Jagged

I am not alone within myself.

I woke up around 3 am, I was on my back porch, teddy bear in hand, thumb in my mouth, my cheeks were wet. I don’t remember walking there or even waking up.

My vision is lagged. Stop motion. 

  
My movements are not completely my own. I find myself forgetting what I’m doing, what I’m talking about, or what I should be doing. My mind feels fragmented and sad. 

I told my therapist that I feel stupid about how much this house impacts me. I shouldn’t be so upset over it. It seems that even the mention of my cousins name sends me into a shell.

Vulnerability seems to be consuming me. Some sick nostalgia that lingers in the walls is suffocating me.

Zippity Doo Yawn

Sip, zip, yawn, exhale…

The hallucinations are already beginning. I’m going to call whatsherfuck today fill my prescription.

I think I just laid there. I had a good hour and a half of sleep. Oh, how well rested I feel.

The Wonderful Doctor Rogers, a Tale of Insomnia

1 am thoughts:

Can I make it to 4 nights on about 4 hours of sleep total?

Today was interesting. I was just so exhausted, yet wired. I had to stamp 1032 postcards for work, so the repetition was good for me; I didn’t need to think too much.

I was on a strict diet of coffee, cigarettes, and ibuprofen today- coffee to keep me going, cigarettes to curb my anxiety, and ibuprofen because the headache that ensues after drinking 3 glasses of wine at 4 am is a bitch.

Oh, last night. I didn’t think I was going to make it out alive. I felt, I mean I truly felt, that I was slipping away. I have had a few episodes of sheer psychosis. I feel one coming. I thought maybe last night I was going to break.

I’m sitting here, blogging and watching Adventure Time.

I went to a show earlier tonight. It was an Animation Breakdown, sponsored by Cinefamily, for Devin Flynn. This guys is pretty nifty. He’s done animation for Wonder Showzen, Flying Lotus, Adult Swim…

He shared 2 hours worth of animation rarities. It was like a acid trip, to say the least.

1:30 am thoughts

My liver is a champion.

My coworker seemed concerned about me today. I’ve told her a little bit about what was going on. Not too much. She works in my department in human resources, so I feel that I need her to at least know, to some extent, that I’m going through a hard time. She’s definitely covered for me, since our boss is a Scientologist…blah, blah, blahbadyfuck. Wouldn’t he flip if he knew I’m starting meds soon…

Which reminds me, that psych never returned my call. I’m going to go back and grab my script for the Zyprexa. Right? Shouldn’t I at least try it out?

To be quite honest, I’m absolutely terrified of starting medication. Physically and mentally.

I wrote this poem a long time ago when I began my journey on lithium…. It’s called The Wonderful Doctor Rogers. When I submitted my first manuscript, the title of my poetic compilation was called The Wonderful Doctor Rogers and Other Glorious Affairs. (Read out loud, if you want…or not…I’m not the boss of you)

Blinking bulbs buzz around aluminum.
A quiet pulse pushes platinum
through my steel veins.
The monitors above me
spill LCD shadows against my chest.

Where am I?

A dozen rusty-edged cans
lay scattered around
the operating room.
They’re full of wheels and
bolts and screws.

The wonderful Doctor Rogers
shuffles through the white-lit room
lulling a crate of wires.
He turns to me, turns confused.
I cock my mechanical head.
With his large left hand,
he pushes my eyelids down.

I feel pressure on what seems to be my skull.
I listen to the sonic scalpel-scraping sound.

“Now, darling, be still,” he says
with a whispering croak.
“Don’t move an inch.”
A chisel chills my hybrid frame.
My eye sockets feel loose,
and my tendons the same.

The doctor hums a tune or two
as he works away on my skeleton.
“You’ll be good as new once
I’m through with you.”

My wrists pop back into place.
The floor, its swirled with
a demonic face.
This argentate plasma smells
like plastic. My embossed veins

are heavy with it.

2 am thoughts. Dear sleep, where are you?

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.

Toska

My memory is slowly fading from last night. What I can remember is profusely crying, shaking, panicking over hearing M’s voice nearby. I was thrown into a state of insanity. My boyfriend put me to bed and told me that I had gone outside, ambling around. I could feel M creeping closer to me and I began to see his shadow pass by me.

I took a shot of whiskey to calm my nerves and fall asleep. Somewhere between sleep and alertness, I had seen a woman fall from the roof of the apartment building next to us, with a noose around her neck. She disappeared into the thick fog.

Had I been sleeping?

schizophrenia_by_msdudettes-d5g67a8

My boyfriend says I look like a totally different person- possessed.

(There was a grim point in my life where the psychosis truly took over me in every way. I hardly remember the details, but my boyfriend will recount days of when I really acted as if someone had possessed me. I had a foreign look in my eyes, a different voice, a more evil smile. One night, during an episode, he tried to restrain me and I had thrown him into my bedroom wall, busting a hole in it. Just for the visual, I’m 100 lbs. He’s 280 lbs.)

I feel different. I am bumbling around reality and some fictional world. My body feels off. I don’t even think I would answer to my own name today.

-SJ

Exhaustion

I am utterly, intrinsically, so exhausted. I have not slept in 48 hours. I am beginning to feel delusional.

I’ve been laying awake at night with no true purpose of being awake. I am tired, yes. I am sleepy, yet the sleep never comes. As soon as my body begins to relax and find peace in my sheets, the voices start again. It is nearly impossible to not go mad.

How do I explain this to anyone? Meanwhile, my boyfriend of 3 years sleeps soundly next to my body, snoring away happily. After 2 hours of trying to decide whether or not I should wake him up, I gently prodded his shoulder. “Babe, babe…I can’t sleep…babe?” Gruntled noise slip out as he rolls over.

I feel alone in this.

It isn’t his fault, after all. I’m happy that he doesn’t understand. I am so incredibly happy that he has never had to experience the terrifying voices, the shape-shifting faces sprawling behind the eyelids, the chasm of depleting depression. For this, I thank the higher power.

Still, I am led back to my above question, how do I explain this to someone so…normal?

I feel guilty for the previous episodes like this one. I feel guilty that he has to see me lie in bed at 5 pm, unable to sleep and still unable to produce and move. Perhaps he thinks I’m over-reacting, putting on a show. I wish it were that easy!

I wasn’t expecting this valley of melancholia to last so long. I wonder when I will be able to rejoice in my mania..

I do wish we could chat longer, but I’m having an old friend for dinner 
-Sylvia’s Junkie

“Even so,
I kept right on going on,
a sort of human statement,
lugging myself as if
I were a sawed-off body
in the trunk, the steamer trunk.
This became perjury of the soul.
It became an outright lie
and even though I dressed the body
it was still naked, still killed.
It was caught
in the first place at birth,
like a fish.
But I play it, dressed it up,
dressed it up like somebody’s doll.” -Anne Sexton