She

Aug. 1st, 2017 08:01 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
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)
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)
I've taken my meds and should be asleep. But for the reasons they do, the words have grabbed me by the hair and drug my ass to computer to write. I'm not quite sure what they need me to say. All I've got is three words.

Reclaim. Your. Power. Incorporate what you've been through in the last year into your power, because you didn't lose it, you just gained it through a particularly painful way.

Every entry where I screamed, every entry where I poured out the fear and the babble, that's power. It's not easy to show the entire world just how messy you are. Every time I cut myself, that's power. It's a hell of a thing to be determined to knife yourself repeatedly, a thing that most people couldn't dream of doing for the sheer pain they'd feel. Every time I tried to kill myself, that's power, because it takes immense force of will to barrel over the human need for self-preservation.

Every time I admitted every psychiatric ward stay, that's power. That's accountability for something that shame would bury. Every hospital stay that I allowed endless needles to be shoved into me, every time I made the right decision about food despite kicking and screaming about it, every time I made the wrong move about what medications to stay on, that's power.

That's acting like a human being with a vicious sense of self-will, run-riot or else wrestled down issues that John Cena couldn't suplex. That's power.

And it's not the only power I've gained over my life. It's not as if this is the first time Life curbstombed me. This is not my first rodeo. I was powerful before, survived, reached out and got help for it every damn time, and came to discover a me that I knew and loved.

That's fucking power. I've gained power through every slash of the skin since the first transgression against me as a child and more power through every wound that healed to scar like glue.

I haven't lost myself. I just lost some of the things I can do. That's not the same as losing who I am. And all of it - the Crazy, the pretty writing, the Lupus, the love from my support circle - it's been loud and it's been powerful.

"Oh no, no, am I getting too loud?
Am I getting too loud? Am I getting too loud?!"


This last year has been LOUD. Sheer volume doesn't always make for graceful pile-driving down your issues. But it sure as hell makes it more powerful - and for the first time in over a year, I see the power. I see MY power.

"You can't ignore the truth inside you!!"

The truth inside of me is that I have power. Have had it, have it, and trial by fire, gaining more of it.

I know I'm not the only one whose had a year that's blasted out their eardrums. Let's take the volume and feel it hit our pulses. Let's take that loudness and rip our damn well earned power from it.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I curse like a sailor, but there are few words I consider curses. One of them, one of the biggest ones, starts with "G".

Goals. Goals, as far as I am concerned, are nothing but vile cursewords, designed to shock with revulsion and vulgarity. Or at least that's how I feel about the word. Goals are something people with safe lives set. Goals are something people with sane lives set. Goals are something people with stability set.

Goals are not set by people who wound up getting expelled from three high schools because they were a fucked up, abused youth. Goals are not set by people who have lived such life-long poverty that they make it a point to take handfuls of napkins from any restaurant they visit, awaiting the inevitable day they don't have a dollar to buy a cheap set of toilet paper. Goals are not something ex-junkies who still miss their drugs, 20 years later, make.

Goals are not set by people who randomly tell their husbands of 10 years that they want a divorce and then plunge themselves into a 5 year partnership with someone who misspends 14 thousand dollars of rent money. Goals are not set by people who get job after job after job, losing them because they just "weren't a good fit". Goals are not set by those who lose their dream job that they were actually making headway at because their kidneys decided to play Russian Roulette.

(And there's only two chambers in that version of the game.)

Goals are not for people who cut themselves because they're bored, or who always seems to land in the psych ward on the day they've made active plans to hang out with friends. Goals are not for people whose immune system has made a game of Devil's Chess a fond pastime.

Goals are not for people for whom, either having done it themselves or who just have an adversarial relationship with Fate, make. We just don't do it. It's pointless. Why put all that effort, time, work, and HOPE into something that Life's just gonna yank out from under you anyways?

I loathe goals. I do not believe in them. I do not "do" goals.

And because Fate has decided it knows better than me (and hey, it probably does sometimes), my case manager have been setting goals for the last two weeks. Small goals. Infinitesimal goals. Toddler steps.

Goals such as (set today) I will call and make an appointment for food stamps tomorrow. I'm far less likely to blow off an official appointment than if I just wait till I feel like going. Goals such as coming up with three places I might consider volunteering at and bringing her the information when we meet next.

Goals that make me feel like a 12 year old, instead of the 36 year old who SHOULD be raking in her 401K by now. Goals that make me feel like I'm starting out on the bottom rung again. Goals that I'm terrified I won't be able to keep because I'm just so fucking bad at them, no matter how simple they may seem.

Goals require reliability. I am not reliable right now. And I know that THAT is what make the goals so important right now, because one gains reliability THROUGH ACCOMPLISHING GOALS. Beyond abolishing boredom (a huge problem right now), giving a person a sense of identity (also a huge problem right now), accomplishing goals is a life-raft someone can hold onto when the waves get too rough. "Can't go off the rails now, I have (INSERT X GOAL) to report on next week."

And it's so goddamn cliche, but really, I am that typical "afraid to set goals because I'm afraid I'll fail" person. There's fear - real fear - here about the idea of goals. About the stupidly small goals I set today.

What if I can't hold it together long enough to get to her next week with anything? What if I wind up doing something and bleeding and spend the next week in yet another psych ward stay? What if I get the appointment for food stamps set and get sick and can't go? What if I don't fit the volunteer requirements for the places I want to volunteer at?

Worst of all, what if I just don't want to do it because it's fucking work?

What if I have to face not only my fear, but my laziness as well?

What if?

What if?

What if I have to let go of a lifetime of not believing in something (goals) and have to build a whole new structure around the concept, which is a FUUUUUCKTON of work?

What if?

What if?

What if I can't do it?
quirkytizzy: (Default)
It's my birthday today. A fresh 36 years old. And I fucking LOVE it. My birthday is the one day out of the hair that I give myself to be happy the whole day, if nothing else because I beat that bastard with the scythe one more race around the Earth.

Tick, tock, the clock is always counting down. And riding out one more twist of the second hand feels amazing.

And nothing feels as good as cheating Death. Especially the last year. The deal I signed with the Devil erases itself one more time.

Didn't think I'd make it this far. Hell, I'd didn't think I'd make it past thiry. And there's no saying a wayward semi-truck will go off roading, ending this day with me being smashed road hamburger along a concrete divider lining the road.

But goddamnit, I made it 36 years, body and mind still functional. A heart that finds new walls to smash through, a heart that always seems to find just one more person to take residence in.

That's a hell of a goal and I'm damned proud of it.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Thank you, Beth, for the birthday present! We've been subsisting on salad leaves and bread for a few days now, so that can go to some real food. That always makes me happy! Thank you!

My head's been in a strange place the last day or so.

Clarity, you said, Ben. That's what struck me, because I feel I am still wandering aimlessly in the dust and haze of wrecked buildings that have fallen all around me. What's clear seems only in the basic sense: I want to live. I want to find a way around my dramatic ability to make pretty with red, because while it's pretty to me, it's disturbing to others.

And while it's not my job to make sense or palatable beauty to the world, it is my job to do so for my loved ones.

Clarity is a long haul. But it's a word for me to get a deathgrip on, (no horrible past-action pun intended), because I guess the best thing that anyone gets out of lives like ours IS clarity.

I'm finding the answer to a question I had in my 20's. I didn't understand how people who lived normal lives - good childhoods, good jobs, good marriages, good financial situations - could find themselves frantically pulling through the Self-Help section at Borders, looking for books about how to find meaning to their lives. They already have everything. That's their meaning!, I thought.

I still don't understand why they fail to see how full their lives are. But it does resonate it in that I, at roughly the same age, am doing the same thing - just about different issues.

Maybe it's not about WHY people search for meaning, only that we all are. The human condition is inescapable, no matter how much money you make or how well your relationship is going.

THAT makes sense to me.

I'm slowly slipping on my goal of "Have 30 minutes of meaningful interaction with a human being every other day". I like to live inside of myself, especially these days. Going outside is fraught with chances of risk, boredom and not being understood among them, even if it's with loved ones.

But this is a goal and goals take effort. So after this shortly, Jesse and I are going to play some Rayman on his computer. It's been ages since I've played a video game, and it's with someone I love, and it's definitely interactive (which is what I've termed the meaning of "meaningful interaction" as).

Even though today I'd be perfectly happy to just float inside of myself, getting out is part of the recovery process.

Yes

Jul. 1st, 2017 05:37 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
There are things I am getting tired of saying on Livejournal. Things such as "I tried to kill myself again." Things such as "I spent two days in the ICU and another 5 days in the psych ward. Again."

Things such as "I'm sorry I didn't treat your love as carefully as I should have. I'm sorry that you got woke up by the EMT's again. I'm sorry I don't remember you holding my hand in the ICU. I'm sorry that I didn't listen when you said that I needed a medication check. I'm sorry I lost your coat in the emergency room. I'm sorry that I scared you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Wellbutrin, as you said about your own medication maladies, Franklanguage, flattened me so hard. What was that quote, the one from Peter Pan? The one that kept circling a week ago, the one that goes "Dying...would be an awfully grand adventure." Surely I'd feel something.

I did. )

I had a breakthrough, one that found me sobbing silently through a night group meeting, for hours afterwards, and has split my heart open to the idea that maybe it's okay to be flawed and still be loved. To be okay with being loved.

Out of the last year, all of the blood spilled, the hundreds of pills I've swallowed trying to do myself in, I have surrounded myself in a cocoon of shame. Of low self-worth. Of wondering how anyone could love someone who is so careless with her own skin, her own life, and wondering how long those around me could hold on before having to let go for their own sanity.

And there was shared the story of the Cracked Pot. An old parable in which a cracked pot, filled with shame and apologies about not being able to hold as much water as another, fully functional water pot, finds out he has been inadvertently watering a beautiful line of flowers along the road he traveled. Its flaw had given it a chance to give a gift that none else could without such a crack in its pottery.

I've heard endless stories like these over the years. Heard and dismissed them all, because hey, I am WAY too cool for school. But suddenly, with my heart still limping from too many drugs to keep blood pressure low, it struck me with such force that at first I didn't even realize I was crying.

I had to wonder if it was possible, if it were even just the slightest bit possible, the tiniest molecule of a chance, if that was why my loved ones had kept me around for years, if not decades.

Could it be possible that some of these flaws I spend so much time apologizing for actually foster something beautiful and useful for my loved ones? Was there any way they ever got anything positive from my experiences, no matter how "different" that positive might be?

Could their love be the product of a beautiful thing that I cannot see, instead of pity or mere moral obligation?

Is it?

Is that why you are still here?

Is that why after the last year of endless wailing, countless self-inflicted scars, attempts to die despite knowing how loved I am, people still say that they love me?

Am I not a mistake? Am I more than a collection of sad stories, pottery shards, and pills strewn across counters and floors? Am I useful? Am I more than just a year's worth of endless fuck-ups? Are these words something I can be proud of, even if they scream that I'm not sure if love or trust is enough to live for?

More than anything now, I want to live long enough to find the answer is "Yes". I want to live long enough to find the answer is "Yes, and let me give you as long as you need to know it." I want to live long enough to find new reasons, new goals to be loved for. Hell, I even want to live long enough to make new mistakes and still know the answer is "Yes."

Yes not for the things I do but the things I AM, yes FOR the things I do, yes for an entire goddamn natural lifetime.

Yes. Yes. YES. Yes to the new circle of support I have created by the psych ward (mental health visits that do HOME visits), yes to the first paragraph of that goddamn memoir that I finally fucking started, yes to living, yes to crying, yes to the tears of joy writing this, because I am alive enough to write.

YES. YES. YES.



Yes.
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.

Not broken

Jun. 11th, 2017 08:07 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
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.
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)
There is sleep and there is peace. The two do not always coincide. I have slept today. I have kept the darkness at bay. The worst of the thoughts only went as far as "I don't want what I used to have. I just want to kill the pain."

As far as the darkest of my thoughts go, it is not enough to send me into a suicidal spiral.

I watch Jessica Jones again. I do not know what I am looking for in it, only that I am searching. I am always searching lately. The questions overshadow all of the answers and the answers always waver. But the search continues. Perhaps there is peace to be had in that, though it's not something I can easily convince myself of.

I will not sleep well tonight. I never sleep well. But maybe there will be peace in what sleep I do get. Sometimes, just sometimes, in the moments before sleep overtakes me, I find myself unaware of what hurts, what I fear, and what the next day will bring.

If that is peace, even if it is not sleep, then that is what I will take. I will never be a peaceful person. It is not in my nature, nor is it in written in my code. There has rarely been peace in my life before and it will never be a continued state of my life in the future. But maybe, just maybe, I can experience a few moments of it.

As always, if that is what I have, then it has to be enough.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I keep waiting for the sun to come out. The sunlight in me to come out. Recovering from the abuse of my childhood came with clearly defined markers, year by year. Month by month, even. I could feel hope about this as I clearly was making progress. This?

Will this be like recovery from my drugs? Where it takes years of frantic obsession, checking and rechecking, white-knuckling, experiencing only brief moments of serenity, to finally get better?

Because I remember it was like that. It took two years before the terror and agonizingly long work finally paid off. Two years. It felt endless. And in the end, it was like I just woke up one day and it was gone. The obsession to use, the need to apply ungodly amounts of platitudes just to get through the day, the hopelessness, it had just...out of nowhere, it just lifted.

One day I woke up and was free from the needle and free to my live my life. Simple as that.

Since this does not seem to be like the first, I can only assume it's going to be like the second. Where one day, I'll just wake up and be...happy with being me.

And if I'm honest, getting to that day just seems like it's getting harder and harder somedays. I'll make it. There's nothing else to do BUT make it.

But if this is a needle, goddamn, it's going to be another long, long year to get there.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
(And Karl, your recent post is one that I want to get back to, directly as a response to your post. Despite having been there, I don't think I have any answers. They are both so simple and yet so complicated at the same time. Do not feel as if you are alone or as if the issues you raised were said into a vacuum. I noticed and as soon as I am able, I will respond.)

My own morning inner monologue:

* How are you making it, Teressa? How are you still alive and waking up each day, even if it means sleeping all day, or crying and trying to crawl away from the darkest thoughts, or watching tv in the deepest malaise you've ever known?

* Honest answer? The brutal, honest answer?

* Yes. I want the honest answer, brutal as it may be.

* Truthfully, I don't know. I honest-to-god don't have any clue as to how I'm "making it." I guess I figure that feeling hopeless about the future implies a future to BE hopeless about.

* Is that enough?

* It has to be.

* Okay. Okay. If that's what it is, then that's okay.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
While I no longer believe my life has meaning nor purpose, nor that breathing itself counts as a victory...I am at least still breathing.

"I'm like an ambulance that's turning on the sirens
I'm like a soldier coming home for the first time
I dodged a bullet and I walked across a landmine

Oh, I'm still alive

Am I bleeding am I bleeding from the storm?
Just shine a light into the wreckage, so far away, away

I'm like a junkie tying off for the last time
I'm like a loser that's betting on his last dime

As I walked out on the ledge
Are you scared to death to live?

And the truth that's in the message
'Cause I'm still breathing
'Cause I'm still breathing on my own
" - Greenday "Still Breathing"
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I am shocked to find that the potassium blocker prescribed does, actually, help keep my blood pressure even. It's a POTASSIUM blocker. Like milk and dairy shit. No idea it could help your heart work better. So go the mysteries of science.

Jesse and I had an illuminating conversation on recovery from chronic illnesses. He asked how far I could go on the treadmill when I first started exercising. "Uhhh, about a quarter mile," I said. "And even that wiped me out." He then asked how far I was going right before lupus jumped up and went Hey, Lupus! "Two and a half miles, five days a week."

Then he asked me how long it took to get there. I remember it taking almost a month. Then, as a final question, he asked if there were any times that I was too sore, too tired, or too ill to work out.

"Plenty of times. It always set back my endurance, too. But I also always managed to work back up to those two and a half miles", I said, beginning to understand the connection. While this is a hell of a lot more severe than the ability to climb on a treadmill, it helped me realize that (1) it's okay to have setbacks that actually set you back and (2) that I can work back up after that.

Not that I'll ever likely be able to run another two and a half miles, five days a week (metaphorically, at least), but it was a good analogy to ease some of the rage I have about this whole thing.

I like metaphors and analogies.

A new resentment that I am only now beginning to recognize: The insistence that sick people focus on "the small joys of life." I've never had a problem finding or treasuring those moments before. My journals over the last 20 years are littered with records of small moments of delight. The relaxation of a cup of coffee and a good friend. An astounding sunrise. Watching a squirrel dash about on an emerald green lawn.

It's just that before I used to also have BIG moments. A full life, an active life. I do not consider what I have at this time much of a life at all. To be told that I now have to focus on "the small things" feels like I'm being told, yet AGAIN, "to make do with less."

I don't want less. Hell, I don't even want MORE. I just want what I used to have.

It makes me wonder if constantly touting the small moments is simply something that sick people say to make themselves feel better. As if being ill gives us some kind of superpower to enjoy life on kibble instead of the full meals that normal people eat. As if our illness gives us a special sense of inspiration and focus that normal people don't have.

And that, my friends, is just total fucking bullshit.

Idk. Maybe there's merit to the idea. On my good days, I DO notice the sunrise. I DO see the squirrels. I DO have coffee with friends. It's just with so many bad days that stretch into weeks, it gets hard to remember them.

But maybe today is the day Jesse and I can go to the park and just sit on a bench for half an hour. Granted, I'll have to put on, like, a MILLION coats of sunscreen to avoid a flare, but just maybe.

That's where it feels like my life is right now. "Just maybe."

Well, wearisome as it might be, here's to "just maybe."
quirkytizzy: (Default)
My brain decided to wrap three of its favorite nightmare themes into one dream last night. My mother, my stepdad, AND dead cats. And as I sat outside for my first morning cigarette, trying to shake away the tears and nausea, I realized something.

That was harder.

It took two years to get away from them and another 20 years to get over them. I was so young. I was only 15 at the start of it. I had no idea what I was doing, only knew the desperation of having to get away from them.

And I eventually did just that. Did it at an incredibly young age, fighting them, calling a million agencies trying to raise the red flags, joining the courts against the only parents I had truly known at that age. I did all that.

I cannot run away from lupus. There are no red flags to be waived, no armies of social workers I can raise and stand with. Lupus is buried deep within my DNA. There is no hope of separating my body from this disease.

But getting away from them...that was harder. Healing from them....that was harder. It, however, gave me a roadmap. Faded, dusty from lack of use as it is, I know the path to freedom.

And I've decided to use it. Though it may take another two years of desperate struggle to remove myself from this immediate crisis, and another twenty years to accept this crisis, I will do it.

I will be angry. I will be overcome with sorrow. I will lose entire days, weeks, months to the fight, just as I did 22 years ago. But goddamnit, it was a fight well worth it.

So this will be as well.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Some nights my meds hit me like a brick inside 10 minutes. Other nights it takes hours. I never know what makes the difference.Bitching about writing )

I wanted to talk about angels. I don't believe in angels, but if there were, I might have met one in a recent ER trip. Fragile, slowly breaking down, but with the most innocent, selfless personality I've ever run into. She was venting about her partner, who refuses to do things like take her to ER and doctor appointments. And she gives everything to him. She talked that she would rather see him happy than herself. And I believe her.

And here I am, struggling to find ways to make anyone else feel better. To give back even the tiniest of attention and care they have endlessly, patiently giving me.

She seemed to be my perfect foil, the absolute opposite of me. I'm an asshole. An outright jerk. And here was someone that made the difference clear.

I need to learn how to be more selfless while she needs to learn how to be more selfish. Such diametrically opposed lessons that need learned, sitting right in front of me.

We exchanged numbers, though I have no idea when I'll feel well enough to contact her.

I also realized something about prayer. Prayer is something you do FOR OTHERS. There was a woman in the hospital, in pain and not at all understanding what was happening to her. She was hysterical, terrified, and so small in her illness. I gave a small, silent prayer that she gets the care she needs.

I don't need prayer myself, as I have no idea if (or believe) divine help is available. But maybe there's something out there listening and maybe other people need it more.

One more smoke and then to bed. I haven't written near enough as I want to, but my body has now closed down for the night, locks and steel grates down tight.

2 AM. There's no use in trying to fight this any longer.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
OMG, THANK YOU FAIRY! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! Jesse and I will now go see them, and I'll get a chance to thank the band for being such a huge part of my recovery. I've been dying for ages to let them know that (and they are often busy and aren't able to respond to fan mail.) It'll also be FUN!

And yep, Radium, I literally JUST NOW got it. Like, 20 years after the very first game release. I can be a really slow learner. It actually took me that long to put two and two together.

And she really DOES come off as sociopathic, what with the wanton slaughter and all, right Gonzo? I never realized just how violent the game was, and just how murder-hungry Laura Croft is until Jesse started playing through the last released game.

I mean, Jesus. What a thing to recognize!

Again, thank you so much, Fairy. Seeing as my income consists solely of borrowed money, I do not ask for fun money to spend. It all always goes to basics. If I do something just for fun (which is usually going out to eat), I wait until Pat or another friend takes me out and can pay for it on-the-spot. This ensures that, as they are spending the money RIGHT THERE, that they can afford it and I am not draining them.

It'll be wonderful to be able to do something extracurricular. This is a chance to do something other than simply survive. Thank you SO MUCH FOR THAT!

Wait, I can spell the word "extracurricular", but I can't spell nausea without spellcheck? Geeeeez. I blame the English, what with all their silent letters and whatnot. (America is not as removed from the Motherland as one might think.) Though maybe I really ought to blame the ROMANS, as they turned what would eventually be the English language into a mess of silent letters.

Damn silent letters.

English is rough. Also, boobs. )

I also often find myself...flummoxed about HOW to put on clothes. As if I've forgotten how a shirt works. It can take SEVERAL ENTIRE MINUTES just to get a shirt on properly. Cognitive dysfunction rules my head, I guess, but it's annoying and worrisome.

I've also put my necklace back on, as the clip on the necklace had broken. The one that has a key, representative of my sister, and my Santa Muerte locket. It is comforting, both the weight and symbolism of it.

While I am not spiritual, I can be damned superstitious. That locket has been with me for all but the very first hospitalization. The ones that could have gone really, REALLY wrong. The ones where I almost died. But She was there, either around my neck or nearby in my purse. (Often they need to remove the necklace for chest x-rays or whatever.) But the point is that every time something went catastrophically wrong, She was near and somehow, every time, I escaped Death.

Not saying that I believe in her as an honest to god deity. But I DO believe in the power of symbolism - and what she represents is a very, very strong symbol.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Which is terribly silly, as I can't imagine why McDonald's would make anyone cry. (Sans anti-fast food zealots, of which I am far from. I fucking LOVE fast food.)

This happens ONLY at McDonald's, not in any other fast food joint I might be stopping in at. And this ONLY happens when I'm eating alone at McDonalds. But sure as shit, if I'm there by myself, listening to whatever concoction of soft pop and country they've got playing over the speakers, I find myself fighting tears.

Every. Damn. Time. For some reason, eating alone at McDonalds prompts feelings of loneliness, depression, resignation, and even despair.

But ONLY at McDonalds. Only there. Not at Burger King or Jack in the Box or anywhere else where the food is fast, cheap, and as equally bad for you. I can eat alone anywhere else and feel just fine, or even feel joy at being able to indulge in fast food.

Just not at McDonalds.

I dun get it.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I've decided to come up with two goals a day. One will be of the necessary type: Appointments, self-care, etc. The other is what I will call my Bucket List goal. They will be comprised of things such as cleaning or fun things to do.

I, in general, LOATHE setting goals of any kind. If there is one, singular lesson life has taught me, it is that it changes. A lot. Over and over and over. And for me, usually in traumatic ways that upheave any thoughts I had about how the next 5 or 10 years might go.

My life changes so fast and on such a tight spin that if I were to have goals, they'd have to shift lifetimes in moments.

I'm just not that fast. I can't adjust that quickly. It's like that old joke - Wanna make God laugh? Make plans. God's laughed at me enough. I don't make plans anymore.

Goal setting of the tiniest kind )

Forgive me, world and beyond, but I'm just not caught up on catching up yet.

I read the funniest article on the thoughts that go through a chronically ill person's mind. I thought it would be funny to write out a few daily thoughts that I have, every day, good day or bad.

* Where are my granny panties? (Known for being super comfortable while also being the most unsexy thing a person can don on their derriere.) Goddamnit, why do I own anything BUT granny panties? I need to buy more granny panties!

* Is this the day something is going to go terribly wrong?

* Hurry up, 3-D printing. I need new joints and new kidneys STAT.

* Why me? No, shut the fuck up, Teressa. Why NOT me? There. That's the better thought.

* Can I reeeallly pull off this outfit with my size 11 leopard print boots? (Which are the only shoes that fit when I'm edema's bitch.)

* At least I know of three places I can go into in any manner of dishevelment and not get strange looks. Doctor offices. Psych offices. Walmart.

* Who am I going to annoy for money for gas, cigarettes, and shampoo from this week? (This is a constant, daily, reoccurring thought.) And as the months stretch on, it becomes a SEVERE source of fear and anxiety. I know my loved ones have only so much to give - and only so much I should ask from them. (If I were a good person, at least.)

I have enough sense to ask anyways, as things need to be bought and bills need to be paid. It has, though, shredded what pride I have in asking for help, in ways that I've never been ashamed of before.

And as of the last couple of weeks....

* You are not hopeless. Give yourself credit for the trauma your body has been through, and then it will be easier to give yourself credit for the trauma your mind has gone through. BE. PATIENT.

That last one doesn't always work, but the thought is there, even when I don't believe it.

That's a good thing. That's a very good thing.

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