Moving day

Posted in Uncategorized on 02/10/2010 06:47 pm by Elizabeth Kaylene

I remember setting this blog up after discovering WordPress.com and blogging there for a little while. Once I was used to WordPress and found out that I could use it on my own domain, I bought PerpetualSmile.net and began blogging here.

For almost two years, I wrote here about nearly everything going on in my life, from the good to the very bad. I learned how to tell my story. I made friends. I even had a couple of posts that hit the ground running and are probably still viral right now. Here, I learned how to blog (as opposed to rant and whine, like I did on LiveJournal).

I started thinking about moving to a new domain a few months ago. Since I use the username elizawhat for almost everything, I thought that would be appropriate. I needed a change, a fresh start.

This is my last post here. Please update your bookmarks and feed reader to http://elizawhat.com and http://elizawhat.com/feed/, respectively. See you there!

 

I cannot love you

Posted in Serious Things on 02/01/2010 07:12 pm by Elizabeth Kaylene

I found out this afternoon that one of the Cheshire murderers tried to commit suicide yesterday, and I realized something. Normally, when I hear that someone tried to take their life, I empathize. I reach out. I wrap them with love and hope, even if we’ve never met. I do this because I have wanted to take my life on more occasions than I can count. I more than understand what it’s like to want to die.

This guy, Steven J. Hayes (46), raped and murdered two young girls and their mother, and badly beat their father. He was helped by his friend, Joshua Komisarjevsky (29). These grown men invaded a Cheshire family’s home after following the mother home from the grocery store so they could rob her.

And I can’t get it out of my head. They wanted to rob this family, but didn’t stop there. It was beyond unnecessary, beyond brutal. Every time I think about it, I want to vomit and cry. It breaks my heart that a thirteen-year-old girl, a seventeen-year-old girl, and their mother lost their lives so violently. It breaks my heart that William Petit, the sole survivor of the invasion, has to live without his girls.

I live probably twenty minutes from their town, in a city, but I still can’t shake the anguish and anger I feel when I think about it.

My model, especially since starting Letters of Love, is to extend love to those who are struggling with depression, self-injury, eating disorders, and addiction. I made it my business to reach out to people who had attempted suicide or thought of it daily.

This is one person I cannot ever love, because I cannot forgive his actions. I can never empathize with him, because his suicide attempt was an act of cowardice, an out because he didn’t want to face the music when his trial begins. He may struggle with himself, he may suffer from depression, but I attribute his depression with an act of pure evil.

Maybe this makes me a hypocrite. I attribute the depression that I and my friends at Letters of Love endure to a real illness that was not born out of evil, something we cannot help. We struggle to keep ourselves safe from ourselves. We try to live normal lives. We do not hurt other people.

But there is a line, blurred, because you could say that Hayes suffers from depression. You could ask, “How is that any different?” And I would answer, “He raped and murdered two young girls and their mother. His depression results from knowing that he is going to trial and faces the death penalty.”

Hayes’s and Komisarjevsky’s acts have destroyed any love I might have for them, because I cannot forgive them for what they did. The way that I feel toward them, a cold, apathetic hatred, scares me, because it is so different from the loving and healing warmth I might give anyone else.

 

It's time to make it happen

Posted in Monthly Goals, Writing on 02/01/2010 12:09 am by Elizabeth Kaylene

I know I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up, but when I saw that publisher PUSH holds novel publishing contests every year, I just had to check it out. I wasn’t even sure if they were still doing it, since I’d found out about it when I finished Cut by Patricia McCormick (it was on the very last page).

Turns out, the contest is only for students in grades 7-12. Even though I look pretty young for my age, I would not be able to pull that off. Or could I? ;)

That’s okay, though, because I already have my eyes on an agent that I am going to send Secondhand Mom to. And I plan on having Secondhand Mom finished and ready for editing by the end of February. Especially since I will be spending the first or second Saturday of the month — can’t remember which — stranded at Southern for about four hours. Southern, if you remember, is the university I sort of went to for a while. I am taking my little sister — who is about to graduate high school and is looking at colleges — up to SCSU so that she can take the essay exam to get into their Honors College. The whole process is going to take about four hours, and since I probably don’t have remote internet access anymore since I’ve withdrawn, I am going to be unable to work on any projects for my clients. Which means I need to take advantage of that by bunkering down in my favorite campus lounge (which is stocked with Starbucks coffee, by the way), cracking open my laptop, and writing (almost1) straight through those four hours.

When I was enrolled at Southern, I enjoyed nothing more than hanging out in that lounge and working on my outlines for this novel. The atmosphere of it was just perfect for writing. I did a little pre-writing, too, and wished that I could spend my time there actually writing my novel as opposed to preparing for NaNoWriMo 2009 or doing homework for class3.

Where was I4?

Anyway, I will finish this novel by the end of February, and then I will forceask one of my writers’ group mates to help edit, and then I will edit this sucker, and then I absofuckinglutely will send it off to said designated agent.

This book is going to see the shelves of Barnes & Noble, and nothing — not depression, not work, not the fear of rejection — is going to stand in my way5.

1 I should probably take bathroom breaks, a lunch break, and maybe a cigarette break if I am still smoking2 at that point.

2 I am now one of those on again, off again smokers I once hatedenvied so much when I was a full-time smoker.

3 I’ve come to realize that I enjoyed the environment of Southern more than I enjoyed the program I was in. That’s not to say that I didn’t love the kids. I loved them so, so much. I think about them all of the time, especially my Conner and my Lola. They were such cool kids. But I’ve discovered that the whole thing was a big spontaneous disaster waiting to happen; I should have thought about it harder before jumping in with both feet (and taking out loans). I’m thoroughly enjoying the consequences of that jump now, as I await my next loan statement and prepare to begin making monthly payments. Hoo-fucking-rah for me. I do miss going to SCSU, but I refuse to re-enroll until I’ve thought about it long and hard — haha, excuse me while I be immature and giggle over that — and before I can even think about it, I need to diagnose my mystery autoimmune disease. This, of course, is a post for another day.

4 I’m trying to keep all of my rambling, ADHD-byproduct thoughts organized here, but instead it’s only making me totally lose focus of what the hell I originally set out to write about.

5 Now if only I could quit talking about it and get writing.

 

Squirt vs Apollo

Posted in Boring Old Life, Depression Sucks on 01/30/2010 04:38 pm by Elizabeth Kaylene

Pam wasn’t kidding when she said the Seroquel would make me drowsy. I took it at about 12 or 1am, and by 2am I could barely hold my own head up. Today I’ve been pretty lethargic; all I want to do is, well, nothing. She said it would pass after a few days. I’m pretty sure she said it would phase out once I hit the 150mg dosage, which is about five days from now.

I just downed a cup of coffee, though, and I feel a bit more lively now.

Speaking of lively, today’s been an interesting day. Remember how I told you about my living situation? You know: my parents, great-grandmother, and Apollo the cat on the first floor, my great-aunt on the second floor with her cat Charlie, and my sister, grandparents, Squirt the cat, and I on the third floor. My grandparents and parents ended up making the switch, so now Mom, Dad, Lauren, and I live on the third floor, and Noni, Popi, and Biz Noni live on the first.

We decided that we would eventually move Apollo up here, too, but knew that it would be rough because Squirt? Is Napoleon in disguise. She weighs maybe eight pounds soaking wet, but she’s got tons of attitude to make up for how teeny she is. Apollo, on the other hand, weighs probably two or three times as much as she does, but he is a big baby. Squirt originally belonged to my ex-boyfriend, and his family didn’t treat their cats very well. I found Apollo outside a few years after my ex gave me Squirt. He was a teeny, orphaned kitten, and you could tell that he had been dumped by his original owners.

So we knew that Squirt was pretty much going to push Apollo around. We decided to move him upstairs last night, and it’s been a Mexican standoff since. Right now, we have a door with a glass window standing between them, with him prowling most of her territory. Last night and most of today, she had him cowering in a corner. Even though she is my baby, I felt really bad for him, so I moved his litter and food into the corner with him and as soon as she left the living/dining rooms, we closed the door behind her. Now he is all badass, like, “What, bitch? You can’t touch me now!” Currently he is exploring under my desk and she is sulking in the window in the pantry, I think.

Squirt has always been my buddy, but I couldn’t stand seeing Apollo hiding under a table, not coming out to eat or drink; if he so much as raised his head, she would start to hiss at him, and if he tried to come out, she would charge. She is scary for such a tiny little thing; she has kicked my ass on more than one occasion.

But I love them both. I hope they at least learn to ignore each other.

I need your advice! Have you ever introduced a new pet to your current pets? How did you do it? Did they become friends? Is there hope? Please leave a comment with your pet advice!

 

Time to kick some depression and autoimmune ass

Posted in Depression Sucks, Mystery Autoimmune Disease, Serious Things on 01/30/2010 01:48 am by Elizabeth Kaylene

I leave most doctor appointments feeling pretty frustrated, as if I’ve gotten nowhere and am starting over — all over again. Having an undiagnosed autoimmune disease means bouncing from doctor to doctor, telling my story over and over, and usually receiving a response something like, “Well, shucks, you’ve got a lot of symptoms, but fucked if I know what’s wrong! Also, all of your blood work is normal. You’re normal. Yay!” I try not to blame the doctors, but really — they’re doctors. They’re supposed to know, dammit!

I’m also always very hesitant to admit when I’m depressed. It’s easier to write about it here than it is to say the words out loud while looking someone directly in the eye.

But today — well, okay, technically it is now past 12am Saturday so this all happened yesterday — I shoved all of those fears aside and went to see Pam, my PA. And you know what? It wasn’t bad. At all.

Pam asked what I was there for, and I right away admitted that I’m having a hard time with my depression, and that things weren’t going too well with my rheumatologist. When I explained to her how I’ve been running through cycles — wanting to kill yourself one night and then being high on life the next two days is so not normal — she immediately agreed that I need to be tested for bipolar disorder and drew up a plan of action.

“I’d rather start you on medication used to treat bipolar disorder right away so that we can see if it works,” she said. We then discussed a few psychologists and a pain management specialist that she really likes, and narrowed it down to psychologist Dr. M and pain therapist Dr. P. We also decided that I would try Seroquel, a medication used to treat bipolar disorder. She explained that she has people start with 50mg for three days, then 100mg for three days, then 150mg for three days, then 200mg for three days, and so on, and that I would start to notice the effects within a couple of days. She also explained that people with bipolar disorder don’t normally respond to regular depression medication — or that it does odd things to them — which would explain why Zoloft basically made me a zombie and why Cymbalta made me hyper as a kangaroo on crack. She gave me samples of the Seroquel so that I wouldn’t have to pay for several different prescriptions, and said that she would see me back in two weeks to check on how the meds are working (and to call her in the meantime if anything comes up). I’m to call Dr. M before I contact Dr. P and am to start seeing Dr. M as soon as I can get in.

Then we moved on to my mystery autoimmune disease.

I told her that my aunt has Crohn’s, which I had apparently forgotten to tell her before. I also told her about the weird thing with my hands (I sometimes get little “spots” that are sensitive to the touch, as if I’ve been burnt or scraped, but there is nothing there). She confirmed my suspicions; this is another classic autoimmune symptom. She said that autoimmune diseases can attack the skin cells, so that is why I have that sensation. I’ve had this since childhood but never thought anything of it; I thought it was normal up until a week or so ago, when my hands were pretty much covered in these little invisible spots and I couldn’t let anything touch them because it fucking hurt.

We discussed me getting a colonoscopy to test for Crohn’s, and she said that she would contact my rheumatologist for his reports to see if he had any thoughts as to which autoimmune disease it could be before sending me to a gastroentologist. The last report he sent her was in September, and I continued to see him once a month through to November. I told her about how he didn’t really seem to remember me from visit to visit, and how each visit his ideas would change; one visit he would suggest that it was my birth control, the next he would send me for more blood work. From her face, I could tell she agreed with me that he is pretty out of it. (He’s a nice guy — don’t get me wrong! — but he’s pretty old. His brother was exactly the same way: nice, but very forgetful and a little cooky.)

Pam is going to get my reports from Dr. G (rheumatologist), and when I see her again in two weeks we’ll go from there.

I may not have gotten any solid answers this time, but I still feel like I got somewhere. I got the ball rolling on taking care of my mental health, which is ironically the easiest thing for me to fix (with counseling and medication, and with a diagnosis that will hopefully confirm my suspicions of bipolar disorder*), but it’s always hard for me to admit that I need to get help and to actually go get the help. I got the ball rolling on my physical health again, as well. I feel like I got a lot accomplished, because I took the steps I needed to take.

*Other people around me have also seriously suggested that I may be bipolar, including a social worker I used to see when in high school. Ms. Amenta, wherever you are, I miss you so much. You were the best.

PS: I should totally just make a “Depression” category.

 

I can has Crohn's Disease?

Posted in Mystery Autoimmune Disease on 01/27/2010 11:50 pm by Elizabeth Kaylene

Seriously. I want Crohn’s Disease. Do you know why? Because it would be a diagnosis, finally, and it would make sense; my maternal aunt has Crohn’s Disease with rheumatoid arthritis.

Things are about to get icky. If you’re not down with the icky, I totally understand if you leave right now.

Let’s compare my symptoms to those of Crohn’s (and if Firefox knows what’s good for it, it will stop telling me that I am misspelling Crohn’s).

My Symptoms:
These occur during a flare-up* of whatever the fuck autoimmune disease I have.

  • Bubbles inside of mouth
  • Dull aching to sharp aching pain in arms, legs, hips, back
  • “Patches” on my hands and fingers that feel as if they have been scraped when touched but there is no visible injury. I’ve had these invisible patches since I was a little kid. I always thought it was normal.
  • Little “cysts” on my hands and fingers
  • Blood in and with my stools, very hard stools
  • Little “cysts” on my asshole (told ya it was about to get icky)
  • Styes on both eyes

*I say flare-up because the symptoms are not always present. I can go hours, days, weeks, sometimes months without any symptoms, and then BAM! A few of them or all of them pop up at once. Sometimes, they only last a few hours. Sometimes, they last days.

Symptoms of Crohn’s Disease:
Taken from MayoClinic

  • Diarrhea, though I have heard of some people with Crohn’s who have the opposite problem — my problem
  • Abdominal pain and cramping — When I looked up the symptom’s for Crohn’s last night, I suddenly thought of all of the times I had severe abdominal pain and cramping. I’d always thought it was normal, just my body’s way of saying, “Time to go!” but now I’m thinking it isn’t. Should I add it to the list?
  • Blood in your stool — Hi. I’ve filled a whole toilet with blood on several occasions. Talk about being on the verge of passing out. That is so not normal.
  • Ulcers — Meaning, ulcers in the intestine and in the mouth, similar to canker sores. My little “bubbles” don’t hurt, but they’re there. I have no way of knowing if I’ve got ulcers in my intestines without going for a colonoscopy. I’m not very keen on doing that.
  • Reduced appetite and weight loss
  • Fever
  • Fatigue — Fuck yes. I’ve had a lot of late nights lately, but sometimes even when I’m getting what I think is enough sleep, I’ll get hit with this “bone tired” feeling that I’ve never, ever felt before.
  • Arthritis — Even though all of my arthritis tests keep coming back normally, I’m pretty sure my pain is arthritic. I know I’m not crazy. Then again, crazy people don’t know they’re crazy. Oh fuck, I am screwed.
  • Eye inflammation
  • Skin disorders — You can file styes and eczema under “Skin Disorders.” I’ve had eczema for years but never attributed it to anything. More and more I am finding out that things I’ve always dealt with are probably related to my Mystery Autoimmune Disease.
  • Inflammation of the liver or bile ducts
  • Delayed growth or sexual development, in children

So is it Crohn’s? Maybe not. But I need a damn diagnosis, before I go crazy. It would make sense for it to be Crohn’s, since my aunt has Crohn’s.

I go back to see my PA on Friday. I haven’t seen her regarding all of this in a while. I was seeing a rheumatologist for a few months, but he is either very absentminded or crazy, because every time I see him he has a different plan or take on things, and he also seems to forget what I’m there for. I want to update Pam (my PA) with all of my symptoms and pick her brain on the Crohn’s. If I’m going to test the Crohn’s waters, I’m gonna have to get a colonoscopy, which is totally not cool but probably very necessary. Last time I mentioned my potty problems to her, she said if they persisted I would have to go get one. I became very careful not to mention it again because the thought of anything touching me there or going inside there sends me into tears. I have a good, very personal reason for not wanting to get the procedure done, but the symptoms have not gone away. They seem to be in sync with the rest of my symptoms, all popping up around the same time and then relaxing a little.

I think it’s time to take the next, very scary but very logical step and arrange for the colonoscopy so I can either check Crohn’s off the list or adopt it as my official autoimmune disease, and definitely so I can make sure none of my intestines are damaged.

Either way, it’s time to get back to sleuthing. My life is pretty much on hold until I solve my own episode of Mystery Diagnosis. I want my life back, and I’ll take whatever comes with the Mystery Autoimmune Disease if it means that I can have a diagnosis and treatment plan. I don’t care about a cure at this point. I just want to be able to have the future I’ve always wanted: marriage, a family, continuing with my career and other projects, continuing with my writing. I definitely can’t have any kids until I know what is going on.

So, to the doctor I go (again)!

PS (01/28/2010): Just fixed a bunch of typos. Sorry about that.

 

A recipe for batshit soup

Posted in Depression Sucks, Serious Things on 01/26/2010 08:58 pm by Elizabeth Kaylene

“I havnt talked to you in a while and wanted to say hi and stuff,” reads the text message. Ever since opening it, all I can think of are his hands around my throat.

* * * * *

Things have been absolutely bonkers on planet elizawhat. Aside from people from my past popping up like germs on a little kid’s hands, life has been packed with huge projects for clients with looming deadlines, a new niece to snuggle and love and gaze at while she sleeps, anxiety about Popi’s angioplasty that he had done today, a renewed sense of connection and even deeper love for Mike (who has been amazing beyond words through all of the shit hitting the fan), a slew of phone calls to schedule appointments with various doctors, more worry while we wait to see what the doctors say is going on with Dad, depression cycling in and out of me faster than fucking bunnies (and “fucking” is a verb here, heh), and a deep, unquenchable urge to play Sims and write even though I barely have time to sleep.

Suddenly, “bonkers” doesn’t seem quite appropriate; things are absolutely batshit.

* * * * *

Popi has been having chest pains, that go all the way down to his elbow. They found two clogs in the arteries of his heart, and did an angioplasty this afternoon to open up the arteries. They’re not sure why the arteries were clogged; it could be the chemo, it could be something that was already there before the cancer came along. More than likely it is the chemo, because a few weeks ago they did a full slew of tests and no clogs were detected.

I’m angry and afraid, to be perfectly blunt. I’m angry at the chemo, and afraid that it’s going to destroy him, piece by piece, before the cancer does. And then I saw him last night, and seeing him looking well and being with him made me think more positively. I look at my great-great-aunt Nan, who is in her nineties and was diagnosed with stage 3 cancer more than six years ago. She’s fine today, still kickin’, feisty for such an old lady. She makes her own clothing. She drinks wine. She cracks jokes, sometimes dirty ones. She’s got an uncanny strength for someone who looks so fragile. I admire her, deeply.

She is proof that Popi can make it through. It pisses me off when everyone starts discussing hospice. It’s like they’ve already given up. I don’t want to give up. Call me selfish, but I want to keep my Popi. I like to think that he can kick this thing’s ass, even if it’s already taken its toll in so many places: hip, spine, liver, lung. Fuck you, cancer. My Popi is stubborn and won’t go down so easily. I won’t let him.

* * * * *

My niece is a doll. She has Jaysa’s nose, Robbie’s face. Her hair is black and her head is full of it. Her eyes are big and constantly open, aware. She may not be able to see much yet, but she looks like she’s perfectly aware of what’s going on. Ciana Olivia Pelletier already has all of us wrapped around her tiny, long fingers.

* * * * *

It’s hard to talk about everything that is swirling through my mind. I don’t really even know where to start. I’m bone tired, thanks to a week full of nights spent staying up until the ass crack of dawn to get pieces of projects complete. I keep reminding myself that if I work hard now, in five to ten years I’ll be able to enjoy things. Sometimes I wish I could be a “normal” twenty-one-year-old, spending my late nights partying instead of working, falling asleep with veins full of thin, beer- or vodka-chased blood, then waking up to do it all over again the next day. But my partying stages were years ago, when being fifteen meant that I didn’t care much about my future. Now, I want that future, whatever it may be.

* * * * *

I know things have been pretty serious around here. I promise to try to make this place fun again. Thank you for listening.

 

But we went to the same high school! Or: The Facebook tango

Posted in Rantastic on 01/25/2010 02:43 am by Elizabeth Kaylene

Facebook Friend Request: Omg, hi!! We went to the same high school, never spoke, but I’m gonna add you anyway!!

Me: How do I know this person? *looks* Oh. We went to the same high school. I don’t remember them… but evidently I must know them, because we went to the same high school and they’ve requested me over and over throughout the last week. *adds*

New Facebook Friend: Omg! I’m gonna start poking you and hitting you with pillows! Because it’s FUN!!1L And then I’m gonna invite you to Farmville and other such stupid Facebook apps because omg they are the shit!!

Me: *ignore* *remove* *ignore* Why did I add you? *ignore* *ignore* But it’s mean to delete you. *remove* *ignore* Fuck, ANOTHER damn pillow fight? The hell, I thought you were a dude! Only thirteen-year-old girls have pillow fights! *remove*

Annoying Facebook Friend: So, there’s this new Facebook app that asks you dirty questions about your Facebook friends, posts said dirty question for all the world to see right to your profile WITHOUT your permission, and requires you to add it to see my answer to the dirty question… And of course I’m gonna do it, because I enjoy annoying the fuck out of you and making you look bad in front of family and co-workers. Isn’t this fun?

Me: *puffs up to ten times original size, Jigglypuff style* WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?? *remove* *remove* I think I might stab you!!!

Annoying Facebook Friend: I didn’t get why you deleted all of my pillow fight posts and dirty question posts, so I’m gonna hit you with a pillow again. And again.

Me: Okay. I can either delete him from my friends, or kill him. But I don’t know where he lives, considering we never spoke — even though we went to the same high school. I still sorta want him dead though. But that isn’t legal, unless things have changed… *consults Google* Nope, still illegal to kill people. And I’m a bad liar, so I’d totally get caught if I tried it anyway. *goes to friend list* DELETE, MOTHAFUCKER!! AHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Annoying ex-Facebook Friend: Omg, why did she delete me? We went to the same high school! *friend requests*

Me: *eye twitch*

 

How to get it all done in one day

Posted in Random, Web Design and Technology, Writing on 01/23/2010 09:41 pm by Elizabeth Kaylene

I wonder what would happen if I started blogging every day?

Today I looked up mental health care providers in my area and wrote down three names and numbers that jumped out at me. I was mainly looking for pain management, depression, and mood disorder specialties — and of course someone who is a chick. I just can’t picture myself talking to a strange man. Then again, it sucks talking to a strange anyone… Unless that anyone happens to be a cat, because they pretend to be good listeners. I say pretend because everyone knows that cats pretend to sleep, pretend to love you, pretend to listen, all while they plot your death for serious.

What was I saying?

I spent today kind of floating. I have a LOT of work to do, which is probably why I mostly just procrastinated all day. It’s overwhelming. Tomorrow is the last day to upload all kinds of content to Latest Client’s WordPress site, so that they can be all wowed and amazed on Monday. Meanwhile, my muse is screaming for me to write, to work on Secondhand Mom or the short story I started last week. Stupid muse. When I want to write, she ditches me. When I can’t write, she yells at me to write.

I wanted to do a lot of things today, and now I can barely remember what I did do. (Uh, nothing.) I really wanted to get a lot done and go to Mike’s so that I could hang out with Robbie, Jaysa, and Ciana (my new niece), but since I didn’t get anything done…

Tomorrow I’m supposed to be going to Mike’s to watch the Colts/Jets game, so I’m panicking because that only gives me a few hours to get everything done that I need to get done. I think today can be filed under LAZY.

 

My mental illness is a motherfucking leech

Posted in Depression Sucks, Serious Things on 01/22/2010 10:23 pm by Elizabeth Kaylene

Wednesday, I hid.

I called out of work. I threw on some headphones. I buried myself under my comforter, afghan, and fleece blankie. I stayed like that for about an hour or so, falling in and out of sleep while listening to Lacuna Coil’s “Shallow Life” and Silversun Pickups’ “Swoon”, my current comfort albums.

I thought about going to the hospital. I thought that maybe I should talk to someone, someone who would get it and would be able to point me to a therapist who would get it even more. I imagined being handed a prescription to try, that might give me more energy and a little more sparkle inside.

I finally got up to go get dressed and eat so that I could go to the hospital, but I could barely eat and didn’t have the energy to get dressed. I crawled back into bed for another hour or so.

I know it was bad. I know that I need to get my ass into a therapist’s office. I know that I need to be tested for bipolar disorder, put on some medication, and need to go through pain management therapy. I know all of this, and still I shy away.

I make passing references to the people around me about how I’m feeling, but I don’t go all the way and say, “THIS IS BAD. IT’S REALLY BAD. I REALLY NEED HELP.” I don’t reach out. Instead, I keep it all to myself. I drop little hints, enough so that I can tell myself I said something, but not enough for anyone to get really concerned. Because, if I did truly say how bad it is, they might be very concerned.

It’s been a long time since I hid like I did on Wednesday.

In a way, it was just what I needed. I needed to regroup. And yet, on Thursday I felt the same as I did the day before. I felt drained, like I wasn’t really here, but at the same time it felt as if there were little teeny jumping beans inside of me and static fluff in my head. I barely sleep, I barely eat, and I feel like I’m barely making it through the days. Thoughts race through my head, about everything going on: about Popi, about Dad, about my stupid mystery autoimmune disease, about my relationship with Mike, about my new niece, about my clients, about my day job. On Thursday I felt like, at any moment, I was going to split into two. Or four. Or nineteen-thousand.

Today, I felt sort of normal — if normal means being on the verge of tears one minute and wanting to laugh like a maniac the next. At the moment, though, I feel okay.

It’s not just everything that’s going on; I go through these cycles all the time, for as long as I can remember. Last week, I thought about killing myself. For two or three days after, I felt high on life. And then I dropped again. I didn’t feel like dying, but I still dropped.

Part of me is ashamed. Part of me admonishes myself. “This was supposed to be over,” that part says. “We don’t want to go back to therapy. We were already there. Things should have been resolved then.” But the other part steps in and say, “That therapist didn’t do her job, and neither did the second therapist we saw about a year ago. We need to be tested for bipolar disorder. We need pain management skills. We need someone to talk to about everything.”

And the argument goes ’round and ’round, until I’m so tired of hearing these thoughts wrestling each other that I consider cracking open my head and throwing a grenade in there. (That’s a joke. You can laugh. I’m not actually going to grenade my brain.)

The truth is, my friends, that I NEED HELP. I am drowning, and with all of the external things going on as well as what is normally in my head, I’m having a really hard time staying afloat. I don’t want to die. I don’t want my mental illness to kill me. I don’t want to be the zombie I feel like. I’m tired of faking. I’m tired of being afraid to say anything to the people around me, partially because I’m afraid they have enough problems of their own and I don’t want to be yet another weight on their shoulders.

It’s also because I am partially ashamed of going back to therapy. I don’t want to. I tried it again, with Kitty Bhide, and she sucked. I know that if I just try a few different people, I’ll find the right person. But then I make the excuses of, “Well, I don’t have that kind of money,” and “It’s going to take forever to get in anywhere, and by the time I get in, I won’t feel this way anymore.” Even though that’s true — hi, that’s why I need to be tested for bipolar disorder — it’s still not a good enough excuse, because I still know that soon I will feel this way again.

I go through this, every time.

And it’s draining.

 
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