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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.
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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?
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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.
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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.


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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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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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 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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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 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?
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Romanticizing it, Gonzo? Absolutely. I don't know what else to when the Crazy is such a player in the front of my mind. I have to find a way to make it real, because if it's real, then I can talk to it. I have a way of communicating with it. I can't ignore it. I can't just tell it go away and watch it slink away into the wings of the stage.

I have to make theater of it, because if I'm dancing with it, the dance eventually ends. It bows and eventually something else to dance with steps up to my outstretched hands.

I've been trying to do what the psych says and that's staggering my meds so my heart pressure doesn't drop too low. In the middle of it, I like to take long, hot as my skin take without melting baths. I smoke cigarettes like a luxury hot tub in the bath. It gets me tipsy. I walk a little off center. I feel good.

Jesse admonishes me to keep the baths short, the water cooler. I can understand where it'd be disturbing to watch your partner climb out of the water as if she'd just taken six shots of vodka. But I get defensive.

"Everyone else in the world gets to have fun with their chemicals! You drink! You smoke weed! You get to have fun with it! Why can't I? I'm not stupid enough to drive in these states. I don't wander downstairs and get into dangerous or uncomfortable situations with strangers. I stagger around the apartment a bit and then crawl into bed."

I don't drink. I don't do illicit chemicals. I don't have wild sex with every hottie I see from the balcony. I take care of my appointments, my meetings, getting us food, getting the bills paid, all of 95% of 100% of the time. I'm pretty goddamn responsible. So I like to get a little high from hot water?

Count yourself lucky, because my favorite other way to get high is to bleed, and we're a few weeks out from that. Which would you prefer? Someone who weaves into the closet door because the bathtub was too hot, or someone who left the bathtub a mess of blood?

Cuz like it or not, sometimes those are the only two choices you get. I'm learning more everyday, but what's ingrained is written deep and will take a long time to be penned over.

I'm not normal, so I don't get to have fun like normal people. And a few prescribed pills, taken exactly as the professional tells me and a bubble bath is coming off pretty easy when I look out at a world that makes fools of themselves with chemicals.

So I'm crazy? I like to get a little dizzy when I can. I'm not fucked up.

I'm fucking human.
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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.
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See, there are games that the Crazy plays. Like a kid that likes hide-n-seek, it'll dart in and out of my vision. I'm here!, it'll say. Let's play!, it'll say.

Not out of maliciousness. Not out of despair or a need to expunge the diseased within. It's playful. It's flirtatious. It's joyous. It's sometimes....innocent. As if trailing my bloody fingers across the walls is the work of a child who just got his first set of fingerpaints, raking it across the walls, the floor, himself.

Or as if it'd be fun. Something shocking to do, make the normals gasp and clutch their perfectly white pearls. Pearls that I am ever so curious as to how they'd look slathered in red when I rip out their throats.

A hell of a time, smiling all the while I break my bones. A hobby that peels the skin off of my face, showing the world that these pretty words do not come without a price.

A price that I am willing to live with, so long as the fun stays in my head. This is the truce: I'm crazy and I can think as crazy as I want to. The crazy gets to go as far as my thoughts and that's the size of the room it has to play in.

This is what Not Crazy people don't get it - we have to befriend it on some level, or risk lopping off entire limbs of ourselves just to exist. Personify it so that we can chat with it, to tell it how close it can get before we have to dash away.

(Because you can't run away from your Crazy forever. Brain twists don't work like that. So you play a game of tug-n-pull, and learn what your limits are.)

Everyone thinks any Crazy at all burns a person. Not true. Sometimes the Crazy is a small fire that warms the colder winters of the soul. You can be Crazy, in love with your Crazy, and not let it hurt you if know how to talk to it.

That's what I'm working on. I've been in love with my Crazy for decades now, very rarely feeling that I'd trade it all away to be normal, because this is part of what makes me...makes my words what they are.

And goddamnit, if nothing else is me, my words and what drives them are.

"I'm nuts, baby, I'm mad,
The craziest friend that you've ever had
You think I'm psycho, you think I'm gone
Tell the psychiatrist something is wrong

Over the bend, entirely bonkers
You like me best when I'm off my rocker
Tell you a secret, I'm not alarmed
So what if I'm crazy? The best people are.
" - Melanie Martinez, Mad Hatter

So thank you, Michael, for getting me the money for the hair dye. I won't be having a blast painting the walls with my blood today. I'll play today seeing how well the black hair dye bleaches out and how the purple hair dye bleeds in.

This is how you heal while playing with the Crazy. You find a distraction that paints something without letting out blood.
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I was told, due to an art project in the psych ward, that I had quite a beautiful flair for the dramatic.

I laughed, saying that it is a double edged blade. Quite good for creating beautiful things. Quite terrible for making dramatic mental health scenes.

I'm feeling the need to make a hell of a bloody, dramatic mess this morning.

So I asked a few people for money to dye my hair some crazy color, bleach be damned. Someone should respond soon, and maybe blue or green can be my drama this morning instead of melted, smeared red on a bathtub.

I just hope it gets heard soon.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
How wrong it is it that my arms, now only faintly tainted with scar lines, look unnatural being so clean? I can still see the ladders of white scaffolding my wrist to my elbow, but for every day they fade and clear skin replaces it....it just looks wrong.

Like, bloody lines, or lines crusting with blood, and the white lines that lay over the blood over the week or two of healing, is the REAL way my skin should look like.

How wrong is that? And will that go away? I don't remember feeling that way last time I was giving up cutting.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Lol - thank you, Bart. The lupus tag came from a suggestion from Blozor, as the edema in the first round of hospital stays had bloated me so much that my nipples just...dissapeared. Got stretched into oblivion. I'm happy to say they recovered and I have mostly normal looking tits these days.

And like I always say, somedays my tits are all I've got going for me, ha.

Michael - thank you for saying what you did about love. It has been over a decade, hasn't it? Time flies beyond the ability to describe...as love can, too, I'm finding out. It's good to hear that as screwed up as I had been, as I HAVE been, there was something I gave you, something that was so important that you decided to stay around for the next ten years to see what else comes next.

For what it's worth, you and I have a special relationship, and that won't ever go away.

Matrixx, I think the psychic part of this disorder, this disease...is more or less that I was trying to find help. I'd cut again, wasn't able to get admission, got fobbed off by not one but TWO psychiatrists, and was getting desperate to be heard. A "cry for help" sort of thing. A desperation slithering through my soul. Perhaps a touch (or more) of borderline personality, though I know very little about that diagnosis. I only know that I was misdiagnosed with it years ago, as only the treatments for bipolar helped.

(And that's how you figure out what your diagnosis is - if the treatment for that diagnosis helps, that's probably what you've got.) And yeah, a whole heaping load of PTSD - and (at least this time) PTSD about things I've inflicted on myself. Funny that we can do that to ourselves.

And ha, Gonzo - you're right as well. Part of something I had to figure out...for me, not writing is not only a curse that poisons me to a blood-level, but it's also boring as hell. Plenty - so much plentiful time to be bored later.

Cmck, thank you. It's good to hear that I'm far from alone in these circumstances. And I understand not always having the words to soothe another. I'm finding in this instance...it really is me that has to cobble together the words from others, no matter what they might be, and use them to save myself.

Cemetery...I want to be here. It's funny, I tried to explain Livejournal to some of the people in the psych ward. Many of them are not net-savy and never have even heard of LJ. Those who have are always amazed that we are still around at all on this site...and those who understand that we DO still populate this sinking ship don't write like we do (or did.)

I'm not ready to let go of LJ yet. I don't think I'll ever be. If I'm not here, then where would I would be? I hand-wrote plenty in my paper journal in the psych ward (the internet is strictly forebode in such places), but having spent so many years opening to the public and their words...that's a gift I don't think I can ever go without again.

And Michael - right-o again on the effects of SSRI's, like you said, Franklanguage. It had been about three weeks - two of those week stuffed with Jesse constantly telling me that he was seeing bad side effects. Two weeks of me completely ignoring him. Two weeks of losing the ability to even care about the worsening of symptoms.

And I'll be joining groups as well, Franklanguage. A DBT group and groups that are more well-rounded than just lupus meet-ups. I've discovered they have help with transportation to these groups, even, which is good as our car is forever running on an 1/8th of a tank.

I had to make a goal. That goal is to, every other day, have 30 minutes of meaningful interaction with another human being. Every other day because I know myself and my days of diving so deep into myself that breaching the waters will be impossible. But I need to make the effort to swim up to the surface once a while. I can do every other day.

I can't believe the effects isolation, physical or emotional, that these diseases can have.


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.


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.
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)
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)

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