Archive for January, 2011
Well, I don’t always ask. No go.
I REALLY want to go to hospital right now. And I NEVER want to go to hospital. It’s been eight times now and I know the drill. Same old, same old.
But this place? *shakes head*
Would’a been good.
I wanna go to hospital but I can’t. I have no money and I need to find a place to live so fast. I hate even making this post.
I’m sorry. I already made such of an ass of myself tonight.
I need help but I can’t get it. I hate myself. My life. I said I’d accept everything. No matter what it was. But I can’t move. Like physically.
I called that place but nothing else so Emergency Services and that is hospital.
I am sick and I do want to die. Yes, moods telling me. But if I am so sick and I want to die so much I need help.
I really need as much help as possible, here. I mentioned it on Twitter, but you know how quickly what is said disappears in that arena! So, I thought I would pose the question on my blog, where it may receive more attention.
Actually, this is all about Twitter. I’m having serious issues whether I should keep “L” as my avatar, or if I should switch back to my beloved “Faye.” I have used her ever since I entered the blogosphere, many years ago.
Also, “L” is male and “Faye” is female. PA is female. I am pondering that, as well. PA doesn’t practise gender bias at all! However, it might be better to let everyone know that PA is female.
I am completely paralyzed in making this decision. I am now appealing to you for guidance.
Why do we do it?
Because we don’t know any different. Because we don’t understand. Because we think it wasn’t their fault. Because we think it was our fault. Because we feel we have to be loyal. Because we think we won’t be loved anymore. Because we feel we have to be responsible and it is the right thing to do. Because we’re too afraid to ask questions. Because we have to be smart. Because we have to be strong. Because we’re not allowed to feel pain. Because we should just forget about it. Because it wasn’t a big deal.
Because we were just little kids. Some of us were. I was. And I’ve been protecting her for all my life for doing that. And that…
I’m closing my eyes now. You can close your eyes now, too, if you’d like. And listen to this with me?
“A Princess (Una Princesa)” by Javier Navarrete
Okay, call made. I’m in no way a racist, but this guy could hardly speak English, could not understand my basic questions about procedures, any information pertaining to the place.
It did win the “award” (aka my decision) for its services. I figure I could get some kind of help due to what they offer in terms of therapy. Yeah, I’d probably fit in there somewhere? *rolls eyes*
Here’s what it says: PTSD, anxiety, depression, self-esteem, parenting, addiction, anger, grief, phobias, family/marital stress
So, maybe some of that stuff might apply. D’ya think?
Ahem. Well, now. In organizing some of my disorganization, I stumbled across some “little notebooks.” Rather curious.
And intriguing. And confusing. And contradictory. And repetitive. And poorly written. And shocking. And humbling. And embarrassing. And…
I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but I want a flashback. Right now.
That house. There is something about that house.
In re-reading the recurring nightmare I had as a child (that I had again just this summer) the mind cranks away. Plus after reading some other things going back to the late 90s.
That house. There is something about that house.
There are two things I remember. They strike me as just a little odd.
A 7 year-old girl who has no prior history of incontinence, ends up freaking out, and pissing her pants “because she can’t hold it.” Why? She can’t get in the door after coming home from school. It’s locked. If the doors were to be locked, give her a key. She didn’t have a key. The doors were never locked.
Then, that 7 year-old girl keeps being told (and afterward keeps going up on her own?) to visit “the nice lady upstairs.” A woman in her late 80s or early 90s for juice and cookies. And VERY long visits, at that.
That house. There is something about that house.
I’ve got a shitload going on in my life at the moment, but who the hell cares? I’ll keep dealing with that and add this to the list?
I think I need to find myself a therapist tomorrow.
I’ve been running around like a Private Detective, a Lawyer and a Trash Man (Woman?) all at once. What time is it now? How many hours? I have no clue. I need a fucking break. For someone who’s so goddamn disorganized, is it any wonder?
I’m trying to “prove” to the stoopid guvmunt that I’m actually as mental as I truly am. Which you wouldn’t think so hard a task. Really, all you’d have to do is cast a brief glance at me, and if that wasn’t enough, ask me to speak a few words. But the stoopid guvmunt, being the stoopid guvmunt, oh, no.
I’ve also had to divvy things into two piles. Non-Arsey Neuro is going to try to make me look incompetent in the head dept. Sweetie GP is going to try and make me look like I’ll never be well again in the stomach dept. The latter is actually true. I think the jury’s still out on the former.
I talked to Sweetie GP about it all since I’ve never received an actual medical diagnosis. Well, there’s some stuff about a couple of types of anemia (that are a result of chronic disease.) Anemia has been a “chronic” problem since I got sick.
The last time I saw her, I said there’s one thing on the form I thought would fit: Anorexia Nervosa. Has that gotten your attention? I think it did hers. Honesty is the best policy. She’s going to get it, just as you.
What have I been “hiding?” I always talk online about my weight loss and being so tiny as a result of being sick. Some people think my body is great because I’m so tiny. I launch into politics and what it’s done to us all as women. This is all true. Nonetheless, I’ve never said anything more because I’m very sensitive to the Eating Disordered Community. It’s always seemed unfamiliar territory so I didn’t want to upset anyone!
Well, I was recently talking to someone who is part of that community. I started off saying, “I don’t know if this counts but…” That sounds kind of silly, doesn’t it? Then, I explained some things.
I starved myself as a teenager. I did it for months on end, but I eventually gave up in frustration. My body just refused to get any smaller! In my early 20s, I started doing the same, but this time I added the exercise routine to it. Really pushing myself. I don’t know why I ended up stopping. Maybe it was partly living in my never ending Bipolar hypomanic period, and along with that, the non-stop compliments about my looks. I felt I had achieved my “goal?”
Now, here’s the biggie. I know I should be healthy. I know I’m sick. I know I’ll never get above 100lbs. again in my life. I also know that when I don’t eat, it’s not simply because I don’t take care of myself so well.
I don’t eat when my life feels out of control (or is?) I don’t eat when everything feels like such a mess, even when I know I’m hungry. I don’t eat when I know my body needs food. I just don’t. I refuse to. Maybe not all the time, I suppose.
The person responded to me and kind of laughed. She said for me to add that to my already long list of diagnoses. It definitely “counted.” Everything, even from when I was a kid.
But when things feel a bit more stable, or when I feel a bit more positive? I feel a bit more positive about eating. I think I might be able to see that, now. Also, I think there’s something stuck deep down in my PTSD Pandora’s Box about this. I can’t say for sure but there’s always been a weird… *closes eyes tight and makes fists*
That just popped into my head now. I had to do a search to find it. The relevance and context within the email. *shakes head in disbelief*
What was my “Reverse Midas Touch?” Everything I touch turned to shit. But when I read it, when I wrote it? Sorry, I’m a bit too stunned. Not so much because the damn phrase popped into my head in the first place. “Shit” happens. When I read the words surrounding it in the email? It’s a good thing I’m typing because I sure as hell ain’t capable of talking right now!
Time is endless. So are the Earworms these days. I need to change my CD. How’s about, “Lenny Breau with Dave Young, Live at Bourbon St.” We’ll see. Instrumental. No words, just like me (at least to be heard.)
Those words surrounding it. Said to me. Never said again. I became an African Grey. Where are my wings?
Time is endless. There is no need to fly right now.
I kind of lost it last night. I’m still losing it. Or still continuing to have lost it. Along with “it” I’ve lost my grammar and ability to write, too.
I hate writing these posts. Looking at what the hell you’ve done to your blog in some inexplicable, mental state. They’re like the next day when you have a hangover. However, I guess I could say I’m still “drunk.”
This is one of those rare occasions where all of my diagnoses (or symptoms of them) have nailed me at the same time. In fact, if my barely functioning memory speaks, it’s actually only happened once. Well, once outside of a hospital setting.
So, here’s the wacky tally. And I’ll compress some things so we can keep it within the last 24hrs. Just so you can see that everything is actually happening at once.
Bipolar: My moods have been rather a roller coaster (unfortunately I need to point you in the direction of my blog again to bear witness to that.)
ADD: If you could have only seen me trying to make my way through my appt. with Non-Arsey Neuro today. I forgot most of the meds I take, I almost left my rucksack in his office, I forgot to tell him loads of stuff, I almost missed my transit stop…
Asperger’s: I went non-verbal last night. That hasn’t happened in a while.
epilepsy: I had a seizure last night.
Migraines: I have a migraine right now. As I’m typing this. I managed to catch it in good time and get a triptan into me pretty quickly. I don’t think I’ll need two. I’ve taken some Gravol/Dimenhydrinate because of course, I’m all barfy.
PTSD: It’s kicking me in the arse for so many reasons right now. Nothing I can do about it though. Pfft.
It is. It really is. It has to be. Because that’s just the way it is.
And even if it wasn’t good, should it matter? Would it matter? Especially to you? Certainly not. Why?
Because you ask the same questions yourself. As far as your own life.
So don’t ask them about mine, or be worried about my life.
Because that’s just the way it is.