Jun. 14th, 2017

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.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
We just got the news of a massive, massive building fire in London. I know I have a few friends there.

Are you guys okay? Sound off!
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Cutting whoring.

I'd lain down for a nap, perfectly happy, woke up and took a coffee cup outside, along with a razor blade I'd left in my purse. The razor was an afterthought, more or less being surprised that it was there to begin with.

Five minutes later, there's new blood pooling on my arms.

Ten minutes later, I am on the phone with every psychiatric unit trying to find a bed. None has one, and the two that might have been left voices mails and/or are busy lines.

I don't know what the hell to do, why it crashed so fast, or why it crashed why I was feeling just fucking fine, thank you.

Today's been a wierd as hell day. When the hell did I turn into my 15 year old self? When the hell did I get the balls to spend an hour on the phone (something that breaks me into a sweat anyways) trying to get help?

Up and down. It's annoying the hell out of Jesse, and I can't blame him one bit. This kind of shit is exhausting and exasperating to go through on a regular basis. Hell, even ***I*** feel exhausted, annoyed, and exasperated. We fight one the problem being my sedative, to which hey, if you don't mind me not sleeping for FUCKING MONTHS AT A TIME, sure, cut out the nighttime meds and let's see what a REAL manic episode looks like.

I wouldn't like it, but for the sheer force that it's being advocated, it's tempting to do just so I can say "I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO, NOW LOOK AT THIS MESS! at the end

That even line I was talking about earlier. Total fucking lie, as it turns out.

Please ring, phone. Just fucking ring.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I am writing this under copious amounts of Xanax, garnered after two straight days in the ER trying desperately to find a psych ward that will take me. None have open beds. I feel defeated and annoyed by my typing skills. I not apologize for needing the calm-down after all that medical fuckery. I do apologize ahead for massive typos.

I also can't find my jeans, to which seems the most annoying part of all of this for some reason. I also have the hiccups, which are maddening enough to drive one to homicide.

Fucking too long nails. Gotta trim them. It does not make for easy typing.

He's terrified I'll worried about being in the hospital. I'm less afraid of that, since that's the place I've been wanting to be in for two days now.

Jesse has gathered all the sharps, shaving razors included. I have no idea where he put them. Granted, there's a million broken projectiles that could do the trick. They're just harder and messier - but not impossible.

The pretty and the morbid comfort me. It only worries Jesse. But what helps him sleep does not help me sleep. Songs, videos, about passing into the void make me less afraid of dying in my sleep.

it seems impossible to keep up on an all the healthy things a person is supposed to do when you're sick. I'm not talking about the million doctors and shrink appointments. I'm talking about the meds, the balance, the side effects, the drunken stumble from room to room that would make less educated sure that I'd been pouring a fifth a day into my bloodstream. No such luck, though, I am the worst wold's drunk, stone cold sober.

I'd say I wish I could run away from all this, but I long ago learned the futility of such a gesture. Wherever you go, there you are. Superhuman speeds do nothing in a mad dash away from yourself.

Seriously, gotta trim down the nails. SO FUCKING ANNOYING. Also these damn hiccups.

I don't feel crazy. In, in fact, feel quite sane, if not drunk off my ass from my medications. Probably means I am an insane to diagnosable levels. How's that saying go? Only the sane doubt their sanity.

There is no doubting, only a dis-attached scan of crazy-acting actions I've been doing.

Slice of life writing. Nothing to prove a point or to communicate something. Just writing for the writing.

Maybe someday Rayhawk the peace will be there with writing. Maybe I can find something worthwhile to write when all my words are not spent just treading water. Its an exciting and terrifying venture.


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