Tuesday, January 3, 2012
No Title, Just an Observation
(sigh) Only four posts in and I've already ruined my new blog. I told you I'm a NON-techie, so it should come as no big surprise that I have absolutely no freaking clue how to do this properly. I've been voraciously reading other people's blogs, and I see now that I could have done something much better than what we have here. I haven't been adding those little keywords that help sort the posts or whatever. No one has ever taught me how to design a webpage. We don't know how to use all the little buttons and don't understand what all the different icons mean. We're not stupid, we're just old-school. I still draw pictures with a pencil in a sketchbook, not using a program on my computer. If I don't have a paintbrush in my hand, it just feels unnatural to me, sorry, I can't help the way I feel. As an artist I have respect for other artists who create using Photoshop or whatever, I just don't express myself in that way. Am I a dinosaur? I did my part for geekdom-I married one!-but I'm not a geek. I love them, but I am not one of them. I wonder if I can exist in this world without learning how to do all that stuff? I still don't have a smartphone. That's intentional! I don't need, nor do I want, that much technology in the palm of my hand. It's just not necessary. I have enough trouble dealing with real life!
Monday, January 2, 2012
Regrets: Old and New
Still in bed and wish to stay here for as long as possible this morning. Yesterday was horrific, at least what I can remember of it. I checked my Facebook page, my Twitter, my phone....all signs point to some lost time and dissociation. Don't know who wrote that last blog entry. Was having a very schizo day all around. That's not necessarily literal, that's just what I say when we're having a mentally trying day. Which is most days. Depends on who we are that day. Yesterday we were weak and pathetic. Lots of crying, I remember that. Plus, a look in the mirror reveals raccoon eyes and mascara trails down my cheeks so it's easy to figure out. I cried about something that happened 10 years ago, more so than I'd cried when it actually happened. I cried about not getting a marshmallow Santa in my stocking. I cried about my Daddy. (It's not long until the anniversary of his death, and both I and my mother get very depressed around this time of year.) Yes, depression on top of the holiday blues...it's not fun.
How do I explain to you what happened to me? I don't even know myself. I feel so traumatized though. I can't remember what was the initial trigger or even if there was one; I just know I was in a different place all day long. But the end of the day brought a slap in the face. Mom wanted to watch a video of the family Christmas party from 1994 and of course we couldn't say no, so for the first time since my daddy died, I got to see him again. When I heard his voice I began to sob. I was always Daddy's little girl. I miss him more than I could ever express in words. After he died, I had a(nother) breakdown and went to a dark place. I did a series of paintings called "Doctors Are Sick". I can't remember how many paintings there were exactly, but I very distinctly remember that they were done in a style I'd never used before, as though someone new were painting. Those were the most important pieces of art I've ever done, because they represented pure emotion. For the first time in my life, I had painted without restraint. I sobbed uncontrollably as I created these canvasses, often times lying the painting on the floor and using my hands to manipulate the paint. These paintings were dark and gloomy and all had a hospital/medical theme, as my father had been sick for several years before he finally died and I spent an enormous amount of time in doctors' offices and hospitals. I poured all of my grief onto those pieces of canvas, all my pain. I was quite proud of them actually, but only because I knew they were pure. Pure feelings. No gimmicks. No trends. No technique. I was painting for no one but myself. For a while I kept them hidden, but one day someone came over and saw them. I don't remember how everything came about, but in October of that year-I wish I could remember what year that was-my paintings were hung in a show at a gothic/industrial/fetish event. The event coordinator liked the paintings because they were so dark. Almost all of them were done in black, gray, and hospital green. One of them was a doctor, crucified on a cross made of money, atop a mountain of pill bottles. Here's another one, called "Pinned-On Smile":
Several of the paintings contained hypodermic needles, and I didn't know what the significance of that was until I had a dream one night and remembered that at one point, the hospice nurse gave us the option of putting my father into a drug-induced coma so that he wouldn't suffer so much pain. I realized after waking from the dream that I had a lot of issues with the fact that I helped decide to give my father that shot. It's as though I helped kill my Daddy. So there are lots of needles in the paintings.
I suppose I might've sold them to a heroin addict or perhaps a drug rehab center. But the paintings succumbed to a tragic end; the event coordinator never got back with me about them. She had them in her possession and I was supposed to meet her to pick them up. Well, before that happened, she moved to another state. She claimed to have left the paintings with her former boyfriend, who lived in the same city I did. Well, before I could retrieve my art from him, he fucking died! I never saw my paintings again. I have a few photos of some of them, that's all I have left. At least my sister got to see them; she appreciated them more than anyone else could've and they moved her to tears, so in the end I have that. Plus, just getting all that suffering out of me and putting it someplace else was very liberating. Bonus:paintings don't leave scars!
We really need to see our shrink but have to wait another week or so. I can't remember when my appointment is but it's sometime in the near future. Not soon enough however. The self-injury has gotten worse than it's been in years. I haven't used a knife since the mid-90's, so I keep telling myself that I've gotten better, but to look at my skin proves otherwise. The other day my mother saw me in a dress and started to cry when she looked at my legs. I'd forgotten how bad they looked until that moment. I ran away from her and made a mental note to keep my skin covered up until all my wounds have healed. Luckily, it's winter now so it's not suspicious to wear lots of clothing. Come Summer, I'm fucked, as these current wounds are already showing signs of terrible scarring. But I'm better! I didn't use a razor blade! I used tweezers and a nail file and scissors and my fingernails. That's an improvement, isn't it?
God I am such a NON techie. I got a new phone for Christmas, and I don't know how to use it yet, and I totally humiliated myself yesterday by sending someone unknown either a Tweet or a text; I have no idea what it said or how I did it, I just saw the words "Message Sent" and completely freaked out. It was too late to take it back. Plus, since there's been a 2 hour wait at the wireless store, I've not had my old phone data transferred to my new phone, so I don't know who anyone is who calls or texts me, as their names are not currently stored in my phone. My solution has been to not answer the phone. People who know me really well (that's hilarious-as if somebody actually knows me really well) aren't shocked when that happens; I often go off the radar for days at a time. It's hard to believe, but most of my real life friends don't even know about our illness. I'm an excellent actress. Well, most of the time.
Yesterday I just couldn't hold it together. It took everything I had to be the Good Daughter and not let Mom know how bad things were. I kept slipping off to my room to escape, or finding tasks to do in other rooms, so that nobody in the house would see that we were struggling. Unfortunately, by the time my husband and I were alone at the end of the day, I was totally exhausted from trying to be "sane" all day and night and I just melted into a puddle right in front of him. He's never seen me like this. We're still newlyweds. I told him about all these things before we got married (of course) but he's never actually experienced me being another me. I have the K that he knows and loves inside of me but she wasn't around yesterday. Not sure where she was. The voices were so loud I guess they drove her away. My biggest fear is that we will drive our husband away, just like all the other people in my life. I'm worried about K. She's having a rough time right now, and she can't talk to anyone about it. There is no one she can trust. I tried to be honest with my husband (who really does need a name!) about the thoughts in my head, but it only succeeded in scaring him. I don't want him to be afraid. How can I make him forget everything he saw and heard last night? What if he never looks at me the same way again?!? He's already laid eyes on my self-inflicted wounds; I try to hide them at all times but there's no hiding my FACE, which I've been obsessively picking at. Both my arms and legs are covered in bloody scabs. I am fucking disgusting. We want The Old K back, the chick who's 23 and talented and thin and pretty and smart and funny and sexy and popular and who always looks put together. Where the fuck did she go?
How do I explain to you what happened to me? I don't even know myself. I feel so traumatized though. I can't remember what was the initial trigger or even if there was one; I just know I was in a different place all day long. But the end of the day brought a slap in the face. Mom wanted to watch a video of the family Christmas party from 1994 and of course we couldn't say no, so for the first time since my daddy died, I got to see him again. When I heard his voice I began to sob. I was always Daddy's little girl. I miss him more than I could ever express in words. After he died, I had a(nother) breakdown and went to a dark place. I did a series of paintings called "Doctors Are Sick". I can't remember how many paintings there were exactly, but I very distinctly remember that they were done in a style I'd never used before, as though someone new were painting. Those were the most important pieces of art I've ever done, because they represented pure emotion. For the first time in my life, I had painted without restraint. I sobbed uncontrollably as I created these canvasses, often times lying the painting on the floor and using my hands to manipulate the paint. These paintings were dark and gloomy and all had a hospital/medical theme, as my father had been sick for several years before he finally died and I spent an enormous amount of time in doctors' offices and hospitals. I poured all of my grief onto those pieces of canvas, all my pain. I was quite proud of them actually, but only because I knew they were pure. Pure feelings. No gimmicks. No trends. No technique. I was painting for no one but myself. For a while I kept them hidden, but one day someone came over and saw them. I don't remember how everything came about, but in October of that year-I wish I could remember what year that was-my paintings were hung in a show at a gothic/industrial/fetish event. The event coordinator liked the paintings because they were so dark. Almost all of them were done in black, gray, and hospital green. One of them was a doctor, crucified on a cross made of money, atop a mountain of pill bottles. Here's another one, called "Pinned-On Smile":
Several of the paintings contained hypodermic needles, and I didn't know what the significance of that was until I had a dream one night and remembered that at one point, the hospice nurse gave us the option of putting my father into a drug-induced coma so that he wouldn't suffer so much pain. I realized after waking from the dream that I had a lot of issues with the fact that I helped decide to give my father that shot. It's as though I helped kill my Daddy. So there are lots of needles in the paintings.
I suppose I might've sold them to a heroin addict or perhaps a drug rehab center. But the paintings succumbed to a tragic end; the event coordinator never got back with me about them. She had them in her possession and I was supposed to meet her to pick them up. Well, before that happened, she moved to another state. She claimed to have left the paintings with her former boyfriend, who lived in the same city I did. Well, before I could retrieve my art from him, he fucking died! I never saw my paintings again. I have a few photos of some of them, that's all I have left. At least my sister got to see them; she appreciated them more than anyone else could've and they moved her to tears, so in the end I have that. Plus, just getting all that suffering out of me and putting it someplace else was very liberating. Bonus:paintings don't leave scars!
We really need to see our shrink but have to wait another week or so. I can't remember when my appointment is but it's sometime in the near future. Not soon enough however. The self-injury has gotten worse than it's been in years. I haven't used a knife since the mid-90's, so I keep telling myself that I've gotten better, but to look at my skin proves otherwise. The other day my mother saw me in a dress and started to cry when she looked at my legs. I'd forgotten how bad they looked until that moment. I ran away from her and made a mental note to keep my skin covered up until all my wounds have healed. Luckily, it's winter now so it's not suspicious to wear lots of clothing. Come Summer, I'm fucked, as these current wounds are already showing signs of terrible scarring. But I'm better! I didn't use a razor blade! I used tweezers and a nail file and scissors and my fingernails. That's an improvement, isn't it?
God I am such a NON techie. I got a new phone for Christmas, and I don't know how to use it yet, and I totally humiliated myself yesterday by sending someone unknown either a Tweet or a text; I have no idea what it said or how I did it, I just saw the words "Message Sent" and completely freaked out. It was too late to take it back. Plus, since there's been a 2 hour wait at the wireless store, I've not had my old phone data transferred to my new phone, so I don't know who anyone is who calls or texts me, as their names are not currently stored in my phone. My solution has been to not answer the phone. People who know me really well (that's hilarious-as if somebody actually knows me really well) aren't shocked when that happens; I often go off the radar for days at a time. It's hard to believe, but most of my real life friends don't even know about our illness. I'm an excellent actress. Well, most of the time.
Yesterday I just couldn't hold it together. It took everything I had to be the Good Daughter and not let Mom know how bad things were. I kept slipping off to my room to escape, or finding tasks to do in other rooms, so that nobody in the house would see that we were struggling. Unfortunately, by the time my husband and I were alone at the end of the day, I was totally exhausted from trying to be "sane" all day and night and I just melted into a puddle right in front of him. He's never seen me like this. We're still newlyweds. I told him about all these things before we got married (of course) but he's never actually experienced me being another me. I have the K that he knows and loves inside of me but she wasn't around yesterday. Not sure where she was. The voices were so loud I guess they drove her away. My biggest fear is that we will drive our husband away, just like all the other people in my life. I'm worried about K. She's having a rough time right now, and she can't talk to anyone about it. There is no one she can trust. I tried to be honest with my husband (who really does need a name!) about the thoughts in my head, but it only succeeded in scaring him. I don't want him to be afraid. How can I make him forget everything he saw and heard last night? What if he never looks at me the same way again?!? He's already laid eyes on my self-inflicted wounds; I try to hide them at all times but there's no hiding my FACE, which I've been obsessively picking at. Both my arms and legs are covered in bloody scabs. I am fucking disgusting. We want The Old K back, the chick who's 23 and talented and thin and pretty and smart and funny and sexy and popular and who always looks put together. Where the fuck did she go?
It's Gonna Be A Long Year...
Spent damn near 3 fucking hours writing one big paragraph about how we're having a terribly difficult day and then that bitch wouldn't let me post it! The need to bleed is upon us...
Christmas got packed away today. Holiday Blues will linger until February.
Ate my first meal of 2012. Threw up my first meal of 2012. Didn't eat again.
Fuck this day. We're going to take a bunch of pills and go to sleep. Glorious sleep.
One more thing. Death is all around me. Everybody's dead.
Christmas got packed away today. Holiday Blues will linger until February.
Ate my first meal of 2012. Threw up my first meal of 2012. Didn't eat again.
Fuck this day. We're going to take a bunch of pills and go to sleep. Glorious sleep.
One more thing. Death is all around me. Everybody's dead.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
New Years Evil
Ah, New Year's Eve. A time for reflecting upon the triumphs and tragedies of the past year and looking ahead to the bright, shiny possibilities of the upcoming year. Ideally, that's what I'd be doing, along with drinking champagne throughout the day. Instead, I'm just waking up from a sedative-induced sleep which I forced myself into after having a major meltdown this morning. We were so excited, eager, and anxious about going out to celebrate New Year's Eve tonight that I was completely overwhelmed by the thought of it all. I was supposed to come up with something special to wear, and get all dressed up, and go out to a party or two with my darling husband, whom I planned to kiss at midnight. But the pressure of doing all those things was just too much for me to bear and I completely flipped out and had the worst anxiety attack I've had in ages. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel my whole body shaking. I couldn't catch my breath, and began to pant as though I'd run a marathon. I was enveloped in a desire to self-harm, but was unable to do so because my eyes couldn't focus and everything was fuzzy. I tried really hard to make myself dissociate so I could escape this agony but that never works when I want it to. My head felt like it was in an ever-tightening vise, and I could feel the blood rushing through my brain; the pain was so intense that I thought I might have a stroke at any moment. I thought I was going to die, literally. All because I had plans to go out tonight...
Well, we didn't even have specific plans at the time of my freakout. We were pondering two choices: a large, rowdy party with some friends and a ton of strangers and massive quantities of booze and whatnot, or a small, intimate get-together with 2 other couples, some fireworks and, of course, more drinking. I intentionally skipped all my meds this morning, specifically so that I might drink more tonight without fear of drug interactions. Apparently, that was a bad idea. Not a half hour had passed after I'd made that decision before I had a complete and utter breakdown. My only option was to take 2 mg Alprazolam and lie down on the bed with my eyes closed and my head hidden. My husband was quick to discover I'd skipped my pills and thus forced me to take them and eventually I passed out. (I was doing my yoga breathing to calm down and I guess that plus the drugs worked wonders) Not sure how long I was asleep, but when I woke up it was no longer this morning, it was well into this afternoon, so I'm guessing I slept for hours. I just don't know for sure. I have no concept of time. I'm not kidding. NONE. But that's a story for another time...
When I woke up, my husband came to my bedside and asked if I was OK. That's when it all came rushing back to me and I remembered that I had lost my mind for a bit there. Suddenly I was embarrassed and ashamed.and humiliated and felt as though I'd ruined our holiday even before it had begun. At the same time, the person waking up from her drug-induced coma was someone new and different and she didn't feel anxious about going out to a party at all. I was stoked about New Year's Eve and eager to find out where we'd be spending our evening. Well, my husband told me then that he'd decided it best for us to just stay home tonight. I knew immediately that it was because of me/her/"us". He was giving up his night of partying because he didn't think I was stable enough to be out in public. That made me feel like utter shit. But he wouldn't admit that I was the cause of it-he gave me perfectly logical reasons to stay home (too many drunks on the roads, cops everywhere looking to pull people over, etc) and I could say nothing to change his mind. So I have already messed up our New Year's weekend (and it hasn't even started yet). What a fitting end to a fucked up year.
I guess this is where I should go into details about all the important things that happened in 2011. That's what the average person would do, right? But I'm not the average person and besides that, my memory is so bad that I've forgotten most of the past year anyway! I remember LAST New Year's Eve however. My husband and I rented a cabin with 2 other couples (the same ones who've invited us to hang out tonight) and we spent the weekend in the mountains. We had a fabulous time, drinking and feasting on grilled steaks and dancing and singing and being silly and dressing up and playing board games and lounging in the 2-person hammock and chilling out in the hot tub with the always-present glass of champagne in my hand... When the time warrants, I can become this person who is sociable and funny and seems to be normal. It's a mask I wear. (another story for another time) Now I have to admit, the main reason I'm able to remember all this so well is because that Christmas, I'd received a mini video camera and I was filming our whole trip. So I can watch the video and relive the experience. That camera has become an invaluable tool to me, for it gives me the ability to document my daily life and remember the important events/people/etc that I'd otherwise forget due to my ever-shrinking memory. The only problem I have now is, I always FORGET that I have the damn camera!
After starting off 2011 with a bang (fireworks!), it was only a short time before my husband and I were celebrating our very first wedding anniversary. Yes, I am just recently married, and my husband is the most supportive, understanding, kind-hearted man I've ever known. He's my best friend and I absolutely adore him and can't imagine life without him. I don't know how he puts up with me (us?). I really don't. Hopefully, my mental illness won't drive him away like it drove away so many boyfriends/friends/family members/co-workers...(big sigh here) Now back to our story. February brought Valentine's, my birthday, and my mother's hospitalization. I very nearly lost her this past year. She's 81 and precious to me, and her near death brought on alot of mental problems for me. But you must understand one thing: I NEVER tell my mother what is going on in my head. We don't talk about the voices, or the hallucinations, or the dissociation, or any other symptom which she might perceive as serious. Ihide avoid her when I'm having an episode. She really has no idea exactly how ill I truly am. But I digress-
My husband (whom I need to come up with some name for, so that I don't have to continually type "husband") threw me a birthday party at the bar we normally hang out in. I like it because it's dark and smoky and usually empty. The owner knows us, and my husband bartends there sometimes, and so the bartenders and waitresses and everyone there went out of their way to make my night special. Balloons, party hats, cake, the whole shebang. My sister was there, which is simultaneously awesome and bizarre, since she lives so far away from me, but she'd flown in to be with Mom on her supposed death bed and was therefore able to attend my little soiree. I drank until I got sick (it's not a party until you puke!) and ended up talking and laughing with my hubby and sister all night, long after the bar had closed and we'd stumbled home.
The next 6 months I don't remember at all. Seriously. Not a clue. Sitting here right now, I can't tell you if we were sick or stable or up or down. I can't recall a thing. I have some photos of the birthday party I threw my husband in August, so I'm able to vaguely remember that. We rented 2 hotel rooms (so no one had to drive home drunk) and invited everyone to party and hang out with us at the pool. Actually, it wasn't nearly that smooth and easy, but I'm going to gloss over it for you. After that, I can't remember anything until near Halloween. October is my favorite month, I LOVE Halloween and all things spooky and I usually get manic and ridiculously happy during that time of year. I'm having trouble remembering what we actually did for Halloween. Hmm. Oh well.
With November comes the onset of my traditional holiday blues, and this will last until just after my birthday in February. Thanksgiving was stressful to the max, but we can't remember any specific details about it. Next was Christmas, which sucked, and that brings us to where we are now. I'm quite certain that you're sick to death of my rambling by this point anyway. And besides that--SHIT!--the whole day has already gone--I have to go get dressed for tonight. Tonight. New Year's Eve. This will be the first time I've stayed at home for this night in decades, I kid you not. As it turned out, I've spent my entire day either sleeping or working on this blog entry. Yes, it has literally taken us all day to write this post. I can't remember how long this entry is or even what I've been talking about. My OCD tells me to reread it for the 1000th time but at this point I'm so mentally exhausted that I just want to stop thinking. So I'm going to post this without a final edit. Holy shit, I can't believe she's doing that! But I'm tired, so very tired. And the night has yet to begin, along with the new year. Let's pop some fucking champagne, shall we?
Well, we didn't even have specific plans at the time of my freakout. We were pondering two choices: a large, rowdy party with some friends and a ton of strangers and massive quantities of booze and whatnot, or a small, intimate get-together with 2 other couples, some fireworks and, of course, more drinking. I intentionally skipped all my meds this morning, specifically so that I might drink more tonight without fear of drug interactions. Apparently, that was a bad idea. Not a half hour had passed after I'd made that decision before I had a complete and utter breakdown. My only option was to take 2 mg Alprazolam and lie down on the bed with my eyes closed and my head hidden. My husband was quick to discover I'd skipped my pills and thus forced me to take them and eventually I passed out. (I was doing my yoga breathing to calm down and I guess that plus the drugs worked wonders) Not sure how long I was asleep, but when I woke up it was no longer this morning, it was well into this afternoon, so I'm guessing I slept for hours. I just don't know for sure. I have no concept of time. I'm not kidding. NONE. But that's a story for another time...
When I woke up, my husband came to my bedside and asked if I was OK. That's when it all came rushing back to me and I remembered that I had lost my mind for a bit there. Suddenly I was embarrassed and ashamed.and humiliated and felt as though I'd ruined our holiday even before it had begun. At the same time, the person waking up from her drug-induced coma was someone new and different and she didn't feel anxious about going out to a party at all. I was stoked about New Year's Eve and eager to find out where we'd be spending our evening. Well, my husband told me then that he'd decided it best for us to just stay home tonight. I knew immediately that it was because of me/her/"us". He was giving up his night of partying because he didn't think I was stable enough to be out in public. That made me feel like utter shit. But he wouldn't admit that I was the cause of it-he gave me perfectly logical reasons to stay home (too many drunks on the roads, cops everywhere looking to pull people over, etc) and I could say nothing to change his mind. So I have already messed up our New Year's weekend (and it hasn't even started yet). What a fitting end to a fucked up year.
I guess this is where I should go into details about all the important things that happened in 2011. That's what the average person would do, right? But I'm not the average person and besides that, my memory is so bad that I've forgotten most of the past year anyway! I remember LAST New Year's Eve however. My husband and I rented a cabin with 2 other couples (the same ones who've invited us to hang out tonight) and we spent the weekend in the mountains. We had a fabulous time, drinking and feasting on grilled steaks and dancing and singing and being silly and dressing up and playing board games and lounging in the 2-person hammock and chilling out in the hot tub with the always-present glass of champagne in my hand... When the time warrants, I can become this person who is sociable and funny and seems to be normal. It's a mask I wear. (another story for another time) Now I have to admit, the main reason I'm able to remember all this so well is because that Christmas, I'd received a mini video camera and I was filming our whole trip. So I can watch the video and relive the experience. That camera has become an invaluable tool to me, for it gives me the ability to document my daily life and remember the important events/people/etc that I'd otherwise forget due to my ever-shrinking memory. The only problem I have now is, I always FORGET that I have the damn camera!
After starting off 2011 with a bang (fireworks!), it was only a short time before my husband and I were celebrating our very first wedding anniversary. Yes, I am just recently married, and my husband is the most supportive, understanding, kind-hearted man I've ever known. He's my best friend and I absolutely adore him and can't imagine life without him. I don't know how he puts up with me (us?). I really don't. Hopefully, my mental illness won't drive him away like it drove away so many boyfriends/friends/family members/co-workers...(big sigh here) Now back to our story. February brought Valentine's, my birthday, and my mother's hospitalization. I very nearly lost her this past year. She's 81 and precious to me, and her near death brought on alot of mental problems for me. But you must understand one thing: I NEVER tell my mother what is going on in my head. We don't talk about the voices, or the hallucinations, or the dissociation, or any other symptom which she might perceive as serious. I
My husband (whom I need to come up with some name for, so that I don't have to continually type "husband") threw me a birthday party at the bar we normally hang out in. I like it because it's dark and smoky and usually empty. The owner knows us, and my husband bartends there sometimes, and so the bartenders and waitresses and everyone there went out of their way to make my night special. Balloons, party hats, cake, the whole shebang. My sister was there, which is simultaneously awesome and bizarre, since she lives so far away from me, but she'd flown in to be with Mom on her supposed death bed and was therefore able to attend my little soiree. I drank until I got sick (it's not a party until you puke!) and ended up talking and laughing with my hubby and sister all night, long after the bar had closed and we'd stumbled home.
The next 6 months I don't remember at all. Seriously. Not a clue. Sitting here right now, I can't tell you if we were sick or stable or up or down. I can't recall a thing. I have some photos of the birthday party I threw my husband in August, so I'm able to vaguely remember that. We rented 2 hotel rooms (so no one had to drive home drunk) and invited everyone to party and hang out with us at the pool. Actually, it wasn't nearly that smooth and easy, but I'm going to gloss over it for you. After that, I can't remember anything until near Halloween. October is my favorite month, I LOVE Halloween and all things spooky and I usually get manic and ridiculously happy during that time of year. I'm having trouble remembering what we actually did for Halloween. Hmm. Oh well.
With November comes the onset of my traditional holiday blues, and this will last until just after my birthday in February. Thanksgiving was stressful to the max, but we can't remember any specific details about it. Next was Christmas, which sucked, and that brings us to where we are now. I'm quite certain that you're sick to death of my rambling by this point anyway. And besides that--SHIT!--the whole day has already gone--I have to go get dressed for tonight. Tonight. New Year's Eve. This will be the first time I've stayed at home for this night in decades, I kid you not. As it turned out, I've spent my entire day either sleeping or working on this blog entry. Yes, it has literally taken us all day to write this post. I can't remember how long this entry is or even what I've been talking about. My OCD tells me to reread it for the 1000th time but at this point I'm so mentally exhausted that I just want to stop thinking. So I'm going to post this without a final edit. Holy shit, I can't believe she's doing that! But I'm tired, so very tired. And the night has yet to begin, along with the new year. Let's pop some fucking champagne, shall we?
Friday, December 30, 2011
What the Hell Am I Doing Here?!?
I've never done this before. I don't even know if I'll be able to do it or not. But I'm going to give it a shot. I've recently joined the Twitter craze, or at least I've only recently followed and been followed by people. Before that I was just too paranoid to expose myself to anyone. (I'm actually afraid someone who knows me in real life will be able to find my Twitter page and discover my dirty secrets, even though I've not used my name or location.) I guess I've been Tweeting to "me" for awhile now. That doesn't make any sense, but neither do I most of the time. I have to vent in some way, and if I can't talk to my psychiatrist then I tend to look for other outlets, not all of them positive. Translation: There's so much going on inside my head that it has to come out of me or I will explode-or implode!-and if a therapy session is not available then I will turn to other means of self-expression, and some of these are damaging. I self-harm, I self-medicate, I engage in risky behavior. I'm searching for a healthy alternative. Tweets are great for venting, but I often have more to say than a mere 140 characters will allow. Hence, this blog.
The first thing you need to understand is that I am so OCD that it literally takes me hours to write a single paragraph. I edit, rewrite, redo things over and over again, in an attempt to get it PERFECT, which of course is not possible. This means that I'm setting myself up for failure before I've even started. The rational part of my brain realizes this, but it's usually overruled by the rest of me. No matter how hard I try, I can never get it right. I can never be satisfied with anything I do, because it's never good enough. I've had this problem my whole life. I was a straight-A student in school, because I had to be the best, and once in 5th grade a teacher was going to give me an 89-which is a B-and I was so distraught I became suicidal and ended up going to the principal about it and getting that grade changed to a 90, an A. So this is not a new thing for me-I am a perfectionist through and through. It sucks. Nothing is ever the way I want it.
Next, you need to understand that I am many people, many personalities, many "ME's". I was once diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder, but that's incorrect, as most of my personalities are fully aware of the others. I have been in situations in which people I didn't recognize knew me by a different name and knew personal details about me, so I can see where that diagnosis came from. But the next doctor got to know me better, and my diagnosis changed to Dissociative Identity Disorder. This is believed to stem from my being molested as a small girl. If things are stressful, if things get to be too much for me, I will dissociate....I will leave my mind behind me and go someplace else and/or become someone else. This is hard to explain to people who've never experienced it. Basically, it just means I'm not there anymore. I may be sitting beside you, but my mind is off on its own and I'm oblivious to my surroundings. This can go on for minutes or even days. I lose time. What this means is, sometimes I will "wake up", become aware, and realize that I have no memory of what I've been doing up to that point. I may not know where I am or how I got there. In extreme cases, I may not even know who I am. Times like that scare the shit out of me. My point is, I don't know exactly who will be writing this blog. The me I am today may not be the me I am tomorrow. So my writing style changes. Also, I often speak in third person, talking about myself as though I'm a separate individual and calling myself by name, and I unconsciously switch from "I" to "we" during conversation. Please excuse the improper grammar. (It drives me crazy too)
I'm not sure how much I'm supposed to write now...but my mind is getting tired. I have more to say than I could ever possibly type, and I suppose all the crap in my head will make its way to this blog eventually. Or not. I probably won't even remember this tomorrow. That's the third thing you need to know. Because of my mental illness, and because of the large quantities of medications which I take, I have serious memory problems. I practically have NO short-term memory. I will walk from the bedroom to the kitchen, and by that time I'll forget why I was going there. It's also quite embarrassing for me; I will introduce myself to the same people repeatedly, having no memory of having met them before. It makes me look really stupid, and that is something I am not. Yes, I am bonkers, but I am not an idiot! LOL I don't know if anyone out there will find anything entertaining in this blog, hell I don't know if anyone but me will ever read it...but I was thinking that perhaps I might help someone who's mentally ill by letting them know that they are not alone.
The first thing you need to understand is that I am so OCD that it literally takes me hours to write a single paragraph. I edit, rewrite, redo things over and over again, in an attempt to get it PERFECT, which of course is not possible. This means that I'm setting myself up for failure before I've even started. The rational part of my brain realizes this, but it's usually overruled by the rest of me. No matter how hard I try, I can never get it right. I can never be satisfied with anything I do, because it's never good enough. I've had this problem my whole life. I was a straight-A student in school, because I had to be the best, and once in 5th grade a teacher was going to give me an 89-which is a B-and I was so distraught I became suicidal and ended up going to the principal about it and getting that grade changed to a 90, an A. So this is not a new thing for me-I am a perfectionist through and through. It sucks. Nothing is ever the way I want it.
Next, you need to understand that I am many people, many personalities, many "ME's". I was once diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder, but that's incorrect, as most of my personalities are fully aware of the others. I have been in situations in which people I didn't recognize knew me by a different name and knew personal details about me, so I can see where that diagnosis came from. But the next doctor got to know me better, and my diagnosis changed to Dissociative Identity Disorder. This is believed to stem from my being molested as a small girl. If things are stressful, if things get to be too much for me, I will dissociate....I will leave my mind behind me and go someplace else and/or become someone else. This is hard to explain to people who've never experienced it. Basically, it just means I'm not there anymore. I may be sitting beside you, but my mind is off on its own and I'm oblivious to my surroundings. This can go on for minutes or even days. I lose time. What this means is, sometimes I will "wake up", become aware, and realize that I have no memory of what I've been doing up to that point. I may not know where I am or how I got there. In extreme cases, I may not even know who I am. Times like that scare the shit out of me. My point is, I don't know exactly who will be writing this blog. The me I am today may not be the me I am tomorrow. So my writing style changes. Also, I often speak in third person, talking about myself as though I'm a separate individual and calling myself by name, and I unconsciously switch from "I" to "we" during conversation. Please excuse the improper grammar. (It drives me crazy too)
I'm not sure how much I'm supposed to write now...but my mind is getting tired. I have more to say than I could ever possibly type, and I suppose all the crap in my head will make its way to this blog eventually. Or not. I probably won't even remember this tomorrow. That's the third thing you need to know. Because of my mental illness, and because of the large quantities of medications which I take, I have serious memory problems. I practically have NO short-term memory. I will walk from the bedroom to the kitchen, and by that time I'll forget why I was going there. It's also quite embarrassing for me; I will introduce myself to the same people repeatedly, having no memory of having met them before. It makes me look really stupid, and that is something I am not. Yes, I am bonkers, but I am not an idiot! LOL I don't know if anyone out there will find anything entertaining in this blog, hell I don't know if anyone but me will ever read it...but I was thinking that perhaps I might help someone who's mentally ill by letting them know that they are not alone.
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