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Despite having taken an extra 25 mgs of my sedative, I am up well before dawn. I'm also about to start my rag, so sleep disturbances are par for the course. God, how I miss the Depo shot. But it turns out heavy-hormonal treatments don't play with lupus, so back to monthly misery it is.

Speaking of lupus: Good news: The stomach problems came and went inside four days. Bad news: Afterwards, the lupus rash showed up again. This means my kidneys are not properly processing my food (thus leaving my body to desperately start shoving stuff through my skin) and I've had too much sun exposure. The renal diet does help, it'll just take a few weeks. And while I loathe sunscreen, it's a hell of a lot better than needing to put on two coats of foundation to cover the red spots.

I've finally figured that an ounce of prevention really is worth a pound of the cure. I'd just gotten so used to feeling better than I forgot that I am, now and forever and ever amen, actually sick.

I've decided I'm going to be less of a dick and start referring to David as Rachel and use female pronouns. Not so much because I think she deserves the courtesy, but because I realized I don't want to be on the wrong side of history when it comes to transgender rights.

Besides, it's a change of, like, two (three maximum) words. If I can't manage that, then I've got some serious laziness issues that go waaaay behind disliking my ex. Now to change my tags that deal with Rachel....

Erggh, does anyone know how to rename tags on the LJ side? All it's giving me is "Add new tags". Attempting to create new tags and then merge them (by pressing "Enter" like it says) just reverts it to the old tag name.

What I WANT to do this morning is go down to the treadmill and take a long walk. What I DON'T want to do is aggravate my cramps into turning from annoying to "let's curl up in the fetal position and pray we can fall asleep through them." I did go down and put a mile and a half on the treadmill. Ha, take THAT, reproductive organs!

As for everything else in the life That is Teressa, it's All Quiet On The Western Front. No wild ups, no wild downs, no intrusive thoughts, no compulsive urges or behaviors. It's slowed down my writing, but seeing as the slowdown is coming from a place of peace, not writer's block, it is infinitely easier to handle.

All in all, things are good. Even with the ultimate suckiness that my period looming, inside feels well. I'm becoming less and less shy about saying things that would previously make me feel like I'm jinxing things. These are all good things.
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Yeeeeesh. Fate, you win again. *bows in honor* The day after, literally not even 24 hours after I write that I haven't experienced physical symptoms of Lupus, all hell breaks loose on my digestive system and I spend hours upon hours, for two days now, in the bathroom, either ass-nailed-to-the-toilet or sitting on the floor, head hanging in "Am I gonna vomit? Oh god, please let me vomit" states of ruin.

This means my kidneys are not doing so well, which after two days is freaking me out because I don't want to land in the hospital for two weeks again. I've pulled myself up and set myself back on the renal diet, but I'm scared that it might be too late. Also, we have no renal-friendly food and no money to GET renal friendly food, so every bite of food is flavored heavily with anxiety.

I'll see if I can get my doctor's appointment moved up. I was denied Disability again (time for another repeal! God, fuck the American health system) and am not sure I even HAVE health insurance at the moment.

Still, spirits are middlin' to "alright" right now, despite the anxiety. That is at least something good.
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It feels like the last year has been some kind of fever dream. Falling into the hospital for the first entire month, my blood pressure dropping so low that I had slipped into a coma, the subsequent wounds upon myself, the overdoses...all of it.

A dream. It all feels like a long, elaborate dream. I've been so long out of the physical symptoms of Lupus - months now - that I feel normal. Almost like I did before I got sick. I'm far less out of the psych ward at only a month and a half, but with the right medication now pulsing under my skin, the hysteria has faded into near obscurity.

(Of course, shall I say this and risk Fate tossing another cinderblock at my head? Sure, why not? There's always another right hook around the corner. I think that's what they call "Life".)

I've spent the last week combing deeply through the last year of writing. The high-rises of confusion, of anger, of violent panic which led me to jumping off bridges strikes like a bucket of cold water to my face. As, I suppose, it should.

My intensity both frightens and humbles me. It was a thing I flayed myself with. It was a weapon I wielded, no matter how unintentionally, at those around me. At the WORLD, which had earned my wrath for simply having the audacity to exist when I was falling apart. And fear - god, so much terror. The last year bore more terror than any combination of years in my entire life. And yet, I stayed.

No matter the fear, the confusion, the rage...I am still fucking here. And instead of being angry that I was so scared, tonight I feel overwhelming gratitude for just...being alive. For having some breathing room, finally. Enough space, enough stability, enough peace TO be grateful.

I am finally getting enough distance to start turning around and look at the year behind me. Soon I want to take the entries that were the hardest to read and write a second chapter to them. A year's passing, to write how I feel now about those entries. To apply hindsight to them, because if there's anything a journal was invented for, it is damn well hindsight.

Remember when I said that I didn't think Life was the greatest thing ever invented?

It is. It IS the greatest thing invented - and thank you all so much for being here for it. Dream or no, I never would have made it without you guys.
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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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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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Sometimes I can feel these padded walls closing in.Closer. Closer. Closer. )

He does love dating someone with colored hair. My mind also loves it. Thank you again, Michael.

THE FACE BEHIND ALL OF THIS RAMBLING





"We didn't come this far just to get this far.
We didn't come this far just to fade to black.
FIGHT, BABY, FIGHT!!!
" - Icon For Hire, Demons

I WILL NOT FADE TO BLACK. THERE'S TOO MUCH IN ME LEFT TO BE SAID TO LET IT BE ECLIPSED BY THE SICKNESS THAT THREATENS TO SWALLOW IT ALL. I AM SO MUCH BIGGER THAN THE DARKNESS.

And if hair dye is a weapon (and it can be), then call me locked and loaded, because while I've got bullets littering my psyche, I've also got safes and locked boxes to keep them in. A gun without bullets has little ability except to pistol whip you across the cheeks.

Hurts like hell, but a A HELL OF A LOT LESS than a shot straight to the jaw.
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I want to be pure.

Unchanged.

Untouched.

I want a past life clear of the perverse intentions of others. I want a day today clean of the strain of disease.

But life stains everyone, and certainly by my age.

"How much of it's genetics,
how much of it is Fate?
How much of it depends
on the choices that we make?
" - Infected, Repo: The Genetic Opera
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I used to be a sun worshiper. Not a tanner, mind you. Life-long, aging goth sounding off here. But I used to love to spend all day out in the summer sun, the heat oppressive, the colors nearly psychedelic with the brightest light of the year.

Lupus has changed that. The sunlight literally drains the life out of me nowadays. Melanoma gets tagged as dead cells and so my body does its best to shove those cells into the garbage compactor. "Don't just stand there! Do something!" But the only stick I have to shove between the closing grates is sunscreen, which keeps the problem at a lazy bay but doesn't eliminate it.

So, to be on the safe side...and to be on the sane side....I've been making active efforts to socialize after the sun goes down. Cool thing?

It works. Both avoiding the sun and socializing. I haaate going out. Stepping out the door makes me roll my eyes. Coming back inside, my eyes are right where they are supposed to be and I've always unexpectedly enjoyed myself.

Gotta get some selfies up. The hair color turned out very pretty. A wonderful violet/lavender. Thank you again, Michael.
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*sigh*

Even if I don't remember it, there are always tell-tale signs of an ICU visit that linger. Glue marks from medical pads that take a week and a half to come off. Bruises on hands and arms from rushed IV's shoved into already weak veins.

Leftovers and wounds that trickle through the weeks afterwards, where I tilt my head in the mirror and wonder where in the hell I got that.

Memory gaps aside, I guess if I were ever unsure, all I'd have to do is look in the mirror and I'd know then.
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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.

Yes

Jul. 1st, 2017 05:37 pm
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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)
So that memory gap between writing entries turns out to have led to something far more sinister. As in, I woke up this morning at 4 AM, went to get a pack smokes, went BACK to bed - and woke up at 6 AM with cuts on my wrists.

Cuts that I do not remember making. AT ALL. Again, there had been the nebulous thought of "Hm. Cutting. Interesting." I smoked a couple of cigarettes, went to bed, woke up, and wrote this morning's LJ entry (of which I was perfectly cognizant for). I then looked down and saw red. Red that had already been seeping open for over an hour.

Shallow cuts, mind you. Very superficial, but I have no recollection of finding a sharp object, making the cuts, and then ignoring it to crawl back into the blankets.

Weirdly enough? Writing out Livejournal entries under a blackout freaks me out WAY worse than cutting during blackouts. Backwards thinking - or else the cutting freaks me out on a level that I don't want to dwell on.

Is something wrong with my meds, which are otherwise working perfectly and I don't want to fuck with at all? Early dementia? Lupus eating at my brain?

So I did what I know to do - called a friend and absconded to the ER. Their psych ward was full, as was the other place they normally send people to. A bed may open in the second ward later, which may be utilized.

My initial labs, blood and urine work, came back just fine. Normally if I go off the edge, it's because of some kind of looming infection. Not so this time. On the other hand, blood and labs don't always show brain troubles.

The thing is, I feel fine. I don't feel at all sad, despairing, hopeless, or sorrowful. I didn't feel that waking up either. I'd slept all day yesterday, waking up to go pee a few times, and woke up this morning thinking only one thing - "Damn. We're out of cigarettes. I'd better go get some."

They did dress up my wounds, though, which felt very nice. They are now wet thanks to me doing dishes. I should probably change them out.

This is wierd and pointing to a much larger problem that I don't at all want to think about.
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Of course, noting the lack of writing Wellbrutin causes, I suddenly find something with plenty to write. Nothing of a grand adventure, mind shattering. But the words are out there, circling closer. It is such an immersive burden lifted.

Not to say that this does anything for my grammatical endevours. (Is that a word? It should be, dammit, because I just made it up and it SOUNDS right now.)

Who would I be without being a writer? I have never given the thought any question, any bearing, any curious glance in my entire life. I found writing earlier and fell into it with the fervor of a religious zealot.

But stripped away of that, I only know a few thing about my self. I love cats and never turn one down. I have a sweet tooth the size of the entire North American seaboard, and I like science fiction and fantasy films. But these are just things I consume.

They are not things that make me who I AM. I've never ascribed to the idea that good writing comes from balanced places. But maybe...just maybe...they are right. YOU GUYS are right. Maybe I don't have to torture myself to make my words concise and moving.

Maybe. As much as I've cursed this idea, there is truth in that the Crazy gives an intensity that sanity does not. But spending my life trying to dig into the Crazy is exhausting.

Maybe there's an easier way, so long as I stay stable, on medication, and learn the trade-offs do not mean not writing completely.

The balance between patience and obsession is such a fine line. Maybe someday I'll figure that out.

With help from all of you, and Jesse and Pat's never ending encouragement over my writing for over the last 30 years..maybe they're onto something.

Now whether or not I get off my lazy ass and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT, instead of wasting it here on a website that became obscure 10 years go...maybe it's time. Certainty I'm feeling better from the lupus, in leaps and bounds, lately.

It' the perfect time to start exploring what writing can be other than self-obsessed shots across the bow of an internet journaling community.

Maybe. I didn't sleep well for a couple of days, which means a ridiculously long nap today. But maybe even in sleep, ideas will percolate and eventually form a picture I can expand on.

Maybe. Stranger things have happened.

Why now?

May. 26th, 2017 05:00 am
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The question I've been asking myself for the last month is this: Why NOW? Why now, after 20 years of being self-harm free, am I fighting self-harm urges again? Why now, after 20 years of unbroken skin, have I returned to one of the nastiest, most vicious forms of coping that I had ever taken up?

A therapist had a surprisingly simple - and illuminating - answer. I began to cut at 13 years old when I was betrayed by the abuse of my mother and stepfather. I have now been betrayed again by my body. They are different circumstances, but the mind has its own memory - and it remembers what used to work.

The keyword was "betrayal", defined in part as "to be evidenced of."

After the abuse at home, I worked for decades to make sure my core was strong enough to never be betrayed again. I emptied out entire sections of myself, shoved re-bar in them, and poured concrete into the holes. Enough that even if the concrete got chipped or dented, the foundation WOULD HOLD.

Years passed, as they do. Betrayal turned into a stinging wound, then just a scar, and eventually it simply became a part of my history. The concrete, the metal rods, were still there, but I didn't need them and I went on living my life. There was nothing new to be entered into court, to be laid on the witness table, or to show evidence of. Betrayal was no longer a thought, theme, or fear.

Then at 35, the silent prophecy that I was completely unaware I had been born with surfaced and everything changed. But this time the betrayal came from something internal. Suddenly I was the problem. Suddenly the concrete core could not sustain me, because it itself WAS a part of me.

It became evidenced - overnight - that the very body I inhabited was greatly flawed and had spent decades lying to me. My mind remembers this feeling very clearly. It is called "betrayal" and it remembered what used to work.

Betrayal was dealt with by cutting. That's what it remembered. That's what it's trying to do.

You are right, Harvey, in that suicide attempts are often anger turned inward. A loss of control when you realize that you've actually lost control. A fury about that whittles you down to a single, dead-set decision cast in a single, dead-set breath.

As I cut when betrayed before, when trying to survive the anger at my family, I cut in trying to survive the anger at my disease. It is no wonder I would want to lash out at my body. To punish it, to express the anger, to try and find some desperate control over my skin where I cannot control my DNA.

I often bemoan the famous phrase "Knowing is half the battle." Thanks, GI Joe, but I'm already pretty good at the knowing parts. It's the fighting parts of the battle I have trouble with.

But knowing this...having some kind of answer, a new light shone on my own motivations...it does help.

It helps immensely.
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It is a little after 5 AM. I have been up every hour, on the hour, for the last seven hours. With luck, the next time I lay down will take. If it does, I'll likely sleep 12 hours. If it doesn't, I'll be unable to speak coherently for the exhaustion.

It's not always "the devil you know." I know both of these devils well. It's simply the devil that gets you first.

Fate is my best frenemy )

Again, I am superstitious, not religious.

I came upon something much darker a couple of days ago and having been to trying to process it. To put it where it belongs, to where it makes a full picture instead of an unwinding quilt of threads shredding themselves this way and that way.

My suicide attempt in March was not as random an impulse as I've wanted to believe it was. It was not as much a casual slip-up of thoughts as I've wanted OTHERS to believe. It's so hard to admit this. Everyone can forgive a single, drug hazed mistake (to which with all the drugs I was prescribed, I WAS in a drug-hazed state), but the more the look back, the more I realize the drugs wasn't what did me in.

It was me that nearly did me. Me, thoughts, and fears, and strangely enough, my resentment. In March, about a week before I decided to make a dinner meal out of an entire bottle's worth of sleeping meds, I wrote this on my Lupus Support Group.

"A month ago, my blood pressure dropped fatally low. It had done so in my sleep. My boyfriend, noting how pale, cold, and unresponsive I'd become in the night, had called 911 and was told that had he not done that, I would have **died**. It put a rightful scare in me. I was also surprised to find that through that scare and the gratitude at being saved was twisted a small feeling of resentment.

Things had been going so poorly - and still continue to be poor, eight months after diagnosis and endless hospital admissions (I've spent well over two months total sitting in hospital beds). Technically things are "improving", in that my kidney numbers and nausea symptoms are improving greatly, but it has not translated into a Happy, Healthy Quirkytizzy yet.

I am tired of feeling so unwell, so consumed by feelings of anger, confusion, and sorrow. I would have considered it a blessing to pass away in my sleep, even as young as I am at 35.

And while I am grateful - terrified and grateful - to have gotten a literal second chance at life, a part of me resents my boyfriend for having saved my life. Saved my life for what? For years more of this endless treatment where the cures are worse than the disease? For decades more of dealing with people rolling their eyes when I have to spend yet ANOTHER day in bed, all day?

I didn't know how to deal with this resentment. I am so grateful to be alive, but at the same time, a small part of me wishes he had not called 911. At least I would have gone peacefully.

Has anyone ever felt anything like this? I understand just how selfish it is for me to feel this way, but I feel what I feel. In true honesty, I would not have wanted to die.

But if I'm being honest, a part of me would have welcomed it.
Am I alone in this feeling????
"

That was such a huge warning flag that I'd unknowingly raised. My own journals, littered over and over with phrases like "I don't care anymore, there's never going to be a good day, why am I bothering to live like this?" were also signs.

Never having before been suicidal myself, I didn't stop to think about these being things that were placing myself in imminent danger. I thought that these were just normal parts of the grieving process.

I was so ashamed at feeling anything but gratitude for Jesse saving my life. I struggled because what good person feels upset when someone you love loves you so much that they LITERALLY save your feel life?

I'm now thinking it's not so much that it makes me a good person or a bad person, just a person in desperate pain.

I mean, really, how DO you tell your loved one that you want to be be with them for the rest of their lives, but goddamnit, couldn't you have just left me die in peace"? The two thoughts do not mix and all that happens is that hurt and rejected feelings ripple endlessly through the lake once that stone is hurled into the waters.

I suppose the progress is this: I no longer resentment him for saving my life Like, at all, not even a little bit. Given time, treatment, and a maddeningly slow but noticeable uptick in health, being alive is becoming at least a little more attractive. Without him, I literally, as in would have been buried almost six months ago, would not have had that chance.

It all just so clearly outlines the idea that suicide attempts don't just "happen." There are warning signs. Personal and often tailored to a person specifically. A person can go weeks without writing so much as a FB post, but if I go more than a week without posting on LJ, we know something is wrong. Your mileage may vary, but it's still a car, and we're still all stuck riding in them.

At least now a days I have a much better idea of what requires immediate attention and what doesn't.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I woke up, growling and gritting my teeth through the joint pain. I'd never before known that joints could hurt like broken glass being ground into more broken glass. Even the hardest of my manual labor jobs didn't produce this kind of pain.

Okay, I seethed to myself. I stumble to the kitchen counter, swallow down Tylenol with my coffee. Take my coffee outside and stare at the gray sky, threatening to spill over with enormous ladles of rain at any moment. Realize I'm on the down-slope of a very bad mood. A small voice in the back of my head says "Switch out the cassette tape. Jam another one into the Walkman."

(Yeah, I said "cassette tape" and "Walkman". I'm 35 years old, motherfuckers. I'll use whatever analogy comes to mind first.)

So I quietly compile a list of things that are going RIGHT:

* I woke up this morning. Not a blessing I hold in high honor most days, but it's still a plus.

* I'm not nauseous.

* There are no intrusive or disturbing thoughts present at the moment.

* I have enough energy to get the basic morning chores done.

* There's food in the fridge to eat - a thing that isn't always there.

* All parts of me are lined up at the same level of awake. None of this "my mind/body is in quicksand while the other is screaming with frantic energy."

All of these could change at a moment's notice. They often do. Crazy and ill play their own game of Tilt-A-Whirl and it's a game I usually have no control of. That part is always aggravating, if not outright frightening. But for the moment, I am okay.

I am okay. Not ecstatic. Not depressed. I have a baseline that is lower than I'd like, but it is a baseline, and I sit squarely on that line.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
If it is too good to be true, it usually is.

I'd spent the day before in an ecstatic bliss of peace, of joy, of contentment...only to wake up this morning flattened like Wiley Coyote against a wall. I hadn't been experiencing true happiness. I had been rapid cycling.

Intrusive and disturbing thoughts, but without plans or will to act on them, propelled Jesse to suggest that I go speak to my therapist to see if further action (such as intake) was needed. I am relieved that her opinion was that inpatient was not needed, only a boost in my psychiatry appointment to get my meds straightened out.

Then okay, another round of the med-go-round it is to be. It's always a process of trial and error, my body and mind paying for the game of Wheel of Fortune every time. I will try at least three medications, every time, only to find something that mostly works, all while experiencing the bevy of side effects that all brain medications come triple-wrapped in.

1:30 AM. An hour that I am altogether far too familiar with. I skipped my dose of Seroquel tonight, as I'd slept 10 hours today and do not wish to add another 10 hours straight upon it.

The lack of my presence in our daily life greatly affects Jesse. He feels adrift, often as if he is living alone. Given that I spend so much time unconscious under the blankets, it is a fair feeling for him to experience.

I do not know what to do to solve it. When I become so tired that I stumble against walls just trying to get to the bathroom, rest is the only thing I can do. And I become this tired every goddamn day.

We are in a Catch-22. He needs me awake. My body needs me asleep. Neither of us gets what we really want, which is an active relationship. It's amazing how little two people can see each other even if they live together in the same room.

I don't know how to give Jesse what he needs. I don't even know how to give my body what it needs. If the body would simply even out, then being with Jesse in my entirety would be easy.

My body has other ideas, though, and they are never good ones.

I know these troubles are not uncommon when one partner falls terribly ill. But knowing it's not uncommon does not seem to ease it. Couples counseling would be an idea, except the problem is my physical illness - something no psychological professional has training enough to curb.

We cuddle more. When I can, perhaps once a week, I try to at least peripherally participate in a sex life between us. As much time as I am able to give, I spend my waking moments in conversation with him.

But that is not necessarily living a life together as two people in love with each other. And I know he is in love, and I know I am in love.

Sometimes they say that love is not enough. I refuse to let that be the case here. Surely, somewhere, someway, someday, progress will be made to make this a relationship again, instead of some waiting game while we pray my disease learns to take a backseat to me actually living my life. A life that includes Jesse where he should be, by my side and not whiling away days on end on the computer because I am asleep.
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)
I slept for 40 hours straight and wake up, for the first time in months and months, rested. Rested and so happy that I feel delirious. I can face the day, or at least the next few hours without cringing, without feeling like I have to grimace and fake having fun.

Seriously, I've cleaned, I've showered, and I'm sitting here weeping because I FEEL SO GODDAMN HAPPY at having my life back, even if it's just for a few hours. I'm laughing on a level that borders on hysterical, broken only by gasping sobs, because this is how it's supposed to be, and for once, life has deemed me worthy of a few hours that doesn't involve crippling illness.

It might not last all day. Chances are that I've got only a handful of hours of this, but goddamn, I'LL TAKE IT.

If Jesse were to wake up right now, he'd see a sobbing madwoman, but it's tears and heaving laughter of nothing but sheer joy and delight. And even if it's just for now, an hour, two hours, before what my life is overtakes me, dear god, I'd forgotten I was able to feel this good at all.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
So I woke up intending to write down what was on my mind last night only to find that I'd already written it.

I have no memory of writing the previous entry. Like, none at all.

I briefly wondered if Jesse had written it (it wouldn't be the first time I've asked him to post for me), but we have wildly different writing styles. The writing style of the last entry is perfectly mine.

The only explanation I have is that I'd taken 30 mgs of my Valium, as I'd been unable to sleep for close to 24 hours previously and have been experiencing insomnia all week. Methinks I will cut that down to the recommended 20 mgs of Valium. Like, stat.

I went back and re-edited for grammar, but yikes, it's freaky to not have the slightest recollection of opening the DW window and writing, let alone POSTING, an entire entry. For an ex-blackout drunk, and for having plenty of things that I don't remember concerning my manic episodes, it's....kinda freaky.

I guess I can be reassured that outside of wildly misspelling a ton of words, the entry itself was coherent. Still....yeeks and shivers.

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