Blahdeblah

  1. Lying on the couch waiting for sleep to take me. I am going to put my phone down and not pick it up until five am, time to get Cali up for school.

This new medication is not good. I’ve been weepy for two days, nauseous for a week. My therapist said she’d talk to the prescribing nurse and get me in to see her, and texted me to let me know I’m talking to her next week.

I know there’s no Magic Normality Pill, but I’m just so tired of going from sad to empty back to sad. Everyone around me has at least one really good day every now and again,  and I want that too. That’s all. I’m not asking for riches or beauty or epic love, just some okay days.

It hit me today that I’ve even stopped listening to music. No new songs, no old songs… I can’t remember the last time I cut on my mp3 player. I think the last song I listened to was when I played the Supernatural parody by Hillywood in Youtube. I don’t know if it counts since it’s a parody.

I don’t know why I’ve been so upset lately. Things have been okay. The kids are fine, Nathan has been helping me with my bills more since he’s working,  and except for today we’ve gotten along fine. It’s like my brain has short circuited and I lost the capacity for positive things. My therapist would call it “stinkin’ thinkin'” and remind me me to try to stop.

I want to look forward to something again. A book, an event, I don’t know. A new pair of socks. I feel like I’m drowning in a cold, black sea, salty with the stupid, cheesy tears. Every word out of my mouth sounds like a ridiculous emo song and I hate it.

Which makes me think of the very best comic I’ve seen about depression. You should read it.

And now is the time to hit post and put my phone away. Wish me luck…

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*Ding* Level Up

I love achievements. I readily admit I’m an achievement whore. Every video game I play, I always play toward getting them. They’re like Pokemon, “gotta catch ’em all”.

It’s a lovely feeling. It’s like when you were in kindergarten and the teacher would put the star stickers OR, if you were lucky, the scratch and sniff stickers on your work. A cheevo popping is like that banana sticker on your spelling test. “GOOD JOB, YOU!”  it proclaims loudly.

I wish real life were that way.

“Ding! You just graduated!”

“Ding! You just had your first baby!”

Even the bad stuff wouldn’t be so awful if you were rewarded with that ole “Hey! You TOTALLY survived your first hangover!” or “Ding! You got dumped!” It would make Facebook messages so much better, you know? We could see past the bullshit comments of “#lovin’life” and “#screwyouRegina” or whatever. I think 4square was a wee bit close. “Ding! You are eating at Steak and Shake!” Or wherever. I don’t go out to eat, since that would require leaving my apartment.

Chris Hardwick, the adorable Nerdist, wrote a book in the early days of his geekpire, which is like an empire, but full of cosplayers and dudes in bowties and fezes (Whovians Represent!). The book was called The Nerdist Way, and it is basically taking the trials and tribulations of life and tricking your brain into turning everything into an RPG, giving yourself XP or leveling when you get past the milestones you set. I was given it as a gift from a friend of mine, and I haven’t finished it yet, but so far I adore it and am at the point where I am recommending it left and right. I might even eventually post my character sheet when I make it.

I actually felt… okay… the past two days. Like, for real okay. No misery. No missing pieces in my heart. Right now the shields are in place. I don’t know how long they’ll stay up, and I couldn’t by any means call myself happy, but I think they have finally found the right mg of depression meds to give me.

I almost lost that okay feeling earlier because my ex-husband was being a total FFDB. Okay, maybe not total, I am probably prejudiced against him by now, but he does this thing where when he feels like crap he is grouchy and hateful and there’s this black cloud of darkness that permeates around him and it makes me super-anxious because I’m hyper-vigilant about other people’s moods, and he often takes a condescending tone with me.

For example it’s “You THINK that’s what you said, but it isn’t.” No, motherfucker, that IS what I said. I hate it. And if he does something particularly douchy and I call him on it, he tells me that I’m overemotional and need to talk to my therapist because I’m crazy. I don’t think it’s crazy to not want to be screamed at in my own apartment by the man I divorced. I don’t think it’s crazy to get frustrated when I asked him three times what food he wanted to get when I made the grocery list and he said he wasn’t going to eat, and then he bought himself hummus and cheesebread, which wasn’t on the list and put me over what I have to pay my mother back when I get money on the first.  Oh and he ate three times since he returned with the groceries, despite shrieking “I’M NOT GOING TO EAT ANY G-D FOOD!”

But yes, I realize I get overly upset. I can’t handle normal differences in opinion some days, much less someone telling me I’m wrong or implying they are superior and I’m lesser because I have no emotional skin. If I perceive the message that someone thinks I am stupid, I really lose it. Like Marty McFly being called “chicken”. And he knows how to work me, twist me around and fluster me and get me to the point that I am weeping and I want to claw his eyes out.

I promise, I am not a violent person. And it’s something severe that could make me feel that way, because this medication has made everything inside me numb.

So anyway. Life needs Achievement pop-ups. It would make everyone so much more productive. There have been multiple psychological tests and papers and studies about achievement motivation. Also, as someone who is suffering from a disorder that forces me to need approval, it’s so satisfying to have some sort of acknowledgement that I am accomplishing things.

laundry

Even if it’s as mundane as sorting the laundry.

Oh, and check this out. My youngest daughter is a regular Cool-Hand Luke.

This video is all sorts of satisfying for those of us with even the mildest OCD.

Good… well… morning. I forgot to take my meds, so I am apparently not sleeping tonight. (I also recognize I may be in the beginning stages of a manic episode and am sort of glad I don’t have any money to binge-spend or the desire to make another horribly bad relationship decision.)

Laters.

Really going now. Um… bye. Or whatever.

blog, pt deux

This started out as a reply to an earlier comment, but it went three paragraphs long, so I figured… might as well make it another post. My blog and I’ll do what I want!!! >_<

It’s so sad, to lose the joy in writing for yourself. I used to ONLY write for myself. Though not because I was self-conscious, amazingly enough, but because it was something that was just mine.

My family wasn’t very intellectual or creative back then(my little brother has become an amazing artist), and part of the reason was there wasn’t that much I wanted to read at our little bitty library, and my allowance couldn’t keep up with the voraciousness of my reading habits. I used to make worlds that I loved, or fanfic when a show caught me in its pull.

It was the only thing I was confident about, I knew I was good and I wrote what made me happy and I didn’t care one whit if anyone else ever read it. I almost hate him for it, blaming him for making me share that when it ended up tainted. Or maybe I hate myself for being foolish, or letting it become tainted. It was my way to self-soothe, which is way better than cutting or promiscuity (though I have made stupid and reckless decisions about relationships) or drugs, though I would get pretty caught up, not eating or sleeping, while I was writing. My cousin Steven told me earlier that it was amazing that I never became an addict, and I wanted to disagree with him even if I couldn’t explain why I felt he was wrong, and now it finally occurs to me:

I am addicted to my fantasy worlds. My characters and stories and playing pretend, knowing it isn’t real, but something in the back of my head would say, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if just by creating these stories, in another reality they become real?”

Which is weird and I know it’s untrue, but I still liked to imagine that. On that note, yes, I have been playing Bioshock Infinite. But no, this is the way I’ve always thought. It’s kind of amazing to play, and knowing that this sort of thing actually comes to others’ minds.

What if there really were infinite other worlds, each one just a choice away from this one? Heads… or tails? Alive or dead? Left or right?

In my worst dissociative moments, I have convinced myself that I’m in the wrong reality. That something traumatic or just BIG has knocked me sideways and I slipped through some crack and I am living the wrong life. Because so much seems so WRONG.

Like, Nathan is not the man I married. John is not the man I thought I knew. My mom is not the woman she was when I was little… no one is, really.

I haven’t figured out yet if they’ve just changed that much or if I have been blind to everyone this whole time. I don’t know which hurts more: they’ve decayed that much, or that I was so stupid, or even that I’m trapped in the wrong life. They’re all horrible thoughts if you look at them. I’d like a fourth choice now please. Or at the very least, a way back to my real world.

I’ve also decided that I am going to link a song at the end of my blogs (and I may go retcon and edit my earlier ones and add a song to them… yep. I’m going to do that) because you can know so much about what someone is feeling by the songs in their head. So, without further ado- a song about the decaying nature of relationships by a woman with a beautiful voice and soul. The Bed Song by Amanda Palmer

Into Darkness

****TRIGGER WARNING****

Recently, as I’ve been paying attention to some of the BPD social community postings and message boards, I’ve noted that everyone gives a courtesy warning if there’s something that could possibly upset someone with your same issues. So I am going to follow this now.

The following blog contains upsetting emotional descriptives and triggers, such as terror of abandonment and extremely negative self esteem. I wouldn’t even post it, but I have tried to be honest when I write these, and this is something I could never say aloud in any circumstance, but I needed to say.

Into Darkness



In both the figurative and literal sense, if you think about it. Possibly I have it wrong.

I was watching the second Reboot!Trek and thinking about things that repeat and things that are different from reality to reality and I missed you again. Exactly as I always have, even when I was trying to convince myself to not be afraid of being abandoned, trying not to face the truth that all I have ever been is your dirty little secret because you were ashamed of me. My weight, being poor, being weird, being sick, being BPD and you would rather be with her than me because, really, who would have ever chosen me anyway?

Mandi and Stephen were here, curled up together on the couch, and my main thought was “Don’t let them see what your mind is doing so closed my eyes and templed my hands in front of my mouth and let the sorrow just hit me in wave after wave. Don’t break, don’t break dontbreakdontbrea-

I thought about writing, and how I can’t write anything without wondering if you’ll ever see it, and knowing you won’t because you would never look for me.

It’s like you’re dead. Or you’re Rory Williams and I’m Amy Pond looking at sunflowers and crying without even knowing she’s doing it over a soul mate who had fallen into the crack of the Universe and had never existed.

I’m sitting here now with my teeth gritted tight and my eyes are searing and I feel the tears on my cheeks and it’s a gasoline burning that scars all the way to the genetic code.

At the same time, I realize that the intensity of the hurt that I’m feeling isn’t natural. And that’s the worst thing of all. Betrayed by my broken brain. Tricked into believing in love when it normally would be, what, nothing? I had never even thought… I’m not a  brave person. I don’t take chances. The only time I have ever stood up for myself was getting my divorce, and even that has backfired because I am crippled by the misfiring neurons and imbalanced chemicals and I need someone to be on constant suicide watch because I don’t trust myself to stay alive. Not even actually committing suicide, because that would be an active movement toward something. All I am doing is slipping slowly downward. Down, down, swirling cold and clammy shadows of despair invading my soul and smothering it.

It’s been 341 days.

I remember the last time you walked out my doorway. I leaned my forehead against the screen and wanted you to stay. I told myself to not show the worry and hurt, but to look happy. Let you leave on a positive note, so you will want to always come back.

I told myself not to be stupid. I told myself that of course you’ll be back. That it isn’t the last time. I told myself it wouldn’t be the last time I saw you.

It rises inside me. It hurts. I close my eyes and swallow it down. I will continue to do this until it builds up too much and explodes.

Nothing takes it away. It is a constant. It is always there, the web of cracks in my soul. I hear the damage in my head, so loud and rolling it turns into static.

I will never not miss you. I tell myself I can survive that. Every moment. Every day.

And the really insanely awful thing is maybe-

No. Not maybe. I AM.

I am afraid to get better, because if it is just my BPD multiplying how I feel, the me that was me that had you becomes a lie, like the you that I thought you were that loved me. And I don’t want her to disappear, she’s all I have left now.

What if I wake up tomorrow and she’s not here?

Emotional state: Save Yourself by Sense Field

Scapegoat

My whole life has been a series of things being done to me, and then I just have to get over it. Or I actually have to pay for it myself. The mistake/punishment scale is fracked up, for sure.

For example, my father, otherwise known as the man who donated his DNA to bring me into existence, molested me as a kid. Little kid. Teensy tiny itty bitty kid. I don’t remember it, but my mother and my aunts have told me it happened. Actually, I wasn’t told until I spent two days with him when his dad died and I told mom I would like to get to know him, his wife who I suppose is my step-mother, and my half-brother. And she didn’t tell me, exactly. She had my aunt tell me. Which explained a lot about some of my over-the-top anxieties over relationships and sex, and why I was so afraid of men in general.

There’s more to that, but I’m not up to explaining more of that.

But see, my dad never paid for that. At least, not in any way that I understand, except my mom used that as an excuse to divorce him. She reminds me of that sometimes, that she got a divorce because he did those kinds of things, and also he was pretty awful to her in general. But there’s always this feeling of “I got my divorce because of you” vibe that I’m only partially making up in my own head because she’s bipolar so she spends most of her life blaming other people.

So she divorced him and ended up dating Bob and we moved to Surgoinsville away from all my family and she reminds me from time to time that she did that to get me away from my father, and then other times she laments that she had to move all the way down there and was mistreated and ignored by Bob and his family, and there’s that guilt again. If I hadn’t been molested, she wouldn’t have gotten divorced, she wouldn’t have moved us all the way down in the middle of nowhere, and she wouldn’t have lived with a man who treated her like nothing.

And this is not considering the fact that I was ALSO molested by two of my cousins when I was eight. I have never told her this. I don’t know if it was the shame of it happening to me, or if I couldn’t bear the expression I imagined she would have. I’ve told a few people about it. I told John about it. I told Nathan about it. A few friends I’ve admitted it to. No one in my family. I was eight… but I have always felt like it was my own fault. And it’s scarred me. Always. My fault. If I wasn’t so disgusting, then they wouldn’t have done that to me. And when I was told about my dad, well… if my own father saw that in me, if my own cousins… three people saw that in me. So it’s there, right? We are what others perceive, right? So I must me that.

It continues on to so many other instances. But the one that’s on my mind is my ex-husband. How every time he fucked up, it was my fault. He started taking pills because I was such a bitch so often. How if I’d not been such a wreck he could have handled life better. How from the very first moment we started dating I began pushing him away.

I miscarried in 2001, right after September 11. He was supposed to go into the Air Force before all that happened, even began the process, but changed his mind when I got pregnant. Ten months along, I started bleeding, and the ER said I was fine, but the next day when I went by myself to the doctor, the nurse practitioner did the ultrasound, not saying anything when I was chirping cheerfully about the baby on the screen, and then when she finished she handed me some tissue and told me the baby had stopped developing two weeks before. It hurt. So much. And I felt like my insides were poison. I could sense the dead child inside me, a cold, empty shell, that was sapping my soul from the inside out. I had to have a D and C. It took me a long time to seem to get over that. Some days… I still feel that. I wrote a poem about it. I don’t have it anymore, but it was one of the first ones I shared with the world.

My brain has never been right. It poisoned me. I felt worthless, because what kind of woman can’t carry a child? Things had always been volatile with Nathan and me, but that made our tenuous relationship collapse in on itself. We fought for a year, then he left me on Halloween to move in with his ex-girlfriend he had been seeing behind my back. Just called me and told me he wasn’t coming back. And I begged. I cried. I lost myself. And after about a month I started trying to pull myself back together, and he called and wanted to come back.

And I let him. Because what woman can’t carry a baby AND can’t keep a husband? A worthless one. I wasn’t allowed to be angry or hurt at him anymore about it. It was my fault anyway. If I hadn’t pushed him away, he wouldn’t have started seeing Rory again. If I wasn’t such a mess we would’ve been fine. My fault. My fault. My guilt.

It’s always that way with he and I. My fault. My mistakes. My guilt. I can’t be friends with John because he cheated on Kristi with me. My fault. So I lose my friend, and I can’t be at certain friendly gatherings because they might be there, so, even though I’ve known some of the mutual friends ten years longer than he, even though he made the choice to talk to me when he was with someone else, even though he told me he loved me and wanted to be with me, it’s my fault. My guilt. My punishment. Because what kind of woman would be a dirty mistress? He gets to go on with his life, and I get the punishment and stigma and blame. I can’t talk about it to anyone but one friend, because I brought it on myself. I should’ve known better. And yes, I should have.

I’ve spent my entire life wanting someone to treat me like I’m someone special. No. That’s not right. I’ve spent my whole life wanting someone to treat me like a real person. A woman. A human being entitled to feel her emotions and to be angry and to not be punished for just being me. For being scared of being abandoned, or mistreated, because when in my history have I ever been wrong in that? I’m the pariah. I’m the scapegoat. I’m the dirty mistress. I’m the bitch. I’m not a woman. I’m not loved, I’m a monster.

Memories by Within Temptation

Date of Birth

It’s my birthday. I honestly do not care. I have lost the ability to be excited about things. But I’ve (mostly) stopped the crying thing. It comes in shorter bursts, and sometimes over the weirdest things like I was reading a Christopher Pike book and it made me miss him so bad I wanted to die.

I was at the disability doctor appointment waiting for the doctor to come in, which he did right after it happened and asked in that kind of hesitant voice “…Are you doin’ alright today, Ms. Mays?” to which I replied “I… just haven’t felt well lately.” Because really… what could I say?

Waiting on the psych appointment, but Families First approved the medical version of that so I’m going to fax the acceptance letter to the Disability people as an official “She is incapacitated.” letter from a government office. Couldn’t hurt, right?

My friend @verilyvexed and I have joked about making a Community comic based on her original idea of drawing the dean dressed up as Jessica Rabbit. When she mentioned this I immediately got ideas for what the study group would wear: Jeff would be a sexy priest, which would piss Shirley off, Ritta would be Ishtar, which would piss Shirley off… Shirley would take the opportunity to do something VERY over the top Christian, which is very her, Pierce would wear some sort of official uniform for the Neo Buddhist Lazer Lotus group looking like an extra from the set of Barbarella, and Troy and Abed would organize a schoolwide easter egg hunt. The dean would appear singing and draping himself on the doorway, one knee up and say “I’m not bad, I’m just DEANED that way!” Then “Get it?” then waving his hand and chuckling while he tells him the ridiculous idea he had for easter to use as an excuse to be Jessica Rabbit because he forgets that she isn’t even a real rabbit. It’s the first thing I’ve really wanted to write in a very long time.

Only a couple of people have wished me a happy birthday so far. Like I said, I’m not really excited about it. There’s really only one person I’d like to contact me today, and I’m more likely to join the set of Doctor Who than for him to even pretend I ever meant anything to him.

Was that bitter? Yeah… that reads as bitter. But the emotion behind it is numb. I feel nothing. But apparently my fingers are still hurt and humiliated at least.

Oh and as an addendum to yesterday’s post: I actually semi-helped with the tree, Kiera broke two red globes but that’s it, they put out the cloth manger scene, my ex DID move around my living room furniture and I actually kinda like it, and I didn’t go nazi-decorator on them. Though I DID have to gripe at them about putting the homemade decorations front and center because SPECIAL!!! and to put the delicate glass decorations closer to the bottom to cut down on the broken ones.

A really funny story about today though:

Cali and Kiera have been picking at each other all day. After yet another argument, I said their names in a warning tone. They were silent for a minute, then Kiera said, “I’m sorry, Cali.” Cali, in a polite tone, responded, “It’s alright, Kiera. Why’d you have to be so rude?” After another short pause, they both started singing, “Why’d you have to be so rude? Don’t you know I’m human tooooo?”  Which is this song if you didn’t already know. And how can I get mad at them when they’re starring in their own personal musical? I can’t. That’s the correct answer.

So, I’ve been trying not to bitch and whine about my cursed romance as much, as you can see. Hopefully I’m at least entertaining.

Anyway, the whole “Community” comic came up because @verilyvexed wished me a happy birthday and that the next year will be great to which I said something along the lines of “it’s gotta be yeesh” and she said it will be because she’s a level 47 Lazer Lotus Buddhist and she said it will be so. Then we went on about The IT Crowd and Joel McHale and Community some more and somehow along that I saw they have a The Big Bang Theory porn parody and I was all “WHY??? thE FUUUUCK?” and I couldn’t send her any links on her work computer because that would be bad and she asked if she had forced me to see her drawing of Dean! Jessica Rabbit and she even had a semi-conceived comic idea and off we went for about an hour. If we don’t procrastinate to death we might actually do it. And if I do I will link it to here.

Yes. I am having the BPD manic episodes without the emotion behind it which is mostly just me not sleeping playing solitaire and listening to The Dresden Files audiobooks  and going off on very long incoherent tangents about the first thing that pops into my head.

Wheeeee?

Birthday by The Cruxshadows

Semi-Comfortably Numb

“so I didn’t cry today. I kept feeling my body wanting to, but it would go away like… ok you know when you are at the end of your bottle of lotion and you are squeezing and it does the thing where it starts to come out but when you stop squeezing it slurps back in so you end up squeezing really hard and trying to wipe it on your arm so you don’t lose it again even though you didnt need lotion on your arm but it’s the only way to get lotion? THAT is emotion to me today.”

This is how I described my emotional state to @verilyvexed today. It’s weird, right? On the one hand, the misery is behind a wall. It’s like I know it’s still there, but it can’t get to me. On the other you can’t even remotely call me happy, or even neutral. I’m tabula rasa, in as much as I believe any human being can be, since I do actually believe some things are inherent and the proof of actual physical proof that people with certain emotional disabilities have different brain functions. In a fucked up way I miss the pain. It’s like that was proof that I cared? But I realize it is fucked up and therefore that cancels it out.

I wonder if I could write. And if I could what would it be like? Sometimes I want to write my life story out, but I can’t imagine anyone would believe someone could possibly have so many wrong things happen in their life.  When I am lying in bed and feeling manicawake I will talk to myself, sometimes out loud, and the half delirious flow is almost beautiful.

I’m not sure what I’m doing here. Anyway.

Besides numbing myself medically, I have started the process of preparing for bariatric surgery. And yes, it’s a tool not a quick fix. And yes, it is going to be really hard. AND YES, it is going to hurt, and my recovery is going to be difficult and I am going to have to change my entire life.

But I am kind of at my last shot. Ever since I had my youngest daughter, losing weight is impossible. I’ve tried, I hardly eat anything (no I’m not starving myself) and I used to work all the time and exercise a lot, but it doesn’t help. Also, my depression has kind of taken over my body. I’m tired all the time. Like ALL the time. I have no energy. None.

I’m tired of being this. if I could draw it, it would be a normal shaped blue silhouette that almost glows surrounded by a dark red form of a heinously fat person. The red is so dark it almost sucks all the life out out the blue insides. That is me. And I’m so close to just… stopping. I don’t want to be me anymore. I want to be someone else. Someone reasonably healthy and strong enough to keep going after losing the person they thought was their soul mate, and can someone be your soul mate but you aren’t their’s?

I suppose that’s one of those things I will never learn the answer to.

Dear Rosemary by Foo Fighters

Wide Awake

I haven’t slept.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been awake at this point, I’m delirious and dazed. I want to sleep so badly, but I can’t.

I thought about cleaning. To be honest, I usually suck at keeping house, but ever so often I get in a tangent and then everything is supercleaned, in a “take an old toothbrush to the corners of the floor” kind of way. But I don’t want to.

All I want to do is not feel anything. I’ve cried so much I’m surprised I have any fluids left inside me. When will I start getting over this hurt?

The worst of it is I feel like I was a fool. That I loved him and he felt nothing all along. And I really want to believe it’s for the best, but for now, all I feel is abandoned, betrayed, and stupid. Because if he felt the way he said he did, he couldn’t have done this to me. But he did, so… he didn’t care. And he doesn’t now. I’m suffering, and crying, and shriveling up inside and he’s playing video games, going on vacation, and hanging out with friends like always.

That sounds bitter because it is.

Waiting for the girls to get up. They’re the only sunshine in my world these days. Everything else is bogged down with that black betrayal fog that he left over everything.

Sorry for whining. I get weepy when I don’t sleep.

Has Anyone Ever Written Anything For You by Stevie Nicks