That’s a Wrap! Goodbye 2015!

2015 has been an emotional roller coaster with really awesome highs, and really fucked up lows. I was trying to think of a way to summarize it all up into one, comprehensive blog post, and came up with the idea to attach one word to the year. One word to encapsulate it all. One word…

Metanoia (noun) 1. (psychology) the process of experiencing a psychotic “breakdown” and subsequent, positive psychological re-building or “healing” 2. The journey of changing one’s mind, heart, self, or way of life.

Mental health, or lack thereof, at times. Thanks to a gentle push from a very good friend of mine, as well as my girlfriend, I found some refuge in a partial hospitalization program in February. Here I began the road to recovery from a psychotic playground swing-set and drug addiction.

Emergence from a heap of hopelessness and a seemingly-perpetual collapse. At more times than I care to admit, I sincerely felt that this would have been my last year here. I am able to recall a vivid moment in my old apartment: I had blacked out all of the windows, peeled all of my clothes off, and sank into a bathtub of warm water. I pulled myself out and curled up in the middle of my living room for literally hours. I cried silently as I held on to my knees, really thinking about how I could just run away from my life, or my body. Somehow, I have emerged from that very sad position and I am standing- still wobbly at times, but standing.

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Therapy. Not only did I receive fucking amazing group therapy this year, but I also found the best therapist in the entire world. Seriously. The hospitalization program offered me a place to be open and unfiltered about my symptoms. I finally found a med combination to combat depression and flashbacks. I was given coping skills and tools to handle everything and anything that came my way. Through the program, I was prompted to find a therapist- and I’m so happy to have her! Therapy has opened a brand new door towards healing from my past. Even though it’s painful and difficult, it has been totally worth it.

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Acceptance that I have actually lived through trauma, that I have other personalities, and that it’s going to be okay in the end. I’ve accepted the fact that I need to stick up for myself more often, and that I need to also give myself credit.

Not giving up. Yes, this pertains to me not giving up on life, but more than that, the people who love me did not give up on me- or for this I am eternally grateful. My friends were there for me, 24/7, despite the fact that I may have disappeared for weeks at a stretch, they were there to listen and help me back up. My family- my actual family who supports me- welcomed me back home. My therapist has proven to be a stable confidant in my life and integration process. And my girlfriend… from the very beginning… thank you to the moon and back. I would not be where I am now without you.

Opportunities to be who I am, speak up about mental health, seek therapy, fall in love, find happiness, and much more.

Integration. I’m not there yet, but I am thankful for the moments of cooperation from my system. I’m thankful for the communication that has grown stronger, and for their protection.

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Appreciation. Every morning, no matter how shit-tastic I may be feeling, I manage to still offer my appreciation towards the people that I love and have in my life, towards getting better, towards my inner-system, towards the roof over my head and food on my table. I have grown to appreciate my family more this year. Especially through group therapy, I’ve developed a habit of gratitude lists everyday that really help ground me.

I am looking forward to 2016. I know there will most likely be some major speed bumps in the road, but I even look forward to tackling those as well.

I encourage you to find a word that suits your year!!

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On a Diary Entry, June 06, 2009

I went to bed at like 8:00 last night. and im still tired. -__-
i LOVED the phone call i got last night. that was funny. i also love my family. they are so LOVING and SUPPORTIVE. and they stick by me no matter what . . . theyre just great.

lol i think its funny to a degree. and how my godfather goes on and on about how i “accused” him of this, and how im the ONLY one in the world that knows what happened…uhhhh…ask the actual guy that was at my house 4 nights a week.

boo. lame.

sorry if im venting, im just really upset about this right now. this is ridiculous. i shouldnt have to prove myself, you know? when someone – especially a 17 year old girl – comes out with this kind of thing, you usually believe her. but no. he COULDNT have done that. oh no. not michael. no no god forbid….

and the other funny thing is how my godfather doesnt want me there cuz HE’S gonna be there. but all this time i was forced to let HIM into my home. he ate at my table, he came into MY room. i had to treat him just like everyone else, and yet i cant go to a graduation? really? okay thanks

sigh. ive spent a long time keeping silent worrying that it would hurt the family, worrying that i would break their hearts, but it turns out they dont even believe me. that is ridiculous. i spent all that time going out of my mind for nothing. i should have said something the night after it happened. whatever. they still probably wouldnt have believed me.

i am officially disowning my family. i swear ill even change my last name. i do NOT want to be traced to them, associated, affiliated, even in the same vicinity . sorry if that sounds bad.

i want somebody to care about me for once in my life. to have MY back and to be by my side, you know?

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.

Noose Ribbons

I am interested in the intimate
moments before the body
dives and sways, supported and
suspended by tragic threads.

How red and blue the face must go.
Doctor, coroner,
is there a lapse between the
jump and finis that our protagonist
regrets his boy scout knot-tying and
his mid-life wife pill-popping kick?

How curious is this?

I wish I could cut and collect
all of their ribbons.
I would sew a flag of their
suicides.

When I Kissed the Cement

Last night was difficult. I’m not even sure if I ever fell asleep. My body is tired, my eyes burn, I feel slightly off balance.

I sat out on my back porch steps watching the rain fall. I was on the phone with my girlfriend, sobbing, rocking myself back and forth. Just hours before, I was standing in the drizzle, talking to God like I always did, begging Him to please make it go away. I bent down to the floor and kissed the warm cement repeatedly, waiting to feel absolution.

I haven’t been this despondent since February.

I texted my therapist telling her I felt suicidal and I’m too scared to admit myself into a hospital. I don’t even know if that would be the right move. I keep waiting for this to go away. Tomorrow, it’ll be better again. I’ll be happy and cheery, this mess will be behind me. Yet tomorrow has shown its face over and over again. I’m not getting better.

I feel as if I’ve contracted an illness and all I can do is rest, try to recover. I know I’m not alone, but I feel like I am.

Perhaps going back to group would behoove my mental crises. I have no idea.

Last night was really painful.

A Eulogy to Two Forgotten Animals

I came across two dead animals sprawled on the road this morning while driving to work. Tires swerved and swiveled around the corpses in quick attempts to keep their tires free of wet fur. My body went on autopilot as I controlled the car. I began to imagine what had been going through their minds seconds before impact. Did their small bodies freeze in fear? Were they conscious after the rolling wheels had crushed their skeletons? Was it quick and painless, or slow and excruciating?

Here, I had several moments of silence. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyone on that road doing the same? Probably not. Leather suitcases, pencil skirts, scalding coffee in hand…all while paying mild attention to the radio’s reports of traffic jams and celebrity blunders. The whole world kept on spinning. Yet, here on this road were two lifeless bodies, repulsive and mephitic. How many hours would pass before someone would come and collect their carcasses from the roasting asphalt? Did anyone really even care?

And what of the hit-and-run murderer?

The world keeps going and moving and breathing and living. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, someone will notice that we are about to dart across the road before we see the big black truck barreling our way. If they love you, they’ll pull you by your scruff and hold onto until you calm the fuck down. If they pretend to love you, they’ll scream, “Watch out for that truck!” Then, there are the people who you trust with all your fibers who lead you blindly straight into the road.

But the world keeps going and moving and breathing and living.

Yes, these are the things I mull over in my head at 7AM.

My girlfriend and I went to San Francisco for the weekend. We had a great time. On Friday night, we participated in a pubcrawl to 3 different bars and 1 nightclub. We met a lot of fantastic people from around the world. Saturday we walked through the steep hills to visit Lombard Street, Fisherman’s Wharf, and other places. We had a lovely nap on Saturday night. Sunday we took it slow en route to the Golden Gate. We headed down the 101 and stayed in Paso Robles. The weekend holiday was concluded with wine tastings and deep conversations. Well, actually it was concluded with a lazy Tuesday, in our pajamas, watching TV and snuggling.

I returned back to my house yesterday. My aunt was at the dining room table and we almost immediately started an argument while my grandma slept in the other room. Long story short, tonight I am driving my dogs to my ex-boyfriend’s mother’s house. She will keep them there until I find my own place and move out. I’m sad, but I know that the dogs will have a much better time there with people they know and two other dogs to socialize with. Plus, I am not the best caretaker right now.

Last night I woke up repeatedly from night terrors. I would wake up drenched in my own sweat, unsure if I was actually awake or not. I had a recurring nightmare…I was laying in bed, I would “wake up” and Morris was standing above me, holding my arms down, laughing. I would try to scream, jolt myself awake, anything. Then, it would repeat. It wasn’t until Goldie came out in my dream. I remember looking down at “my” arms, and it was her. Finally, I actually woke up at 3AM. I spent the next hours staring at the ceiling, red-eyed and dead, as I listened to the voices whispering amongst each other.

My doctor is taking me off of Seroquel. I’m down to 50 mgs now. I can’t tell if this is completely due to my dosage cut, or if it’s situational depression. Perhaps it is an insidious mixture of both.

I have an appointment with my therapist tomorrow.

When My Mother Bailed Her Abusive Husband Out of Jail

I called my mom yesterday. Charlie, her husband, answered the phone to my surprise. Charlie has been in jail on a domestic abuse charge and possession of marijuana. It’s a miracle he didn’t have crack or meth on his person..

So, he answered the phone, I stumbled a bit, then I asked him if my mom was there. He told me to hang on. My mom came to phone and answered very monotonously, “Hello…who is this?”

She has never asked me who I am. She knows my voice. Not only that, but she always perks up when she hears my voice. 

I told her it was me. She said, “Oh…hi. What’s goin on?” As if I was bothering her, as if I didn’t matter. Her speech was slow and distracted. I could hear Charlie in the background. I asked her several times, “Why do you sound like that? Are you high?” No answer. We got off the phone.

A few hours later, I was driving home and she gave me a call. She apologized for earlier and she said she couldn’t talk because Charlie was breathing down her neck. She admitted to popping opiates, hence her grogginess. I asked her how and why Charlie has been out. “I helped with this bail,” she explained. 

My mom lives in the south. She is currently holding residence in a small Travel Lodge room. Her income is $2.70/hour. She lives off of an allotment of $40 worth of food stamps. How in Christ’s name could she afford a contribution towards his bail?

“This is our year, babe.” My mom has continually reassured me that this is the year we meet. Her soul cannot bare to be without having me another year. In the beginning of year, she created a secret stash of money dedicated to our reunion. 

My mother spent all of her savings to bail out her ex convict husband. This same husband that controls her communication, her money, her schedule, her transportation. This same husband that has supplied her with heroin and crack after she spent countless years in rehab. This same husband that calls her a fat bitch and slaps her across the face.

How can it be that this same monster of a man takes precedence over her daughter that DESPITE feeling abandoned for 23 years of her life STILL forgives her and accepts all of her??? 

I feel so goddamn stupid for having faith in her in the first place. I understand she has her own battles. She is a codependent addict with C-PTSD. I’ve been understanding. But what about me? I just want my mom. Even if she’s in the south and I can only call her and talk to her. Which in itself is a challenge not only because of the fact that she’s literally across the country, but because she doesn’t remember the majority of things that I tell her. Years of drug use has impaired her memory. I feel almost as if there is no point discussing the complex and convoluted parts of my life. God knows I’ve been doing it anyways.

I am hurt. I feel small. She is choosing drugs over me, her only child. If you have been reconnected with your child after 21 years, wouldn’t you do everything in your power to reunite? Am I thinking too irrationally? 

This also makes me ponder the idea of my own prognosis in terms of addiction. I hope to never become so torn down and tethered by drugs and alcohol. 

GOD I am so incredibly angry and hurt. 

Attempted Murder Next Door

I live next door to a survivalist TV celebrity, Michelle. Michelle is married to Hewson. If you follow my blog, Hewson is the shaman I’ve mentioned before.

Alright, keep that in mind.

I have a friend named Etch. He is a struggling artist. Etch is currently going through a nasty divorce with Heather, who just happens to be absolutely crazy. I actually mean CRAZY. She is trying to claim 50% of Etch’s profit from his artwork.

Etch’s uncle recently passed away and left him over $70,000. Heather is trying to claim half of this money. Are you following me?

Hewson, Michelle and Etch are all long time friends. Nobody likes Heather, with good reason. However, Michelle REALLY does not like Heather. She goes out of her way to make Heather’s life miserable whenever she possibly can. Note- Heather lives next door to our apartment complex.

Yesterday, Michelle saw Heather on the street outside of our complex and began screaming profanities at her. After this incident, Etch approached Hewson and asked him to talk to Michelle; the divorce was already difficult enough. He didn’t want to cause more problems with Heather.

Well, I suppose Hewson and Michelle got into a really heated argument (they have fights almost nightly, verbal and physical). Michelle broke a glass, mixed it into Hewson’s dinner, and fed it to him.

Michelle fed him GLASS.

Then, when he realized there was glass in it, he refused to eat it. Michelle grabbed the food and smeared it into Hewson’s face.

He is now in Urgent Care.

Never a dull day.

Suppression, Smiles, and Seroquel Slurs

Tomorrow is my first therapy appointment and I’m pretty excited about it. I emailed my boss at work letting him know that I’ll be taking a much longer lunch than usual because I had a doctor’s appt. He called me into the office, asking if this was a one time thing, of if my “condition still exists.”

My friend called me last night. He was my very first friend when I was admitted into PHP, and he’s been my friend since. He’s out of state now enrolled in a different PHP program. I was really happy to hear from him.

Today, I feel vaguely nostalgic- as if I’m living in my early teen hood body. I don’t know if it’s the weather, or what is happening. I just feel very different, again.

The seroquel is making me exponentially groggier in the morning. I stumbled out of said bed today and whammed my leg against my bathroom door. I hope I get used to it soon!

I’m going to go see my grandma this weekend. I’m actually very nervous because my cousin- the one that molested me for months and months when I was 12- is going to be at the house. So, I’ll have to suppress that a much as possible Maybe that’s why I have this ultra odd nostalgic, weird, fuzzy feeling. Not sure. Silver linings, I’m happy to see my grandma and my other cousin, who I really love.

I’m Still Alive! and Lithium Sucks

I bumped up my meds last night. Woke up at 2 am, after a gnarly dream I had, and threw up a few times.

I dreamt that I knew I was still alive, but I was just asleep. So, I tried to kill myself in the dream. Then, someone stopped me. When I woke up, I had this nasty feeling of, “Why the fuck am I still here?” It’s the feeling you have after a failed suicide attempt. At least, it was familiar to me.

The person who saved me in my dream then texted me promptly when I woke up, “Are you awake?”

I called my doctor in the afternoon about it. She instructed me to only take 600mg instead of 900 tonight, just until she can run my blood levels. I felt really woozy all day. My appetite is gone, I’m impatient, and I can’t concentrate on anything. It’s all really stupid.

In other news, I’m feeling slightly more alive today. The perpetuating melancholy was still soggy on my clothes, my skin. Yet, I found that ultimately, I could stay alive today. Which, I guess is better than flirting with oblivion. Yesterday afternoon, I spent 3 hours huddled in a ball underneath my covers- 80 degrees in the room, beads of sweat collecting all over my body. Normally, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. But I just lied there, softly inhaling, letting time wash over me like tepid bathwater.

My boss kept pulling me into for impromptu team powwows. As he recited his orders, his thoughts, and opinions, the running commentary in my mind bellowed, “None of this matters. This is all make-believe-bullshit. Why don’t you see how badly I’m hurting? I want to die.”

Sob-fest. Please, somebody give me a hand off of my soapbox.

It then occurred to me that my last IOP day is on Wednesday…I better have a therapist by then, because I don’t know how much longer I can hang on without a professional.

Anyhoo, I hope everyone else is having a better day! I’d love to hear about some good news.