quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-08-13 11:03 am

At what point?

At what point do things like "showering" and "scooping out the litterboxes" stop counting as accomplishments? At what point do those become "given" parts of your day and the only accomplishments that count are things like getting a job (or setting up volunteer work, in my case, which is causing undue anxiety) or writing a book or something of a LARGER nature?

Cuz I took another look at Maslow's damned triangle and I realized I am trying to fix the top three items while the first two (basics such as food and shelter and the ability to be secure about having those needs met) are constantly on the verge of collapsing, which makes me wonder if I'm somehow going about this whole thing backwards...
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-08-11 05:05 pm

Useful things you learn reading about someone whose OCD wants them to kill people

It's Cracked, so there's a few dick jokes in there for levity.

I do not have OCD, nor do my intrusive thoughts involve hurting other people. Still, having logged plenty of man-hours wrestling down intrusive thoughts of harm to myself, this article and the comments were not only interesting, but seriously useful.

Also brought up in the article, co-morbidity (i.e - presenting with multiple illnesses), as I've been - despite my chagrin, correctly - re-diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. (You had it right, Matrixx!)

Treatment lays mostly in learning how to redirect your thoughts and feelings v.s your actions. Really good things to add to the treatment I'm already on. I am not unaware of these concepts, but it's like I totally forgot them.



"The brain does not register negatives; it only processes the action associated with the negative. If, instead of saying, "don't think that," you say, "think this instead," you can weaken the neuronal connections responsible for the OCD and strengthen others at your will."


"You are not your thoughts; you are your reaction to them."


"It's not necessarily the thought that is the problem, it's how much meaning and weight we ascribe to it that can cause anxiety or worsening intrusive thoughts."


"That is what obsession is. The never ending stream of thoughts, good or bad.

The ones you notice, quite simply, are the ones that trigger anxiety. You zero in on them, instead of pushing them aside. You will examine every single instance of behavior or cognition that might relate to that particular thought in an attempt to find an answer because that seems like the only way to make it go away.

But here's the thing. f**k the thoughts. They will not go away. What you can control, however, is your emotional response. How you do that is up to you. But what you have to do is find a way to tackle the anxiety because beyond a point the deconstruction going on in your head will cross into the absurd and that, my friend, is where madness lies."


"She [my therapist] made the analogy of a wheel moving back and forth until it created a rut which it couldn't get out of."


"If you keep performing the ritual, you reinforce the belief that the ritual is preventing catastrophe, instead of teaching yourself that nothing bad will happen if you don't do it.


All this on a day when my therapist asked me what life would be like without Nightmare Week. "I don't know," I replied casually. "They're nightmares. They come and go as they please. I can't choose what I dream."

She suggested that it was possible to remove the nightmares, to wiggle free from this last bit of PTSD.

I call bullshit....but the idea is intriguing. So okay, Miss Therapist, let's see what you've got to suggest and I'll give it my best shot. Worst case scenario? I still have nightmares but have learned a few tricks to deal with my thoughts in a healthy, non-destructive manner.

**NOTE FOR SELF: Also must look up term "neural plasticity", as my therapist put it. It might apply.

*Also must find ways to work some dick jokes into all this.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-08-11 09:37 am

(no subject)

It's Nightmare Week, the last vestige of PTSD that I regularly have to pay for the abuse of decades past.

Yay. 4 nights of bad dreams down - 3 more to go.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-08-07 05:50 pm

Here's one awesome perk to being friends with a hermit :

You'll never have to worry that if you have to cancel plans, they will be terribly offended, disappointed, or will question the validity and depth of your friendship.

We're hermits. We'll be fine.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-08-06 08:38 am

How is this a question I've never asked before????

I asked both Pat and Jesse, the only two people in my life (at least in the last 20 years) having seen me in the drunken, rageful, hateful place I go into when drinking, a question. One that I can't ever recall asking before, even in the first rounds of recovery 20 years ago. Like, I'm seriously amazed it never came up before.

The set-up was this: I am not a violent person. Sometimes mean and with no small shortage of anger management issues, but verbally and physically, what went on that night does not happen at all. I want to think that the monster I become when I hit the bottle does not exist until that chemical is introduced into my body. I want to think that horrible person does not exist without a few too many shots (which in my case, equals, like, ONE shot).

But accountability holds a much greater weight than it ever did before, and I have to wonder...is she there all the time? Buried though she may be, chained to the walls she may be, is she just waiting for the time when I'm my weakest, alcohol being what weakens the chains enough for her to break loose?

I once heard someone say that whatever we are capable of when drunk, we are also capable of doing sober. Sobriety simply makes it easier to not repeat the actions we do when drunk.

Is this true? And if it is, am I the monster for what lies beneath, or am I victim of myself and a mix of bad chemicals? Do I really feel the awful things I said and did, or is it the lies of addiction that revealed themselves?

We already know the beast of addiction is carried in my veins. I learned that 20 years ago. But is what happens when in the throes of it something that I usually simply bury in the guise of peaceful human interaction? Am I that hateful a creature by nature and the only thing that keeps her at bay is abstinence?

I don't know. Jesse and Pat gave different answers, Pat saying that those traits have always been a part of me, and alcohol simply removes the barriers around the awful drunk. Jesse says it's more a a press of stress and addiction, things that are intrinsically part of me, but the actions are twisted things that I normally don't feel.

It leaves me confused, though the answer to either answer is the same - sobriety. I have simply become painfully aware of the intent of addiction and am not sure where to place those intentions.

And why did this never come up before, in my days of drinking an entire bottle of vodka a day and then putting needles in my arms? How in the world is this something that never crossed my mind when I was younger?
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-08-04 07:53 pm

Random thought of the day

*sigh* Maybe I should just give up and be a Manic Pixie Dream Girl again. I even have purple hair again. It worked really well for me in my teens and even late 20's.

But GODDAMN is that a lot of work. I barely have the energy to find my OWN wonder in the moments of my life. And dudes my age who have't figured out that they are ultimately responsible for their own peace, wonder and lives just annoy the shit out of me now.

Yeah, so I guess not. Keep working on rebuilding an identity that is not pre-packaged and bought right off the shelf.

quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-08-02 07:51 pm

How a journaler lives life

So it turns out that Jane's death from Breaking Bad is an accurate portrayal of what death by an unconscious overdose looks like. Except with more vomit. Like, bucketfuls of more vomit. Jesse had been almost out the back door for a cigarette, but then heard me gurgling, gagging on my own vomit. He came back in and tried to turn me onto my side, but I fell off the edge of the bed, and he still had to wrestle me into a downwards position so that I didn't choke to death on my own vomit.

That's not a pretty way to go.

The memory gaps of all the 911 calls are starting to get to me. Like any of the other overdoses, I don't remember starting to throw up. I don't remember not being able to breathe. I don't remember Jesse desperately trying to turn me over, me falling to the floor, hitting my head at a sonic boom, the EMT's barreling through the front door, the IV's, the ambulance rides. I don't remember the ICU until I've been up there for hours already.

At most, I get a few minutes of remembering being on a gurney, ceiling lights flashing by in strobe. What other pieces I do remember, in tiny flashes that last less than a minute here or there, disgrace me. There are holes in my mind.

And I'm the one who put them there. It is a private shame, though I understand it to be pure biology, pure chemistry, and pure insanity.

I don't know if I'd really want to remember it all. But I do know that I do not like not remembering it all, either. For someone who puts every goddamn thing in print, not being able to remember some of the most pivotal points is beyond fucking maddening.

There is little of the last 24 years that is not recorded. For all of these months, these moments, these hours? All I have to go off is second hand tales and those never satisfy as well as knowing what happened because I was there.

Because I wasn't there. Not really. I was too busy dying.

That's not how a journaler lives life. We have to remember in order to write.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-08-01 08:01 pm


The she that resides within, the flawed priori, sees the hole she has torn inside of herself. I see what is poisoned because I have cleared the tunnel of any obstructions. What lays beneath the end of the coal mine, where the canary's bones have long turned to dust, is open simply because there is nothing in the way of the stretching view. I have taken my hands and broken them digging to the depths of the darkness that I now see all around me.

Whether or not the bones ever heal, whether or not I can clean the rock and mortar from under my nails...this lies within me. I've dug away from the light and now need to twist around. I must use this broken body, this broken mind, this broken strength to crawl towards the light, where I began digging to start with.

What's hardest to accept is that if the road has been cleared one way, it is cleared the other way as well. Redemption is not counted by the eclipses we see from the corners of our eyes. It is counted by knowing that the tunnel is not endless, the light exists, and that we drag ourselves to it.

I've become used to being sick. It is now effortless to reach. I've come to count on the darkness as the answer to who I am. And while the darkness will always be a part of me, I must know myself as the day and night knows itself - one inexorably woven with the other.

As the sun rises, I've turned my head away from it. I've fled, seeking what is easier, the sickness that I've made so accessible. There is a time for being in the dark. And there is a time for the light of day as well. I'm flawed and can make no promises in my hurry towards the light, that my path will not plunge into the tar black of this coal mine again.

But I can make a promise that I know I need to accept the light as well. Though it may make me squint, though I may not be able to see for how blinding it may be, it is what I need to find my way towards.

This she knows. Some days that will be all I can say. But some days I can do more than know, and this is what I will do.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-31 11:11 pm

Birthday Massacre - Incredbly well done fan videos



These are the parts of myself that I must learn how not to lose while I am learning a new me. I can have this darkness and health too.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-30 07:12 pm

Y'know those ridiculous warning labels they put on things?

And you have to think "Jesus, what idiot made them have to put THAT label on?" *slowly raises hand*

Me. That idiot would be me.

KLAXON NUMBER ONE GOING OFF: "This pill isn't working for my anxiety. Let's take another one. Shit, this one's not doing the job, either. Maybe this one will do it. Fuck! It's not working! Try this one and this one, too!"

I mixed several meds at once, despite the warnings from hundreds of bottles, doctors, friends, internet horror stories, psychiatrists, psychologists, and the most basic of common sense.

*KLAXON NUMBER TWO GOING OFF: Ignoring the relapse that I absolutely cannot ignore, I genuinely underestimated the warnings I've heard about mixing meds and alcohol. I looked at the bottle of rum on Jesse's desk.

KLAXON NUMBER THREE GOING OFF: "How bad can it be? It's just a few shots." I made the decision and then the action to destroy 17 years of sobriety.

The rest reads like any other overdose story, like any other relapse story, like any other dive into psychotic self-destructive behavior. The more I go on, the more I'm finding my war stories aren't that unique.

Acting fucked up doesn't make me special.

It makes me, as you said I wasn't, Michael, a statistic. That's exactly what all this is making me. A statistic that - and you're right, Gonzo - that's going to land me face-down on the floor for a final time.


That's the number on my medical bracelet for this visit. A number. Just a fucking number. A statistic. A case of "terminal uniqueness," and getting more terminal each time I get a new number slapped on myself.

I'm not sure what else to write. 30 meetings in 30 days. DBT and talk-therapy start next week. My application to volunteer at the local no-kill animal shelter gets started this week. The treatment plan gets longer, more complicated - and I can only hope - more comprehensive.

There's more to be written - and will be done so, because if there's anything that I am as good at as I am with self-destructive behaviors is babbling self-obsessively about my self-obsessive behaviors.

And each of you - every single one of you who commented - hit a bulls-eye. That's to be discussed with extreme seriousness.

The things I said to Jesse....this is something that I can say "I'm sorry" for all day long (and I have), but this is going to have to be a living amend. As in, if I'm truly sorry, I will change the behavior and not do it again.

Change is the truest apology one can make, and for what I've put him through, nothing but a true apology will mend these wounds I am ripping in between us.

Thank you all so much for supporting him. You guys have no idea how much that means to me. Thank you. THANK YOU.

Ridiculous aside to end tonight with: Do not underestimate hospital security, either in their tenacity or their ability to call back-up lightning fast. I was sooooo sure they wouldn't actually touch me for fear of lawsuits. And in that delusion, I kneed the closest guard in the nuts and tried to make a run for it.

(At 4 AM in the morning. During one of the most violent storms that Kansas City has seen in years, to which I was going to walk miles through to get home. In a hospital gown. "Presence of mind" is not something I could have been accused of.)

Yeeeeeaaahhhh. Two security guards turned into eight guards *likethat*. In my howling, flailing, biting, scratching, punching, and kicking, all nine of us (each security guard and myself) wound up with multiple bruises that are going to take weeks to fade.

I don't know whether to be slightly proud or profoundly sad that it took eight trained men, ten full minutes, and their special triple locked restraints to strap me to the bed. At the moment, I'm mostly wincing from the bruises left over, and feeling a little bad that each of those men are also wincing from bruises that I gave them.

Also screaming "Where the fuck did you learn your restraint techniques?! 50 Shades of fucking Gray?!" does not help.

Lesson learned.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-27 11:20 pm

From the ICU and beyond. -Jesse

"I was not trying to kill myself, I just wanted to stop myself from cutting" she admonishes me. "I wanted to go to sleep so I do not act on the urge." "What is the big deal, so I had a little to drink?" Quote from QT (This was from the later visit to the ICU deliver her the things she will need in the mental health floor, Yesterday.)

Words are seeds that bloom over time and landmines waiting to rip apart the unwary.

In the ER room (with Pat) and then the ICU (sans P).

She is a really mean drunk, things she said stick in my mind.

She thinks I betrayed her, when I dialed 911. Mixing prescription drugs with ANY alcohol is bad. We have cut others from our lives for such behavior. Even ashamed, I do not regret it.

It took 8 security guards and straps to keep her in the ICU, I was not there.

I cried into Pats mothers arms yesterday and I am crying writing this.

I am sorry for this post being all over the place.

I cry harder for that sentence I have just written, this is against my will.

Gathered, a bit better. I have decided something has broken, moving on.

This afternoon on the phone after being moved from ICU to the recovering side of the ward, we spoke. She is feeling truly hopeless, lost. To be locked away forever would be a mercy she believes. Even asking me, what does it take to be committed forever? Murder? I half laughed at that, the other gripped in fear. I read into it, but still.

She hopes she will get out tomorrow.

I am not sure how I feel about that.

The verbosity of this post is some of what I needed to update, the rest is just verbal vomit.

I read your comments

Post or edit, post or edit...
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-26 12:57 pm

A 911 call later covered in vomit. -Jesse here

Xanax, alcohol, other pills caused her to become unable to walk. After she began to throw up and choking on it, falling to the floor. I called 911 when she could not talk.

She broke her sobriety by drinking Rum I had, no more alcohol in the house.

All because she did not want to cut.

I am not okay, I am at a loss.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-25 07:09 pm

Sometimes it's as simple as not wanting to ruin Jesse's day

Wild, strong, damn near burning cutting urges that lasted all day - 0.

Teressa ending the day with clear skin - 1.

Set, game, match, bitches.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-25 12:58 pm

I guess you could take smoking as a minor flaw. That's, like, one blood point extra, right?

Lupus and sunlight literally drains the life out of me. (Creation of melanoma = dead cells for my body to shove into the garbage can).

So I guess after all those years of being a teenager and playing Vampire: The Masquerade (Alkie Malkie, anyone?), dressing like a vampire, and wishing to be a vampire have finally come true.

And let's not forget the anemia, which equals a paleness that any vampire would be proud of.

Stupid, ridiculous, teenage Teressa.

(Said after a brief, 20 minute run in the very hot, very sunny outside to procure cigarettes. Do vampires even smoke cigarettes?)
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-24 06:11 pm

Rhetorical question is rhetorical

Why do I worship Death? I have no other gods, no other patrons or symbols that have captured my love the way Death has. I have loved Death for decades, long before my actual brushes with death that left my life waiting in the span of hours, in minutes of actually meeting Death.

Why do I have shrine built to the very idea of death? Skeletons, mini-graveyards filled with actual cemetery dirt (I still have that, Cemetery!) Pictures of graveyards, cards made by friends of movies that deal with death, a locket of the Catholic patron of Death. The comic of the Crow. A rose with an actual muskrat skull buried within the petals. Jewelry of bones. An actual animal skull, in full, on display.

Are people like me born this way or are we made this way?

Why do I worship Death? And why does it comfort me?
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-23 08:42 pm

Private blisses

The night ends in a private bliss. A hot bath, meds to let the hot water sink into every pore, and music as haunting and beautiful as what shivers down the darkest hallways of my soul.

It's exhilarating, cathartic - to have it just be you, the water rising, and alone as this apartment gets. (One closing door in the entire place - and that place is the bathroom.)

Jesse gets worried. He'll check on me, I assume to make sure I'm not painting the walls red with my blood or else have fallen asleep in the tub. (Though I do love to lay in the tub once the water has been drained, cooling off on the still warm but not concrete cold porcelain.)

Sometimes that's all I need to chase the demons away. Be alone, be in hot water that soothes like softly felt fire, and to hear what speaks to the sorrow.

I can sleep with some sort of peace now. And at the end of the day, that's truly all I want.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-23 01:07 pm

Tracking the swings

Mood hit a wild downswing, for the reasons that they do, most famous being why the hell not? It's not depression. That's easy to recognize. It's not sadness. That's also easy to name. It's something more chaotic than that. Something that I'm not sure how it's going to manifest.

Predictability is not a virtue, nor a thing I put any faith inside.

Gonna try to sleep it out. May or may not work.

Sleepless nights at the black and white keys
I'll let my fingers say it for me.

Sometimes I swear the lyrics words write me
The words write me.

The melody a remedy to calm me down
You never did approve of the fix I found.

You can bury my body in the backyard,
When you're not looking I'll go dig myself up!
" Icon for Hire "Rock N Roll Thugs"

Buried halfway underground due to the tricksters in my head. And if I shall have enough dirt thrown at my head to bury me completely, I will try to dig myself out. I will try.

That's all anyone can ask of me, whether or not I manage actually to crawl out of the grave covered in dirt or covered in blood.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-23 08:44 am

Science and how it redeems itself

I think I've discovered the core issue of my life-long migraines - and it's ridiculously basic.

High blood pressure.

Since the worst of them only happen when I forget to take them (my potassium blocker, for some reason, always ends up the "forget to take it till mid-afternoon" list), and I now know I've had high blood pressure for most of my life, it's easy enough to pinpoint the largest cause.

Just a few pills and for the most part, my skull stays exactly where it is and does not explode into boney-shards waves of pain. I do still GET migraines, but those are now either stress related, (usually when I am having bad or anxiety dreams) or "Oh shit, I forgot my pills. Goddamnit."

The wonders of modern medicine. I'd say I'm surprised no one caught it, but outside of two urgent-care clinics (basically one-time doctor visits which do not have access to full medical equipment or personnel), I hadn't been to a doctor in 20 years. There was no one there TO catch it.

Lack of health insurance, mostly. I saw little reason to go to an ER as they always said "Go to your doctor", of which thanks to having no health insurance, I didn't have a doctor to go to.

One time I went in hoping to get sent to rehab, but SURPRISE, my small town's single rehab center did not take methamphetamine addicts, as they did not believe it was a physical addiction.

(Thank fucking God we know better now.)

Seriously, the 90's sucked so hard for some of this medical/psychiatric shit. Mad props to anyone who had to get help for physical or mental health in earlier decades. I mean, FOR REALS.

And even now, in 2017, we are still waiting on science to catch up on so much stuff. Why do epilepsy drugs work for bipolar disorder? Not a fucking clue. Is lupus family-based genetically passed? Not a fucking clue. What REALLY causes addiction, and why do support groups work only some of the time? Not a fucking clue.

Shit like that. I'm exceedingly grateful that we know so much more now. I'm exceedingly exasperated that we don't know MORE than we do now.

But I guess that's science. EUREKA moments are made-for-tv only and the rest of us have to live in Real Life. I guess, for today, that's okay.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-22 03:59 pm

(no subject)

One of the most awesome things about being an adult is that you can eat whatever you want to, whenever you want to (assuming kidneys, livers, and all other forms of digestive system implements are working at somewhat full health.) Now, my promises at 8 years old of eating nothing but chocolate bars has fallen off the rail as the years go on and I find out I actually LIKE certain fruits, vegetables, and the occasional salad, buuuuut -

I'm 36 and the novelty of this has never worn out. I want to binge eat three gigantic bowls of Fruity Loops for lunch AND dinner?

quirkytizzy: (Default)
2017-07-22 10:26 am

This is not a gift. It's practice. Like, do your homework kind of fucking practice.

Sometimes I tire of this "gift", this "talent" I have for writing - a gift that I argue is comprised of mostly practice and study. Want to write well? Read a lot of fucking books and write everyday that you can. Do that for several years and BAM - other people will compliment you in awe of your "gift" and your "talent." That's what this "gift" is. That's what ANY "gift" is. Practice and study.

I wasn't born with this. I worked for 24 years to be able to do this. Don't call it a gift. It's fucking self-imposed homework is what it is.

A "gift" implies that is it something one must share with the world - the entire world, lest they be deprived of of your brilliance. I tire of that as well. As much as I've discovered the benefits of public writing, it doesn't make me a fucking genius. It just makes me someone who took all the handwritten journals over the years and moved onto writing on a website that was totally cool back in 2006.

Most (okay, ALL) of my writing is just me trying to keep my head above water. There's not a lot of energy left over write in any other fashion for any other group of people. No, it's NOT as easy as just editing 17 years total of writing. No, it's NOT as easy as just throwing the whole thing on whatever new self-publishing site is new. No, it's NOT as easy to go entry by entry and rewrite the commentary as I see it NOW, years later.

And maybe that's WHY I should do it. Because it's NOT easy - and nothing good has ever just waltzed right up and sat in my lap. But when Maslow's Hierarchy is toppling from the base down, goddamnit, I have the right to do something that helps it from falling over entirely, and that's general journaling.

Will I ever have the energy and the spare psychic wherewithal to write something more than just a journal? I have no idea, and that idea is yeeears away right now anyways. I'm in deep waters, writing is a life-raft, and I'm not ready to build a goddamn cool life-raft designed mansion on the sea just to impress others.

I'm not sure why this frustration is coming this morning. It's been a few days since Jesse and I got into about my writing (and what it should be and what I should do with it.) Maybe there really is the next Great American Novel inside of me.

But she's gonna have to wait in line, because right now I've 200 dollars worth of bills to pay, no money coming IN to pay it, and cramps that are borderline bodily implosion. This is maintenance writing, and y'know what?

I'm okay with that.