Daily Archives: November 11, 2015
It is amazing how many stories out there, books, movies, plays, whatever, where the protagonist/antagonist has at least one major obstacle to overcome. The vast majority of these obstacles are seen as internal, like a disease, a disability, a character flaw, etc. Oscar winning movies almost always have an internally flawed character overcome an obstacle […]
Yes, even misanthropic Morgue has opted to install and turn on a green porch light in honor of the veteran’s who serve or have served our country. (My dad put in a stint with the Army.) Not sure why I am suddenly taking an interest in a holiday I usually spend in a depressive blur but it feels right.
I have nothing to bitch about. I know, right? Call the Guiness people, this must go into the world record book.
Am I celebrating not being in physical misery? Am I on an upswing? Perhaps going without the meds and going back on has had a hypomanic effect?
No idea, don’t care. Maybe getting so sick is exactly what I needed. Otherwise, I’d never have stopped my meds.I am starting to think there may be something to “rebooting” with these psych meds. I was off six days, which is inadvisable (and yet, logical when you spew up everything) and perhaps it was just what was needed to “blow out the cobs” like you would on a car that’s been sitting awhile.
I feel more solid, more logical, less anxious, less pissy. Not even dealing with R for three hours brought me down or stressed me out. Or seeing my mother. Or my kid yapping for hours on end since I brought her home. (It’s annoying but I’m not spazzing like satan on meth.)
Okay, maybe I lied. I did find something to bitch about but as it’s a fictional tv show, I don’t think it really upsets the “I’m okay” vibe.
I watched episode three of Wicked City and…Here are these pretty young girls getting stabbed to death, blood gushing all over the dashboard of his car…And rather than think,”OMG, that poor girl…” My first thought is, “Oh, fuck, why would you mess up that sweet interior on that classic car????”
Yeah, my dad didn’t fuck me up in the least with his car love.
Part of the eye candy on this show, not just the audio candy of 80’s music, is seeing all those awesome late 70’s/ early 80’s Chevy Caprices and the like. MMMMM. Mewants. My mom always called them “old man cars” but I will put my old man car up against a semi crash versus a fucking hybrid any damned day. I drive a damned tank, just need mounted weaponry. It’s hot, even with the bashed fender.
Yes, I know, car lust eludes most. Though in the event a gearhead reads this or you know gearhead…I need to know how to fix a 1988 Chevy Caprice with a sticky choke that only kicks in during cold months. Tired of it flooding out every stop sign. Bloody hell. Electronic carbs are a pain in the ass, bring back the mechanical ones simpletons can fucking fix. I can’t afford a genius who can deal with newer tech.
Okay, okay, I am a liar, liar, pants on fire, I always find something to gripe about. Though with my personality, it’s less griping and more…emphatic chatter about what’s on my mind at this moment. Statements are not necessarily complaints if you’re relaying what’s going on with your life at the moment. Seriously, “looks like it could rain” is an observation, not some dooming pessimistic mind frame.
And with that, I bid you farewell. I think I am going to feed and bathe the monster, maybe even the adult monster, and settle in for a quiet evening of Durham County. Sociopaths are like trainwrecks, you can’t look away.
Still wanna stab their eyes with a spork, though.
Yes, I’ma still pounding on my hair metal drum like Tommy Lee banging out “Shout At The Devil” on his spinning drum kit…Genre is unimportant when the message is loud and clear in the lyrics.
This one is for all those who have served or are serving. You are appreciated.
This blogpost, posted by Hannah Crowley on Healthyplace.com, took the words right out of my mouth! Feel like a fraud, feel like I am not good enough, all that is spot on. Now just waiting for the recovery after the relapse. How can this happen to me over and over again? And yet, each time it happens, it feels like it will never end, It feels like I’ll never get better, the hopelessness, the shame, the self blame and recrimination, the gut wrenching heartbreak, not pretty. Just waiting it out, don’t feel good enough to do much else. Tomorrow, I will go to the gym, tomorrow, I will feel better, tomorrow, I will be me, I promise.
Is Mental Illness Relapse a Part of Recovery?
A mental illness relapse tricked me into thinking I was a fraud. As the author of the blog entitled Getting Through Tough Times, I am required — by the very delineation of the phrase — to speak about my own tough times. It’s my job to share obstacles I have overcome and urge other people to do the same (Mental Health 101: Developing Coping Strategies). But recently I’ve felt like a fake, a fraud. I’ve sat in front of a computer screen with my fingers poised above the keys, ready to type a stream of words that sound fancy and wise, and I’ve stood in front of a camera with a bunch of rehearsed clichés, prepared to spout them out robotically.
But I could never go through with it because I was struggling with my own form of mental illness relapse. And for those with a history of mental illness, that is what struggling so frequently means (Anatomy Of A Mental Illness Relapse).
I Felt My Mental Illness Relapse Coming On
Over the last few weeks, I’ve gone through a series of “tough times” that have left me reeling. Somehow I’d trained myself to believe that I was invincible; that I was no longer drastically affected by pithy little “bumps in the road” or any type of mental illness relapse. As an individual designated to helping others, I felt that I wasn’t allowed to struggle. That somehow struggling made me a counterfeit blogger (Denial Keeps Those With A Mental Illness From Getting Better).
But I was wrong. Every individual is not only entitled to face adversity, but we should expect it — and if we can, we should embrace it. Breaking away from the passé injustice of life, I believe that hardship only highlights our strengths. Instead of retracting into an introverted mass of reticence and self-flagellation, we can take comfort from the age old idiom that where there is life, there is hope.
Mental Illness Relapse Is a Part of Recovery
Mental illness relapse doesn’t have to manifest itself physically, or drastically. It can be a series of distorted thoughts, a heightening of anxiety or the brutally incessant urge to cut. It can even just be that dark, destructive thought that “I am not good enough for this.”
But I am good enough. And today I am going to take my own advice. I’m going to toss aside the masochism and work through the darkness. And if I can get through to just one individual — this will all be worth it. Because “every wound leaves a scar, and every scar tells a story. A story that says I have survived.”
Still haven’t’ heard back from my doctor about how my meds are working. I don’t think I’m gong to because he says he’d rather have me sluggish than up. SO saying I” ve slowed down some won’t budge him. Just hoping to do better in the coming days.,
I have finished all but one project for my college class. I still have to have one more workshopped, so I may wind up revising it somewhat. But otherwise, I’m just about all set. I still need to write an “artist’s statement” which I’m not sure what that is. I think I will Google how to do that and see what turns up. That’s 10% of my grade, so I need to do it right, also.
Waiting for the middle one to come home so I can show her how I finished one project she helped me with early on, teaching me how to use PowerPoint. So that will be nice. It’s a heck of a lot more complicated to do than it looks once it’s finished. Hopefully that will be taken into consideration.
I’ve finally run out of stuff to send off :). What short stories and essays I have handy have either been published or are under consideration somewhere. I need to do more, I suppose. Trouble is, I. haven’t had a good idea for more in quite some time. But I’ve published my esasy, “Day by Day”, my short stories “Ave Maria” and “Holding or On”. “Freedom to Breathe” is slated for December, and I sent off my novella “Looking for Home” and my poetry collection. ANd I’ve published at Defying Shadows. SO I relly have a nice list of publications at this point.
Yes, this, this is the feeling! To be young, innocent, in the moment, with a faithful companion, engaged in what you’re doing, and when you see something fun, jumping in with both feet!
The little boy walking his faithful dog, upon seeing the puddle, jumping in, how sweet and joyous! So much fun, he does it again and again, first cautiously, then confidently, with a running start, fun, fun, fun! And the dog, equally as adorable, he stands and waits for his little master, all the while with a look of “Are we doing something wrong?” on his face, a look of “Oh boy, this might get us in trouble!” But still waiting steadfastly for the little boy.
And the mother or the father who is filming this heavenly little vignette, is patient, positive and allowing this little boy to have fun instead of dragging him away because his shoes and socks might get dirty.
A moment of pure fun, pure perfection, simple, yet so much more. How many of those are we allotted?
Two minutes silence alone today, for my ancestors – the ones who died in the Great War and the ones who have died since, but always remembered their deaths, for my mother who made a pilgrimage to Ypres to pay her respects and for nextofkin and me, who are the only ones left to remember. […]
Kitt has been one of those women who I “met” searching for online support after being diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder in 2011. She was one of the women who encouraged […]
I was ashamed.
I was so ashamed of being transgender that I held out for years, thinking if I waited long enough, this part of myself would retreat into the dark spot of my mind – the trapdoor where all the bad memories fall in and disappear.
When the gender therapist asks me why I waited until now to start testosterone, I want so badly to explain that I didn’t think I would need it – I had the headstone picked out, the flowers – because I believed that this part of me would die quietly if I was good, if I was patient, if I was persistent.
With my hands over my ears, I shook my head when friends used to ask, “But can you imagine if things stayed the same?”
I threw blankets over mirrors, I kept my eyes fixed on the wall, I tried to forget my body the way we try to forget bad dreams.
Maybe the secret can be found at the bottom of a bottle, I said, or maybe it’s underneath my skin. But drinking didn’t destroy my queerness – just my liver – and not a single drop of blood could tell me where else to look.
I want to say I’m sorry now, sorry to everyone that was afraid for me. You remember and I do, too: Sprawled out on the floor of my childhood bedroom, hysterical because I had dreamt for the hundredth time that I was running through a field in a different body.
That was the night I said that I would wake up tomorrow and be cisgender or I wouldn’t wake up at all.
When the gender therapist asks me what I am looking forward to, I remember that field and that body and my undeniable ecstasy before waking. I remember the way the sunshine fell on my back and my beautifully broad shoulders. I remember feeling so light.
I tell him that I’m looking forward to being able to carry things. Testosterone gives you more muscle, I say with a dreamy smile.
Maybe I’ll be able to lift the heavy things (I think of moving last summer, how my knees buckled as I tried to carry my belongings up two flights of stairs) or the heavier things (like the years of denial and the lies I told my family).
I have a running fantasy.
It goes like this: I gather up every lie about my gender that I’ve ever heard, starting with birth. I return to the field. I plant every mishap – every “she,” “ma’am,” “her” – and I bury them like seeds. When I say my chosen name, its rich and deep resonance is like an incantation. Flowers, flowers as far as the eye can see, burst from the ground, opening up to face me.
They cannot hurt me now.
The gender therapist asks me when I realized that testosterone was necessary. May 1st, 2015, I say. Why that day, he asks. I tell him the truth: It was the day I became afraid to look at my own face and too embarrassed to leave my house.
Do you know what it’s like to feel naked even when you’re not? I ask. I think better of the question. I don’t wait for a response. I tell him that one feels naked all the time when their body is betraying them.
The gender therapist says he’s honored to be a part of my journey. I wonder if he says this to everyone he sees. I wonder if he means it; I decide that he does and I tell him that I’m glad, too.
I hold the consent letter in my hands and I run my fingers along the edges. My body is trembling. I walk downstairs and I let the clinic take five vials of my blood. December 7th, they tell me, and I whisper that date under my breath a thousand times as I step out into the cold autumn rain.
I’ve waited for this. Even when I was afraid, I was always waiting.