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*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.


*siiiiigh*
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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.

She

Aug. 1st, 2017 08:01 pm
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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.
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Beautiful.



Beautiful.

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.
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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.

5480389.

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

Teressa ending the day with clear skin - 1.

Set, game, match, bitches.
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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?)
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?

FUCK YEAH. ADULTHOOD RULES.
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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.
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* Have one of those inexplicable nights where your meds take hoooours to hit you.

* Roll out bed, disgusted by boredom.

* Hit youtube. Watch College Humor videos until your eyes stop seeing comedy actors and start seeing young 20-ish kids poking fun at social issues that you only think of in passing.

* Get even MORE bored.

* Contemplate listening to music. Curse your inability to listen to happy music.

* Scour your playlists for calming music, knowing that it won't budge the meds or your moods in the slightest.

* Contemplate reading a book. Realize your glasses have gone the way of the dodo and you couldn't find them with a glasses-scrying machine a mile wild. Also curse your inability to read because you're that fucking tired anyways.

* Realize part of this is because you're on the rag. Curse that bitch Eve and try to ignore the lower back that feels like it's exploding out of your torso.

* Fuck it. Put on calming music. Write a Livejournal entry. Realize you will be up till midnight with nothing to show for it.

* ARRRGHHHH.
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I may need another medication adjustment, as the last two mornings have seen me leap out of bed in the middle of anxiety attack, doom and gloom pressing down every breath, ragged and grabbing me by the throat. I pace. I clean. I sit down, curl up, head on my knees, hands caught in my hair, trying to pull the thoughts out.

Mornings used to be my favorite time of the day. Now I dread them. Life at 36 is not life at 16. Simple enough concept, right? But it's one that clobbers me over the head every goddamn time I open my eyes.

The nights are easier, though as the days go, Jesse sinks and I do not know what to do to catch him. Arms can be a lifesaver, but getting out of my head seems impossible somedays.

I must try, though. My goal of having meaningful interaction (face to face) with another human being 30 minutes every other day has had some success. I don't always feel better, but I know it's necessary to get moving out of my sickness. Re-socialize to eventually back to being able to work.

I've managed to keep every appointment set in the last month. My case manager and I come up with a new goal every week. I've accomplished most of them. I've got a peer-support-specialist to call back tomorrow.

My dreams keep throwing me back to the psych ward, where no one will tell me why I'm there and no one will let me leave. It's a stark juxtaposition to how I feel WHEN in the psych ward. (Safe, protected, and somewhat scheduled with all their groups.) But I really, really want to stay out them. That helps.

I'm setting up every goddamn mental health resource available towards my outstretched hands, because it's either this or resigning myself to the 6th floor every fucking month. And while I feel safe there, it also holds my recovery back, because life ain't no psycho ward, and I've got to learn to live outside of it.

See, a person gets so many screw ups before their support group has to start pulling away for their OWN sanity. I don't want to do that. I've an AMAZING support group, both online and face-to-face. I just need to get better at utilizing it! I'm terrible about reaching out, especially when push comes to sharp objects and extra pill bottles laying out.

Gonzo, your suggestion of removing all the sharp knives and razors, the extra bottles that whisper to me to take them all at once - the easy-go-to's for destruction was taken and it has helped immensely. Not that there aren't another million ways to hurt myself (broken glass, jagged pencil edges, hell, staples and thumb tacks), but those are never as satisfying.

I don't even know where the knives, razors, and extra bottles are. I think Jesse did the smart thing and handed them off to a friend, because if there's one thing an addict will do (and cutting and making entire dinners out of a pill bottle is an addiction) is to tear apart a house, stone by screaming stone with their bare hands, to find their favorite fix.

Existential angst is in full force in the mornings. I tell myself that THAT is perfectly normal. It is the human condition. Sometimes it is enough to calm the anxiety enough for me to allow me to practice other mindful exercises to get me through.

The next step - the goal set up for this week - is to find someplace to volunteer. I'm physically well enough to do at least twice a month. It will accomplish several things at once: Developing a schedule (which has been destroyed in the last year), helping others, finding a sense of self-identity.

And for fucks sake, I need a goddamn sense of self-identity. I've been so aimless, so in my head, so completely out of my mind, I think to find things OUTSIDE of myself that help identity myself, to give good labels to apply to myself will be a life-saver - possibly literally.

I CAN DO THIS. I am not destined to sink and swim in the mud in my veins. I am not going to let all the years of building myself before mean nothing in the force of what is currently destroying me.

The demons are many, and I am in an ocean where the sharks smell the blood and constantly circle. I will fight them. Somedays will be better than others. Somedays a shower will be the best I can do. But I am finally beginning to see some light on the other side of the tunnel, and I can say with some certainty that it's not just another train barreling straight for me.

My pain didn't change me, I changed my pain. MY PAIN DID NOT CHANGE ME, I CHANGED MY PAIN." - Icon for Hire "Demons. I've done this before. I can do this again. I listen to this song every day. It is anthem. It is reclaiming power - both mine in sharing the struggle and mine in remembering my strength, my endurance, my resilience.



If God shall send a fire, so be it. I will be reforged.
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The days usually end up in a better place than where they started. Or at least more days than not.

It's slow but it's progress.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Ever have those bad dreams that, upon awakening, seem absolutely ridiculous that it should bother you at all? Woke up 4 times last night, most of it centering on David's parents being furious at me for "causing" his transgenderism and being intent on taking revenge for it. Nothing bloody, just locking me up in their filthy home. (Which, with their hoarding, would lead to a meltdown in about .02 seconds.)

No matter what I may believe about David's gender change, (1) that's all him and (2) it was there years before we got together. Not to mention, David's parents, for all their faults, are exceedingly civil people. It might be awkward if we all found ourselves at the same restaurant, but I know they wouldn't be confrontational about it.

SO annoying to dream something like that to the point where it would wake me up multiple times.

The rest of the dreams centered on anxiety symbolism. Falling through ice and have to claw through arctic cold water. High waves dragging me under, suffocating and quickly freezing me to near death. Being trapped somewhere and not being able to get away. The typical bullshit my brain puts in the movie reel when I'm worried about the other shoe dropping.

Thanks, brain. Good to know I can always rely on you for a pep talk.

I'd lain back down, hoping to catch up sleep. Not much luck there. I'll drift comfortably for an hour and then have to get up. It's making the self-destructive behaviors (always at our worst when we don't sleep well) stir, taking interest in my lack of defenses.

So I did some cleaning. Still having annoying urges, but they are in the background. Will lay back down again soon. A clean house is always easier to sleep in.

Girlyswirl, as soon as I'm able, I'm going to give your journal a thorough reading. I've missed a lot going on in your life. I find it so hard most days to reach out to other people, but it sounds like you and I got some shit hand-in-hand to walk through.

The voices were back yesterday - and they were much clearer than ever before. Two women having a conversation. A conversation about me. I actually heard words this time. "She's so useless right now...might as well...why does she feel this way about herself?"

This is a first. I've never heard words, just the sound of people talking. I don't know what to make of it. The weird part is how they were talking about me as if I wasn't there.

Is that common????
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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.

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