Not wrong

May. 22nd, 2017 01:32 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
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.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
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?


"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..."
quirkytizzy: (Default)
And it took less than two hours of that blissful morning entry I wrote when I woke up to have it all crash down on my shoulders.

Everyone around me talks. What should be voices are too shrill and breaks the violent, desperate quiet I've constructed around myself. If it breaks in, if anything breaks in, I break, too.

This disease has infected my soul and I cannot cut myself out. I can't separate the healthy tissue from what rots within. I can only hope to wrap it up tightly enough as to where nothing oozes from what's bandaged underneath. The only thing that could do that would be steel and I've none to construct such a dam around it.

I did not hurt myself. I did not drag a knife across my skin, which burned with wanting to be calmed by bleeding. I did not take my meds until the last second before I went back to bed, for fear I'd grasp the bottle and end up swallowing the whole thing. (Breaking the plastic bottle into pieces to swallow being optional, but I considered that, too.)

Or was I always this sick and this disease just scratched me half-an-inch under the surface, quickly bringing what sickness was always there, just waiting for an abrasion to seep through?

I did not hurt myself. It took Herculean efforts. So much white-knuckling. It has always been like this. Sitting on my hands, rocking back and forth, telling my head to just shut up, be quiet, go away, you're not right, you're lying, GO AWAY!

I know I'm supposed to be proud of this. It just makes me tired. Everything makes me tired, but little makes me as tired as fighting this does. People wildly underestimate the energy expended into not wounding yourself, acting as if you should feel just fine once the active urges pass.

We are not fine. We are still shaking, still shattered, and the fight is gone from us. Do not expect us to be up to talking, or to go the grocery store, because we are not sure that we are even still here.

I did not see myself at the age of 35 falling apart like this. I did not see myself so crazy at 35. I did not see myself walking the bottom of the ocean, churned and filled with monsters, at 35.

I did not expect to feel like such a failure - as someone who cannot handle herself for a few hours alone in the morning without wanting to leap off a bridge (be it real or metaphorical.) I did not expect to feel as if I am disappointing everyone around me simply by FEELING this way.

And that I am. Disappointing people. I am their sinking ship. I am their losing war. I am sick and never seem to get better. Their efforts of love and support slip through my own mind like a sieve, and I'll have no one but myself to blame when I find myself without anyone around me able to help me. Sometimes I think that would best.

To be alone with my own shallow, egotistical, obsessional suffering. To not make others stand witness to this, to me falling over and over again, each again rising more unsteady than the time before.

I lose perspective. I know, if I think about it logically, this can't last forever. But that's the lie mental health tells us, that it WILL, and it's hard to ignore the sirens of destruction when they fill the hours I can't sleep in. The endless hours wandering the apartment with a mind lacking in anything but clutter and noise.

I am so weak. Do not respond to this. Do not comment on this. I don't need to hear it. I don't want to hear it. It will break through this perfect storm and it will only increase the waves for me to tread through.

"On the surface it looks perfect
Underneath it's just a perfect storm"

I can't handle your words right now. I'm sorry.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I feel infinitely better this morning. It's always a 50/50 gamble on whether or not sharing the insanity is going to make me better or else just trap me further in my own quicksand.

I'm still figuring out the balance between passion and obsession, be it a positive or negative emotion. I know there are times when one has to dive into the the swampy bogs to drag out the bones of whatever is rotting inside of your soul. I know there are times when you have to take the first plane out to Florida and soak up the sun and lose yourself in hotties walking around in bikinis. (Metaphorically speaking, of course. I can barely feed myself, let alone travel.)

It's just that I'm not very good at distinguishing which is the appropriate response. One of those "life-long" lessons I'll be learning and relearning with every year that passes. So I do the the only thing I know how to do it about it.

I write about it. I write about it and is the only way I WANT to know how to do. So writing it is.

And did...did one of the cats just puke into my house-slippers? Like, puke way down INSIDE of the toes?! Yes. Yes, they just did. *sigh* Time to shake out the shoes and put on socks.

I've decided the dance I want to learn, the one goal I had set for myself when I got sick to learn within a year. I want to learn the Shuffle Dance. It seem silly, but it's kind of the modern man's tap-dancing. Like these girls, only with ALL OF THE GLOWING SHOES IN THE WORLD. LIKE, ALL OF THEM. (Sadly, Harley Quinn is not featured in the video, despite the thumbnail.)

Hot girls and some seriously fancy footwork )

Plus, wearing a blue wolf's head would be pretty cool, too.

It's almost 4 AM. I've been awake since 2 AM due a headache. I shopping to do and won't be safe to drive for much longer. I should go on and get that shit done while I still can. Hopefully I can come home and crash right back into bed for another few hours. Sometimes I get lucky like that.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
This part is so frustrating. Where all you want to do is drag a razor across your skin, but you also fully realize the futility of doing such a thing. It won't make me feel better. It won't get me treatment that I need, because the psych ward is a place to stabilize, not treat long term behaviors.

Marya Hornbacher once called this the boring part of treatment. Where you are healthy enough to recognize the uselessness of self-destructive behaviors, but where they are still plenty present in your thoughts.

What would hurting myself do? Nothing. Nothing but rack up another $5,000 medical bill to stay in a place where I can't smoke cigarettes. For any momentary relief seeing my own blood seep out might give, there are then the days following, when the wounds sting like hell and you realize you've given up again.

And I'm tired of giving up. Tired of doing things that don't really help. I'd say it's a fight in my head, but it's more a resignation that what I was doing wasn't working and so repeating it would also not work.

So Jesse's making dinner, and I'll have a full stomach, and that will make me feel better, and then there's the bed that's been eluding me all day, if I really need to pull the wool over my eyes for a little while.

Also, uhm, I need your guy's help on something.

How do you tell people you're hearing voices without immediately getting Sectioned 8? )

How do I tell people that without coming off as...much, much crazier than I am? (Or at least want to believe?)
quirkytizzy: (Default)
It is a little after 5 AM. I have been up every hour, on the hour, for the last seven hours. With luck, the next time I lay down will take. If it does, I'll likely sleep 12 hours. If it doesn't, I'll be unable to speak coherently for the exhaustion.

It's not always "the devil you know." I know both of these devils well. It's simply the devil that gets you first.

Fate is my best frenemy )

Again, I am superstitious, not religious.

I came upon something much darker a couple of days ago and having been to trying to process it. To put it where it belongs, to where it makes a full picture instead of an unwinding quilt of threads shredding themselves this way and that way.

My suicide attempt in March was not as random an impulse as I've wanted to believe it was. It was not as much a casual slip-up of thoughts as I've wanted OTHERS to believe. It's so hard to admit this. Everyone can forgive a single, drug hazed mistake (to which with all the drugs I was prescribed, I WAS in a drug-hazed state), but the more the look back, the more I realize the drugs wasn't what did me in.

It was me that nearly did me. Me, thoughts, and fears, and strangely enough, my resentment. In March, about a week before I decided to make a dinner meal out of an entire bottle's worth of sleeping meds, I wrote this on my Lupus Support Group.

"A month ago, my blood pressure dropped fatally low. It had done so in my sleep. My boyfriend, noting how pale, cold, and unresponsive I'd become in the night, had called 911 and was told that had he not done that, I would have **died**. It put a rightful scare in me. I was also surprised to find that through that scare and the gratitude at being saved was twisted a small feeling of resentment.

Things had been going so poorly - and still continue to be poor, eight months after diagnosis and endless hospital admissions (I've spent well over two months total sitting in hospital beds). Technically things are "improving", in that my kidney numbers and nausea symptoms are improving greatly, but it has not translated into a Happy, Healthy Quirkytizzy yet.

I am tired of feeling so unwell, so consumed by feelings of anger, confusion, and sorrow. I would have considered it a blessing to pass away in my sleep, even as young as I am at 35.

And while I am grateful - terrified and grateful - to have gotten a literal second chance at life, a part of me resents my boyfriend for having saved my life. Saved my life for what? For years more of this endless treatment where the cures are worse than the disease? For decades more of dealing with people rolling their eyes when I have to spend yet ANOTHER day in bed, all day?

I didn't know how to deal with this resentment. I am so grateful to be alive, but at the same time, a small part of me wishes he had not called 911. At least I would have gone peacefully.

Has anyone ever felt anything like this? I understand just how selfish it is for me to feel this way, but I feel what I feel. In true honesty, I would not have wanted to die.

But if I'm being honest, a part of me would have welcomed it.
Am I alone in this feeling????

That was such a huge warning flag that I'd unknowingly raised. My own journals, littered over and over with phrases like "I don't care anymore, there's never going to be a good day, why am I bothering to live like this?" were also signs.

Never having before been suicidal myself, I didn't stop to think about these being things that were placing myself in imminent danger. I thought that these were just normal parts of the grieving process.

I was so ashamed at feeling anything but gratitude for Jesse saving my life. I struggled because what good person feels upset when someone you love loves you so much that they LITERALLY save your feel life?

I'm now thinking it's not so much that it makes me a good person or a bad person, just a person in desperate pain.

I mean, really, how DO you tell your loved one that you want to be be with them for the rest of their lives, but goddamnit, couldn't you have just left me die in peace"? The two thoughts do not mix and all that happens is that hurt and rejected feelings ripple endlessly through the lake once that stone is hurled into the waters.

I suppose the progress is this: I no longer resentment him for saving my life Like, at all, not even a little bit. Given time, treatment, and a maddeningly slow but noticeable uptick in health, being alive is becoming at least a little more attractive. Without him, I literally, as in would have been buried almost six months ago, would not have had that chance.

It all just so clearly outlines the idea that suicide attempts don't just "happen." There are warning signs. Personal and often tailored to a person specifically. A person can go weeks without writing so much as a FB post, but if I go more than a week without posting on LJ, we know something is wrong. Your mileage may vary, but it's still a car, and we're still all stuck riding in them.

At least now a days I have a much better idea of what requires immediate attention and what doesn't.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Medical risks. I am a "Self-injury risk". Obviously. I am also a "Fall Risk", a thing hospitals take seriously, as it turns out. The Fall Risk follows me home just as the SI risk does, at least lately. I weave about the apartment like a girl at her third bar on her 21st birthday. I slur my words. It's been quite significant lately. The exhaustion is becoming heavier than the rocks they used to place on witches to make sure they sank into the river.

(Because only the guilty would drown with hundreds of pounds of stone upon their chests, right? Fuck the Salem Witch Trials.)

Thank god for overflowing piles of laundry for my ass to fall on. And walls. And occasionally chairs and couches. Not the cats, though, which sometimes happen to be the unlucky recipient of my unsteady limbs. Poor things.

I've realized that perhaps I've been too hard on David, at least in a couple of instances. He once wrote about cutting as if it were the only option other than suicide. And when phrased like that, it's a perfectly practical thing to say. Of course cutting is safer than leaping off a bridge.

But I LAMBASTED him for his phrasing. I felt such contempt that he would line up two and only two self-destructive behaviors as coping skills. And yet....

Here I am, finding myself stuck in the same dichotomy. Swimming between sharks and piranhas, and trying to figure out which is the safest to be bit by. The sane answer is "GTFO out of the water, you idiot!"

But as much as I'd like to make cocktail buddies between myself and sanity, it's a thing that can't ever be done in unison.

I'm tired. The longer I'm tired, the murkier things get. The murkier things get, the clearer blood sounds.

Someday I'll look at all this as progress, or at least bravery in being able to share the blow-by-blow agony of it all. Right now, though, I'm just very tired. Very tired and feeling almost as if I owe David an apology.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
It's more like a line of dominoes. Who or what set up the long, twisting curl of pieces, I don't know, but all it took was the slightest flick of a fingernail to bring the entire empire crashing down. Even at 17, writing in my journals, I predicted this. It wasn't hard to see where the stacks were too close to each other. It wasn't hard to see where they would smash into one another to bring the next piece down, over and over again.

What I hadn't predicted was that my mother would become her own greatest victim, trapped even further by those surrounding her. It might give her a better chance of surviving should she divorce her husband, but it would not solve her problems. It'd be like a junkie throwing out all of her needles - a good start, but only a precursor to starting the work on what made her want to shoot up to begin with.

My mother is 89 pounds, a thing that miraculously doesn't seem to worry the medical practitioners in the hospital. This is in part her eating disorder having re-emerged, and largely more the fact that her husband feeds her only when HE feels like putting in the effort to feed her. She is otherwise generally bed-bound, rising only in the throes of mania (bizarrely yet diagnosed, but blindingly apparent to anyone who see it.) She babbles maniacally, half the time acting half her age or younger, the same as HER mother did when in the later developed stages of schizophrenia.

Jim, her husband, puts her in the room of the house where the black mold literally rises along the corners of the wall, while he sleeps in the cleanest room of the house. He put off taking her to the hospital while she was having a stroke because there was a pig needing to be skinned beforehand. (Not a euphemism. He's a hunter.) He steals her medication, her disability checks. He refuses to discuss areas of my mother's physical health (such as her pancreas) which has been slowly killing her for years at this point.

But then, this is the same man who handed her a shotgun and told her that if she hated him that much, why not shoot him? She fled the house in terror, only to have him laugh in her face when she returned. "What, did you think I was stupid enough to give you a loaded gun?" he chortled.

He LOVES to makes threats with his guns. I remember this even as early as 16, when he would pull them all out, lay them on a table, and ask Cassie and I our opinion on which he should use to kill himself.

(I should have pointed to the rifle and said I'd use the others myself just to make sure he was actually dead.)

This is the man who tore the head off of a living pigeon in front of Cassie's young son to teach him about "life and death." This is the man that had my mother so worried that she asked Cassie to go through his computer, to find he has a ton of....well, really, REALLY illegal shit on it. Illegal of the worst kind.

And this the man my mother knew all along was like this. My mother chose him over her children (and that's a QUOTE from her, no less) because she was afraid of being alone. She made that choice, knowing full well what he had done to us.

I'm not sure if ever thought that those behaviors would eventually be turned towards her once we were out of the picture. That's the tragic part. Some part of her has been overturned within the last months, and she has been able to apologize - or at least mouth the words - of apologies for staying with such a monster.

But an apology is not a change, nor would it be enough for reconciliation. Some ships have long since sailed and there is no return.

But it does make me sad. Sadness without the anger, which dropped away the first time I nearly died, seemingly out of the blue. Sorrow at the holes a person can dig themselves into.

But the hole she's dug for herself isn't a hole. It's a grave. It is a grave and Jim stands above it, continually throwing down more shovels so that she can dig her final resting place deeper and deeper.

Cassie says that she is now, for the first time in her life, disclosing the most basic of abuses she suffered herself as a child. Another good start, but in name only, as my mother refuses therapy of any kind. What my mother did to us was horrific, what HER mother and grandparents did to her was monstrous, and god only knows what THEIR parents did to them.

It is no small task to recover from your own childhood abuse - and it may be the only thing that could save her. I don't think she is capable of saving herself, so plentiful are the steel strings that Jim has her in, twitching her as his own puppeteer. Even without him, she's spent almost 56 years running away from what was done to her.

I told Jesse it would take a miracle to save her....and I do not believe in miracles.

I remember at 15 she had told me about her grandfather sexually abusing her. She was driving me to school. I glanced out of the window and told her that he had been wrong to do that. That he abused her, a child, and he should not have done that.

"You can't say what he did was bad. He is dead and can't defend himself anymore," was her response. She dropped me off at the school curb, where I made a beeline for the bathroom and spent the first two hours of class sobbing in the toilet stall.

How do you break past that kind of denial? Where someone refuses to label sexual abuse as wrong simply because the perpetrator is dead?

You can't. It took me years of trying otherwise, but I eventually learned you cannot make even a dent into that kind of denial. And that, the denial and the people she's chosen to keep close enough to CONFIRM that denial for her, is what is going to kill her.

If Jim doesn't get to her outright, at least. She's chosen a long, painful, suicide of the body and soul, and a husband who has no problem hastening both her choices of death.

I sometimes don't know what would be the greater mercy - his death or hers.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
A call from Cassie. My mother is not doing well. Far too much to go into right now. I am settling it all, letting the sorrow sift through the barricades I have spent the last 15 years walling her inside of.

We'll be a perfect family.
When you walk away is when we really play...

Please don't let them look through the curtains.

No one ever listens, this wallpaper glistens
Don't let them see what goes down in the kitchen.

I did not remember I was capable of feeling for her again.

I am. I escaped 20 years ago, the first one to run away, the first one to save myself. But 20 years is only time, not a wall, and what's percolating feels an ocean rising against the turrets. More will come as I figure out more of what I am feeling.

I do know one thing, though. I want him dead. She chose her path long ago and he has done everything to ensure she stays on that path.

If I knew a blood-ritual for murder, my stepfather would be dead by morning.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I woke up, growling and gritting my teeth through the joint pain. I'd never before known that joints could hurt like broken glass being ground into more broken glass. Even the hardest of my manual labor jobs didn't produce this kind of pain.

Okay, I seethed to myself. I stumble to the kitchen counter, swallow down Tylenol with my coffee. Take my coffee outside and stare at the gray sky, threatening to spill over with enormous ladles of rain at any moment. Realize I'm on the down-slope of a very bad mood. A small voice in the back of my head says "Switch out the cassette tape. Jam another one into the Walkman."

(Yeah, I said "cassette tape" and "Walkman". I'm 35 years old, motherfuckers. I'll use whatever analogy comes to mind first.)

So I quietly compile a list of things that are going RIGHT:

* I woke up this morning. Not a blessing I hold in high honor most days, but it's still a plus.

* I'm not nauseous.

* There are no intrusive or disturbing thoughts present at the moment.

* I have enough energy to get the basic morning chores done.

* There's food in the fridge to eat - a thing that isn't always there.

* All parts of me are lined up at the same level of awake. None of this "my mind/body is in quicksand while the other is screaming with frantic energy."

All of these could change at a moment's notice. They often do. Crazy and ill play their own game of Tilt-A-Whirl and it's a game I usually have no control of. That part is always aggravating, if not outright frightening. But for the moment, I am okay.

I am okay. Not ecstatic. Not depressed. I have a baseline that is lower than I'd like, but it is a baseline, and I sit squarely on that line.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
If it is too good to be true, it usually is.

I'd spent the day before in an ecstatic bliss of peace, of joy, of contentment...only to wake up this morning flattened like Wiley Coyote against a wall. I hadn't been experiencing true happiness. I had been rapid cycling.

Intrusive and disturbing thoughts, but without plans or will to act on them, propelled Jesse to suggest that I go speak to my therapist to see if further action (such as intake) was needed. I am relieved that her opinion was that inpatient was not needed, only a boost in my psychiatry appointment to get my meds straightened out.

Then okay, another round of the med-go-round it is to be. It's always a process of trial and error, my body and mind paying for the game of Wheel of Fortune every time. I will try at least three medications, every time, only to find something that mostly works, all while experiencing the bevy of side effects that all brain medications come triple-wrapped in.

1:30 AM. An hour that I am altogether far too familiar with. I skipped my dose of Seroquel tonight, as I'd slept 10 hours today and do not wish to add another 10 hours straight upon it.

The lack of my presence in our daily life greatly affects Jesse. He feels adrift, often as if he is living alone. Given that I spend so much time unconscious under the blankets, it is a fair feeling for him to experience.

I do not know what to do to solve it. When I become so tired that I stumble against walls just trying to get to the bathroom, rest is the only thing I can do. And I become this tired every goddamn day.

We are in a Catch-22. He needs me awake. My body needs me asleep. Neither of us gets what we really want, which is an active relationship. It's amazing how little two people can see each other even if they live together in the same room.

I don't know how to give Jesse what he needs. I don't even know how to give my body what it needs. If the body would simply even out, then being with Jesse in my entirety would be easy.

My body has other ideas, though, and they are never good ones.

I know these troubles are not uncommon when one partner falls terribly ill. But knowing it's not uncommon does not seem to ease it. Couples counseling would be an idea, except the problem is my physical illness - something no psychological professional has training enough to curb.

We cuddle more. When I can, perhaps once a week, I try to at least peripherally participate in a sex life between us. As much time as I am able to give, I spend my waking moments in conversation with him.

But that is not necessarily living a life together as two people in love with each other. And I know he is in love, and I know I am in love.

Sometimes they say that love is not enough. I refuse to let that be the case here. Surely, somewhere, someway, someday, progress will be made to make this a relationship again, instead of some waiting game while we pray my disease learns to take a backseat to me actually living my life. A life that includes Jesse where he should be, by my side and not whiling away days on end on the computer because I am asleep.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Broken bottles in the hotel lobby
Seems to me like I'm just scared of never feelin' it again
I know its crazy to believe in silly things
It's not that easy...

Maybe it's not all hopeless. Maybe those few hours this morning can bring me to...

High hopes
It takes me back to when we started
High hopes
When you let it go, go out and start again...

Because what I forget so easily, drowning in the day to day struggle, is that I have...WE, as in all of me, to the first breath I drew to the last one I will breathe...

Are like Sparks
We are, we are, we are alive...

Maybe I just have to...

Love me harder...

Maybe I have to accept that this year is a new beginning, from the day I landed in the hospital, as a place to start again, to find myself again. It is in a deeper, richer, darker, and brighter place than I could have ever found without this illness wrapped around my DNA. Maybe accepting that doesn't mean losing WHO I was, even it means losing some of what I used to be able to do.

There is madness in this. There is beauty in this. Every struggle before this has left me with something beautiful nestled inside of it, even if it is stitched and scarred. But beautiful.

I must try to not lose sight of this, and when I do, I must begin the active search to find it all over again.

And I'll use you as a focal point
So I don't lose sight of what I want...

Because this is about love. Love for all the pain, love for all the joy, love for simply having been born, no matter how heartbreaking it can be.

Two words make up the word "heartbroken", and I must remember that "heart" comes before "broken." If I can remember this, then I can know I've...

Found love where it wasn't supposed to be
Right in front of me.

* Kodaline "High Hopes"
*Neon Hitch "Sparks"
*Amber Run "I Found"
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I slept for 40 hours straight and wake up, for the first time in months and months, rested. Rested and so happy that I feel delirious. I can face the day, or at least the next few hours without cringing, without feeling like I have to grimace and fake having fun.

Seriously, I've cleaned, I've showered, and I'm sitting here weeping because I FEEL SO GODDAMN HAPPY at having my life back, even if it's just for a few hours. I'm laughing on a level that borders on hysterical, broken only by gasping sobs, because this is how it's supposed to be, and for once, life has deemed me worthy of a few hours that doesn't involve crippling illness.

It might not last all day. Chances are that I've got only a handful of hours of this, but goddamn, I'LL TAKE IT.

If Jesse were to wake up right now, he'd see a sobbing madwoman, but it's tears and heaving laughter of nothing but sheer joy and delight. And even if it's just for now, an hour, two hours, before what my life is overtakes me, dear god, I'd forgotten I was able to feel this good at all.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
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 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.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
So I woke up intending to write down what was on my mind last night only to find that I'd already written it.

I have no memory of writing the previous entry. Like, none at all.

I briefly wondered if Jesse had written it (it wouldn't be the first time I've asked him to post for me), but we have wildly different writing styles. The writing style of the last entry is perfectly mine.

The only explanation I have is that I'd taken 30 mgs of my Valium, as I'd been unable to sleep for close to 24 hours previously and have been experiencing insomnia all week. Methinks I will cut that down to the recommended 20 mgs of Valium. Like, stat.

I went back and re-edited for grammar, but yikes, it's freaky to not have the slightest recollection of opening the DW window and writing, let alone POSTING, an entire entry. For an ex-blackout drunk, and for having plenty of things that I don't remember concerning my manic episodes, it's....kinda freaky.

I guess I can be reassured that outside of wildly misspelling a ton of words, the entry itself was coherent. Still....yeeks and shivers.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Y'know, having a rare, incurable, autoimmune disease that one gets only by winning the worst of the genetic lottery draws, and that has ridiculously limited funding (often less than 2 billion a year into research)....might not be so isolating after all.

I finished my phone interview for Disability, this time armed with both a local, face-to-face representative and a national advocate. This time around, I am armed with ALL the paperwork needed and have given control of the process to an advocacy group. It was a surprisingly good call, with great sympathy given by the representative.

Her mother, she said, has lupus and so she sees the struggle. And it occurred to me that nearly everyone I've spoke to about my lupus at least KNOWS ONE PERSON themselves that HAS lupus. I've yet to meet anyone outside of the monthly lupus support group that I am sometimes able to attend that has lupus personally, but the fact that nearly everyone I know KNOWS someone with this disease makes it...

Less isolating. A little more bearable. I feel just a little less lost.

My Medicare has finally been reinstated. My normal prescriptions will run through either completely covered or else vastly discounted. I cannot describe the relief this is to me (and to Pat's wallet.)

There are days when I feel like this disease is a lost cause. There are days when I fight like hell with doctors and ER trips to get even the most unbearable symptoms to just back the hell off for a few days. I even experience some anger at being treated as if my migraines were nothing more than an excuse to beg for Imatrex (which is, like, the least addictive migraine med there is.)

I've only had to request narcotic pain medication three times in the entire last year, so hopefully this keeps me under the drug-seeker radar.

But overall, I've been so lucky in that people believe me. My GP has been exceptionally supportive in helping me through the Disability process. The pharmacies have also been helpful and never condescending.

They also don't dismiss the mental health issues, both pertaining the medical side and the mental side.

As I read over the struggles of others trying to for years to get diagnosed and the uphill battle at getting treatment...I'm glad - in the most perverse ways - that my lupus diagnosis came at the same time my kidneys and my brain were literally being eaten alive.

I've been lucky. Lupus, as uneducated as the populace seems to be about what it really does to a person, is not as isolated as I once thought. That gives me such great, grand hope.

In fact, with advocates, personal doctors, I seem to garner the most sympathies, often with them apologizing about me having come so sick as such a young (ish ) age. I talk and joke, gallows humor, laughing at the ridiculous of this whole thing, but it helps.

NOTE: I no longer indulge in gallows humor in the hospital. Saying things like "I'd load a shotgun to my mouth" tends to get taken pretty seriously.

My meds are hitting me, so please excuse the bad grammar littered all over the place.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I picked the wrong day to do laundry. *sigh* At least the wrong laundry machine, which kept filling after the load had "finished" and wound up flooding the entire downstairs laundry room. And left me to haul 40 pounds of soaking wet clothes up two flights of stairs to rewash AGAIN.

Also washed the wrong towel with those clothes, so those clothes are now covered in white fuzz and will require ample coverage with a lint-roller. Even after the second washing. Oi. This effectively cancels out the idea of washing to have clean, non-fuzz covered clothes to begin with.

Somedays I have to wonder what the point of adult living (which includes having clean clothes) is.

As I have recently begun wondering the same about vanity. The damage to my body through this disease is actually quite visible to the naked eye if I strip down. It's starting to affect my self-image.

This is the result of gaining and losing over 200 pounds in 8 months.

Not my picture personally, but this is EXACTLY what I look like )

That is what I look like, exactly, from the bottom of my ribcage down to the tops of my thighs, as well as my boobs themselves. Never had a baby, never managed to gain that much weight on my own to get this wrinkled, pitted mess of skin, and yet...there it is.

That's lupus, 10 extended hospital stays, endless numbers of infiltrated veins, IV's, and the fact that my kidneys cork themselves so tight that the kickback results in being a real-life balloon.

It can be discouraging sometimes. Easily enough covered with clothes, and Jesse is amazing at reminding me that he still finds me beautiful, but there are some moments I stand looking in the mirror and think to myself I look like a freak.

Still, looks aren't everything. Or so I keep telling myself.

Cemetery and Cmcmk, those pictures were BEAUTIFUL! That costume was amazing, I could see that being displayed as a muesuem piece. An indulgent wash of shiny, brilliant colors. Makes me wish I could get away with something like that everyday! I'm googling more of those kinds of costumes right now. Flashy and epic.

And Cmcmk, I really loved the croquet picture. It's the HUGE dominoes! Where is that picture taken? And where do I get a set of dominoes like that? Someday I will have to have a carpenter make me some just like that. Scatter them about like I've a Forest Giant for a friend that stopped by for tea and a quick game.

It is those things I need to seek out more often, if nothing else than to remind me there is a world much, much bigger than me and my dismayed reflection in the bathroom. Thank you so much for sharing those.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
"I'd rather be's chances, not choices....noises, not voices...a day's just something to get through...."

I'm depressed. Or cycling through what closely and repeatedly IN/HYPERsomnia will due to a body naturally. Or both.

Admitting this feels weak. Which is how I know it's time to admit it.

It's so hard to tell anymore what is psychological and what is physical, as they've become so entangled. One balances precariously upon the other, and there's only so many doctor or shrink appointments, so many med adjustments, I can make to keep up on it.

My body REELS from changing out my meds every two months and Pat's wallet also does flip-flops, considering every change requires $200 from him.

Insurance still hasn't been reinstated. Got the ball rerolling in the psych ward last month, just in case. Still waiting. Tick, tock, America, "When will I be able to buy groceries with my good looks?" (Or life-saving medication?)

I miss Jesse. I sleep all day, or else don't sleep at all and am unable to focus, and he's left alone, even if I'm snoring or staring five feet away.

I use run-on sentences when I'm depressed. Oh well. At least I'm writing at all? I hope to go back to sleep soon. I don't really prefer dreaming. When you're running off exhaustion, the dreams are just different shades of nightmares anyways.

I ain't got nothin' left but time to kill.

So I'll give it more time. Like you said, Matrixx, I don't think Life is the greatest invention ever. But I've got a few more things I'd like to see and do in this life. this, can anyone give me their happy stories? Or tell me more about a time that they spent on the ledge but were finally able to back down and settle back on their feet? Or how they got through it?

Or just...words of wisdom? I don't know. Just...something?


May. 6th, 2017 07:57 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
There's just not been much to say as of late. I've been tired and sleeping a lot. The only noteworthy thing is that Jesse and I have been watching Lexx, an old science fiction show.

I remember catching a few episodes with Pat and his parents when it aired in 1997. It was goofy. A little graphic. And it's still goofy and graphic, but in that WTF kind of way that makes you want to keep watching to see what the fuck happens next.

Here's another truth about chronic illness: It can be boring. Mind-numbingly boring. You'll sleep and sleep and sleep until your bones can no longer handle laying prone. You'll crawl out of bed to find that the last 30 hours of sleep has not left you rested, but instead has left you with just enough energy to not be able to go BACK to sleep, but not enough energy to DO anything with.

Crossword puzzles? Play a video game? Read? Have a conversation with a loved one? Go out to the park? Pet the kitties? Hell, even write? All things that require energy. All things that you can't do, even as your body refuses to rest anymore.

And so you sit on the couch, or on the bed, and stare at the tv until your bones feel soft enough to lay down again, and you'll curse yourself for not being able to do something, anything interactive. Long stretches of time are spent this way. Days. Weeks. Maybe longer.

It's boring.

Really, really boring.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
You guys have created the MOST AWESOME COOKING SHOW EVAH. "The Great British Baking Show". Pat, Jesse, and I are all fans, as it is one of the sweetest, most adorable competitive shows we've ever seen. Even the scripted-in tension is polite!

(Are British and Europeans in general really just that polite or is it that Americans are really just that brash and loud?)

Anyway, beside from being a good show about cooking, it's just amazingly comforting and relaxing to watch.

Also, I've never had a "trifle." I didn't even know such a thing existed. But after watching the episode where they baked trifles, I MUST HAVE ONE BEFORE I DIE. A real, official, cooked-in-Ye-Olde-Motherland trifle.


quirkytizzy: (Default)

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