Updates

quick update:

My mood has increased from the crippling depression last weekend. Thank goodness. It got very, very intense, as I was fiending for drugs. I went ahead and took a couple hits off of a computer duster to kind of settle the cravings.

I will never do inhalants ever again. And I urge anyone out there to also stay the fuck away from inhalants. It was the worst experience I had ever had.

I was talking to my therapist about how amazed I am that I survived my drug use 6 years ago. For a good 3 months straight, I was constantly drunk and was heavily using heroin, pain pills, benzos, fentanyl, and inhalants. I escaped pretty unscathed; just a couple weeks in the hospital and a bad case of psoriasis all over my face and upper body.

Things are going well at the moment. I wanted to write, but wasn’t feeling very creative!

I hope everyone had a great weekend 🙂

DID- a Personal Interview

I’ve been wanting to write an update, but every time I sit at my keyboard, I lose focus and have no idea where to start.

I’m okay. Things are better. I’m more stable. I have a new psychiatrist. I have a new scrip for Buspirone. My mom is talking to me. I haven’t been feeling the need to swallow a bunch of pills to kill myself. Work is going well. My social life is going well. The system is okay- though we are working through something at the moment.

Everything is okay.

I didn’t want to just leave a paragraph update, so I decided to post an interview regarding DID  that I recently did (which the article itself will hopefully be published within the next couple months!).

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Age:
24

Location:
California, USA

What’s your current profession?
I currently work in HR. When I’m not bustling around the office floors, I’m writing. I recently published my first book ever! It’s called, Solipsist, and it is a collection of confessional poetry that I’ve been writing during my journey in therapy. (Self promoting! It’s available on Amazon and on Kindle!)

When were you diagnosed with DID? What was your journey up to your diagnosis like?
I was diagnosed in the early summer of 2015. Before that, I had been diagnosed with both Bipolar I when I was 16 and Schizoaffective Disorder when I was 22. I struggled a lot with the latter. I had checked myself in to outpatient services once I was hearing malicious voices. It was really intense, frightening, and confusing. I didn’t know what was wrong with me and the misdiagnoses of SAD really set me back a little bit. It was difficult.

When did your different alters start to develop?
This is a tricky question. I suppose they really began developing around 4-5 years of age. My first alter, I suppose you could call her, was Allie. She’s been my best friend ever since. I’ve been told by friends that even in high school sometimes I would act oddly, or would even introduce myself by a different name.

How many alters do you have in your system? Can you tell me about about each different alter and their character traits?
So far, I’ve come to know 6 main alters. However, I know there are at least 3 more and a possible co-host.

Victoria is 24 and loves to write. She’s the host, typically.

Allie is a southern belle. She manages the system and works time out for everyone. If someone has an issue within the system, she is the go-to.

Goldie, or Marigold, is my protector. She’s from New Jersey, she’s tough, and she absolutely has no problem telling someone how we really feel.

Senka is 5. She’s sweet, loves dinosaurs, and likes to color.

Dee is 16, although I think she may age-slide. She’s a typical teenager and enjoys a good party.

Rogue has no identified age. She was angry abusive, and hypersexual. Now through therapy she seems to just bob around in the background.

Those are the 6. The others are:

Citizen, who is quiet and observant.

Lucy Lovelace, who is a more recently realized alter and I don’t have much information on her as of yet. I know that she was “born” in a mental institution.She has been taking on co-host responsibilities and traits.

Celia. She’s what I call the “emotional accountant” of the system.

How does Marigold protect all of you?
Goldie possesses the quality that I wish I always had: She doesn’t take abuse from anyone or anything. If something hurts the system, she’s usually the first to come out. To anyone who has met her, she’s been described as a little “rough around the edges” due to her brutal honesty. However, she is loving. She offers advice to me when I need it, even if I don’t want it.

How often can you switch between alters? Are you aware of what’s happening during a switch or when you’re a different alter?
To be honest, I don’t know how often it happens. 99% of the time, I don’t think I’m aware. I don’t feel that I even switch. Sometimes, I just feel fuzzy and my eyesight starts to shift. My girlfriend is usually the one to let me know, “so-and-so just came out.” Besides her telling me, I don’t know. However, there are times when they are louder, and there are times that I feel that I may be co-fronting, but I still don’t have any way to confirm that that means I’m switching.

Can you tell me a bit more about your day-to-day life is like?
I wake up, sometimes I’ll have a morning “meeting” with everyone depending on how we’re feeling. I’ll drive to work and Goldie typically drives with me. Every now and then Senka will be in the backseat. I work a full-job. I’d be lying to you if I said it’s not stressful because there have been moments where I’ve switched at work. Senka came out once that I know of- imagine working at your desk and then all of a sudden there’s a 5-year-old and no one knows what to do with you!

When I get home, I like to write. I blog. It’s therapy for me. I’ll spend time with my cat, Rita. I’ll play guitar sometimes. Then, bedtime!

Everyday is so different, but this is basically what it looks like.

When and why did you start vlogging and blogging about living with DID?
I started blogging a little over a year ago. I didn’t begin my blog focusing on DID. I had been battling depression for years, as well as drug addiction and rehabilitating from suicide attempts. My blog was created with the sole intention of helping other people by sharing my story. Then of course, as time went on and therapy opened up my trauma, I decided to spread awareness about DID.

The vlog came about 6 months after.

What are your ambitions for the future?
I have two goals:

1) I want to spread awareness, not just about DID, but about mental health and specifically the stigma against suicide. I’m astonished at the lack of information on the topic of DID and I would LOVE to educate people!

2) I want to continue writing and publish my autobiography.

What are the positive aspects to having DID, is it comforting to have the company of your alters?
Even though it’s scary and painful, my alters have shown me so much about myself, my past, and what I am truly capable of as a survivor. There’s not one boring day with all of us. When I’m really depressed and feeling lost, Allie is there by my side, ready to comfort me. When I feel threatened, Goldie protects me. There are a lot of positive aspects.

How did it feel to be finally diagnosed with DID in 2015? Did you feel a sense of relief or elucidation about yourself after your diagnosis?
I had mixed emotions about it. I think I had just been getting used to accepting Schizoaffective as my diagnoses and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t do any research at first. Then, slowly after working with my therapist, I realized that DID was not a fluke in brain chemistry; rather it is an adaptive and coping disorder. This is when the relief set in, because I knew there could be an “end result.” Integration. I began delving into books and forums. I picked up the DSM-V for the first time. I was so incredibly surprised to see how textbook my case was! There was definitely a sense of relief. I finally feel confident in the accuracy of my diagnoses.

I think you made a really moving point about how your alters have helped you survive trauma in your life and you hate to call DID a disorder. Can you tell me a bit more about this and describe how your alters have helped you?
I had coined this term in my blog when I first began writing- Glitter Rainbow Imagination, in lieu of the word disorder. I feel that “disorder” implies something that you want to get rid of, something negative and that is harmful to your psyche. My experience is quite the contrary! I had suffered through a lot of abuse, both verbally and physically. If I hadn’t have split, I promise you I would not be here today. Some of my alters, specifically Rogue, carry a lot of intense trauma.

I suppose if you look at it for a more psychological viewpoint, each of my alters are kind of like a filing drawer, and I’m the cabinet itself. Each drawer contains information and memories that are unique to that drawer. My brain has compartmentalized my childhood up until now. Through therapy, I am learning how to unlock the drawers safely, how to read through the files and accept the information.

 

What happened when Senka came out at work and did your work colleagues realise what was happening?
I don’t think anyone really noticed except for one co-worker. At the time, my girlfriend was working at the same office and Senka asked for her. So, the receptionist called her and my girlfriend took Senka for a drive. I don’t think she’s been out since then; she knows she’s not allowed to be out at work.

What sort of things do you discuss with your alters at your morning meetings?
We do a quick “scan” of how everyone is feeling usually. More recently, we discuss if anyone needs to take over for a while. For example, Goldie likes to drive in the morning and smoke a cigarette. Sometimes Senka wants to color after work. It all depends.

Do you have to buy or do certain things to accommodate all your different alters? e.g do you buy toys for Senka or different clothes for your some alters?
Senka definitely has a lot of stuffed animals. She loves dragons and dinosaurs so we have plenty of those! I wouldn’t say that the alters have different clothes- however, when we go shopping, they will come forward and give their opinions on what we should buy, or not buy. So, you can imagine how indecisive I could be!

What’s the most common misconception about DID?
Well, first of all, I find that the majority of the population doesn’t even know the term DID. They know Multiple Personality Disorder. Unfortunately, the extent of their exposure to MPD/DID is what they’ve seen on screen- i.e Sybil, United States of Tara, etc.

The common misconception is there are wild switches and that’s it. One day you’re Jane, the next you’re Rachel. At least in my own experience, it’s not like this. Sure, I switch sometimes. But there is SO MUCH MORE to it than that. It’s complex, it’s painful, there are so many layers. DID is not a little thing to work through. Honestly, I believe I’ll be working on it for the rest of my life.

 

Rape and Recreation

Rough week.

I had woken up yesterday morning with a feeling of complete despondency. Yikes—that thick depressive sludge. Though, I must admit, I’m doing better at keeping it under control. Tiny slip ups here and there… nothing too drastic. INTENSE cravings for heroin and pills. What’s new?

More on drugs…(brief tangent) through our fun inner journey over the past couple of weeks, we are beginning to see that it’s not so much the drug that I want, but rather it’s the altered-state of mind. I want a jolt. I want to be scared. I want to feel. The adrenaline, the illusion of danger. Like suicide, I don’t want to die. I’ve never wanted to die. I just want to kill myself.

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I push my limits through self-harm (of any kind) because I live for the JOLT. Unfortunately, I tend to cross the line past the point of the “illusion” of danger, because by then, it’s dangerous. I’m working on constructive self-punishment with the end goal of release and growth. It’s working.

Thank God for my therapy appointment yesterday. And for my lesser-professional therapist.. what would I do without you and your sanity? Thank you for keeping my head above water and for the hourly reminders of how fucking badass I am.

I’ve lately been having recurring dreams linked to fertility and pregnancy. Last night, I woke up from a nightmare- or rather, perhaps a flashback- of my D&C. Vivid images of blood and flesh filtered through my thoughts at midnight…my stomach began cramping, I was cold-sweating profusely, and I cried for a very, very long time, huddled in a ball beneath the sheets, clutching onto my stuffed animal.

This entire week has been a series of blurry patchwork. Despite the situational barriers and challenges, I’ve been handling things very, very well. So well, in fact, that Goldie was talking about make me the Protector of the system. That’s pretty fucking huge news. I was excited and I have been preparing myself for it.

Well, I auditioned for a play last night. It’s called “The Rape Show.” It’s an original play written for the college and weaves slam poetry, public speaking, and acting together to raise awareness of the prevalence of rape and rape culture on school campuses.

That being said, this play is damn near perfect for me. Some quotes from the script for you to ponder:

Rape is a coward hiding its face in the make-up of silence.
A murderous fruit, that grows best in the shadows of taboo.
A murmur of bodies left vacant
by the souls that spend years, pills, poems, and death
trying to learn to reclaim them.

Tell Elizabeth Fritzl
How pretty the flame of her skin was,
that turned her Father a torturous moth of incest
‘til she gave birth to 7 choices she never had

From smothering cat-calls,
to quickened pace of trek home
Rape with a dress on.
Rape without a dress on.
Raped as children, who couldn’t even dress themselves.
Tell them how ugly their consent was.
Tell the depression, the post traumatic stress

Humor helps trauma. We just want to know that you are laughing with us.

We can joke about it because it is ours to joke about, similar to how our bruises are ours to poke at, and yours to keep away from.

You’ll be there when I cry (until my eyes get puffy and red).
You won’t be tearing off my lace panties (because they were expensive, and they make me feel like I’m worth something).
Once you figure out that the only time I deep throat is with the feeding tube at the psych ward, you’ll be gone.

So, I auditioned for that last night. Sure…. There’s lots of concern for the state of my psyche. The second I picked up the script and started reading from it, I could feel everyone within me stir.

Then, Goldie took the Protector away from me. I think that’s okay though. I feel like I’ve been through the wringer.

Overall, I’m doing alright. Minor slip ups. Baby steps. I’ll be okay.

 

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Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

I’m angry.

I’m angry, disappointed, hurt, and I feel optional to you. I feel like an idiot standing by on the side lines, waiting for you to make some kind of miracle out of your life to come meet the daughter you had 24 years ago. Since speaking to you for the first time, now 3 years ago, I’ve waited for you to show up and surprise me. Just like when I was a child… my first school play, when I made the speech at my graduation, my 16th birthday party… I vividly remember all too well glancing out at the crowds, really thinking that maybe you would come show up out of the blue and just be my mom. I had forgotten you when I was 18 and went to college. My logic finally kicked my ass and I was fine not knowing you. I’m sorry, but I can’t help but think sometimes if we were better off- if I was better off- when you were dead.

And now, 3 years later, I find myself doing the same thing. I even looked out nervously in the audience when I was in my play. I feel stupid.

Do you remember promising me on New Years 2015 that this was our year? You said, “This is our year, babe. I just know it. We’re going to meet.”

I wish I could believe you when you say you’re clean and sober. I wish you could just be my fucking mom. I wish that you could be the mom that I defended all my years as a child. As a CHILD! I was 6 years old and all I was ever told by my grandfather was that you were a street whore and a drug addict- and I defended you. For what?

I wish you would leave your abusive husband: if not for me, then for you. I want you to realize how much you’re worth. I want you to make something out of your life and just be happy for once.

I hate that I’m even in this situation. I hate that I have to worry about you. I hate that I wake up with the feeling that this could be the day you’re going to overdose and die. I hate feeling worried.

Maybe I’m throwing myself a pity party, but I think I deserve one. I want my mom. But you’re not my mom.

It’s easy for me to tell people that I love them. Even if I have just met someone, I feel love and I’m very expressive with it. I wish I felt the love that may or may not be there for you. Mostly, it’s apathy and numbness. Then, it’s sadness, hopelessness. Love is buried there, I’m sure. I can’t feel it.

I can’t do this anymore. It’s not fair to me and on some level, it’s not fair to you. I spent YEARS trying to let you go. When I finally came to peace with letting you go, you came back into my life. I have to let you go again. This time, it’s an option. See, before it was a different story; you were dead. You were gone. I didn’t have a choice. But now, you’re alive and you’re somewhat tangible.

I have to let you go. I am killing myself over you and I can’t do this anymore.

I never let anyone go. If I’m anything like you, Mom, I stay. Regardless of how much shit a person could put me through, I stay like a loyal dog, patient and hopeful that maybe one day that person will realize that they love me.

What a paradox. You were the first person I literally ever had to let go of. You’re the major reason I have such a deep-rooted fear of abandonment. Maybe I’m growing as a person. Maybe I’m stronger now. I let go of you once. I need to do it again, despite the pain and the fear laughing in my face.

I am you. Your eyes, nose, lips, ears, hands, eyebrows and cheekbones. Your addiction, your dark humour, your love for animals. Your resilience, for whatever it’s worth.

I’m so fucking sad. I fought so fucking hard to convince myself that you had a drug problem, that you were younger and more stupid. I had to convince myself that you loved me and that you didn’t just give me away because you didn’t care about me. I literally spent my entire life convincing myself that you wanted me.

You have come into my life and have destroyed that for me. If anything, you have only confirmed that you don’t want me. I am a commodity. I am a bragging right to the little friends you have.

I am the final proof of something that you have touched and have not turned to shit.

I refuse to be vendible.

Now I am left to put my pieces back together. But don’t worry. I have done this before.
I won’t let you ruin me.

I am letting you go. I am letting you go.

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.

Tegretol and Ideation

Back to PHP I went.

I don’t even know where to begin with an update. It went well. I don’t remember driving to group. I signed in, had a little assessment, went to 3 groups. It was nice to be back. The therapist and social worker remembered me and welcomed me back. Everyone was just as sweet as they were when I left. New patients walk around freely, as I feel like a senior in high school; I know how everything works, which vending machine to avoid for the exploding sodas, so on and so forth.

I saw my therapist yesterday as well before she took off for a couple of weeks. I’ve gotta to say, she is the BEST therapist I’ve ever worked with. I’m so very fortunate to have her in my life. Completely. I don’t know how I would have come to the realizations that I have without her.

So, that was yesterday.

Today was a brand new day. I went to group, felt fuzzy like I had the day before. I met with my doctor. She asked me the usual questions, then mentioned something very serious: She said with the work that I’m doing now with my therapist, it may be an option for me in the near future to check in as inpatient, or even a resident. I think she is taking my opiate addiction and running with it a little… and my alcohol use. I don’t necessarily believe that I need inpatient treatment. I think I’m functioning, but I do need a little care I suppose.

She told me she is concerned about my eating habits. I guess I used to be concerned as well?

She also wants me to think about Tegretol. Has anyone used Tegretol? Did it help? It would be used (for me) to treat not only my bipolar disorder, but curb alcohol cravings. She also mentioned Vistaril, which I am interested in taking. I read up a little on Tegretol and it makes me a little nervous. I would rather take Lithium because I know for a fact it helps my swings and mood. However, she’s worried about my alcohol binging. I think I can control my binges with groups, etc.

Am I doing okay? I don’t know. I feel that I’m slipping. I feel apathetic. I feel… kind of lost, fuzzy, split, compartmentalized at times. I don’t feel all “myself” a lot. I’m scared of being alone because honestly, I’m very triggered to self harm. At least I’m being truthful with myself. I really, really, really want to harm myself and cut.

I feel very disconnected from my system.. very much like Rogue; she is isolated. Actually, I feel very much like Rogue.

I’ve met some really awesome people already. I’m glad to be getting help again. I hope that I can accept it. I feel very, undeserving and very sad right now. I feel a little bit like I’m wasting space.

It’ll be okay though.

Thank you for listening. You all have been such a great support system. I know we limited to letters on a screen, but honestly, I feel very loved here on WordPress.

Checking In, Checking Out- Back to PHP I Go

From the lobby into the evaluation room. Picking at my sweater… takes my blood pressure. I check out.

I’m sitting on the chair. She pushes her bracelets further up her arm. “Victoria? I asked you if you are suicidal currently?” I nod yes, but say no. She scribbles something down.

I’ve answered these questions hundreds of times before. Yes, I was traumatized. I was raped, beaten, father killed himself… well, no, see my mom abandoned me and I just met her 3 years ago- well, I didn’t really meet her.. Yes, I’ve attempted suicide. I suddenly feel that I’m on top of building.

“And how did your family members commit suicide?”

I check out again. I start feeling panicky. I smile, slightly shake my head and say, “I like your necklace.”

She responds, “Thank you. How long were you abused in the Church?” My lips go numb. I wasn’t talking about a church. I ask her, “Which church?”

She looks confused. “You had just told me that you had been physically abused in the Church of Scientology. How long did that last would you say?”

I check out again.

“Do you dissociate often?”

My heart is racing and my eyes are burning with tears that have refused to unfasten themselves. We talk more about medication compliance, self-harm. She asks me if I have an appetite. I stare down at my wrists…

“Last time you used heroin?”

Before I knew it, I was out in a flash. I just now heard from the hospital and my insurance has granted me 4 days of partial hospitalization for now. Hopefully, they will give me more once they witness my basketcasery.

I’m on the verge of a panic attack as it seems right now.

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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On White Lines and Morning Prayers

I meant to write this past weekend but found little time to sit and type!

The therapy session went well. My girlfriend came along and was able to give my therapist a lot of insight as to the others- a lot more insight than I expected her to give. I found myself becoming very uncomfortable at the descriptions she gave of Rogue, recanting violent acts, punches and harsh words. Some mental fog consumed me and I was enveloped in thick, muddy time, listening to my girlfriend converse back and forth about my dissociation. Allie sat to my left, patting my knee, telling me to relax. All the while, Rogue stirred beneath my ribs. I could feel my eyes almost dilate.

My therapist recommended that I communicate with Rogue, perhaps through writing. I don’t even know where to begin.

After the session, I felt very detached from reality. I could hear R in the background, “Now you really did it. You fucked up.”

I went home, paced nervously around the house, walking over the carpet spaces in which I was taken advantage of. I downed a beer, two, three. My cousin came home with his friends. I retreated into my bedroom with Allie and I cried into my pillow. The walls were closing in on me. Dee said I should get out of the house. Somewhere in between my melt down and sticking my keys in the ignition of my car, I had gotten ready and left my house. I met up with a good friend of mine/coworker for a drink. The space made me relax more. I was able to forget about R.

Good conversation, good drinks, good music. My girlfriend met us later at the bar, looking absolutely stunning as she had just come from a family quinceañera.
More conversation, more drinks, more music.

At the end of the night, my girlfriend and I had gotten into a small argument, which I can’t blame her for. We had been at the bar with another friend, who so happens to have a coke habit. We had gone into the stall together. She asked me if I wanted a bump. I said no. I held my hand out as a table as she did took a line. Another line. I wanted it, it was so close to me. But I thought to myself, “I’m not going to waste my sobriety and I’m not going to hurt my girlfriend.” She put the coke away.

Moments later, my girlfriend walked into the restroom with us. I guess I looked suspicious, or so she said. When we got in the car to drive home, she spun around and said, “Really? One night and you’re already snorting coke?”

Like I said, I can’t blame her. I was a desperate junkie not too long ago. I think I was just upset because A) I had been proud of myself and I was excited to tell her, “Babe! Guess what!! I was strong and I didn’t do it!”
B) I hadn’t taken my meds that night and I was feeling it.

The next morning everything was fine. She asked me again to reassure her. I did. We made up and went to the dog beach with my little ones. I think we both needed the sun and sand. The weekend ended off with homemade tie-dye shirts.

On a completely separate note, Ramadan begins next Thursday. I wanted to begin a week early. Unfortunately, I did not set an alarm for Morning Prayer- Fajr- today, but I did make up the prayer when I woke up. I will be fasting this week. God willing he will rope me closer to him, to myself, to love and to general patience this month. I need faith again.

Hell is a Place Full of Uneducated Psychiatrists

Oh, have I got a story to tell you.

Firstly, my anxiety and symptoms came to climax yesterday. I have been feeling chest pains- more specifically, it feels like sharp pains centered around my heart- for the past 2-3 weeks or so. Yesterday, the pain became consistent and was accompanied with numbs fingertips, tingly lips, and dizziness. I was alarmed, but even more so alarmed because I was withdrawing off of the lithium.

So, we journeyed to the Urgent Care by work. They couldn’t really do anything, so they sent me to the Emergency Room. I checked in there and long story short, they told me my symptoms were just a manifestation of bad anxiety. I was relieved, yet my inner hypochondriac wanted to scream, “But! It’s my heart! I think! Am I really okay?!?! Are you sure?!?!?”

They gave me a dosage of lithium and sent me on my way. I began to feel better an hour and half later.

Now, I had my first psychiatrist appointment yesterday evening. I left work, arrived at my destination early, filled out all of my paperwork, and waited. I waited for 45 minutes. Alright. I’m just going to bullet point all the STUPID AS FUCK things my psychiatrist said. I was livid.

This is during the initial interview. I filled out all the relevant information (suicide attempts, family history, abuse, trauma, drug use, diagnoses, etc..)

• She asked me, “Tell me about your suicide attempts, how did you do them?” I told about the first time and when I came around to the second attempt, I said, “Well, I tried to jump off of a building…” She promptly dropped her pen and asked dumbfoundedly, “Why would you do that?” (Insert uncomfortable blinking here) “Why would you try to jump off a building?”
• She noticed my scribbled in heroin history in my drug use summary. She said, “So you grew up with mom and dad and saw them doing it so you just thought it was okay?” No, bitch, my dad COMMITTED SUICIDE and my mom ABANDONED ME so I didn’t get the basic privilege of watching them shoot up while I was enjoying an edge-of-your-seat episode of Blue’s Clues.
• She asked me what my official diagnoses was at the hospital. I told her it was Schizoaffective. BRACE YOURSELES. She said, “That can’t be right. You don’t look to me like someone who is schizoaffective.

You must have PTSD.” Are you kidding me? I don’t look like someone who has Schizoaffective…I’ve never in my life….well, actually no that’s not true. Kayden, where are you? You mentioned this happening to you, too. But oh my dear Christ on a sunflower, I’ve never heard anything more unprofessional.
• She was reluctant to write me a prescription because she didn’t feel she should be giving me medication for PTSD, but because I was in the damn emergency room yesterday, she wrote me a script.
• She asked me if I was sexually active and use protection. I said yes I am but I’ve been with a girl, so I’m not getting pregnant anytime soon. She got quiet and said half under her breath, “Oh…so homosexual…”
• THEN, at the end of awful experience, she was mid-sentence talking to me as her eyes widened and she exclaimed, “OH! I have another appointment. Oh no! Is she here?” She whips around in her chair, glances at her calendar and she said, “Oh! She’s here already! Here, sign these…” She rushed me through some paperwork and my script. I waited for 45 minutes AND my appointment was cut short.

At least I got what I needed. I have my prescriptions and that’s what matters. But oh my god…

Psychiatrist from hell.