Broken Rule

My mother has degenerative disc disease. Basically, her spine is collapsing on itself. For the past two weeks, she has had the worst cough and that is wreaking havoc on her back. She's in so much pain. I wish there was something that I could do, but nothing. I can try to keep her comfortable, but there isn't much to do.

I feel so damned bloody useless.

If I could take her pain away, I would. I'd carry it myself if that was possible. Since it isn't, I am stuck feeling too much. I'm sorry... I broke one of my rules. Shot of whiskey with a pill, muscle relaxer in this case. Now, I'm starting to feel blissfully numb to anything and sleepy.

"To die, to sleep, perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come..." --Hamlet, act 3, scene 1, lines 64 thru 66.

(For the record, no, I am not suicidal.)

What's the Hatter With Me?

I'm feeling a bit manic today. I can't keep still, I have to move something. My hands are shaky, a foot is tapping to nothing and not in beat with the music on the iPod. I went to bed upset, though I don't know why. Took everything I had not to scream my lungs out. Right now, I want to scream until my throat is raw. I want to cut until I'm a mess. The stinging would set me straight, at least a little bit right? Right?? No...? Oh well.

I don't know what's wrong with me, but its like I'm trying to crawl out of my skin. The sudden thought of throwing a rock through my bedroom wall came to me and now I'm having a hard time getting that out of my head along with the thoughts of harming. Oh the joy!

I have worship in about an hour, at least that's when I leave for it. Like this? Of course. By the time I get there I may even appear to be normal. I know I'm going to have to injure to get that done though. I'm too flipping out right now.

Did you ever see Johnny Depp as the Hatter? I feel that way, everyplace at once and only lucid when absolutely necessary. "What's the hatter with me?" Yep, crazy as a deaf bat in the nighttime! WOOHOO!

Unholy Shadows

All right for the last couple of days, I've been seeing shape and shadows flit about in my peripheral vision. I don't like it, it reminds me of my darker days when sleep was as illusive as a fairy god-mother. This doesn't bode well. It sets me on edge and makes me urgy to be perfectly honest. I recall seeing shadows move in unholy ways and thinking that mice and rats had infested my room, but that just wasn't true. And it isn't now.

I know what I think I'm seeing is fake, I know it isn't real. This is how I know that I'm not crazy. When you question, you aren't completely nuts yet. Once you accept this as "normal", you've gone round the bend, as they say. So that is how I know for sure that I don't need to be locked up, not yet anyway.

My problem is the reasoning behind it. Last time this happened, I was freaking right out of my head, going days without sleep, rarely eating, and so stressed out and fed up with life that I am incredibly surprised that I didn't off myself at eighteen. Its not nearly so bad this time round, but my question is why? Why am I seeing this? What's different?

I'm sleeping better these last few months then I have in the previous ten (?) years. I'm not sure how you'll think of getting five to seven hours sleep, but it used to be no more than four. I'm calling that an improvement. I just can't seem to see the reason behind the shadows. And to save you asking, I only just saw the optometrist (see the post I Hate November) and she said that my eyes were very healthy, with the exception of needing corrective lenses of course. I'm fairly sure its nothing to do with my physical eyes. Psychological? I'm not as certain.

How screwed up am I? The forever question seems to be ... why? Its always why?!!! Why do I harm? Why am I so depressed all the time? Why does every small mistake amplify into a failure? Why can I not simply accept that I am 'enough'? Always... always its 'why'. Three simple letters, one tiny word, but such a large meaning behind it.

SMASH Book

All right, I love my journal. I do! I love the pen flying across the paper, leaving behind the hen scratch that is my hand writing. I use different coloured pens to write with, each day gets its own. I don't write every day, just when I feel I need to, a sort of therapy I suppose. Lately, much of my journal entries have been like my blog, depressing. But I think I'm going to start something new.

Smash book! Think of scrapbooking but without the Martha Stewart's of the world. (In case you didn't know, I loath Martha Stewart. She is not, in my most humble opinion, 'a good thing'.) Anyway, the basic rules are... there are no rules. If you like it, smash it in. Postcards, tickets, receipts from that coffee shop you love. You can also art up the pages with quotes and magazine cut outs. Whatever you like, do! I love that there are no rules like with "traditional" scrap booking, which always seems to have pretty pictures and stickers and dye cut frames and whatever. Not my gig.

I'm "organic" in my cooking, pouring a bit of whatever herb in my hand and saying 'yeh that's about right' before dumping it into the pot. I want the same freedom with my memory books.

Anyway, I just started one and so far I have a page from the 50th anniversary of Doctor Who. I glued a copy of my ticket along with a 10 of hearts playing card that I found. David Tennent is my favourite Doctor and the card seemed perfect to smash in.

I like the idea of just writing things I like, or places I've been, or whatever. So we'll see how it goes. 

Medicaid and Me

So therapy today went well. It looks like I can use medicaid to continue therapy starting in January, only a few weeks away. There was talk of cognitive behavioural therapy. I've not had the best of luck with people that have gone through that process. They come out being annoying and preachy, sounding much like a religious zealot. We'll see.

I'm just tired of feeling like this all the time. I'm always depressed, its hard for me to be motivated to do anything. I'm almost always on edge these days, its like that's my new normal and I hate it. I hate it! The feelings of being worthless are weighing on me.

I told Doc something I never have outside of my little blog that no one seems to read. I told her that "I'm stupid with sleeping pills". She asked for clarification. I have taken sleeping pills with alcohol because I don't want to deal with anything, just sleep and forget. Bingo, pills and booze. Technically, its self harm because its not the best thing for the liver and because the goal is to make the pain go away. Not something I'm proud of and it could easily have become a very bad and addictive habit. Now I have rules when it comes to pills like that.

I think that my sleep patterns worry Doc. I'm doing better! I can get at least five to seven hours of sleep these days. Better then even a few months back where four to five was the limit. So come January, we'll see how things are going.

I Hate November

I really cannot say how glad I am that November is over. If it can go wrong, it did last month. First week, I had a flu-like bug that knocked me flat for several days. I can't call it a real flu because I get ripped by the medical folks I know. Unless I went to hospital, was diagnosed, and treated by a doctor it wasn't a real flu. Whatever, if you're vomiting everything you've eaten for the week, shaky and feverish then I call it a flu. Don't agree? Well, I don't care!

Middle of the second week, my van failed the county ordered smog check. That meant that it had to be repaired. There goes about $300 including diagnostic to repair what was screwed up by Pep Boys! NEVER GO TO PEP BOYS!!! I paid them six months ago to replace my gas tank, which I had punctured on a large rock. I wanted and paid for a new tank, they gave me a used tank and charged me full price. Now, I'm unemployed so my father, kind man that he is, paid for the repairs. He also took being ripped off by Pep Boys much better than I would. Personally, I wanted to go down there and demand my money back for the gas tank "repair". Dad wouldn't let me. *shrug* Oh well.

Next? Oh my glasses broke. I need them to drive and see anything past six feet from my face. Joy... No glasses. Again, my father to the rescue. There was another $200. The van repair and the glasses set him back $500 in a week!

End of November is in sight, almost to the finish line and.... cold. I catch a cold! Of all things! A damned cold.

Needless to say, I wasn't very kind to myself last month. Cuts on my legs and a burn. I didn't eat very well either. In a way, I feel as if I deserved everything that happened last month. But then I think, no I don't. I didn't do anything wrong and I definitely don't believe in karma.

This feeling just never seems to go away. The low depression. I'm never truly happy, maybe a smile here or there, something will make me laugh, but it never lasts. I'm so tired of all this. Tired of everything. 

Rant On Mental Health

All right, I am getting real sick and tired of hearing on the news how almost every bad thing with a gun is being attributed to a person with "mental health issues". Yes, I understand that people with mental health problems are more prone to extreme behaviour, but the the news of late is making it seem as if the only people who go on shooting rampages or even murder just one person all have some disorder. Those kinds of blanket statements are what make these people not seek the help that they desperately need.

I'm about to say something that will tick off the few people that actually read this thing, but oh well. One of the big issues that annoys me is the growing number of (mostly) men shooting schools, public places, and recently the Navy yard. Most of these people are diagnosed with PTSD- Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Most of them are also veterans. Personally, I don't feel sorry for them. Before you flip a wig, let me explain why. They chose to go over to a foreign land, pull a trigger on a massively stupid sized gun, and blow the life out of another human being. In nearly every culture, the taking of a life kills a piece of yourself as well. This is why these men (again mostly males, though many women have PTSD from wars as well) have troubles, they took something that wasn't theirs to take. It doesn't matter to me who sanctioned it.

I find it interesting that women who are victims of violent crimes don't purchase a gun and open fire on a football team of guys, yet a former soldier will kill innocents in a cafeteria.

The point is this: Mental health is waning in this country because its the little black secret that no one wants to really talk about and thus tries to sweep under the rug. It doesn't go away, it will grow to the point in which there is no longer any ignoring it. As one who suffers with depression and self injury I can say this, no one wants to talk about or help those with mental illness until its too late and there is a body count on the nightly news.

So I'm A Horrrible Person

Here's the story:
A woman was out jogging after eight in the evening. A man dragged her to a nearby field and sexually assaulted her. She managed to get away and flag down a passing motorist. The suspect got away, but the victim managed to get a description for the police.

Here's why I'm horrible:
WHAT THE HELL WAS SHE DOING?? I'm not usually one to blame the victim, but I am wondering why she was out jogging after dark ALONE in a park. This is not 1954, people, times have changed and there are a ton of monsters out there. If you have to go out after dark, don't go alone. If you do have to go alone, keep a taser in one hand and pepper spray in the other.

I should feel bad, I do... I really do feel bad for her, no woman should go through that, but common sense dictates that she shouldn't have been out there alone. I hope the police find the man that assaulted her. I hope they put the cuffs on too tight, castrate him, and hack off his thumbs. What? You think the thumb thing is too harsh? You try grabbing someone and keeping them pinned without thumbs. See, doesn't work. Personally, I think all rapists and "sex offenders" should have their thumbs removed and not be permitted to receive unemployment or disability.

So I'm horrible... so what? You have no idea.

Fear and Self Loathing

No job, no prospects. Nothing. I'm feeling damned useless and a failure. Self loathing is creeping in and starting to rear its ugly head hissing to me that I am what I fear becoming. Sleep is evasive, filling my head with nightmares. The only way to keep them at bay is to either use a sleep aide or harm myself. I wish to do neither, but I feel I may have no choice. I know what you're thinking, "You always have a choice." Well, bite me! I feel powerless here! I'm drowning and falling into an abyss, ripping my nails out as I claw my way back from the brink of disaster.

For a little while, I was feeling good, really good! Now I feel like crap and wish I hadn't had the time to feel good in the first place. At least then I had no idea what I was missing. I feel like I'll never get that back, though I know the thought is damned ridiculous.

There has to be an end to this crap.

I've started to punish myself with food. For instance, I'll only allow myself to eat once I finish certain tasks. Or I won't let myself eat anything because I'm not working. "Don't eat what you don't earn." I'm surviving mostly on coffee. I feel like injuring now, cutting and not giving a care. Burning and saying 'to hell with it'.


I'm supposed to go out with Nightingale tomorrow evening. Something tells me that she would notice, she tends to be very observant and sees far too much. Sometimes I feel she can look into my eyes and see everything.

Right now, I need a cut or a burn the way a junkie needs a damned hit.

Someone Noticed the Broken Angel

Last night, I was working on a project at my congregation with Nightingale. We were brain storming and everything was perfectly normal until she touched my left wrist and asked, "What happened here?" She had noticed the scars and a fresh burn that was only a couple days old. Shutting the door, I told her that I couldn't lie to her, though I had a fleeting moment in which I could have. I swore her to secrecy, begged her not to tell a soul. She promised by everything she holds sacred and holy not to tell anyone, ever.

She asked me why, I told her there were many reasons. Anger, self punishment, stress. She tried to be understanding, telling me that everyone has something that "makes them weird", meaning that everyone has a past they aren't proud of. She reminded me that I'm not alone, many people hurt themselves. I know that.

Nightingale asked how long I'd been hurting myself. Thirteen years, was the answer, but I just realized its been sixteen years. Over half my life, hurting myself. She was surprised I'd kept the secret that long, that I'd hidden it for so long. Its not hard once you master being invisible. She even told me that she wants to know more and will do some research on the subject. There were some recent articles that I'd read and pointed her towards.

How did I feel? Scared, terrified, like a caged animal. I came inches from a panic attack. I couldn't think straight, just stared at the floor even after she insisted that I look at her. I couldn't. Its said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, I'm not sure how much of me I want her to see or how much I'd burden her with. As it is she has to carry my secret and I don't think its fair to her. Such a heavy burden, I know. I apologized for telling her because I feel bad. She told me not to worry, that she was happy I trusted her enough. She knows I have trust issues.

"You're the first one to notice, Nightingale, no one else has," I told her. She looked a little sad fora moment and hugged me. I cried so hard, I thought I'd break. I promised not to avoid her, she's worried that I'll pull away from her now that she knows. Its tempting, but I won't. Its also tempting to look for reasons not to trust her, but I won't.

I'm scared, but relieved. She saw the broken angel on bended knees.

Writing Talent

I hate to hear ignorant people tell me that writing is not a talent. If writing is not a "real talent", than I suppose that the fools who spout such drivel don't listen to music, watch television or films. They obviously don't read.

I can take you through the galaxies to skip in star dust and deposit you on the distant moon of a far off world where anything is possible. I can show you the world beneath your own feet in a way that you have never imagined. The beauty of a sunset, of the city at night, of a married couple who have spent the last sixty years together.

Likewise, I can take your worst nightmare, shove it into your eyes, cause your heart to burst our of your chest, leaving you fetal in a corner begging for release. All I require it a pen and paper.

So writing isn't a talent? Neither is breathing, but you're doing it!

This Is A Strange Twist

I've felt like hell for a longtime. Not sleeping well, not eating correctly, not exercising, hearing or seeing things that aren't there. In short, I've been one messed up chick and I hated every damn minute of it. The other day, though, something dawned on me.

My mom said that she hadn't slept well. I said, "Oh? That's lousy. I actually slept ok." Then BANG it hit me, I've been sleeping fine for the past couple of weeks, no nightmares! Actually, I've had a couple of dreams that were geeky awesome (including one in which myself and Tony Stark had a water fight). Its nice to sleep without the nightmares haunting me.

Honestly, it feels kind of strange to feel GOOD. I've felt so bad for so long that to feel okay is different and weird to me. No medications. No therapy, not really any way. Dr B was nice and all, but I felt we weren't making progress, though that could have been because I was unable to go frequently. In a way it scares me because I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak, but I think I'm just going to try and enjoy this.


I haven't injured in about three weeks and that's something. For a while there I couldn't go more then a week without injury. I'm not going to say that I'm cured, no more so than an alcoholic that doesn't drink anymore. He's still an alcoholic, he just doesn't drink. I'll always be an injurer, just choose not to injure.

One of Those Damned Days

I was trying to leave my neighbourhood this morning to run to town. Guess what? I drove over a damned big ass rock that managed to pierce a hole in my fuel tank. A friend of mine asked if I ran over kryptonite. I love that fact that she is geeky enough to ask me that. One of the few smiles today.

Since I have no money to fix it, I had to borrow from Dad. He's had a bad day at work so I didn't help at all. I waited in a bookstore that had wi-fi. All day, five hours! I'm pissed off, grumpy, urgy...

I want alcohol and sleeping pills. I don't want to think any more and I don't care how I achieve it. I want to self harm because I'm angry. Why the hell do these things keep happening to me?

Does it really matter?

I have no insurance and therefore cannot afford therapy. Of course once I do have private insurance, I also cannot afford therapy. Email to my therapist what I've found for health care and that its still not affordable and she replies, "Its a flawed system". No shit, Sherlock. Of course she isn't on the receiving end of the shit storm! She has health care, and the money to afford whatever the hell she needs. At $170 a session before insurance and "sliding scale" no wonder. Of course whatever she doesn't get directly in cash that day, the insurance reimburses to the point that she only has her office open to the psychos like me for three days in the work week.

I shouldn't be angry with Dr B, its not her fault. She's trying to help in her own way. She is a prisoner to the system just as much as I am. She can only do so much whilst my hands are tied completely.

I'm angry, pissed off, fucking furious and there is not a bloody thing I can do about any of it. Sure, I can injure, like I did last night. Doesn't help, none of it helps. I could change my injury spot again, new pain... No, doesn't help forever. Numb in the skin and pain in the brain. What a way to go. I close my eyes to try and calm myself, to not see that my life is nothing but a waste most of the time. My parents are disappointed in me because I can't move out and leave them alone. I have few friends and none of which I would ever tell my darkest secret. I have virtually no support.

I. Am. Alone.

I feel it every day I breathe, every night I try to dream. Part of me is so close to saying "fuck it" and giving up. But what of the other part? Too subbourne to die, to give in, to leave. I'm screaming in my head, I'm begging to be heard, but on one seems to hear me. Maybe I'm not loud enough, maybe none of them care, maybe maybe maybe... Does any of it really matter? Do I?

Screwed Up Little Brain

I have a job that is going well. I don't hate my manager, I have great hours that allow me to have a regular schedule for both sleeping and eating. I can read on my down time (there's a lot of that), I can write, play a game... whatever. There is actual income again!

My sleep is regular and there haven't been as many nightmares. There are fewer "forced days". Yet, why do I still want to cut? Nothing is pissing me off, nothing seems to be out of sorts, with the rather noticeable exception of my mother, but there's no getting rid of that. Why do I feel the need to hurt myself when things are going well, or relatively well?

Feeling like I'm broken, damaged, useless.

Noticed

So I was at worship this evening and a young man, who has expressed an interest in me, asked if I changed my hair again. I'd dyed it auburn red a few weeks back and he was the first one to notice it. To night? "Nope, same colour, just faded." I must say that I do appreciate he bothers to notice. "Sagan" isn't exactly my type. He's very kind, geeky (insert smile here), but I'm not attracted to him at all. When he asked if I would go out with him, I told him no, told him that I'm not looking for a boyfriend. I wouldn't mind a friend though.

You see I'm a geek and would like to have someone that I can have "geek speak" with. He knows who The Doctor is and I don't have to explain it! He's seen Firefly. While I'm more of a scy-fy/comic book geek, Sagan is more into science in general, hence the name I gave him.

In a time when I'm being berated and belittled for every damn thing, its nice to be noticed, even its just my hair colour.

Job Hunt Over

I just got hired as an assistant to the park manager where I live. I'll be answering phones, showing lease properties, and so on. So after being out of workfor three weeks, I finally have work! But guess what my mother said? "Don't blow this."

God... really? That is what she's going with? She has no faith in me and that is incredibly disherartening. I thought she would believe in me at least a little bit. Guess not. I'm angry with her, pissed off! If only she knew what her loathing did to me.

Is a Little Support So Much To Ask?

I went to a job fair yesterday at a local community college. They were talking about apprenticeships for women in a male dominated field. For instance, electrician, sheet metal worker, pipe fitter, machinist are all fields in which most of the workers are men. There's a demand for women in these fields and I was interested in machinist.

Coming home, I told mom how it went and what I was interested in. Its a paid apprenticeship, which is nice, because they pay for the classes. I need to do a little research first, but it looks like I may apply for classes.

What does my mother ask however? "Well, why didn't you look into this when I told you to years ago?" My response was that I was unsure of what to take and didn't want to waste my parents' money. "About time you listened. You're almost 30." Thanks mom... really. (insert eye roll here)

Invalid

That's how I feel all the time, as if all my emotions mean nothing to anyone. I finally told my parents that I feel as if my emotions aren't valid to them. They deftly changed the subject and made me sound "too prideful". Sure, I have a sense of pride, everyone does. I can't tolerate stupidity too well, this reflects because I cannot stop myself from saying something.

I'm just so sick and tired of feeling as if I am not good enough to have any emotion other then "happy happy joy joy". I want to scream at them, "SHUT UP!" But that won't do any good. They don't listen anyway. I just have to suck it up, deal with it.

I'm dying for a blade, a match... I don't care, I just don't want to deal with this right now. I want to take sleeping pills so I don't have to dream, so I don't have to think. I'm so sick of it all!! I don' know how much longer I can do this, act like a good little girl when all I want to do is scream and fight. Instead, I sit and listen to people I love tell me that I'm not good enough. I have to allow them to tell me that they love me on conditions. I have to hear as they say that they won't allow me to "be abusive" verbally or otherwise, when I did nothing to warrant that. If anything I am the one who has to deal with all the emotional crap they throw on me every single day.

So... I sit and listen and wait until I'm alone long enough to "cope".

Broken Angel

No one notices
and no body sees
the fallen angel
on bended knees.

Raising her vision to
the lonely skies,
she silently screams
and slowly dies.

Her wings were broken
by her terrible fall
but not her spirit
as she walks tall.

Strong in her heart
as in her mind
lingers the past
which was rarely kind.

With no other choice,
she pushes back hate
and walks ever forward
toward whatever fate.

Whether life or death
heaven or hell,
she'll accept what's
given till end of the bell.

Unemployed

This hasn't been the easiest week. I was forced to quit my job as a cashier, not a big loss, but I don't have any income at the moment. My mother watches too much late night "news" and is convinced that I am "handicapped" and can't "have other people working" with me. I told her that if I'm disabled I better be able to get money for this. My therapist tells me that she's never heard of such a thing. I think I'll trust the woman who has the degree in the mental department.

Since I'm unemployed, I canceled the appointment I had with Dr B and emailed her an explanation as to why. Basically I have to save whatever money I can and she's a commodity that I can scarce afford. She replied that she'd give me a session because she felt that I was having too much at once and needed some encouragement. THANK YOU, DR B!! I don't know if she realizes how much I needed to hear that I'm not useless, that I'm not "handicapped", that I can do this. I know my coping skills aren't great, but at least I'm coping. She doesn't berate me for injury, though she does agree that coping by cutting isn't healthy. She encouraged me to do things more creative, like my jewelry or knitting.

I'm hunting for work, probably end up in a restaurant or something. I'll lie to my parents of course. Plaster that damned smile on my face and make everything look all peaches and roses. No one notices, nobody sees... they never do. Not even when I'm looking them in the eye, they can't see the pain in my own. I can, I see it plane, every morning and every night when I look in the mirror.

Disjointed

I'm worried that I'm not seeing any true progress. I've been going to therapy for over a year now and not much seems to be any different. Of course, only going every other week doesn't help. I see her again tomorrow and I'll ask about progress. I need better coping skills.

Last night was hard on me. All I wanted to do was injure. I had no real reason, just that I could not deal with feeling the way that I did. I felt all disjointed and not really connected to the world in general and myself in particular. My hands don't feel like they are truly mine, but slightly off kilter. I want to cut now just to feel something solid. I could risk it, I know I could. No one is paying attention to me, few do.

But what would it accomplish? Nothing really. Sure I'd feel 'together' for a while but then the guilt would set into me. I'm so tired of all this, all this topsy turvy shit going on in my head. Its hard for me to even close my eyes without feeling like I'm about to blow away.  There has to be something better to do, there has to be...

Special Treat

I usually don't eat breakfast on my days off. I don't care, which is a problem. Anyway... I have therapy tomorrow and decided that if I left a little early I can go to a local cafe and finally try their breakfast. I plan on having "Fancy Toast"-- French toast with apple and cinnamon swirl with whipped cream cheese and fruit. Add a cup of coffee and I think that will do. I have grocery shopping to do as well.

I'm still job hunting, there's a place that I need to check tomorrow as well. A company that provides care takers for the elderly. Not nurses, just people to help with doctor's appointments and grocery shopping, that kind of thing. Seems that would be more fulfilling then what I'm doing now. I feel like a waste of energy just ringing through groceries all damned day.

We'll see what a nice breakfast, therapy of difficulty, a hope and a prayer can accomplish tomorrow.

Mix

So I sent a blog to Dr B, "Partial Suicide". We'll see how I handle that discussion. Its going to be hard because I'll have to confront my self harm in a harsh light. "My self harm" I've said that before and I'll say it again, though it seems strange to me. Self injury is different for each person that engages it. Some injure to escape emotional pain, some because pain is all they've known. For all its similarities, self harm is different.

Right now, for instance, I'm scared out of my mind to talk openly about self injury to a face. I know it has to be done, which is why I won't run from it, but it doesn't mean that I have to like it. It doesn't mean that after the chat I won't burn in the car, or cut when I get home. It means that I will be brave and talk about the worst possible part of myself. Even now, I'm edgy, but I think that is just my current "normal". I'm back to hardly sleeping at night, only getting a good rest after 1am. Oh well... I'll deal the best I can, like I always do.

Crying? Whatever

I am so tired of everything. I don't want to bother with any of it anymore. My brain is screaming for release and I have only one way to appease it. Injure or cry. One leaves scars that last a lifetime. The other? Hell, I can't remember how to cry anymore.

That's not exactly true. Last week I felt so overwhelmed that my system had a mild meltdown. I came home from work, went to my room, and cried until my head was splitting. Did I feel better? Did my brain release hormones to counter the stress? NO! All I got in return was a damned head ache. Where do these yuppies get that crying helps?

Maybe I'm not normal, maybe there is something wrong with me. Hell, that's a given. Of course there's something wrong with me. I cut, I burn, I hit myself. Normal people don't do those things. If they do, they must be better actors then anyone in Hollywood.

Steampunk Done Right

All right, I do like Steam Punk, though I have yet to dress the part. I love the clock works and romance of it all. The simplicity of a time long past. There are gentlemen of honour and woman of poise, self respect and the beauty of telling a story.

That being said I want to point something out. This is NOT Steam Punk!!

This is nothing more then soft porn and if you think that this is what Steam Punk looks like, you're a flaming moron! Steam Punk looks like this:

Rich, deep tones, leather, lace, keys, cogs... That is real Steam Punk. Its romantic and beautiful, not slutty. Get it straight, I beg you.

Partial Suicide

So I talked to Dr B about sharing parts of my blog with her mainly because I think it would help her in our sessions. I have this abhorrent inability to talk directly about my self harm. I dance around the issue like you wouldn't believe. How the hell is she supposed to help me if I say nothing about why I'm there? She suggested that I "cherry pick" posts that I want to discuss and she'll help me. All right, that's fair. And I appreciate that she gives me the freedom to choose.

I'd love to tell her that I snap rubber bands at work, or bang my wrists and hands till they bruise. I cut to feel something other than anger. I burn to calm down because I can't handle the screaming in my head anymore. "It makes me feel sad when you say things like that, that you hurt yourself," Dr B said once. Really? How do you think I feel when I have to fight my demons alone?! I'm tired, exhausted from living. Sometimes I feel like giving up, but I'm too damned stubborn for that. Besides, I know that I don't want to die. I guess Susanna Kaysen said it best, "I didn't want to die. I wanted to kill the part of myself that wanted to die. A form of partial suicide." What she had done was swallow a bottle of aspirin then go to the grocer's and pass out in front of the meat counter. She'd succeeded in some way, killing only a piece of herself.

Maybe that's what I'm after, killing the part of myself that hates breathing, that finds life a daily struggle. Cutting, burning, bruising as a way to find an inner peace that is beyond me. I can almost grasp it sometimes, barely touching it before it slips away like a butterfly in a breeze. I can find beauty in the most filthy alley, but not when I look into my own eyes... eyes that have watched as my pen slides across paper and writes poetry that others find moving.

You have no idea how damn tired I am, I can't seem to close my eyes without feeling a sense of foreboding. That can't be normal.

Do you know how you can tell that you aren't crazy? You're asking what is or isn't normal. Sane people don't need to ask, crazy people don't care. 

I Know I Shouldn't...

...but I just can't help it. I cut my wrist about a four days ago, but I keep picking at it. Its going to scar over eventually and that doesn't really bother me in the slightest. I feel as if I deserve the scar. I got angry, lost my temper and injured... Am I going crazy? Do I care? Answers: Not sure and Yes.

I'm starting to see shadows shift in the night and bend unnaturally during the day. That's one of the ways I know that I am stressing too much. Yes, I do care if I'm going mad... it means I may be committed and I do not want that. Maybe I'll discuss this with Dr B at our next session.

I'm also considering giving her access to this blog. Not my private journal, that is strictly for me. It may have some bearing come Thursday when we speak again.

Damn You, Murphy

That went well... If it could go wrong it did. The heater in my car doesn't work, but then neither does the passenger window, so I'm screwed no matter what time of year it is. I had to deal with monumental stupidity at work, every fool and her son had to have shown up! I scratched my hand on the register and asked for a bandage. Took twenty minutes to get one and I had to do it myself on my break. Until then, my finger was wrapped in packing tape. I was almost hit by carts in the store and then vehicles on the road. Everyone was a maniac!

With everything going wrong, I was so angry, all I wanted to do was to injure and reset myself, like flipping a switch. In the end, I chose to take a very hot shower. That helped. I apologized to Mom for shouting at her. First thing I did when I came home was to shout at her all my frustrations. I should get her some flowers as a thank you.

Part of the problem was my sleeping, or not sleeping to be more precise. I go to bed at eleven, shut off the lights and stare at the damned ceiling. I was awake at one then again at three before I gave up at five. Sometimes I can sleep without problems, sometimes I don't. If I take an otc sleep aide, I wake with a head ache. Not worth it. I'm buzzing, I don't know really what the issue is. I can't work retail anymore, all I want to do is scream at everyone.

Maybe that is why people "go postal" and start shootings and whatnot in stores. Little wonder... And for the record: I HATE GUNS AND WOULD NEVER USE ONE!! A life isn't mine to take, not even my own.

Job Hunting

Here we go again... I hate hunting for work, especially when I need something rather specific. I need a job that pays at least eleven and hour if I am to pay rent with out my parents help. You see, my parents want me to move out just to settle their minds that I can handle living on my own. Whatever, I don't care. They can think that I am pathetic and unable to survive all they want, but I have been surviving all this time without their help, emotionally. I know I can do it without their help financially.

I have applications all over town, for everything I can think of that is not retail. I cannot handle retail anymore. All that makes me want to do is destroy everything I see. I have no patience for all the stupid I have to deal with. The only thing I can do is smile and nod.What I really want to do is throw soup cans at them. I'd get fired and sued, but that might be worth it. "Yo!" *smacks fool in the head with a can* "Stupid should hurt, bonehead!"

Oh well, if my therapist could read this, do you think it would worry her or make her laugh?

Lost Time

I mentioned this to Doctor B at our last session. The last few days I've lost track of time, I've been ahead of myself. For instance, if the clock reads three in the afternoon I'd be convinced its seven in the evening. Then I shut down in a way. Kind of like leaving your computer on and the screen saver goes? Like that. People would have to say something for me to pop back awake again. Its rather disconcerting.

The lost time makes me edgy and need something to hold myself in place. Usually this means injuring, which is exactly what I've done. Several times. I have four fresh sets of cuts as of today. I really want to burn, but feel like I should hold off, that I have to. There are far too many marks on my arms as it is, but I seem to crave it more when I shouldn't. Doc has told me that I should try allowing myself to cry more often, that the release of emotions would be better for me. She's right, of course, but my problem is that I seem unable to cry when I need to the most. Its troubling.

I'm having trouble sleeping again and that is probably adding to everything. I wonder if I should ask for sleep aides? No, best not. Most are addictive and I'll forget to take them anyhow. I was also thinking that letting my T read my blog may offer some insights since I am more free with my thoughts as a writer then a talker. I'll ask about it with some friends of mine that have had similar situations and get their input.

Well, There You Have It

So the other day, my parents and I went to a fast food restaurant to see my niece, nephew, and sister-in-law. In short, it was an ungodly racket. The kids whined or screamed the entire time. Their mother just let them and offered no discipline whatsoever. Personally, I don't want to have anything to do with that lot anymore. I have absolutely no patience for that sort of thing. None.

What really pissed me off though was the information that Red gave us. Apparently, Yoda was in hospital for appendicitis! He had one of his buddies navigate to the communication lines to get a message to his estranged wife. He did not, however, bother to let Dad know. Keep in mind that my father is far easier to contact because he actually has a phone! I was furious! How dare he treat my parents that way. He doesn't love them and doesn't want to have anything to do with them. Its just... GAH!!! I just cannot believe that he would abuse their trust and kindness like that.

Mom now says that she only has one child, me. I am the only one that hasn't treated my parents like shit and  abused them. I have never broken their hearts nor been a major disappointment. For this, they are willing to buy me a simple home. I don't want them too, but a mobile home isn't too much. :)

As for me, I will have nothing more to do with him. Oh wait! I haven't had anything to do with him for quite some time. All the bridges have been burned and there is no rebuilding. I've already tried to mend the relationship, I tried for years to no avail. I'm too damned old and too damned tired to deal with his bipolar bull shit. 

Edgy Day

So I'm sitting in my favourite coffee shop and I'm feeling damned edgy. I want to fucking scream and shout and injure and I have no concrete reason as to why. I'm freaking out in my head and I can't understand why. Maybe its the stress of having so much going on right now. I don't know. I need to find a new job. Been applying to all sorts of places today, I'd do more, but guess who left the house without her USB stick? Yeah that would be me... Fuck.

I swear there cannot possibly be more ways in which this week can get worse. I really shouldn't say that, Murphy and his Law are sick bastards. I'm feeling exhausted and annoyed. I slept last night and woke to a screaming alarm clock that I silenced quickly by smacking it. Came close to smacking my cactus too. I just want to crawl away and fade. Its like I'm feeling too much and not enough all at once. Its a terrible feeling. Flying down the highway but feeling like you aren't moving at all.

I have set an appointment with Dr B for this Friday. This time, I'm not telling my family that I'm in therapy. They, especially my mother, don't seem to understand why I need it, but then I haven't explained either. I'm just not in the mood to explain myself. Well that isn't exactly true. I did explain once and was ignored. Oh well. Nothing I can do about it. I'm not a Timelord and have no ability to go back in time and fix what is broken, so I'll just do the best I can and move on, as I always have.

I feel so alone in this fight. I'm doing the best I can to keep my mind on straight, but that just seems to make problems worse. I can't possibly do what every one expects of me. I'm tired and weak and annoyed and screaming in my head whilst lying to the world with a smile on face and skip in my step. Lying to the world... that's me. I'm falling back into poor sleeping habits, poor eating habits... when I remember to eat in the first place.

I need to remember to pick up some more matches, I'm almost out and I have some fucking sick attachment to my tools. Such a dirty fool I feel. Foolish foolish... Oh who the hell cares.