High and Low.

The excuse I held so tightly in my hand for not being able to write anything worth a damn is no longer valid; I’m not medicated. The chemicals aren’t keeping me from being able to produce something of substance and information any more, I just can’t seem to find the words and hold my attention in one spot long enough to be able to write what it is I feel like I need to. There has been so much going on lately that I feel like I need get it out in some air with people that understand me… well, understand me as much as anybody probably ever could.

My family is dead to me. And no, I won’t regret this if something happens to them. My family is shit and I’m done with them.

I moved out of my apartment at the beginning of this month (yes, thirteen days ago) and moved in to my dad’s house because I couldn’t afford to live on my own, get treatment, and pay for my medicine at the same time. Something had to go. It was a very tough decision to make but in the end I knew that my mental health is more important than being independent. To be honest, I knew it wasn’t a good idea to move there because my dad likes to ask me for money all the time and I can’t say no, even when I don’t have the extra cash to spare. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to save money while living there but it was the only option I had where I could keep all my kids together with me and cut down on my bills – well, try to anyways.

I’m going to fast forward to actually moving in and spare you the time reading how horrid packing, cleaning, and moving everything on my own was.

Have you ever watched Hoarders: Buried Alive? Well, that’s my dad’s house. Except it’s a super small run down trailer. There was no room for me but some how I managed to fit two dressers in my dad’s room for my clothes but I had no where to put random things or to hang anything up. I had no where to LIVE.

The house was disgusting. Animal urine and feces were all over the floor because my sister didn’t bother with a litter box for her cats and she was too lazy to let the dog outside – ever. The couch smelled like urine. The bathroom floor was covered in clothes and towels that were in standing water because the toilet leaked and she was too lazy to pick up after herself. The bathroom was crowded with trash and junk and it gave me anxiety to go in there and pee. The bathtub was covered in mold. Seriously, every inch of tub was moldy. The shampoo bottles were covered in mold, the shower curtain, everything. In the kitchen trash was piled up half way to the ceiling and the fridge was packed full of rotting food. The sink was overflowing with dirty, moldy dishes. And it was infested with fleas.

I knew it wasn’t the cleanest place ever, I knew it was dirty and junky, but I didn’t realize how bad it actually was until I was in there… trapped. You notice I blamed my sister for the mess? Well, that’s because my dad doesn’t actually live there. He lives a few towns away with his girlfriend in her nice big clean house. My 17 year old sister lived in the trailer alone. No adult supervision. No food. No money. No water to drink (the tap water is undrinkable). I didn’t know that.

I could fix all that though, you know? I could clean, and I did as much I could without diving head first into an anxiety attack. I could make sure my sister had something to eat and some lunch money and water to drink. I could. Did I want to? No. I wanted to to focus on myself, yes I wanted to be selfish, I wanted to focus on myself and work on TAKING CARE OF ME. I’m not a mother, I’m not her mother, I didn’t want to have to take care of her. But I would make sure she was okay too.

But I couldn’t handle the animals being neglected so I made a post on Facebook stating that I was looking for a home for one of the dogs I rescued and had been staying out there. I said the truth, that a teenager had been left in charge of taking care of the animals and they weren’t getting fed everyday. They were getting neglected and I wanted better for them because I just couldn’t take it. As well as asking my friends if anybody was looking for a roommate because I just couldn’t live like that. I had even went as far as asking my friends that volunteer with me to help me find foster homes for my kids so that I could move out faster.

Well… my dad and my sister both took it upon themselves to comment on the picture of the dog and cuss me out. Telling me that I’m worthless and no better than them and if I think the animals are in that bad of condition then I could take them and myself and leave. Then it moved to text messages. Both of them. Telling me that they didn’t want me there and I was only there because they felt sorry for me. Calling me names and saying things that I don’t think my worst enemy would even say to me… but I guess they are my worst enemies.

My dad told me I needed to be out the next day but I said “Unlike you I have a job but as soon as I get off work I’ll move my things out” and he said to me “It didn’t matter that I didn’t have a real job when I paid half your rent so you could go on vacation”… now, he helped me with rent in August. I went on vacation in October. I needed helped because I couldn’t go to work for a few days because I was manic and literally could not go in. So I informed him that no, he didn’t help me so I could go on vacation, he helped me because I need to go to therapy twice a week and I need medicine to function like a normal person because of what he allowed to happen to me as a child.

And he said I made it all up.

He said I made it all up.

He said I was lying about everything.

So I asked him if he wanted to see my scars, he replied “I’ve seen your scars” and I said “No, do you want to see where I was ripped by grown men forcing themselves in my six year old body? My seven year old body? My eight, nine, ten year old body? My eleven and twelve year old body?” and he said it was my fault because I didn’t tell him….

It was my fault because I didn’t tell him.

I didn’t tell him my mother was selling my body.

… it was my fault.

My emotions shut off right then and there because I refuse to go back to believing that everything that happened to me was somehow my fault. I listened to my mom tell me for years that it wasn’t rape because I wanted it. I finally stopped believing her, I won’t let this sorry excuse for a father put the blame back on me. It was his fault he didn’t notice the bruises or my behavior. How could he not have known? Fuck him. When I didn’t respond the way he wanted me to he told me that he was going to kill my 11 year old cat and my two dogs. He died to me right there on that road when I read that text message. And to be honest, and you can say I don’t really mean it all you want but trust me, I mean it, I hope he dies a slow and painful death. I want him to be tortured.

My sister was constant with her bashing as well but I leave that situation knowing I tried to help her. I tried to make her life a little better but she’s content living the way she does and that’s on her now.

Tomorrow I’m calling animal control and child services to see if there anything they can do. But I will never have anything to do with either of them again.

So on to good news, I did find a place for my kids and I to stay. A woman that volunteers with the same group I do messaged me and offered me a room in her house and told me to bring all my  kids, even the ones that were outside at Dad’s (but I only “had rights” to two of them) and so I did. I moved an hour away from both of my jobs but the house is amazing. I have a room, a whole room, to live in. It has my things in there and my bed. Not only do I have a room (and a half bath) to myself but I’m allowed to have my stuff outside of my room. The kids can eat in the kitchen with the other dogs and I’m putting the little kids’ cat tree up tomorrow in the kitchen area. My kids are happy and I trust them there while I’m at work, I know they will be taken care of.

T is the woman that offered us the room and she’s amazing. I had actually never had a conversation with her until the one where she offered to let me live with her and I only met her after I had already moved in. She’s so wonderful though.

There is another roommate, A, that lives there and I found out last night that she didn’t know T either.  She is going through a horrible divorce and needed somebody to keep one of her dogs and she found T who took Hope, her little dog. A would text T and come see Hope and finally T said she could move in with her because she knew she needed help.

T fosters dogs and takes in stray people as well. She’s wonderful and I’m happy. I feel safe and comfortable. K is going to be coming over on Wednesday and we’re going to explore my new city and she’s going to meet my roommates. She’s happy for me too. 

The punch clock.

Reading blog posts written by others brings me a sting of jealousy. Words are put together to explain something I’ve been struggling to find a way to say for a while now and have failed at every attempt. The handful of unfinished drafts in the appropriate place mocks me. Laughing as though to remind me that the chemicals have taken my words away, again. Jealousy then births melancholy and I mourn for the passion that I have lost while fighting for stability in my bipolar world.  It’s a dark and torturous place especially because I have so much bubbling in my core that I want to say with no way to release it.

There are two hours left in my work shift. I have accidentally referenced my workplace as my home multiple times lately. If it seems that I work more than I am at home that’s because I am. It escapes me if I have mentioned in previous posts about my struggles with my jobs schedule. I’m sure I have as it has been causing me quite some grief in the last months but I am happy to report that I feel like my superiors are trying to get me on a better schedule. The only way this can truly happen is if one of the dispatchers retires, there is one that is very close to retirement and yet will not go.

Guilt consumes me when I wish this person would finally give up and quit. He is a nice enough man so I shouldn’t wish him away like I do. There are health issues with him though and on the logical side of things it’s best if he did retire. He says that he will be leaving before the summer because we’re working a two month shut down. Honestly it doesn’t make a difference to him how long the shut down is, he doesn’t do anything during it any way.

You see, he’s a larger older man who has problems standing up after sitting down and standing for long periods of time. During shut down we have more truck traffic and our business hours are about four to five hours longer so while he would normally only have the risk, barely a guarantee, of doing work for three hours at the beginning of his shift. While working shut down we, the dispatchers who also double as weigh-masters, have to stand up to grab a printed ticket and walk it to the window to have the driver sign, then file it, and we return to our seat to wait and weigh the next truck and repeat the process for hours. It is rather tedious but any healthy person can do this. Since he cannot get out of the chair easily our office manager has to stay and work with (or really, for) him, doing all the work himself after already being here for eight hours beforehand.

We also have five different computers we use throughout our shift and he cannot use any of them. He does manage to look up the GPS of boats we’re looking for but he does not check emails where we often get after hours orders for our boats. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t want to learn how, to input the information for the different trucks that we load – which is really the main duty we have.

Security rounds are supposed to be made hourly, granted none of make on the hour every hour, some shifts we barely make rounds at all, but we are physically able to do them. Except for him. Because of his age and size he cannot get into and out of the truck safely. He has fallen out of the truck before and 9-1-1 had to be called. While on rounds, if it is raining or has rained, we are supposed to pump a pit on the dock. They load different kind of products there and it is usually pretty slippery. It’s essential that this pit is pumped to keep the product from turning bad – but he doesn’t pump the pit because he can’t get into and out of the truck.

So what does he do during his shift? I don’t know. I cannot tell you. Why don’t they fire him? Because they’re good to their employees. He’s been here for well over twenty years. He knows he is nearing time to retire and if not for me desperately trying to get out of my schedule they wouldn’t worry with him right now. But I do feel like they are seeing me struggle and understand that I need a normal sleep routine in order to be as healthy as I can be. They do not want to lose me any more than I want to leave. Looking at the calendar I wonder if I’ll be able to make it much longer though. Tonight I dreaded coming to work so much I almost cried.

There are my work woes. An hour and a half before I can clock out and go to K’s for some sleep.

Doctor?

A year ago I broke. I broke. My mind broke. My spirit broke. My soul broke. I broke into a million thousand tiny pieces. I stopped cleaning my house. Showers became fewer as the weeks drug on. I hated K for the first time. I fucking broke. It didn’t get bad all at once. It was a slow build up. But there is no denying it; September is when I snapped.

Dr. W talked to me as though she had never seen me before and I tried my hardest to look over it. I told myself I am a new patient, she doesn’t know. Therapists aren’t immune to bad days. But she didn’t even remember what medicine she prescribed me. She had no idea that I called the day before to schedule the appointment because I was losing my mind. She looked at me with this frustrated expression like she couldn’t understand why I was there. Why did I spend the last of my money on a co-pay for this appointment? How am I going to eat for the next two weeks? How am I going to get my medicines filled? FUCK!

After I refreshed her memory of what medicines I was taking she tried to put me on a medicine that I had taken a few years ago that did nothing to help me, I reminded her of that. She then proceeded to tell me that I really needed to be on this drug that costs over $300 with a discount card. I can’t afford that. I explained to her that I have been having suicidal idealizations for a over a week, she carried on like I had told her that I seen a cute shirt at the store. I then informed her that I wouldn’t survive my next depressive episode. Her response? “Well, let’s try you back on lithium at a higher dose and let’s see what happens.” Let’s see what happens? Right. Let’s see. I have zero will to live any more, but you’re right, let’s fucking see what happens, Doctor.

Utterly defeated. Completely lost. I have had these thoughts before, I’m no stranger to waking up and being disappointed. I’ve mingled with the thoughts of how wonderful it would be if I just didn’t exist. But I have never lost my strength until now and it terrifies me.

Before I knew that I would get through it, I knew that it would get better, that recovery WAS a possibility for me. But I don’t feel that way any more. Not right now. I’m too tired to fight it. I’m too weak. I’ve been fighting for my life for too fucking long now and I’m done. I just can’t.

After my failed appointment I went home and laid in bed and cried. What am I supposed to do? Nobody is listening to me when I tell them I need help. I’ve lost my voice, I can’t scream it any more.

This morning, as I’m typing this, I don’t feel as hopeless but I don’t feel as hopeful as I normally do. I want to fight it, I want to get better, but I’m exhausted. I just want a good day. I want a break from life. I want to be happy and laugh at everything. I want to wake up and not immediately have to tell myself that I don’t have to kill myself today. I don’t want the thoughts that aren’t mine screaming in my ears for once. I want to be able to open my front door without praying there’s no eviction notice hanging on the outside. I want to be able to go to the grocery store and get food. There’s no relief in sight for me though.

A fatal disease?

Over the weekend I dreamed I was held at gun point and I told the man to kill me because I didn’t have a reason to live anymore. He shot me. I fell down on the warm concrete and noticed how beautiful the stars were. I cried when I woke up, disappointed that it was only a dream.

I started a second job over the weekend as well – a second job I desperately needed to save myself from eviction. It wasn’t a job that was glamorous or as low stress as my primary position but it was a way to earn a paycheck. I have always worked and worked hard to make my way and this job was no different. It didn’t matter my job duties, nothing is beneath me.

The first two shifts went well. I was hired as a dish washer/salad bar attendant, back of house staff at a chain restaurant. From a previous job, I learned how to properly use a dish pit and the basic rules of kitchen etiquette so it wasn’t very overwhelming – at first. My co-workers were fun and I anticipated making friends quite quickly. The money, while not great, was better than minimum wage and the managers understood my standing schedule and were very willing to work around it – even offering to not schedule me on Wednesday’s so I could have something close to a day off.

Yesterday morning, in the midst of my shift, I walked out, I quit.

For the last week I have been suicidal. I’ve made peace with the fact that I have a fatal disease and it’s going to kill me. It’s a constant screaming thought in my head. I know exactly how I will do it but I don’t know when, all I do know is that I’m so tired of fighting. I’m tired of the persistent pain. The loneliness. The aching. I don’t have any fight left in me. I don’t see myself being able to get better. I am a disappointment to those who are close to me; I viciously attack K with words and thoughts that I know will damage her and it’s brutal.

I woke up yesterday morning and fought myself out of bed with my usual pep talk – reminding myself of the rent that is late, the electric bill coming up, my tags are late on being renewed – there’s no way I can afford a ticket, I need to make a vet appointment, I have two doctors appointments coming up, I need to go to the dentist to resolve the mouth pain I’ve been having, I need to go to my GP to get a physical for work so they don’t cancel my insurance, I’m pretty sure my phone will be cut off soon… and between all of that I need to eat and get gas and make sure my kids (two dogs, four cats) have food. There was nothing I hated more than being alive but I got up and dressed myself and fought tears all the way down the interstate to my new place of employment. I didn’t have the energy to exist but I had no choice but to clock in and go to work. I don’t know if I have ever experienced feelings like I did yesterday morning.

Immediately I knew I wasn’t going to last the day. While standing in the cooler I text K and told her I wasn’t feeling good – she knows what that means. K, who has been super supportive lately and who has been there for me the best she can lately, asked what she could do to help. I couldn’t breathe, the thoughts were too loud, my eyes were swelling with tears, I wanted to die. I asked her if she would call Dr. W and see if I could get my appointment moved up and then I had to walk out of the cooler because I had a lot of work to do in a very little amount of time.

Chopping celery with a knife pushed me over the edge. I kept imagining thrusting the knife into my stomach. I seen my hands do it over and over again in my head. My chest got tight and I was struggling to breathe. My phone vibrated and I was thankful for the chance to take my hands off the knife. K asked me what Dr. W’s number was but I couldn’t give her the information she needed, I could only reply with I can’t do this.

Shaking I put my phone back in my pocket and picked up the knife again and began chopping and daydreaming about how it would feel to not feel anything at all. Looking around at everybody else that was so busy in the kitchen, laughing and talking and carrying on with their work, I thought to myself that they have no idea that I’m going to go home and kill myself after my shift ends. They have no idea that it’s the only thing I can think about. It amazed me. It baffled me. They had no idea.

My phone vibrated again: Let me help you.

I finished my first assigned task completely and then walked into the managers office and told them that I was going home, I just couldn’t do it. I handed my hat to a woman who stood there staring at me like she didn’t understand what I had just said and turned around and put my apron in the basket and left. I needed that job.

While walking through the parking lot there was a physical weight on my steps. I could barely move. The tears that I fought since I first opened my eyes came streaming down my face and sobs followed. I called K and told her I just quit my job and she talked to me until I was calm enough to drive. Afterward I called Dr. W and asked to have the very next appointment. The receptionist asked if I was okay and what was going on – I didn’t want to tell her how suicidal I am because I know she would have told me to go to the ER, but I’ve already made that mistake before and I will not make it again. And besides, I can’t afford to go inpatient right now – as much as I know I need it and as badly as I want it I just can’t do it. There’s no way I can afford to take off of work. So I told her I was just freaking out and couldn’t deal with things. I plan on being honest with Dr. W today when I see her.

Even though I wanted nothing more than to lay in bed and sleep and cry I changed my clothes and began looking for another job. I was able to get an interview at a company and somehow they liked me. They didn’t seem to notice that I am a suicidal bipolar lunatic. While I don’t know if I got that job, it did seem promising and I do hope I get it. I don’t have the energy to hunt down another job. I’m at the end of my strength. I truly am.

 

Suite 750

One hundred and ninety-six days later and I am still a lunatic. 

Hello, my name is Pacie and I’m mentally ill. Many people tell me that I’m not as bad off as I claim to be but these people have never been in the same room with me while I cut the flesh of my body as I sit in my bedroom floor, my throat sore from wailing at God to take the pain away. They have never witnessed me hiding in my closet, my face swollen and covered in tears with my knees tucked to my chest telling myself that my pets, my children, need me to stay alive just a little longer – they’re the only fucking ones. No, these people have never seen me at my lowest. Nobody has. My memories replay as though they’re from a movie I watched, I hear the soundtrack of my prayers, my screams, and my sobs. I see myself alone in a bedroom. They tell me that I’m doing fine and that I’m great but again, they don’t see me. If they did they would know that the entire time they were talking to me I was thinking about killing myself as soon as I could or maybe in that moment I was thinking about killing them and how satisfying that would feel.

I’m one hundred and ninety six days, eight prescriptions, five doctors, and two diagnoses into what I’m calling my recovery, but I’ve come to accept that I will never recover from my mental illness(es?) but merely gain stability. Perhaps one day I will even be able to portray a normal functioning person! (This is where I would hashtag “goalzzzzz for real” or something similar on a social media platform). There is no doubt that I have come a long way in the short amount of time that my mental health has almost, sometimes been my first priority but there is also no denying I have a lot of room to improve.

Tuesday began a new chapter of my treatment as I had my first appointment with a new doctor, a psychiatrist. After only one appointment I know it’s premature to say that I feel any hope at all that she’ll prove to be beneficial to me but I am a hopeless romantic and I think she has potential. There were so many things that I liked about her and her office. The waiting room was dimly lit and empty, very quiet. Her secretarial staff spoke to me in a very monotonous manner that didn’t make me feel rushed or cause my anxiety to become more problematic than it already was. I showed up exactly when my appointment was scheduled and I knew I was supposed to be there at least ten minutes early. 

The first thing my new doctor, Dr. W, said to me was “You have a pretty extensive history” and I agreed with her as she began asking me questions about the first time I was hospitalized at age twelve. Dr. W wrote notes while we spoke, I liked that. To me it shows that she wants to make sure that every detail is recorded right then instead of depending on being able to regurgitate what we discussed later. She asked me follow up questions after I explained something to her, she had me go into detail about how the episodes felt, and she asked me about nightmares and if I had flashbacks or memories of the abuse I endured. I answered everything without filter. Telling her every thought I have ever had about killing myself or somebody – anybody, a random person who rode too close to my rear end maybe and even sometimes K, my (maybe ex?) girlfriend.

Misdiagnosed. Dr. W feels as though I was misdiagnosed by Charlene and Melissa. She thinks my mania episodes are too severe to be Bipolar II and that I am in fact Bipolar I. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised by this, I have had the same thought multiple times. Dr. W asked if I understood the difference and I almost laughed and told her of course I did, I suffer from goal orientated periods and I researched the absolute fuck out of the two diagnoses.

At the end of the appointment she requested that I come back in two weeks and gave me new prescriptions. Well, a new prescription and one that I was previously on but had to stop taking when Melissa failed to call in my refills. Tomorrow, er – later today?, I will be starting on 25 mg of Lamtical once a day for two weeks, a medicine I have been on since the beginning, and 40 mg of Geodon twice a day. I am excited to start this combination of medications. I’ve read great things about the pair used together and I also have a friend that has maintained stability on Geodon for years now.

My writing will continue to become less frequent until I stop writing all together and that makes me sad but I know that with the vanishing of my desire to write my mind is becoming more stable and that is a very welcomed thing right now. I might lose my passion of writing but I still have my rescue work with animals, dogs specifically, and they give me enough reason and purpose to keep living.

With hate, Pacie.

I honestly can say there’s not a whole lot I hate about myself but right now there are two things driving me crazy with hatred: my weight, my inability to finish things.

Seroquel was a great medicine for me, mostly. The weight gain was something I couldn’t deal with though. Ten pounds in a month, the first month, turned me off and I couldn’t do it. Maybe I could have learned to live with it or busted my ass to get it back off and busted my ass to keep the weight from coming but from what I read that was just the beginning for most people and there was no solution for losing it and even less hope for “keeping the weight off”. So Metformin came into my life and was supposed to help, but it didn’t. And now I’m fifteen pounds heavier than I care to be.

I’m off Seroquel so surely the weight will fall off or I could work it off, right? Right, well, if I could ever commit and finish anything.

Not going to lie, I ordered diet pills from Canada. Is it illegal? I have no idea, I hope not. Was it expensive? Yes. Fuck yes. But I’m desperate.

But not desperate enough to take my fat ass to the gym and stay out of drive thrus. 

but I am.

And I want to work it off but every time I begin a workout plan something comes along and I quit. This time it’ll be the second job I just got, I’m sure of it. Today I wrote out a seven day plan. Basic exercises. Basic enough surely I can stick to it for a week, right?

Fuck.

Are you there?

There are days I miss the mania. Today is one of those days. Yesterday was one of those days. And I’m hoping tomorrow my friend will come see me again because at least the Lunatic balances out these lows. God, I need SOMETHING to balance out these lows. 

Life is life. It’s hard and it’s unfair. But is it really? Or is it the depression talking? This forsaken low I’m currently drowning in.

I miss the mania. I miss the hyperactive feeling in my body and the inability to sleep. I’d rather have that than this constant sadness that makes my eyelids heavy. I’m so tired.

I miss the mania.

Commitment & the D.A.R.E. shirt

Maybe it’s because I was speechless at my appointment with Dr. H but sometimes I wonder if there’s anything even wrong with me at all. Am I really unwell or is that just me being… I don’t know. Something else?

Dr. H made me feel as though he expected me to lead the conversation and I couldn’t. He asked me what I hoped to get out of therapy and I had no idea what to say so I told him I don’t know how to answer that question. I told him everything that happened to the point where I started to see Charlene. Dr. H asked me what I felt I needed to work on and again I didn’t have anything to say. So I told him that the medicine Melissa has me on works wonderfully – when I take it. My symptoms are muted if not absent. I’m sad all the time but life is sad, I suppose. I get angry but it’s a different kind of angry, there’s fear in it. Fear that I will become the lunatic I was before the chemicals. But the chemicals, they help me but I don’t know who I am with them in my system. I sat there on his couch and I asked myself if I even needed therapy, what was I doing there? I sit here now and I’m asking myself the same question. What Am I Doing?

As awkward as it was I think I might like Dr. H. We talked about dogs and how I have become immersed in the volunteer work lately. How did I learn that saving animals was a passion, why do I think I feel the need to save them, he asked me. They don’t have a voice. They can’t save themselves. Their whole life is dependent on human choices. I want to help them. At the end of the long conversation about dogs, specifically the ones I’m close with right now including my own kiddos, he told me he suspected trauma in my life and most likely during my childhood. Fuck. I knew that was coming. So I explained that I didn’t consider it trauma, I call it life. But I did tell him, quickly and without as many details as possible, about my childhood but then the greatest thing happened:

Dr. H didn’t apologize for my life. He didn’t say “oh no, that’s awful, so sorry”. He didn’t tell me that I was “strong” and that I’m a survivor.

And because of that I think I like Dr. H.

Today I had my appointment with Melissa, I don’t remember if I’ve wrote about my plan to ask for completely different medicine but because I can’t commit to sleep as much as I should I wanted my mood stabilizer to be separate from my sleep medicine. And I didn’t want sleep medicine. I didn’t consider my not wanting sleep medicine to be a manic symptom but Melissa pointed it out and it does make sense.I feel rushed, like I have a lot to do but I really don’t. I feel like if I’m sleeping I’m missing something and putting myself in a bad spot. But I really don’t trust myself with sleep medicine. I misuse it and I almost killed myself on Ambien so I don’t even want anything close to that. But, Melissa says I need to sleep. I am human despite it all.

I’m officially done with Seroquel and hopefully the weight it caused will start to come off. I’ll still take the Metformin to balance the insulin out so maybe that will help with that. Lithium is still part of the cocktail as is Lamictal.

In place of the Seroquel she prescribed me Vraylar, 3 mg to begin with. I haven’t looked up much about it but I do know it doesn’t have a generic so the cost is high but I have a free trial coupon for a 30 day supply and she gave me a four week trial pack at the office. Along with all of that a savings card was given to me that is supposed to help with the copay that will come along with it. The website says it’s made for Bipolar and Schizophrenia Disorders and the side effects are minimal. Weight gain made the list but at 1.3 pounds over two studies.

Melissa says if this works well I’ll be able to come off some of the other medicines and just take one pill for it all… and of course a sleeping medicine because I think that will be a struggle for my whole life.

For sleep she prescribed me Restoril. I don’t know anything about this either, I’ve not looked it up yet. But I have heard its name around and haven’t heard anything too bad about it so hopefully it’ll work.

Now… somewhere between the time I woke up and now two people recommended I start smoking weed again. I used to smoke to help me sleep and to ease some anxiety off me (not as a social thing) but I quit right before I started talking to K with the intention of asking her on a date. I didn’t know how she would feel about it and she meant more to me even then than self medicating. So it’s been over a year since I’ve smoked or really even thought about it. But two people mentioned it today. And all day today I’ve been wearing my D.A.R.E.  To Keep Kids Off Drugs shirt, I didn’t notice the hilariousness of it until K mentioned it to me after I told her. 

After my appointment I went to see a friend for a while and we were talking about life and I don’t know if she’s bipolar or anything but I know we both share a similar past. She told me some of the medicine she’s on and I told her about what I’m on and we compared what we’ve been on and the different ways it made us feel. I expressed my hatred for chemicals because they take away my creativity and she said she understood. We talked about if it was better to be manic or depressed and we both agreed mania was our preferred choice.

We finished talking about prescribed medicine and started on a different topic of how to treat an animal with severe PTSD, I mentioned that if it were legal I think a capsule with a small amount of weed would probably help the anxiety and that’s when we transitioned over to her telling me that she smoked to help with her issues because the medicine just lacked something. I told her that somebody had said that I should do that earlier in the day and we discussed that a bit.

That’s something else to think about. It’s legal in some places and not in others. It’s a big debate on if it helps or not. I know more than a handful of people that use it to ease their mental illness symptoms.

Afterward I went to K’s and told her about my day and about the recommendations. She found it entertaining and pointed out the irony of the shirt I had been wearing. I was expecting her to weigh in her opinion but she really didn’t. K used to stay high in her college years so I don’t think she would tell me no, don’t do it but if she did I wouldn’t give it another thought.

Sidewalk & Chalk

I feel like I write my good days on the sidewalk in chalk. They’re there shining so bright and happy. So many different colors and beautiful lines that make something, I’ve made something. I sit back and admire my artwork. Smile a proud smile because I did that. That happiness is fleeting though; I know it.
Chalk on the sidewalk isn’t permanent. No matter how hard you try to protect it one rainy day will wash it all away leaving no trace it was ever there. The bright colors, the pretty lines, any reason at all to smile – gone.
That has been my day. The theme of my fucked up life. It didn’t come from the inside, it came from the outside. I made the mistake of getting too comfortable, I thought that I could depend on people. Relationships had changed, I thought, and was sorely incorrect. I watched the storm clouds form above my pretty little head and fucking colored on the sidewalk anyway.
Not to be boastful but to admit the truth, I’m a damn good person. I’m a kind and caring person. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to help somebody in need. My whole life’s mission to make other peoples’ lives better than mine. Despite my illnesses I strive to be a good daughter, one that my parent’s could be proud of. I use every ounce of my soul to be a better girlfriend to K than I was when I was at my worst.
But one fucking bad day and it’s as though I’ve accomplished nothing. At least in their eyes. As I sit here at my computer, in my office, I know that since I have sought help I have improved more than I think anybody expected me to – fuck, it’s been more than I ever thought I would, especially so quickly. I have maintained my job in good standing with my bosses and the company while going through one of the hardest times of my life – alone, with the support of nobody. I’m not dead. Only part of my thigh is mutilated. Okay, I lost a car but I bought, with cash – in full, a new one. My apartment is clean and I’ve maintained it. I fucking shower now, at least every other day.
I needed Dad today and like every other day that he doesn’t need money from me I was last on his list. He didn’t care that I needed him. So I handled my business the best I could and told him to fuck off and that I didn’t want a relationship with him any more. I meant it. I’ve done too much for my family and with the exception of my drug addicted mother and my estranged younger brother they’ve all fucked me over. During the fight I informed Dad that he needed to pay me for all the things his other daughter stole from me, which he swears she never did. He also needs to pay me to have the phone line I put on my account for her disconnected. He then told me I needed to remove my two large outside dogs from his property or they’d go to the pound. Fuck him. He’ll need money eventually and when he does he can let some man fuck him for it like Mom did for so many years.
As hard as I act, it hurt. Being disappointed over and over by somebody who is supposed to be there for me but has never been there at all fucking hurts. But still, like a loyal dog, I’ll always be there for him when he needs me.
Per usual I didn’t want to talk to K about my day, I knew it wasn’t safe, so I cut her off while she was sending me unhelpful “inspirational” quotes and told her I didn’t want to talk to anybody. Later, when I was feeling a tad better, but still horrible, we had a conversation which led to her saying if I had informed of her something earlier she would have gone with me somewhere. It excited my heart so I offered to pick her up when I got back into town and that’s when I realized our relationship hasn’t changed a bit and it crushed me.
I still have to keep my bad days from her. I still can’t allow myself to need her. It turned into a huge fight and she said awful things. So quick to tell me how horrible it is to be with me, every day is a fight, every day is unbearable. My heart sank because she washed away my chalk. For the last few weeks I have done everything I could to ease her nerves about an event she has coming up. I’ve spent every moment I could looking things up and trying to help her prepare the best I could. And the moment I needed her she couldn’t remember it. The good days were lost in her memory somewhere. She told me that I was only happy when I made other people as miserable as me. All she seen was that I was interfering with her plans and I had no right to ask anything of her. I was a fucking fool. 
There’s a large part of me that doesn’t want to try any more with her. I don’t want to open up and love her like I’ve been doing. I don’t think she’ll ever change, I think that her world will forever revolve around her and she’ll always be incapable of being there for me when I need her.That’s what hurts the most, I think.
Since we started dating I’ve wanted to marry her but as time goes by I’m relived that I sold the engagement ring I bought for her. I’m happy that we didn’t move in together. She’s not my best friend, she’s not even my friend, and I want the woman I marry to be my best friend. I want to be able to go to her when I’m having bad thoughts and I don’t want it to be a fight and be reminded that I’m impossible to be happy with. My wife should ease my mind and soul. K does the opposite and I honestly don’t think she cares to change that for me.
The moronic part of me that never wants to give up on people doesn’t want to give up on our relationship yet but the part of me that’s tired of getting hurt has already pulled the plug and is begging me to call the time of death. It’s not fair to ask somebody to change but it’s also not fair to have to face every battle alone when you’d die for somebody else.
I don’t know but I’ve not put my chalk away yet. After the rain goes away I’ll birth new lines and admire them until the sky steals them from me too.

Poetic sadness.

And from the sea of good things a rain cloud appeared and threatened to cry.
Who am I?
What am I?
I want to be more than the afflictions of my mind but when I look in the mirror and notice my scars and the permanent sad expression on my face I understand that it’s all I will ever be. Perhaps it’s all I ever was. Torment is the dust I’m made of.
scars. and sadness. and maybe that’s why my mother could never love me.

I’m not ashamed of who or what I am. I have endured a life that cannot be imagined even by the most creative of minds. Secrets dance with the demons that keep me company. Things I’ve never told anybody, things I’ve only halfway admitted to myself. Things that make my jaw hurt by almost remembering. … maybe I’m ashamed of the things that I’ve survived. Sometimes at night I close my eyes and pretend I died.

Some nights the air is too still and the wind too quiet and without the chatter of the universe I can hear my thoughts. No matter how many chemicals I let build up in my brain – no matter how many hours I spend talking it out – no matter how fucking tough I act – I lose my breath when a man looks at me. I am immediately afraid and I can’t shake it. 

Tonight I realized that five years shy of half my life I was somebody’s whore but never a child. My whole life I have lived in constant pain. Broken cheek bones, stitches from being ripped, the scar on the side of my face from multiple hits. If God was kind, I sometimes think, he would have let me died. He would have let me bleed to death on a soiled mattress before puberty ever hit. He would have let one of them strangle me because my mouth was too small, he couldn’t fit – but he made sure he did. But instead He let me live.

Instead He let me live.
And now I’m fucked up in my head but I’ll walk up to Him in the afterlife and hug him tight because after everything I’ve survived I’m not afraid of a fight. I’m stronger than the world even on my weakest day. And despite the evil I’ve laid with almost half my life I love like it’s my last chance.

He let me live.