Jul. 2nd, 2017

quirkytizzy: (Default)
Lol - thank you, Bart. The lupus tag came from a suggestion from Blozor, as the edema in the first round of hospital stays had bloated me so much that my nipples just...dissapeared. Got stretched into oblivion. I'm happy to say they recovered and I have mostly normal looking tits these days.

And like I always say, somedays my tits are all I've got going for me, ha.

Michael - thank you for saying what you did about love. It has been over a decade, hasn't it? Time flies beyond the ability to describe...as love can, too, I'm finding out. It's good to hear that as screwed up as I had been, as I HAVE been, there was something I gave you, something that was so important that you decided to stay around for the next ten years to see what else comes next.

For what it's worth, you and I have a special relationship, and that won't ever go away.

Matrixx, I think the psychic part of this disorder, this disease...is more or less that I was trying to find help. I'd cut again, wasn't able to get admission, got fobbed off by not one but TWO psychiatrists, and was getting desperate to be heard. A "cry for help" sort of thing. A desperation slithering through my soul. Perhaps a touch (or more) of borderline personality, though I know very little about that diagnosis. I only know that I was misdiagnosed with it years ago, as only the treatments for bipolar helped.

(And that's how you figure out what your diagnosis is - if the treatment for that diagnosis helps, that's probably what you've got.) And yeah, a whole heaping load of PTSD - and (at least this time) PTSD about things I've inflicted on myself. Funny that we can do that to ourselves.

And ha, Gonzo - you're right as well. Part of something I had to figure out...for me, not writing is not only a curse that poisons me to a blood-level, but it's also boring as hell. Plenty - so much plentiful time to be bored later.

Cmck, thank you. It's good to hear that I'm far from alone in these circumstances. And I understand not always having the words to soothe another. I'm finding in this instance...it really is me that has to cobble together the words from others, no matter what they might be, and use them to save myself.

Cemetery...I want to be here. It's funny, I tried to explain Livejournal to some of the people in the psych ward. Many of them are not net-savy and never have even heard of LJ. Those who have are always amazed that we are still around at all on this site...and those who understand that we DO still populate this sinking ship don't write like we do (or did.)

I'm not ready to let go of LJ yet. I don't think I'll ever be. If I'm not here, then where would I would be? I hand-wrote plenty in my paper journal in the psych ward (the internet is strictly forebode in such places), but having spent so many years opening to the public and their words...that's a gift I don't think I can ever go without again.

And Michael - right-o again on the effects of SSRI's, like you said, Franklanguage. It had been about three weeks - two of those week stuffed with Jesse constantly telling me that he was seeing bad side effects. Two weeks of me completely ignoring him. Two weeks of losing the ability to even care about the worsening of symptoms.

And I'll be joining groups as well, Franklanguage. A DBT group and groups that are more well-rounded than just lupus meet-ups. I've discovered they have help with transportation to these groups, even, which is good as our car is forever running on an 1/8th of a tank.

I had to make a goal. That goal is to, every other day, have 30 minutes of meaningful interaction with another human being. Every other day because I know myself and my days of diving so deep into myself that breaching the waters will be impossible. But I need to make the effort to swim up to the surface once a while. I can do every other day.

I can't believe the effects isolation, physical or emotional, that these diseases can have.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
*sigh*

Even if I don't remember it, there are always tell-tale signs of an ICU visit that linger. Glue marks from medical pads that take a week and a half to come off. Bruises on hands and arms from rushed IV's shoved into already weak veins.

Leftovers and wounds that trickle through the weeks afterwards, where I tilt my head in the mirror and wonder where in the hell I got that.

Memory gaps aside, I guess if I were ever unsure, all I'd have to do is look in the mirror and I'd know then.

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