UpDate

I've been focusing on my old school, long hand journal. It's become a bullet journal this past year as well as a brain dump of sorts and I'm rather pleased with the results. I keep track of my migraines, moods, self harming type and frequency, gratidudes, even a calendar. So really it has all kinds of things going on and I rather like that. Plus I can sustomize as I see fit.

I've been trying essential oils lately for the headaches and my moods. They help some, and anything is better than nothing at all. I've been borderline suicidal for months now. I just keep pushing that line, how close can I get? I've come up with all kinds of ways to die. I'm done, really, just fed up with trying to do it all and make everyone happy. I'm tired. Why do I have to keep trying to survive? Why do I have to?

I see my therapist on Tuesday. I'll have to tell her how I'm feeling, of course. And I see my GP next week and that may mean I have to change meds. I've been on zoloft for several years, and slowly had to up the dose. May be time to switch? May be time to up the dose? May be time to just say "screw it"?

I Don't Even Know

I'm not even sure how I'm feeling tonight. Numb, I suppose is the best answer. I want to injure, but that isn't a good idea. Why injure? Because I feel numb and tired and need to feel something!

I told TG about the PTSD diagnosis. She was lovely when I asked her if I could call her when I feel panicked. While she doesn't know about the self harming, or at least I've never told her, she does know about the depression and now the PTSD. I'm a bit edgy about that, though I know its only a diagnosis and not a sentence.

In an earlier post, I believe I rant for a while about my nightmares. If not, here's a bit of my thought process: The  nightmares don't make sense. I dream that I'm bound in some way: tied to a chair, locked in a room, hanging from a ceiling. And I'm being tortured for information that I either do or do not have. I've been beaten, electrocuted, tasered, and burned with cigars/cigarettes in my nightmares.

With the diagnosis of PTSD, the nightmares make sense. Its an emotion that connects them all, feeling trapped against my will. Being hyper-vigilant in crowds, or even at the mall or grocers, makes perfect sense when you add in the PTSD. Before I couldn't make a logical connection to the nightmares. But when I connect my past and the trauma of it all then it works. Its a relief in a way.

I'm edgy and tired and going to bed soon. I'll worry about work later and the season ending.

Mum Asked... I Lied

So I'm sitting across the room from my mother and she sees my latest burn. The skin is a bit read but, not infected. Its healing rather well, actually. She just saw the mark, not that actual burn itself. She asked me what it was and being across the room with her eyesight as poor as it is, I could get away with the usual lie.

"Nicked myself at work," I shrugged.

She accepted that and left it. I hate how easy it is for me to lie about my injuries. Its almost as simple as breathing. I kept the burn hidden for just over a week. After all this time, all these stories and blaming my clumsiness ( which is very real, I'm incredibly accident prone) she finally notices and asks. We were expecting company, I wasn't in the mood, I didn't tell the truth.

Some day, I'll tell them everything. Some day... probably never. I've gotten into this thing alone. I'll get out of it with the help of my Doc.

A Conversation With Myself

All right, so Doc thought it would be a good idea for me to write out the opposing sides of my brain, of myself, when I want to injure or am thinking of injuring in general. What goes through my mind when I think of harming? All right... I've decided to write this as a conversation. Italics will be the "for" side of myself. Regular will the be "against" side.

I hate feeling this way, this anger at my parents, at the world in general. Or worse, I hate feeling numb. Numb is dangerous, it makes me desperate to feel something tangible. When its not the feeling of being numb, its that anger. It wells up and makes me feel out of control. That isn't something I am willing to forfeit, that control. 

Its perfectly fine to get angry once in a while. On the bright side, feeling numb means I'm not angry. Feeling something "tangible"? That's understandable, but something like a very hot or very cold cold shower might be a better idea. Control doesn't have to be forfeit, but I may not the strangle hold on it either.

It feels so good though, that high, that peace. That moment of calm. Those minutes and even hours in which I actually feel calm, feel good. Of course, those are also the moments that I don't want to scream at people. 

How long does that high last? Cutting is only a few hours, burning might last me a few days. In the end I'm right back where I started, so what good was it? All I end up with is another scar and no better off then I was at first.

Doesn't matter how long as long as there's a result. The scars are nothing important. No one ever notices them anyway. Not even the therapist, who seems to notice everything else, saw the scars until I showed her. Remember, harming keeps me in control and makes sure that the only person I hurt is me. 

That's a load of crap! The scars will always be there, some may fade, but many will remain. And someday some one that I don't expect will notice and I'll have to come up with an idea or another lie. Its the lies that get to me, they add to the guilt. That crushing guilt that makes me hate myself a little more every time I injure. I'm sick of the guilt, of the lies, of the nightmares, of everything!!

Those are perfectly good arguments for injuring. Why feel all that? Its perfectly acceptable to do something to feel better.

But not self harm. There are major risks involved! I could cut too deep, or a burn could get infected. Worse, there may come a time when I'm impelled (read forced) to go into an inpatient centre. There is not a valid to reason to self harm, no matter how well I may seem to justify it.

Hate to say this, but it is my body. I can do what I want to it.

That's a load of bull! I know full well that I have no right to destroy my body this way. Screwing around with pills and booze, blades, matches... That is not what God intended when He created me. There was a better purpose for my life than adding scars to my skin.

True, but that doesn't mean it still doesn't help those times when I'm feeling so terrible. Or confused. Or angry. Or any other emotion that I can't seem to handle. I like how I feel afterwards. There I said it. I like how I feel. 

Doesn't matter though! Feeling good or calm but using self harm to do it isn't going to last forever. What happens when burning isn't enough? Gonna start doing lines or something just as stupid? Of course, not, but still the point is: There will come a time when these current forms of harming won't be enough. Then what?

I don't know. I hate not knowing. 

So we are at the end of the conversation and nothing has been accomplished. I'm tired, I have a headache that I've been fighting all day. No, been fighting it for several days. 

This running dialog is similar to what goes through my head every single time I injure. Its exhausting, it really is. I have no idea how this is going to help Doc help me.

I Did It

So I did it and showed Doc my scars. Her response was, "That is a lot of pain." No kidding.  Honestly, it went better than I thought. After a while, she asked me what I was feeling. A bit scared, a bit relieved. Honestly, I'm not sure if I want to quit. Part of me does, part of me doesn't.

Doc suggested that I write out both sides of that debate. I put the arguments in my journal and will post a similar account later. Right now I'm exhausted and need to sleep. I'd been mulling over this moment of telling Dc for a week and lost much sleep worrying over nothing.

I'm glad it went so well, really. I'm in hury to tell the world mind, but it does make it easier.

Request From the Doc

So today, Doc asked if I thought it might be helpful to myself if I let her see my scars. Really see them, not just the glances that I'm sure she's gotten. Honestly, I think it might be time. The thought alone makes me edgy and slightly panicked, I've never really offered to or allowed someone to see the scars. Nightengale is the exception. Maybe it would be helpful, to her and to me.

You see, self harm has become this huge secret that gets in my way. Maybe by allowing her in a little more, it'll help me to be more open in general? Am I scared? Yes. Am I willing to try something new? Yes. Do I think it'll help? I'm not so sure, but willing to try.

Honestly, the scars, while mentioned, are not address directly. Feels like an elephant in the room that I don't want to think about, which of course makes me think about it more. I think that showing her will take away some of the guilt or shame in hiding.

All right... here goes. Next week, I'll show her my scars. God... did I just say that? Must have done, I feel slightly nauseous. And a bit light headed. But there it is, I said it, I'll do it.

Such a Liar...

Well that last post was about as vague as it gets. I was in California attending a convention that would start the next day. I was already stressing out and getting edgy. The next day, I had an anxiety attack that lasted about an eternity in 30 minutes. It was great...

On to the next bit of news. TG is my friend, I love her. I'll defend her and protect her as best I can, when I can. I feel like I'm lying to her every time she asks me how I'm doing. I haven't told her about my harming, that may never a topic a broach. Still, I feel badly that a person that has become such a part of my life is someone I lie to almost daily. We text all the time, spend hours at a time together. We're friends, sisters in every way that matters.

As if I don't feel guilty enough about hurting myself, add to that the guilt of lying by omission and I feel horrid every time I see her. I felt the same with Nightengale.

"How are you?" -- Great! Perfectly fine, I didn't burn today. (note: that was sarcasm) What an ass am I! What do I do? The thought of telling her makes me feel sick because I don't know if she'll tell anyone, like her husband. He's one of these that will go to elders if he feels you need the help. Sure, I need help. Why do you think I'm in therapy? TG loves her husband and he has this freakish ability to see right through a person. He's even managed to do that with me and it was damned terrifying. No one can do that with me, I'm too good at hiding.

If I tell TG, she may or may not tell her husband, either way he's going to know something is wrong. And I can't burden her with this. Its not fair. Not fair to her, I can't do that to her, put her in the middle. So I'll deal with the guilt and keep my secret.

Extra Session

I called Doc and left a message for to see if there was still an opening on her schedule last Friday. She returned my message in about a half hour, answering me with "Are you all right?" You see, I never call her, I leave emails. For me to call and request an extra session is unheard of, so of course she was worried.

When I got to her office, her face was marked with concern. I told her how I was feeling, that an extra bit of talk might help. She listened. I fought back tears like always.

"Why don't you want to cry? You always fight back tears."
"Because I'm supposed to be the strong one, because crying only ever gives me a headache and nothing more. Because I never feel that emotional release others do."

Maybe next time...

Even now, I'm still urgy. I am jonesin' for a burn. Not sure how much longer I can hold out. I've tried most of my usual distractions. Pinterest, chatroom, Avengers, blogging, reading. I'm running out of options.

I had to buy a new bra the other day, finally got one in my size and, while its comfortable, its also a great way to make me feel like a lard. Lucky me, I'm proportioned the way I am, otherwise these breasts would be way too big. Hence, why I am taking my ass to a gym, whether or not my mother wants met to.

I mentioned this to Doc as well. She's all behind me going to a gym. "Exercise releases endorphins. I think this is a great idea!" Not something that people tell me. So upon my Doc's recommendation, I'm going to a gym! I'll start Monday, loose a few pounds, hopefully get into a size 16. That's the goal.

My worry though is my mentality. It wouldn't take much for me to start going too far and wind up with an eating disorder. I already have a tentative relationship with food. I'm trying to nibble more and "eat" less. Should boost the metabolism. I'm just so sick of how I look.

Sick of how I look, sick of the scars, sick of the depression! Damn it!! I'm sick of everything. Tired, exhausted!

I'll see Doc again on Tuesday. We'll go over it all again.... Maybe it'll stop, this sick and twisted cycle of self hate.

Feeling Hopeless

I've been feeling so hopeless these last few days. I feel on the edge of tears, borderline despair. Its hard to find a reason to keep going. I'm tired and just want to give up.

People are dying left and right every night on the news. Children with guns are throwing temper tantrums and killing others. Its just a mess.  I see these things and it breaks what's left of my heart. Yesterday, TG and I were talking and the shootings of the last few weeks came up. I was also thinking of a report I'd heard about a former child soldier in Uganda. I cried the loss of lives of such young ones, children that barely had a chance to live before their innocence was stolen from them. It breaks my heart.

These thoughts are haunting me. I wake with them, and have to survive my waking hours with news reports and people talking. I want to escape through music, through books, through self harm. Anything to feel better.

No one seems to hear me, to see me, crying in a corner or hiding in plain sight. I'm so done! There has to be an end! I long for release, for sleep without haunted thoughts of the waking.

How To Handle a Nightmare

Therapy today wasn't easy. I never expect it to be, really. If it was easy then there must be something wrong.

Anyway... Therapy. Today we went into something I've briefly mentioned then floated right by, my nightmares. I understand the mechanics of dreaming, the brain processing information that the conscious mind can't or won't. Its amazing that its easier to type this then it is to actually say.

Nightmare: Recurring. Some one is demanding information that I either won't give or can't give. The attacker is a well dressed man, well spoken. I'm being tortured for that information. I don't want to go into the methods, suffice to say that its always brutal.

Therapist Interpretation: The man seems trustworthy, kind spoken, good grammar, but he's not. A representation of all the people that I think I should be able to trust? Information that I won't give or can't... protective instinct.

It all makes sense, but I don't have to like it. I also didn't like telling her about the nightmares. It just doesn't feel right to dream like this. Her suggestion was to try lucid dreaming, to think before I go to bed what I want as an outcome. For example, could the bonds turn to things like licorice? What would I want to happen to the attacker? The answer is always the same: I don't know.

She suggested allowing myself to daydream. Really? Daydreaming? All right, my issue is that it feels silly. What's the point? To learn to think outside the box, exercise the imagination I use when I'm writing. She thinks I can manipulate, rewrite my nightmares in the same way that I edit a story.

But what would I have the man do? Melt like wax left out in the sun? Vanish like fog in the morning sun? What of the bonds? Licorice is just not my gig. Butterflies? Silly string?

Damn... it feels hopeless. As though this is going to be my life forever. I can see Doc sitting in her chair, smiling that sad grin she gets just before she says something about the fact she is my cheerleader.

Next week, she wants to help me find ways to feel grounded. Though, I think we'll probably talk more about these nightmares.

How do I feel right this moment? Same as I felt when I left her office, and I told her the truth. Edgy, urgy, shaky. There are going to be many, many more sessions like this before I am normal. That is just the way it works.

Fear of Loss

I can feel myself starting to talk in circles again while in therapy. I'm sure that Doc has noticed. I think I'm a bit scared to let go of so much, of so many secrets. Its hard to let go of things that I've held onto for so long. Its just strange that I should want to hang onto such things.

Today we discussed abnormalities, at least in the way that the average adult thinks of them. I'm a geek and I love it. Most of my friends and acquaintances are not so there is often a gap. Even among injurers, I feel a bit strange because burning isn't nearly as common as eating disorders and cutting. I never really feel as if I belong anywhere.

The only place I feel myself is online, in my chatroom. I can be myself, I don't have to lie or fake it. I guess in a way I feel that if I talk too much, I may loose parts of myself instead of gaining. Strange, I never think that I'm worth saving. I'm self-deprecating, self-loathing. Honestly, it surprises me that I have friends at all.

Its funny, I think of all these things that I would want to talk to Doc about during the week, but when I get to her office that all goes right out the damned window. 

Long Battles

Today was a bit harder in therapy. Doc is always gentle, though today she was firm as well, like a parent teaching their child to swim or ride a bike. They have to push a little before the child will have success. That was today.

Last week, I gave her permission to be more direct, that she could ask or steer the conversation to places where I normally do not go. I feel that I am my own worst enemy because I'll divert the conversation or beat about the bush, as they say. This afternoon, Doc took advantage of that and said she was thinking about something I'd said last week.

"You said that sometimes you miss self harm, what did you mean by that?"

I must admit I was very close to telling her to back off, but in all honesty, its not the worst question she could ask and it was one that desperately needed answering... for myself. All of my siblings are addicts. One's an alcoholic, another is a drug addict, two are addicted to their own misery. Me? I worked very hard to not be a junkie, not be an alcoholic. Look at me now. Addicted to self harm.

I know a few out there ( okay... probably more than a few) will disagree with me, and that's fine. That's you. For me, injuring is an addiction. When you're stressed out, pissed off, in emotional pain, or feeling numb, do you have something you say you need? "I need a cigarette, I need a hit, I need a beer". I tell myself, "I need a tool." I hate thinking that I'm an addict, I hate it! But there is no getting around that fact. It is what it is, I am what I am.

Hells bells, I talked more about self harm today alone than I have in the whole of the time I've been seeing Doc. This tells me one thing that I hadn't really wanted to think about: Its going to be a very long time before I am no longer seeing her. It took years for me to get this bad, years to go from one method of injury to another, years.... Its going to take a while, maybe even years, to get myself "normal", or at the very least to conquer my addiction.

Am I up for that challenge? A few months ago, maybe a year ago, I would have answered "I don't know." But right now? I've fought all my life to survive. Its what I do, its how I function in this big, bad world. Its all I've ever known, and its exhausting.

I'll tell you this... I Want To Live. There are so many times when I should have died, when I could have died. Yes, that implies I had a choice and made the right one.

So here we go, its going to be one hell of a long battle, but I've fought this long. I'm worth it.

Assertive vs Bitchy

What is it about me? There must be something that makes freaks and drunks think that I am willing to be touched or talked to. So here's what happened: I went karaoke with some friends handed my songs to the KJ (karaoke jocky). A drunk was "dancing", if the moves he was making could be mistaken for dance, and kept backing into me. Thinking he didn't see me, I pushed his back *between the shoulder blades and no where near his ass* to let him know I was there. His response? Oh to come closer of course! I pushed again. Third time? That isn't a charm, its a "I will kick your sorry back side from here to the curb!" I shoved him away from me, pressing my fist into his back hard. That was the clue he needed.

Next, I had finished singing my first song, one that I am rather good at, thank you very much, and I received some adoration from another drunk. "You were really great, I love that song and you were amazing," he tells me. I thank him, trying to twist out of his awkward side hug. "No, I mean it,you were great!" I look him in the eye, "Thank you, now stop touching me." He backs away, apologizing for trying to be nice.

This is what amazes me. When a man says 'no' or 'back off', he is being assertive. When a woman does the same thing, she is called a bitch. When she tried to be polite and then has enough of a man's advances and tells him in clear English to back off, she's called a tease or a tart. WHY IS THIS OK?!?!

I really am getting sick and tired of being told that I need to be nice and whatever only to have some drunk ass bastard start thinking that I am being a flirt. Honestly, I do not engage the drunks, ever! They have lost all ability to think clearly thanks to the effects of alcohol. Apparently, my ignoring them is considered a challenge, one that far too many are all too willing to take on. When I make is abundantly clear that I have no desire to be touched, I'm called a bitch and made out to be an unfriendly woman.

I'm nice, I'm friendly! I just have zero tolerance for stupidity and drunks.

The whole thing made me so angry. Beyond angry, I was ready to slam my fist into the next person that laid a finger on me. Instead, I went to the bathroom, made sure I was alone, and slammed my left fist into the wall. Now my knuckles are bruised.

I love hanging out with my friends, even if it is in a situation that I find difficult. I find this is good practice for me to maintain my cool and not bloody panic. Sometimes, I even have fun. But seriously? It would be awesome if the drunks would leave me the hell alone and not think of me as a challenge.

While I'm thinking about it... why don't my friends ever seem to come to my rescue as I do them? I'm always alone. Always. 

The Brain is Messed Up Organ

I don't want to be awake. I'd rather be sleeping and not having to think about anything. Not about how my failures as a daughter, as a person, as anything. I have zero motivation. There are so many things that need to be done. I have to finish: Two cross stitch patterns, a knit shawl, handful of books. I also need to get jewelry made to sell in my etsy shop. Zero traffic in the shop. Mostly because I have not the faintest idea of what I'm doing. I can make it, but I'm having a hard time selling.

I'm never going to be good enough for anything am I? Certainly, not good enough for my own standards. Damn it. DAMN IT!

Fighting the urge to injure right now, I want to, if for no other reason then to make the emotions tangible. I'm wanting to sleep and forget. I have some alcohol but no sleeping pills, which I suppose is good thing. I don't see Doc for another week. Joy... I just hate that I even think this way. "Just one injury, just one cut or burn and I'll be all right." But I won't be. I cut the other day on my leg. It hurts more there than on my arm. I can't believe I'm analyzing this. More pain here then there... the brain is seriously a messed up organ. 

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. 

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.

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.

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?