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.

Advertisements

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

down

down

down

Adjustments and Aggravations

I’m overwhelmed and I want to whine.

I feel that I am just a shell. I have nothing to offer to anyone, except for maybe a fake smile and an overly effusive, waxed-on, “I’m doing great!”

The world around me is bustling on, treading the pavements, jolting from point A to point B. Yet, here I am, sullenly floating between worlds. I am in juxtaposition to former, pre-medicated self. Unfortunately, at this point in time, I’d rather be her. I know, give the meds time to work. This is the adjustment period.

Well, fuck. Alright? Holy fuck. I can barely stand myself. I feel bad for the people around me. I am flittering and ricocheting through extreme moods. One second, I’m infuriated, the next, I’m hugging my knees in melancholy. It’s absurd.

I took a higher dose of Seroquel last night. Right before bedtime, I was making a snack in the kitchen, and it hit me like a truck. I felt my blood pressure drop, along with my body. I hit the kitchen counter on the way down. I woke up on the kitchen floor, drooling. Somehow, I managed to drag myself to the safety of my bed, where I continued said coma. The shitty thing is I had a nightmare last night. Usually, I’m able to wake myself up. But since the meds had me so damn sedated, I couldn’t get out of it. Terrifying dream.

Also, this morning, I began crying as I watched the cars drive by. I cried because none of them even knew I existed. I thought, “I’m going to die and none of these people even know I’m alive right now.” I cried for my existence, and for my inevitable non-existence.

I really do want to feel better. I want to be happy- wow, what a concept. In the thick of my med adjustments, I feel helpless, hopeless, alone, suicidal, addicted, urged to self harm, insane, angry, pissed, depressed, happy, elated, manic, embarrassed, scared, stressed, nauseated, jealous.
I’m jealous of those who don’t deal with mental illness, who can just go to work and actually function, who don’t have to take medication to just be alive.

Alright, I’m done. I’m holding on to the hope that the meds will work their magic in a couple of weeks.

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.

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.

Dissecting Fear- Trigger Warning- Rape and Abuse

WARNING- Sexually explicit content. Readers’ discretion advised.
Trigger warning: sexual abuse, rape

I’m sitting here, trying to dissect my fears regarding sex, sex with men. This is a personally therapeutic post. You don’t even need to read it. I’m going to disclose information I’ve never disclosed..

For the purpose of channeling my inner fucked up innocence, this song brings out the worst in me: 

I think things really went south when my 38 year old cousin decided to fuck me when I was 12 years old. This went on for 6 months. He would threaten me not to tell anyone. I was held against a wall at knifepoint when I was 13 because I asked him, “What happens if I get pregnant?” When I told my grandfather that I was raped (I didn’t say by who), he responded with, “It’s the woman’s fault.”

When I was 14, I was kidnapped from my middle school in broad daylight. I was taken into a van, given a pill, and was forced to give oral sex. There were two men, I’d guess 18-22 in the van wearing bandanas. After blacking out half way through, I came to my senses, stumbling in the back alley of a dangerous neighborhood. Fortunately and unfortunately, I don’t remember much from the incident, and they got away with it. I never saw the van again.

When I was 18, I was gang raped by 4 men during a frat party in college. I woke up in a strange bed next to some 35 year old man named Manny. He proceeded to give me a high-five and told me that I had the best ass he’s ever had.

The years in between are filled by several cat-calls, gropes and grabs, and name calling.

Through all this abuse, I’ve taken on sex as something I could use against men. It sounds odd, I’m obsessively flirtatious with men. I think it’s my subconscious’ way of taking power of the situation. Although, it’s the wrong way to do it.

In my early adulthood, I learned to sell my body for heroin, alcohol, coke, and anything else I needed at the time. I’ve been so numb to it all these years, I hadn’t thought about the real pain I’ve been carrying around from the first moment of abuse.

Sorry for the upsetting post. Any kind of support would be welcomed, however. This therapy shit is hard. I’m definitely in a vulnerable state of mind.

Thanks for reading

Jack’s Wasted Life- Trigger Warning

I don’t even know what to write.

I am Jack’s wasted life.

I keepglancing at my wrists, wanting to dig deeper into myself, wanting to bleed out my emotions, my depression.

I purged my food today. I didn’t feel that I deserved to take care of myslf. I’m weak and exhausted. My body is sick and soggy with sadness.

He came home today. We talked for a while. Nothing has changed. He saw the welts on my legs and arms so he decided to stay here and watch me- both of us know I’ll only hurt myself more if left alone.

I think that the walls are blu and gray, only he say’s differently. I don’t even know why I’m reaching out right now. maybe i;m better off sleeping it off.

work tomorrow. Monday, monday, monday

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.

Profanities.

Oh, here comes the word vomit.

I’m so frustrated. I’m so done with my intense emotions right now (I can also thank PMS for giving me such a hot temper).

Disclaimer- I know I often vent about my boyfriend not understanding me. He is an incredible guy. He’s been with me through a lot of shit…but god dammit he just doesn’t understand mental issues.

We argued last night after I had a mini freak out moment and yelled at the top of my lungs for a really dumb reason. I was upset because I felt like the second we pulled into the driveway after work, I felt like I was going into a prison. I had a really hard day at work. I couldn’t concentrate, I couldn’t even write, my hands were so shaky. I wanted to talk to him, tell him about my day, I wanted to cry and just let it go to move on. When I did tell him, he said, “Okay…well, that’s going to happen. It’s going to be like this everyday with you.” Broken.

He is frustrated, too. He doesn’t know when and if I’ll get better. He can’t understand why I seemed okay last year but this year it’s nonstop depression.  This misunderstanding between us and miscommunication is eating away at our threads. I don’t know what else to do to help him understand. I tell him to educate himself, but “what good will that do? It won’t cure” me. “I know already. You have clinical depression with…hallucinogenic…”

SCHIZOAFFECTIVE. It has a name!

He said, “Why don’t you go on meds?” So, I told him that I was planning on going back (I have an appt on Monday) and start the ball rolling again. However, he may have to buckle his seat belts and bear with me. Getting on medication isn’t a fucking trip through the daisies, as I’m sure many of you are well aware. He exhaled deeply and said, “I’m not in the mood to go on another roller coaster with you.”

Then WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT ME TO FUCKING DO?! He wants me to fucking be better overnight. Why THE FUCK can’t he see that I don’t know how to fucking do that?

He says to me, “You’re like a switch. One day you’re fine, then the next you’re not. You change on me too often.” No shit. God help us I don’t know what else to do.

He wants stability. He wants something and someone static. I told him I’m a sporadic person. He says, “Then go be sporadic somewhere else.” He was angry. But the words still hurt.

Then I’m left thinking, is this it? Will I always be like this? I’ve ruined so many fucking relationships and I don’t know if I can do this anymore. I am so upset.

He even said I was doing it for attention. All these motherfucking years. Yeah? Would I attempt suicide for attention? I’d lose my entire family for attention? What the fuck….

My friends, I am so beyond exhausted fighting with him and myself. I’m tired of feeling like this. I’m tired I’m tired I’m fucking tired.

PS-

We did make up. He apologized. Yippie.