Wednesday, January 28, 2015


It is bad enough my conscious mind likes to gang up on me. Today is one of those days when my subconscious has to get into the action. I'm hoping that getting the words on the page will lessen the fear.

I have recurring dreams about houses. It used to be houses I used to live in or my grandparents' historic home. There would be odd staircases and such, but it never caused any kind of reaction on waking other than an "Oh, that was kind of weird." Then it switched to new houses. The scenario was my family had just moved into a new house and I was trying to find my way around and see which room was going to be mine.

At first the houses were kind of normal, then they got weird in an Escher kind of way with staircases everywhere. Then recently it changed to huge, grand houses with suites, not rooms. I would wander from suite to suite trying to see if one would suit me. These were Parade of Homes-type suites larger than most houses and there was always some sort of theme, like music or children's books. Again, there was no sense of menace or fear, just an "Oh, that was weird."

This morning that changed. This time I was the first one into the house and the rest of my family wasn't there. Instead I had cats with me, and they were all cats that I have lost: Lyvani, Ashi and Sundae. The house was absolutely huge, with a double staircase and front doors big enough for an elephant. The first thing I did was make sure the cats were settled with food and such, then someone came up and offered to help. I never did see them, I just knew they were there and could hear them speak. They told me that the house was huge and it would be hard for me to find the right room so if I would tell them what kind of room I liked, they would lead me in the right direction.

I told them I liked simple with earth tones and such, and they showed me a couple of rooms. Again, they were beyond grand, but simpler than ones I had seen in past dreams. One had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked over a lake and mountains. It had a special place set up for painting and I was told that here I would never run out of paints or canvas. I told them it was really nice but had to shelves for my books. I was told anything I needed could be changed, and I was "shown" several ways that bookshelves could be added to the room. I kept getting told over and over that anything I needed or wanted could be done.

I started to wake up then, and in that semi-lucid state between waking and dreaming a thought came to my mind: They were trying to find the right room for me in Heaven and the reason they were now helping instead of letting me wander alone was that we were running out of time.

I woke up in a sweat with a horrible feeling of impending doom. Yes, that sounds overly dramatic, but that is exactly what it feels like. I haven't been feeling suicidal at all, but I have been sicker than normal. I have been even more shaky and tired. And I just can't shake that something is really wrong. I guess only time will tell if it is just my mind playing with me again.

Monday, January 12, 2015

Pulling Things Together

Thanks to Shannon, my wonderful therapist, I have been able to pull some semblance of my life together. Yes, things still suck. Yes, I'm still sick and fucking hate the way my life is. But she's helping me see things a little differently.

In our last session I basically told her everything I said in my last post. She listened patiently, then said one simple sentence: "But you're still here."

Despite everything, I do decide every day to get out of bed. I decide to do something, even if it's just feed myself and watch TV. I decide to keep living and not kill myself. She put that into context and I am realizing that just being here is a bigger accomplishment than I thought it was.

She also said that cutting my hair is a good thing - or at least not a bad thing. In her regular job she deals with troubled teens and when they have patients who self-harm the first thing to do is re-direct the impulse to something that isn't damaging. I have cut in the past. I tend to gouge my arms with my fingernails, pull out my hair and yank out my eyelashes. All of these are damaging. Cutting my hair until I'm almost bald is not damaging and in her line of work that would be considered a good substitute to cutting or pulling hair. It hurts no one and if it takes care of the self-harm impulse it is definitely a good thing. So I don't have hair. So what.

She also reassured me about carrying around a stuffed pig in my bag. She said I would easily be a candidate for a therapy dog and Charlotte (the pig) fills that same position. Only I don't have to feed her or clean up after her and the cats could care less if she's on the bed with me.

As for feeling like I'm going nowhere in my life, she said that's OK, too. It is better to sit in one place for a bit if you're lost than go wandering in the wrong direction. Then we got talking about how my dad and I have never been able to go hiking together. He is a destination hiker - he walks the trail, takes a few pics, then hikes back. I am a wanderer - I have to stop at every flower, rock and tree and have a close look. So if I'm not heading anywhere in my life right now, why not sit and look around a bit? Maybe the "scenery" around me will give me a hint as to which direction I should eventually go. And who cares if I don't get there very fast. It's more important to take in the beauty around us than get to the end as fast as possible.

So I keep reminding myself of all this. It's still hard. My dad is right now in my bathroom putting in safety bars because I've become too shaky to take a shower without something to hold on to. I accidentally ate something with a trace amount of wheat and am sick and sore. I feel like shit. But I just have to remind myself that things really are OK.

Monday, January 5, 2015


I always hated when people would post or message the abbreviation FML - Fuck My Life. It is usually in response to losing a boyfriend, gaining 20 pounds or just being late for a movie because of being pulled over and given a ticket for speeding. I always refused to use it myself no matter how bad things got. I absolutely refused to let myself even THINK the phrases Fuck My Life or I HATE THIS. It was part of my ongoing efforts to think positively, as if just thinking happy thoughts would let me fly away from it all, pixie dust or not.

Well, I really have to be honest. I hate my life.

It is January 5 and every single social media outlet, news station and even TV commercials are touting ways to make your life better. There are all kinds of sayings about how the only thing holding you back is your own fear or how starting a new path is as easy as taking the first step. Like every other human who follows our calendar I have been using the change from 2014 to 2015 to try and make my life better. All I need is more positive thinking. All I need is something to get me moving and everything will be better.

Yeah, it doesn't work this way. My life is day after day of constant pain and confusion. I walk a sword edge blindfolded and my feet are shredded from trying to balance. And I hate every single moment of it.

I have to do yoga stretches every day or I can't move at all and my muscles and joints are absolute agony. But if I do too much the pain gets even worse. I have to somehow do exactly the right amount but not too much. I have to watch each and every thing I eat or I get sick - this has been particularly hard because my mom hasn't been feeling well so my dad has been making dinner. That means frozen pizza or lasagna or some other meal I can't eat. So we all feel too crappy to cook and what they are eating smells so good I just want to dive in, but I can't touch it. Instead I have to get myself up and cook something with no gluten and no dairy. And if I eat too much protein my stomach gets horribly upset, but if I don't eat enough I feel shaky and weak. If what I eat is too fatty it makes me sick. And it can't have too much sugar. I have to analyze EVERY SINGLE FUCKING MEAL!

I hate that my meds make me groggy and tired. But if I take less, the hallucinations start creeping in and I have massive panic attacks. If I take too much, I'm completely useless and groggy, but no able to sleep. I had to increase the dosage of my antipsychotic during the holidays because of the added stress of having family visit, which in my mind is just sick and wrong. I have to drug myself almost senseless just to have family in the house. But even with the increased dosage I still had one major breakdown while my brother and his family was here. It was too noisy, things were in the wrong place, my chair was taken, there was just too much of everything. And changing the dosage always leaves me feeling weird and gives me headaches and even on the maintenance dosage I'm groggy.

And there is so much of it that is totally out of my control. I can eat the right things, take the right meds in the right dosage, to the right stretches, and I still lose it. My hormones are still fluctuating despite the depo and that throws everything off. I haven't been able to get new glasses in 5 years so I can't see right so I keep getting tension headaches. The weather will change and I'll end up hurting so much I just want to curl up in a ball and sob. Hallucinations still break through and they just reinforce that I am pathetic and useless.

All those positive New Years resolution saying do me no good except to drive home that my life is totally fucked and I don't know how to change it. Fuck My Life. I fucking hate this. I hate the way I am. I hate that the doctors don't listen and don't understand how bad I hurt and how confused I am. I hate that the government has decided I'm not worth listening to and has left me sitting for more than 2 years for benefits I'm entitled to. I hate that the state thinks I'm not worth any kind of support or coverage so I the only way I can get help is through the volunteer clinic. I hate that I can't tolerate social anything so I have become isolated and alone. I hate that my mom thinks she understands but really doesn't. I hate that every single morning I have to debate with myself over whether it is worth getting up and going on living. I hate that I lie to myself and everyone else that shaving my head is for medical or practical reasons and not the self-mutilation that it really is. I hate that I have to carry a stuffed animal with me everywhere like a scared 2-year-old.

It's a new year. And absolutely nothing has changed except the calendar.