and a sleep schedule that resembles a scatter of shotgun shells than anything focused with a scope.

I write so much. I am amazed anyone can keep up on this. I can barely keep up on it myself.

But it keeps my hands busy in those moments when I cannot otherwise keep them shoved under a pillow, to clench and release the softness and comfort.

Mine will never be a peaceful life. It will always include a mind that tortures itself for fun and scars that ache in the winters of the soul. It will always be dotted with bonfires that I must walk straight through to get to the other side.

"I will always fall and rise again,
Venomous and howling,
'Cause I am a survivor....
"

I will always fall. I will always tumble into the empty crevices of the earth, striking ledges over and over again on the long way down.

And I will always claw my way back up to very top of the hole, heels bleeding, ribs split in pieces, broken fingers clawing into the crumbling earth.

Not wrong

May. 22nd, 2017 01:32 pm
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I've slept long enough where my body can no longer stay prone, but my mind is soup. I suppose that's not such a bad place to be. It means the energy needed to indulge in self-destruction is not there.

The utterly, overwhelmingly depressed and the furious, raging out of my mind places - those are the two states I am safest to myself in.

It means not living a life, but it might mean saving mine, if only for one more day.

More bad news about my mother, who is insane and disconnecting completely from reality in a rage-fueled state of threats and vile blame on anyone who comes near her. EXCEPT, of course, when medical staff is in the room, in which case she is an angel.

I told Cassie to use her phone to record it when she loses her shit. And if she can get her involuntarily committed, my mother won't be able to hold it together for long. She'll lose it and it will all be on record.

I'm too tired to get into more right now, except to say this:

It took 25 years for the tipping point to become piled upon enough to fall over. And I told them 25 years ago this would happen. I saw things no one else saw and I told them where those things would lead.

Every notice how it's only adults who say things like "For once, I'd like to be wrong."

I'd like to be wrong. But I wasn't wrong then and I am not wrong now.
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I haven't hurt myself yet. I won't today. That's all I can promise. I can't promise I won't spend all day wanting to. I can't promise that I won't spend all day trying not to drown in this ocean, or that I'll slip and my head will go under for a few moments of desperate insanity and exhaustion.

But I can promise that I won't hurt myself today. If I have to sit on my hands for a full 24 hours today, or likely hide away from my mind by trying to shut it down under the blankets, I WILL NOT HURT MYSELF.

This is what the voices are saying to me. I don't have any way to write out what they are really saying, because while they are screaming, they're still whispering just enough to mishear words.

Is it a game for them? Is it a game for me?

RE-EDIT OF LYRICS: ICON FOR HIRE - "WAR"

"You and I go deep like water
You and I run red like blood
You know my darkest secrets
I know what you're made of...

It's a heavy load to carry
And I can't hold on much more...

I've so much more to tell myself
We're running out of time
It's dark and dangerous treading
Oceans in my mind


I can't survive for both of us
I can't hold back the waves
This ocean isn't big enough for both of us

Up all night, I held your hand
While I wandered in the dark
I know I can't make myself better
When all I want to be is lost...


It's a brilliant game I play
When I lock myself away
And I make everyone fight for me, fight for me..."

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June 2017

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