May. 14th, 2017

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GOOD NEWS: Cutting the Valium to its prescribed dosage has left me with my memory intact (if not waking me up every hour on the hours). But hey, that's preferable to motherfucking blackouts. This is especially relieving, as when Jesse and I tried to compare notes between when he left and when the post window was opened, neither of us could remember if I'd started writing BEFORE or AFTER the Valium.

I would much, much rather it be a product of a simple, overdone chemical cocktail. If it wasn't the meds, than that points to a problem in my brain chemistry.

I don't have many talents in this world. Reading and writing are among the few that can be counted on and lauded for. If I were to lose that to some kind of mental short-circut in the brain itself, it would absolutely decimate me. My intellect is really all I have of myself.

I can't have that taken away. I just can't.

What scared me most about that are things like, what if I'd gotten into the car and drove somewhere in the blackout? As Jesse had the car keys, that was impossible. And there is absolutely NO alcohol in the house for me to chug down in order to facilitate a black out. But it's not unheard of for people to wander outside of their houses in such a state, drunk and medicated or not. I do NOT want to be that person. I'd quickly checked my phone to make sure I hadn't black-out texted someone, to which thankfully I didn't.

With every strange new symptom, it hammers Jesse. He's always had issues with anxiety and panic attacks, but as the months and shoes and anvils just keep dropping on us, it's become a nearly daily problem for him. It'd be arrogant of me to suggest it's ALL because of me and my illness, but I sure as hell know it doesn't help.

I have an ever increasing empathy of anxiety attacks, now experiencing them for the first time in my life. I've only had ONE panic attack in my life and it was so terrifying that it was immobilizing. (I had this idea that stepping out of my home would crash a plane onto my head. And this was BEFORE the movie Donnie Darko came out.) It took hours of a phone call from another addict to squeeze me out of the house, on the phone for the 30 minute drive to work, and another 10 minutes of the call just to get OUT of my car to walk INTO work. It was horrifying.

For Jesse to go through both daily...my heart aches for him.

For reasons along the lines of "everybody deserves a second chance", the "no homo, bro" dude Jesse and I know have had a few more visits with him. I am finding myself becoming annoyed with every word that drops out of his mouth, to where even the sound of his voice agitates me. I will do my best to stay either away or in bed when he visits.

He had done something silly and pocketed a pack of smokes while out shopping one day. It could have been an honest mistake (I've done that before), but his explanation was that Satan had been whispering in his ear, and that he was worried he'd go to hell for it.

I was like, Uh, dude, Satan had nothing to do with that. That's all on you, Buddy. And why the hell are talking about yourself like that, like you're a sinner and are going to hell? It was just a pack of cigarettes. Just don't make a habit of it."

I'll go to the ends of the earth distracting security guards and cameras to help people steal food and medicine. A pack of smokes (or Magic Cards in the ex's case)? Hell no.

On the religious side, he really comes down too hard on himself. I point that out on occasion, but I guess you can't save 40 years of religious, echo-chamber, circle jerk religious training in just a few conversation.

I mean, seriously. I wish I had the option of blaming every fuck up I've had on demonic whispers tempting me to do stupid shit. But stuff like that, it's all on me. Impulsive as it, my actions are my own.

At least this man is unintennionaly driving home a lesson that I've needed to learn for like, oh, my entire life. He is obbessed about his life before, about the people in his life who have let him go, and about how nothing NOW could ever compare to the life he had behind him.

It plainly makes me see how pathetic **I** sound when I get stuck in that same, broody state. I'm now realizing the benefits of having to unglue my ass that's permanently planted in my past. Okay, so I can't do what I used to.

But what, in the future, CAN I do? Or even in the present? At the very least, I can at least try to accept my life as it is today, instead of being drowned by in the life that WAS.

There's been one other thing on my mind: David. David and our behavioral similarities. For years, I'd felt so vindicated that I never indulged in the behaviors he did, such as cutting and suicide ideation (if not threats themselves.) And yet, over the last four months, I have done exactly those things.

Granted, for entirely different reasons, if nothing else due to the fact that my disease can and has nearly killed me on several occasions - wheras his is a lack of wanting to seek effective treatment. I try to hold onto that as a imperative difference between us.

The most I can come up with is that his self-destructive behaviors come from a deep-seated hatred of himself. All those - and continuing years - filled with texts and conversations about how much he loathed himself for being unable (in his eyes) to function.

I don't hate myself. I hate what I DO sometimes. I hate what my body IS sometimes. And I have plenty of times when my entire self-worth is dragged into the blistering, uncomfortable light to be examined and dissected.

But self-hatred? No. I have a fair-to-middling self-esteem. I understand that self-compassion is often the only way to solving my issues, even if it is damn hard to apply that concept some days.

My life is flawed. My body is flawed. My psyche is flawed.

But me by myself? I'm not flawed. I'm just one messy human being trying to find her way home.

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