I Keep Listening to Trent Reznor

I wish I could give a straight answer.. when she asks me, “What’s wrong?”… I wish I could be certain and say I’m just feeling depressed, or angry, or moody- any definitive answer would be great. It’s frustrating for her. It’s frustrating for me.

I feel like a broken record.

The closest feeling I can think of is empty. My handy thesaurus spits these synonyms out: cold, devoid, hollow, uninhabited, vacant, deflated, depleted, exhausted.

I keep drumming it up to the simple med change I’ve had. Maybe that’s it. It’s not ALL day, either. I feel okay most of the time. Sure, I have moments of wanting to take a pair of scissors to wrist, wanting to jump off of a building, that sort of thing. Fleeting feelings of which I will take no action upon.

Although, the paramedics that came to my aid last night seemed slightly convinced otherwise; they offered several times to drive me over to the hospital for an evaluation. I told them I was fine. I just had a panic attack. No big deal. I passed out and dissociated for a second. No big deal.

I have them quasi-frequently now. No big deal. I had a flashback the other morning of being pulled into a van, forced to go down on some guy. I kept hearing him say, “What did you do? What did you do?” over and over, because I bit down on him. Hard. No big deal.

And remember when I found my best friend in his back house when he tried to hang himself? We were in 8th grade. We’d walk to school together. He lives on the other side of the tracks, literally…. flashbacks.

No big deal.

As long as I keep myself cool, calm, and collected, I can handle anything that pops my way.

Goldie told me that it’s time for me to accept help again from everyone else. I did a fantastic job steering us away from immediate danger after his suicide, but now, I need to take a breath. Let the medication do it’s thing. Go to therapy. Accept help.

I’m having trouble asking for help. Since the very beginning of this month, I handled everything and made it through with minimal assistance. Now I’m experiencing a slight turbulence in regards to anxiety. But, I can do it.

I’m okay. I’m sorry I don’t have any straight answers… I have just felt floopered every now and then. I’m OKAY though. Everything is okay.

Usually, when I feel like this, I want to curl up and be held. Human contact, affection, warmth, love, familiarity. Right now, I want to crawl beneath the earth and bury myself. Do you see my predicament? I feel FINE. I’m not depressed. Yet, I want to simply disappear.

Maybe I just feel angry? Slightly hostile? Angry at what, I’m not entirely sure. Well, fuck, maybe that’s the emotion. I would love to punch something really hard.

It is kind of “that time of the month” as well. My hormones are just all jumbled up. No big deal.

Fuck it, scratch everything I just said. I’m totally okay.

I Got Married, Again

And thank God for medication.

I was spinning through that same thick, depressed depersonalization. I clutched a small little tablet of Ativan (we have a love/hate relationship, this pill), and about an hour later, I felt so much better. I felt a helluva lot better actually. Not to mention that I FINALLY slept like a normal human being after taking my Seroquel. I had kissed those 50 mgs and smiled with relief, ready to knock the fuck out.

Lorazepam. I left the pharmacy, got in my car, opened the paper bag and held the orange bottle. I stared at the words. Take 2 tablets twice a day as needed. October 2010, I got married to Ativan. We went to parties together, ate together, took drugs together, slept together. We even overdosed together. It was an abusive relationship, to say the least. But people change, right?

Now, as I promised my psychiatrist, things would be different.

As I held the orange bottle in my hand, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. You fucked me over, I thought. If I promise to be good, you gotta promise to treat me right, too. It was like facing my mortal enemy after years of thinking they were dead, and there’s this weird sexual tension between us.

I feel more present, though I can’t say I totally feel like “myself.” I feel like there’s someone else resting against the back of my eyes, swinging their feet against the back of my throat.

October. I am enjoying and loathing the plethora of nostalgia seeping out of the ground.

It’s almost over.

Last night, we had a little going away gathering for my girlfriend, as she is moving on to greener pastures- a new job. We all had a great time as coworkers. I’m excited for her. Good things are coming into her life.

Tomorrow I have a therapy appointment. My insurance has changed due to open enrollment bullshit at work. We switched providers. Meaning, neither my therapist nor my new psychiatrist cover that insurance. I’m losing her. I’m just not. I literally have the BEST therapist. I’m sure I’ll figure something out.

Overall, as of right this second, I feel stable. Just not, totally me… whatever that means.

Waste Basket- Triggers

My thoughts this morning as I lay crumpled in tears next to my sleepy girlfriend: (not for the faint of heart. suicide, drugs, self mutilation)

1. I wonder what was going through my father’s mind as he injected himself one last time with his lethal opiate cocktail. I wonder what he was thinking when he wrote his last letter, his farewell memo. Did he see my face, my brother’s, or sister’s? Did he really think the world would shine brighter without him in it? I wish I could remember what he smelled like, how his arm muscles felt when he picked me up, or how his face wrinkled when he smiled. I wish I could remember his voice. Remember, Dad, when you wrote me my first birthday card? How you said you’d always be there for me and I was your little sweetheart?

2. My grandfather. His Alzheimer’s took over. He had always been my dad; taught me how to ride a bike, how to build with nails and wood, how to weld metal, how to dance Cumbia and Salsa. He taught me about music like Glenn Miller, Arite Shaw, Frank Sinatra. He showed me my culture, the language, the passion. When the family first found out that I had been cutting and had become suicidal, he looked at me with a heavy heart and said, “What happened to my little girl? You used to follow me around like a puppy. Now, you barely even say goodnight to me.” I had hit that teen angst, and I was sucked into solitude. It had hurt him that I had become apathetic and unresponsive. Fast forward a few years when his memory was being eaten alive. I called my grandparents house. He answered with a shaky voice, “Mija, when are you coming back?” I had moved out of the house at that point. I was impatient on the phone… “Soon, Tata, soon…” The regrets I bare now are unbearable.

3. Am I a selfish person? Like my father? My grandfather, in his own and old way was begging to see me before he forgot my face. I was so wrapped up in my own selfish little world. Why couldn’t I have looked past my irrelevant bubble to see his human desperation?

4. I must have felt what my dad felt the moment he boiled his tar. Years ago, I too sat in my bedroom, saturated with benzos. I relived it this morning whilst thinking of it. I had clutched these bottles of pills in my hands, thoroughly weighing the pros and cons of my suicide. In the past, it had hurt to realize there were more pros. This time, however, something terrible had shifted within me and I felt peace. Everything would be okay. I hope to never lose myself again to the irreparable ideation. What a terrifying place to be… no longer able to feel emotion, ready to pull the trigger, to jump, to inject, to inhale, to swallow and hang.

5. I want drugs. Anything I can snort. I want to sift through all the drawers here and find as many hydrocodones and I can. Crush, snort, repeat.

6. Will I ever meet my mom? Do I even care anymore? I’m embarrassed to admit to anyone that nearly every time I call her, she sounds high. Sometimes it doesn’t even register to her that she’s talking to me. I call her on my way home from work, she blames it on her exhaustion. Until I hear her husband in the background, “Come back baby, one more hit.” I stay on the phone, pushing back tears. I just want her to talk to me. I just want to tell her about my day. Mom, I’m having a hard time, please for fucks sakes, can you please just listen to my problems for once? Even if you don’t care? I hang the phone up, left to my own thoughts, feelings, fear. I go home, panicked because I’m home alone. I’m drawn to the bathroom cabinet like a moth to a flame. I fill the bathroom sink up with water, take out a razor blade, and hold my wrist under the faucet. This is not the answer…. put the blade away. I crawl under my sheets, text my girlfriend and cry.

7. How much more of this can I hold on to? I’ve lived my entire life with the magnificent ability to control my emotions, to eat them like air. Down they go to lie. I am beginning to feel sick and one by one, they come bellowing out from my stomach. I feel too humiliated to ask for help. “It’s always something, isn’t it? You should be better by now. Come on, we’re all going through something.” I’m just sad. I’m sad about Father’s Day, I’m sad that my mom can’t even hold a sober conversation with me, I’m sad that I’m sad.

8. Okay, Lazarus, that’s enough emotion for you now. Suck it back down

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Goldie and Micah’s Anathema

I haven’t been on in a few days- I have lots of comments to answer to!

Firstly, thank you for the birthday wishes, everyone! I had a fantastic day. I binged on Netflix whilst wearing my PJs and snacking. Allie hung out with me on my birthday throughout the day. Then, I went to my girlfriend’s house and spent much needed quality time with her. It was absolutely the perfect ending to my birthday.

On Sunday…I didn’t do much. Allie was chattery and all over the place. I felt as if she was pin balling everywhere, with all kinds of ideas and thoughts. I couldn’t contain her. Then, she reminded me of Micah’s foreboding anathema, and my stomach cramped. He had so graciously given me “50 days left,” and now those 50 days are done on March 26th.

Therefore, my anxiety has been all over the boards.

I’ve been queasy, sometimes unable to hold even water down. Last night, I hardly slept, being awoken by my own nightmares, then another episode startled me. I’ll get to that in one second.

Monday I had group. It was a bit emotionally arduous- not only for myself, but because I’ve developed an empathetic connection to these people and when they hurt, I hurt. It sounds selfish to say it, but I relate to one of the girls so well, I lost myself to my own painful memories yesterday.

During group, my therapist asked me if I heard voices. I said yes. Then, she asked me if they were ever religious- which was relevant to the group conversation. I said yes and proceeded to tell her about this one very awful entity. This is a story for another time. All you need to know is his initial begins with H, and he is one million times worse than M. He manifested from an obsession I had with the ouija board. I swore to myself I would never say his name aloud. Yet, I did. And he appeared. He’s with me now, draining my life force away from me.

Also, something else happened over the weekend that kind of hit a nerve. A very sensitive, touchy nerve and it sent me spinning through my own head. So, during group, I processed about how I felt as if I am unloveable “forever.” In my personal opinion, I think people fall in love with me quickly because I’m interesting. They’re fascinated with my fucked up mentality…but soon they realize that I’m batshit, and that I’m work. I’m hard work. Whether or not this statement is true is irrelevant, because due to said circumstance, a little piece of my heart irreparably scintillated and seared on Sunday.

And surprise, a new one introduced herself to me. Her name is Goldie. She’s a tough cookie. Allie brought her in as a reinforcement, because she’s worried. Allie has also brought back Celia as my “emotional accountant.”

Last night, through my nightmares and all, I woke up, and realized I was standing in front of my body mirror, conversing with Goldie. She spoke through me in her badass Jersey accent. She put me to bed when she realized I was awake, and told me not to worry about it anymore.

My girlfriend was scared because the other night, Allie spoke to her for a split second through me. I think I just let her slip out.

She’s been talking to me a lot, along with Allie, and now Celia is here, asking questions. I feel that I am losing my grip on reality, slowly. Which is fucked up because tomorrow is my LAST day at the hospital. I’m not ready. I need help. I’m slipping and I don’t want to admit because c’mon: all this time, after the meds, after therapy, I’m still not better?

I know this sounds stupid, but I feel possessed. I hate it.

Marla Knows Me Best

 Young lady, 5’2, brunette, 104 pounds, goes by the name of Lazarus.
Last seen blogging and happily snacking.
No reward if found.

Mother, what’s wrong with me?

I feel so detached from everything and everyone. I’ve been isolating.

Mood swings? Forget about it. I’m snapping at everyone, left and right. My anger and irritability is through the roof. Perhaps the irritability is just another symptom of the depression?

I’ve been crying on and off throughout this weekend. No word from my mom. However, I got a missed call on Friday afternoon. I googled the number and it belongs to a psychiatric hospital. So, I’m holding on to the idea that she was admitted and I will hopefully hear from her soon.

My appetite has left, along with my grasp on the world. I’m not even thirsty. If it were up to me, I’d pump myself with a euphoric drug- with a needle. A really sharp, silver, cold needle.

This week. I have to hold out to bump my meds up. I’m tired of feeling like I’m on everyone’s nerves. I’m tired of constantly being a problem for her. I’m whiny, I’m not positive. I keep lusting after passive suicidal fantasies. She doesn’t deserve that. She has her own shit going on. But here I am! Unable to come out of this depression-coma.

Scientology- My Personal Experience- Linkdump

A while ago, I promised my personal story in regards to the Church of $cientology. So, this post is going to be a Co$ link dump + an autobiographical recollection of my experiences.

First things first. If you pick up any Scientology book, the first page says this (in so many words),’Never go past a misunderstood word (MU abbreviated). The reason for confusion and boredom is because a person has gone past a word they did not fully understand.” Makes sense. Thus, for the sake of keeping this informational broadcast traditional, I’m going to define certain terms for you all so you’re not scratching your heads in wonderment. The full glossary can also be found here.

Scientology (noun)- a religious system based on the seeking of self-knowledge and spiritual fulfillment through graded courses of study and training. It was founded by American science fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard (1911–86) in 1955.
Auditing (noun)- The action of running Scientology or Dianetic processes on a PC (a preclear; someone receiving Scientology processing). Auditing usually involves a Meter, with the PC holding onto the soup cans electrodes, and the Auditor taking down notes and asking questions.
Sea Organization (noun)- The Sea Org, the commanding and controlling element in the cult, partly working off ships, partly land-based at Flag in Clearwater, FLA, the Cedars Complex in Los Angeles, and other places. Think of them as the Navy of Scientology. SO members give their life (literally. Hence the Billion Year Contract) towards expanding Scientology globally.
The Bridge (noun)- The bridge to total freedom; the list of auditing actions needed to get to the highest OT (operating thetan) level.
Reg (noun, verb)- Register, registrar or registration. To sell Scientology services or the salesmen of the Org. “Your next step after course completion is to see the Reg, Sally.” In Sea Org context, to reg or to be regged means to be recruited.

I was introduced to the Church at the ripe age of 12 years, after I had been hospitalized. My family was looking for a permanent psychiatrist to help me. My (half)brother caught wind of this and scooped me up. Remember, he’s 28 years my senior. I was taken to his primary auditor, (for the sake of anonymity, let’s call her Valle) and so it began. Valle is a world-class auditor, winning the Top Auditor Award 8 years in a row. She’s the best of the best in the world of Scientology. And here I was, 12-years-young, vulnerable, impressionable, and utterly depressed. Valle and I established, at that moment, a decade-long relationship of not just Auditor-Client, but mother-daughter. Valle is what they call a “Field Auditor.” This means that she operates as her own service, like a 1099. She is of course affiliated with the Church and the Org(anizations), but she does not report to them. Field Auditors are typically paid more and are highly trained.

A couple years went by. I was going up the bridge, as they say. I was receiving auditing, taking courses, and everything was going great. I was gaining a lot from the knowledge I was receiving and I remember feeling a lot more capable. I was more in control over my life. Then, the molestation occurred between my 38-year-old cousin and I. I spun out of control.

When I was 14, I attempted suicide for the first time. (Although, really, it was the second time unbeknownst to everyone- or to anyone. But that’s another story) My brother had me pack my bags to stay with him for a couple weeks- that turned into 4 years. Since I was living with my grandma, the family agreed it was best to give my nana a break from the “teen drama.”

I remember the car ride to his apartment. I told him about my uncle, about the sexual abuse that had been going on for months, explaining the large gashes all over my wrists and throat. His solution was to get my cousin into auditing.

Weeks went by. My cousin was seeing Valle, receiving therapy, etc. One day, my brother picked me up from school a little early and said we were going to have a family meeting. He drove me to Valle’s office. Sitting in the room was Valle and my cousin. Within that 2 hour long family therapy session, I had carefully constructed the brick barrier around myself that stands tall and erect today.

I was told to take responsibility for my actions. Because in Scientology, they believe we are spiritual beings. We have no age- our bodies age, but we are All Knowing Beings. At 14, I had to apologize to my abuser for seducing him, for keeping him away from his family, for being manipulative. At the end of the session, I had to hug him. And for this moment, I hate my brother for not protecting his little sister.

Years went by. I continued to see Valle. However, now, I was engrossed with Scientology. I say this because I mean this with ever fiber of my being: Scientology brainwashes you. I don’t know how exactly. Maybe it’s the false sense of security, the feeling of being more powerful than everyone else in the world… for me, I felt as if I belonged. It’s a cult. That’s all it is. A really fucking expensive cult. I had been uprooted from my home, from my family. I felt accepted here and loved. I allowed them to take my person.

Fast forward a few more years, I’m 18. I had attempted suicide again. After I had been discharged from my 5150, my brother, once again, scooped me up from my apartment with my belongings. I moved in with Valle. From there, I had become much more involved. One of the Missions (like a church Org, but smaller) was down the street. I joined staff there whilst continuing a 6 hour schedule of auditing.

Sea Org members began to notice my allegiance to the Church. I was a hard worker, I cared about humanity, I was friendly and competent. Soon, I was regged RELENTLESSLY- for WEEKS. They would find me, show up at my door at 11 PM. They once followed me to my car and wouldn’t physically allow me to close my car door. One night, I found myself in one of the recruitment rooms (unbeknownst to me). As they were showing me a briefing video, which I am now convinced is laced with subliminal messages, they had snaked my cell phone away. I went into a panic when I realized I didn’t have communication to anyone. I ran out of the room, up the street of the complex. I was restrained by two recruiters and literally carried back to the room while I was crying and screaming. They somehow managed to convince me that it was just my mind playing tricks, and that I really truly DID want to sign my contract.

I signed my Sea Org contract when I was 18. I sold my belongings, cancelled my health insurance (per their request), and promptly stopped taking my Ativan medication. I cancelled my phone service, deleted my Facebook account, because you’re not allowed to have contact with anyone once you’re routing into the Sea Org. Yes, including family. I made this leap for them. I was routing in with my then-best friend, because she signed her contract, too. She routed in no problem. But then, I was pulled into the Ethics Office. Because of my recent past with the 5150, I wasn’t allowed to route in.

I had a seizure that night and was taken to the ER. The seizure was due to Ativan withdrawal. I had no medical insurance. I had nowhere to go. I didn’t even have my cell phone. I spent the next 9 months hopping from sofa to sofa, searching for work. (I finally found the job I have now- which is Scientology affiliated) Within that time frame, I fell into a severe depression. I contacted Valle, asking for a session because I felt that I may kill myself if I don’t get help. She refused to have any contact with me until I felt more stable and not suicidal anymore…because I would be a liability to the Church if I killed myself under their care…

I just came to a realization one day in the car while riding to God knows where. I don’t know what I was thinking about. But I realized how absurd the Church seemed to me…and I laughed. For 20 minutes. I just laughed at how fucking stupid it all was, and how stupid I was for actually believing the shit I did. I mean, I actually BELIEVED this shit. I believed in the Xenu story- which by the way, I’ll post the video. But real quick, in regards to Xenu…for those of you that are already semi-familiar…the reason Scientologists deny this as true, is because they are told that if you tell ANYONE about the Xenu story before they are ready to hear it, they will fall ill with pneumonia and die. I fucking swear.

The thing about the church is they are VERY adamant about warning their members NEVER to read, listen to, or divulge in what they call Black PR. Meaning, ANYTHING that goes against Scientology or questions it is literally forbidden. If you do happen to read something, you are to attack it, report it, and ignore it. Hello!?!?! What the FUCK was I thinking?!? Cult 101!!!

I was conditioned to ignore the truth. But luckily, I came to my damn senses and I researched the hell out of everything. It’s all so comical. $45,000 later, I realized it all. There’s so much more I could write about, but none of that matters anymore. What matters is getting the truth out there.

Linkdump:
I highly recommend Tory Christensen’s YouTube videos for anyone that is slightly interested in learning more about the Co$. She’s also a personal friend of mine, and she is divine.

Here’s an example of Training Rudiments in the church

Xenu.net – Operation Clambake. You can find all sorts of gritty details here regarding the Church, L. Ron Hubbard, the Sea Organization, lawsuits against the church, etc.

Here’s a 7 min intro video on OT III, aka the story of Xenu. Yes, this is real. Yes, it’s factual.

While we’re on the levels, here’s the link to the actual handwritten OT Levels.

Website to the Church itself

74 Facts 

My favorite book regarding the Church and her escape…Beyond Belief by Jenna Miscaviage, niece of David Miscaviage, Chairman of the Board and current leader of the Church of Scientology. Worth the read. I’ve read it twice.

Resources:
Ex-Scientologists: Your Refuge is Here!
Ex-Scientology Kids

Lithium, Orange Badges, and Art Therapy

Diagnoses: Schizoaffective Bipolar Type (hasn’t changed)
Rx: Lithium, 300 mgs

I started my Partial Hospitalization Program (PHP) today. It went really well! They signed me in, took my vitals, and I received a PHP badge so I could access the designated bungalow for outpatients. I’m there from 9:30 am to 2:30 pm for 5 days. I was assigned a psychiatrist, doctor, social worker, and psychologist. The days consist of 4 intense group therapy sessions led by the psychologist.

During the first session, she went around and checked everyone’s basic how-are-you-doings, medication issues/concerns, sobriety check-ins, etc. The second group session consisted of processing through areas each person needed to work on.

Side note, they had coffee throughout the day which was available during breaks. I was very happy about that. Third group session was an educational session. Today’s topic was mindfulness and breathing mechanisms. In guided meditation, the psychologist had us listen to the sounds around us, both inside the room and out. After about 5-10 minutes of this, we shared our experiences through the meditation. Then, we had lunch. Everyone was so welcoming to me! I shared some of my stories about the Church of Scientology. We talked about medication, our lives, what it’s like living with our disorders, and music.

Finally, art therapy came around, which is the last group session of the day. We journaled. The psychologist had us close our eyes, and she read 3 quotes about anger. “At the root of all anger is pain…Do not teach your children to not be angry; teach them instead how to be angry….” The last quote is escaping my mind at the moment. For 5 minutes, we were told to write. The only rule was to not stop writing for those 5 minutes. This was the poem I created during that time:

Dear mother, dear father
this anger, sick, sick, reverberates
it pushes and lulls within my marrow.
through blue heroin
you speak, you cry, you birth.
my dear parents, this anger rises
from the silver needles.
my small veins soak with it. and how angry you’ve felt…
4 years gone, dear father,
you vanish. trickling behind you were
photographs of my first birthday,
still wet with ink.
suicides- they don’t always die
yet the great, grave flesh burns and turns.
you have betrayed us.
dear mother, the absence of you has
embroidered itself within my heart,
stitching thoughts of
you were too worthless to be loved.
still, I loved you and had forgiven you.
this unrelenting fury an anguish lingers.
you had given this to me, this sick disease.

We all shared the pieces we wrote. I realized through processing how much anger I have been carrying towards my parents and myself. I didn’t really think about how angry I was for allowing myself to become my parents. I had taken on addiction, alcoholism, and suicide attempts. Now, I am on the road of forgiving myself and realizing that I really need help. It nearly brought me to tears.

It was so relieving to be able to speak freely, unafraid of judgement. It was also wonderful to be with people who understood. We were able to support each other through tears and laughter. I felt really safe and I wanted to share with the group instead of isolating myself.

Tonight I start 300 mgs of lithium. I’m a little anxious of side effects. Next week, I’ll start an antipsychotiic.

I’m also going to give sobriety the good ol’ college try. Irritability, here I come!

I feel better. I still feel wildly depressed and mind-fuckingly anxious, but knowing that I have a support system- my current and new- I think I’m going to make it out alright. PS- Here’s some related humor because without it, everything just sucks

The Price is Right and Assessment Papers

I bit the bullet and went in for an assessment today at a mental/rehab facility.

Allie sat with me in the passenger seat all the way to the hospital. She reassured me that no matter what happens, no one will take her away from me. So, in that, I found comfort. Although I was beyond anxious about it, the minute I stepped on to the grounds, I felt a little bit of relief. The outside of the facility itself was so calming and soothing.

I called last night and told the receptionist that I’ve been feeling very suicidal. When I walked up to the check in desk, she happily exclaimed, “I’m so happy you decided to come in!” They even gave me hot chocolate- so I was sold right then and there.

I didn’t have to wait for too long. I found myself laughing at the overly giddy Price is Right contestants on the lobby television. Then, my name was called. She took me into this small assessment room with cozy love seats. First, she took my blood pressure and heart rate. Then, the usual questions. What brings you here today? Have you had thoughts of suicide? History of drug abuse? Are you on any medications? Any recent losses?

I found myself tripping over my words. It was incredibly difficult admitting to her all of the gory details of my depression and psychotic episodes. We touched briefly upon my past and present opiate abuse, my alcohol reliance, suicide attempts, psychotic breaks. The more I talked the more I wanted a drink.

I was accepted for an intensive outpatient program, which starts tomorrow for 5 days. After those 5 days, we can reassess my situation and schedule more appointments and such. So, from 9 am to 3 pm I’ll be spilling my guts to my psychiatrist and working with other people.

I’m scared shitless, I’m still sad, I still feel floopered, but I know that tomorrow I will at least have the opportunity to alleviate some of this unbearable pain. By unbearable, I mean just that. I mean I just don’t want to be alive anywhere. The emotional agony is absolutely intolerable. What makes it worse is I really feel that I’m alone; I’m suffering from an invisible and seemingly phantom anguish that no one else can see or understand.

It will get better. I just need to pull myself up by the boot straps. Holy hell, this is a bad ride.

I keep hearing knocking on the window next to me and it’s slightly frightening.

Anyways, readers, thank you for being there. I’m going to try my damnedest to make it through tonight alright. I may come back on here and just write. I can already feel it creeping and weaving through my fibers.

Maudlin Narrations and Wished Upon Oxycontin

Fuckkkkk I have a lot to say and I don’t know where to start, so I’ll start and I’ll leave it up to you to unjumble, unscramble, decipher, and peel it apart.

I started a new vlog, perhaps I’ll post up my channel here one day soon if anyone is interested in it.

Sorry for the awkward nostalgia, again, but here you go…

I feel like I’m nothing but poison to everyone around me. I’ve mentioned this before, but I see myself as so parasitic to those around me. My (ex?) boyfriend would tell me, “Then stop doing that! You can change your mind at any time!” Oh, lovely, if only it were that easy! I need a hug. Oh damn, do I need a hug.

I really shouldn’t be complaining. I’ve had a fantastic few days with her and all… I feel like such a bitch. Like no one is good enough for me. Or, rather, I’m not good enough for them.

God, what a maudlin display. I am bathetically pouring out all of the things I hate about myself today. I wish I had good news! I wish I could tell you I won another poetry contest, or I’m in love with this wonderful woman….etc.

The truth is, readers, I feel like slitting my wrists, popping back a few oxy’s, drinking a bottle of wine and bathing in my sorry existence. I want so badly to say, “I’ll get out of this one!!”

You have no idea how close I am to admitting myself to a psych ward.

Let’s Just Get it Done! 31 Days of Bipolar

I just feel like writing, writing, writing, writing….

20. Do you consider yourself creative? How do you express that? What piece of work (or whatever is applicable) are you most proud of?

I definitely consider myself creative. Besides writing, I enjoy playing guitar, singing, drawing, art in general. I am most proud of my writing, specifically poetry. Although, my journaling and essays are getting better as I stick with it.

21. Are you content with it being called bipolar affective disorder, or would you rather revert to manic depression, or rename it completely? Why?

I never really cared for the term bipolar. I’ve referred to it as manic depression- mostly, at least for me, once I was diagnosed, I related to the term manic depression more. Bipolar didn’t really seem to fit. Manic depression makes sense to me and I feel that it would make sense to a layman. Bipolar…I can’t even picture what it would look like. Penguins? Snow…?

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22. Side effects … what meds gave you the worst one/s, how did/do you treat it/them, and do you still get any side effects now?

How funny, I was just talking to my girl friend about this… It’s hard to say which one was worse for me. Lithium was probably worse, physically speaking. Dry mouth, nausea, skin flush, dizziness, fatigue, the whole deal. Not to mention the over whelming aggression, the need to punch walls and trigger-happiness.

Lorazepam had a much different trip to it. I hallucinated a LOT, had insomnia, lost my memory…although I’m sure a lot of that had to do with drug abuse and reliance on inhalants. I had some pretty major suicidal tendencies whilst on the medication. I wanted so badly to find a way to die.

23. Why do you blog about bipolar?

I first began blogging about it as an outlet. I needed some space to write down my thoughts and experiences through a mental health crises. I also wanted to gain feedback from fellow bloggers and possibly make some friends on WordPress. Since being re-diagnosed as schizoaffective, I’ve learned a great deal about what that entails and have been able to read other people’s experiences with the disorder.

25. What state are you in right now, when did it start and what are your goals and hopes about it?

I’m going through a depressive state right now. It started somewhere in June of 2014. Nothing necessarily triggered me, per say. I just remember right at the beginning of summer, it hit me hard and it hasn’t gone away. For a minute it just felt like one thing after the other. Until, finally, everything piled up on me. I don’t have any goals nor hopes about it right now. It’s shitty. I just don’t know what else I can do about it. Some days are “alright,” but for the most part, fuck it’s hard waking up in the morning.

I think I hide it well. I’ve said that before but I give myself a pat on the back for it. I’m so well known for being bubbly and happy.

26. How do you see your future beyond the state you are in currently?

To be honest, I can’t really see the future beyond. I’m sad. I can’t see the “light at the end of the tunnel” as of yet.

27. What do you see as the most important thing in your treatment regime, and why?

I haven’t truly started a treatment regime as of yet. For now, what I know helps is communicating. Whether it be word vomiting on this blog to you fine people, or communicating my feelings to my girl friend, it helps me. I just want to feel understood. I want to know that I’m not batshit.

28. To what extent do you tell people that you’re bipolar, and why?

Well, I don’t. I try not to. There have been a couple exceptions, but for the most part, I don’t say anything. I don’t want to be associated negatively with a disorder. Not that I’m necessarily ashamed, maybe a little bit… I want to be viewed at first like my own person. Not labeled.

Also, since the new diagnoses, I haven’t told anyone except the few people that already new I was seeking help for my mental health.

29. Of all the famous people (dead and alive) who are allegedly bipolar, who would you pick as your favourite, and why?

These three women: Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Virginia Woolf. They have all motivated me to become a poet, specifically Plath. Their lives amaze me in their own individual ways. All of them. Their genius minds amaze me. They were powerful women with fire lit beneath me. I find morbid beauty in the fire burning out; each of them died by suicide. Perhaps I shouldn’t find admiration in that, but I do.

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30. What meds are you on now? Have you found your ‘magic cocktail’?

I’m not on meds, yet.

31. Have you attempted suicide? What, when, why, how and what did you learn?

Yes. Twice. 2006 and 2010. Slit wrists, and failed OD.

If I really think about it… it’s crazy. I almost killed myself. That happened.

What did I learn… to try harder next time?

Sorry. What did I learn? That we are all fighting our own battles and each of us deserve to be loved.