Monthly Archives: September 2013

Very Long Day

Had the statewide orientation/training for the OFA organizing fellowship in Boston today. It was awesome! I’m gonna have a LOT on my plate this fall. I committed to 15 hours/week, but I don’t know how I’m going to accomplish the goals they’re setting out in so little time. I’m sure I’ll end up spending significantly more time on it. I am literally THE organizer for all of western Mass. Everybody else is from out toward Boston.

I also didn’t realize how competitive these fellowships are. Ten fellows out of about 200 applicants. That actually makes me feel pretty good about myself. It means they must’ve seen potential in my application and interview, and I’m trying to convince myself that I’m as capable as they think I am.

But right now, I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus. ALL THE BUSES. I’m not used to dealing with the new limitations from the UC. The fatigue is incredible. I had to sit down in the middle of South Station while I was waiting for my bus home because otherwise I would’ve just collapsed. Once I got on the bus, I either passed out or had a very sudden and unplanned nap. I didn’t expect the fatigue to be THIS bad. How am I supposed to do all this organizing stuff if I can hardly stand up?

And now it feels like someone is trying to drive a nail through my skull from the inside, just above my right eye. Tylenol ain’t doin’ squat.

I REALLY hope I feel better tomorrow.

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I Don’t Play the Piano

When I was in seventh grade, my grandfather bought my family a piano.

None of us played the piano.  None of us had indicated any interest in learning how to play the piano.  My grandparents had a grand piano in their living room, but in my entire life, I’d only seen it played when my cousins and I would tap out “Chopsticks” or “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

Still, my grandfather bought us a piano and had it delivered to our house.  My sisters and I took three, maybe four years of lessons, but none of us was very good–probably because we didn’t have much interest in learning to play.  We rarely even practiced.  I tried to be a good pianist because I thought it would make my grandfather happy, but now I know I could’ve gone to Juilliard and still not have been good enough to win his unconditional love.

I told A that story in therapy this morning.  We were talking about my family, particularly my grandfather, in terms of them cutting me off at the end of the year.  I talked about my grandfather’s pride in being uncompromising and his certainty he knows what’s best for everyone in the family, and I felt like I was being unfair, only talking about his meanness.  I said he could sometimes be kind, or tried to be, but it’s like he’s so used to being mean that he doesn’t quite know how to be nice.

“It’s like he’s got all this money, and he’s trying to be nice, so he buys you something–but it’s not something you want or like, but you don’t want to tell him that.  So then you have this piano that’s just there, and you don’t know what to do with that,” I told her.  “But usually the piano is only metaphorical.”

I talked about how my family sees me as this manipulative person who fakes mental illness so she doesn’t have to be self-sufficient and threatens suicide when she doesn’t get what she wants.  They really think that I’m a bad person.  I don’t see myself that way anymore–at least, not most of the time.  But it hurts to know that’s who my family sees when they look at me.  Physical pain like a knife stabbing into my sternum.  That’s not me they’re seeing.  I’m not a bad person, and I don’t play the piano.

Now, after that, I’m feeling sad.  I used to think I had this close, loving family, because that’s what they told me we were.  Even now that I know better, know how toxic it was, I still catch myself idealizing the family I used to have.  I want so badly to have a family that loves me, and it feels unbearable to realize that I never will.  But I finally believe (most of the time) that I’m worthy enough not to go back to my family for the scraps of love I might get along with the emotional abuse.

I just wish it didn’t hurt so much.

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Broken Legs

Right now, I’m feeling really messed up.

I know a lot of trauma survivors–mostly online, but some in real life, too.  And right now, I feel like all of them have their shit way more together than I do.  I’m not talking about external stuff like jobs and so forth–I think I’m doing decent with that stuff, all things considered.  I feel like I’m way behind everyone else at recovering emotionally, and I feel like I’ll never catch up because I’m much slower, too.  I see people who are able to be much more compassionate toward themselves, see themselves as worthwhile, believe they deserve things, and so forth.  People who’ve been in treatment for far less time than I have, people with worse or more extensive trauma histories than mine.

And I think I MUST be faking it.  These other people are REAL survivors, and they’re getting better much faster than me–so my problems aren’t real.  It’s like my family keeps saying, I just fake all these symptoms so I don’t have to grow up, get a job, and take care of myself.  That seems like the only logical explanation for why other trauma survivors get better but I don’t.

It’s not the only explanation, though.  The other explanation is that I’m more broken, for some reason, and there’s no hope of ever fixing myself.  And that is too scary to think about.  I’d rather just be faking it.  If I’m faking it, I can just stop.

This turned into a huge crisis while I was at Sheppard Pratt.  I honestly couldn’t tell what reality was, and that was terrifying.  It happened when my therapist wanted me to start challenging/rewriting/breaking some of my internal rules.  I think that’s what’s happening now, too.  I had therapy homework over the weekend that would’ve REALLY broken the rules.  I didn’t do it.  But now I’m freaking out (actually, it’s probably some of the kid parts) because she’s going to be mad at me for not doing it.

My therapist at Sheppard Pratt told me to think of this as a symptom.  Either denial is the symptom of trauma/DID, or the faking it is a symptom that something else is wrong.  “Either way, it means you need help,” she said.  I’m trying to frame it in those terms now, but it’s not making me feel much better.  I’m crying right now, and I don’t even know why.

When I was hospitalized once, years ago, I remember a group therapy session.  One patient said she didn’t feel like she should talk because what was going on for her wasn’t as bad as what other people were dealing with.  Another patient said, “Imagine if you and me were in a car wreck.  I’ve got two broken legs, and you’ve got one.  Just because I have two broken legs, that doesn’t mean your one broken leg doesn’t hurt.  Yours is still broken, and you still deserve to get help for it.”

I’m trying to have that kind of compassion toward myself, but to be honest, I just can’t.  I could have compassion for almost anyone else, but not myself.

I wish I could stop crying.  I don’t want to cry in therapy tomorrow.

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Musings on Remission

The way I see it, I’m dealing with two chronic illnesses: the ulcerative colitis and the trauma stuff.  (I’ve decided “trauma stuff” is its name because that’s simpler than C-PTSD/DID/depression/anxiety/ED, because while all of those are technically different disorders, I think they’re all the same thing–all trauma stuff.)

It’s interesting to consider the treatment approach for the two illnesses.  In particular, I’m thinking about the approach to meds.  Initially, it’s similar: hit it hard and fast to get the symptoms under control.  In the world of UC, the doctors talk about achieving remission.  Psychiatrists never use that word, and I’m starting to wish they would.  It’s a word full of realistic hope.  It acknowledges that the illness is chronic and will flare up and require more aggressive treatment at times, but it also tells you that there is hope that you will have periods of normality, periods when you function just as well as people who aren’t ill.  Hope, you see?

And from the beginning, my gastroenterologist talked about reducing meds drastically once I achieve remission.  We’re not there yet; we’re still in the period of having to add more drugs, often potentially toxic ones, to get to a state of remission.  But he already has a plan for decreasing once I’m in remission–the order I’ll go off the drugs, the schedule for reducing doses, everything.

Until the last 2 years, I’d never found a psychiatrist who would even consider taking me off psych meds, no matter how stable I was.  Psychiatrists, in my experience, don’t believe in remission.  They’re taught–and then teach their patients–that if a patient is stable on meds, they’ll have to stay on those meds the rest of their life.  Reducing or going off medications is treated like it’s the equivalent of jumping off the roof–it might not kill you, but it’s not going to end well.

I don’t understand the difference in approach.  My gastroenterologist sees meds as a tool to achieve remission, not a long-term necessity.  Once you’ve hammered in the nail, there’s no point in continuing to bang on it.  I may have to stay on some meds long-term, but his goal is to reduce that as much as possible because he knows the drugs can be toxic, and even if I’m not having terrible side effects, they’re not a natural part of my system and shouldn’t be there unless they’re absolutely necessary.

I’m lucky to have a psychiatrist now who views psych meds in a similar way, but he’s an exception.  I can’t even count the number of psychiatrists I’ve seen in my life–probably upward of 30–and he’s the first one who’s told me I don’t have to stay on the meds.  He’s helping me sloooooooowwwwwwly reduce my doses, and he trusts me enough to let me make minor changes to my doses between meetings with him.  I just tell him, “I decreased the prazosin because I haven’t been having nightmares,” or whatever, and he doesn’t freak out on me.

But for most of the time I’ve been on psych meds (which is most of my life, from age 5 on, with a few unmedicated stretches) I’ve been told that disasters will happen if I go off or even reduce my meds.  I’ve been involuntarily committed for telling a psychiatrist I’d do it on my own if he wouldn’t help me.  I’ve been told that I have no hope for any semblance of a normal life unless I keep taking more and more meds at ever-increasing doses.

But guess what?  Those psychiatrists are wrong.  I’ve been decreasing my meds successfully, and I’m beginning to build a life that doesn’t center around my illnesses.  I think I’m close to remission.

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Tonight I’m sad.

Tonight I read someone saying that when people are in the hospital for mental illness, their loved ones shouldn’t come visit every day or bring them things they like.  That would just encourage them to wind up in the hospital over and over again.

It makes me sad that that’s still such a prevalent view of people with a mental illness.

People like to say that there’s far less stigma against people with mental illnesses these days.  People say mental illnesses are just the same as physical issues, just as real and valid.  Ad campaigns tell us that people with mental illnesses are all around, that it’s not their fault their brains are broken.  But these same people turn around and treat us like we’re manipulative and attention-seeking, trying to coerce care and attention from the people closest to us..  I’m sure most people don’t do it out of malice, but it’s still hurtful and damaging to us.

I think people who’ve never been hospitalized on a psych unit don’t have a clear idea of what it’s like.  Most people know psychiatric treatment is no longer like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which is true.  They think it’s more like a vacation where we don’t have to go to work or clean or cook or worry about anything, which is untrue.

It’s not fun, and it’s not an escape from our everyday lives.  We don’t have maids and room service.  We’re medicated, fed, and kept alive–that’s about the extent of “treatment” at most places.  Most of the time, you just sit there.  Not on a beach or by a pool.  It’s usually a day room with fluorescent lights, grubby tiled floors, vinyl furniture (often bolted to the ground), and games and puzzles missing at least half of their pieces.  If you’re lucky, there might be a cheap romance novel or a cooking magazine from seven years ago.  You sit there, day after day, doing almost nothing.  Mostly, you’re ignored unless you’re trying to hurt yourself or someone else.  No one cares if you’re crying–they probably don’t even notice.  You’re treated as something less than a person.

I know many people who have been hospitalized for mental illness, including myself.  None of us liked it or wanted to go back.  We end up in hospitals because there’s nowhere else for us to turn, not because it gets us showered with love and attention.

Yes, I looked forward to visits when I was hospitalized.  It was usually the only real conversation I got in a day.  In a place where you’re treated as a bundle of symptoms or as a problem instead of as a person, you get desperate for human connections.  That’s certainly not exclusive to people with mental illnesses.

Yes, I looked forward to small treats when I was in the hospital.  For me, it was usually a Diet Coke.  I was in a foreign environment where I had no comforts and no control over my life.  Something as inconsequential as a bottle of Diet Coke reminded me that the real world was still out there and I wasn’t cut off from it forever.  When you can’t go outside, can’t open a window, can’t make a phone call, can’t do anything else to feel connected to that outside world, you need those little things that remind you that you still exist.  Isn’t connection to reality usually a treatment goal?

I wish that people would put themselves in the position of the person in their life who’s living with a mental illness.  Ask yourself what you would want if you were separated from your home, your family, your friends, and everything else in your daily life.  How would you feel?  How would you want people to treat you?  Would you want to be isolated and denied connection, or would you want the people you love to do what they can to stay connected?  Put yourself in our shoes.  There’s really no difference between us and you.

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September 22, 2013 · 3:29 am

Magna Voce

Yesterday I went to a workshop presented by Chaya Grossberg about coming off psych meds.  It was awesome.

 

At first it was intimidating.  I went with the nurse from my treatment team, but I didn’t know anyone else there.  She wanted us to break into pairs with people we didn’t know and talk about our purpose in life, and my anxiety shot up.  Then one woman said she wasn’t comfortable with that.  It never even occurred to me that I could say that.  Years of abuse taught me to believe I couldn’t say no, so I was grateful to the woman who spoke up because she reminded me that I have a voice too.

 

I think what I came away with most was the importance of having and using a voice.  That’s been a struggle for me for a long time.  Most people who know me now would never guess that–I’m a vocal political organizer, and I often say I have strong opinions on almost everything.  But the secret struggle for me is being able to have a voice just for myself.  It’s much easier to speak up when I see things wrong with big systems, things that are hurting other people, things that could be fixed or improved to give more benefit for more people.  But it’s incredibly hard to speak up when it’s for only my own benefit.  I believe I don’t deserve that, and there’s a fear in some child parts that it will lead to abuse and punishment.

 

About halfway through, she asked if anyone who’d come off psych meds or was in the process of coming off them  wanted to share their story.  The sense of fear and intimidation I’d felt at first had disappeared, and I volunteered.  I don’t know why; it was just this spur-of-the-moment thing.

 

It was the first time I’d ever talked about it publicly.  (Okay, there were all of about 8 people in the room, but I think it still qualifies as public.)  I’ve talked about it in therapy and with friends, and I’ve journaled and blogged about it, but I’ve never spoken publicly, face-to-face about it.  I’d always thought it would be scary–that people would think I was crazy or whiny or just making it up–but it wasn’t, at all.  My experience of mainstream psychiatry has been traumatic, both in and of itself and in relation to my long history of trauma, and I’ve always been afraid to say that.  There’s fear of rejection but also fear of retaliation.  As a child, I believed (and was taught) that my abusive parents knew everything I did and would punish me even if they didn’t see me do a wrong thing, and mainstream psychiatry treated me in much the same way.  I was taught that I was powerless, and if I tried to take back even a small measure of power or control of my life, I was punished.  There’s still this fear sometimes that if I criticize them, they’ll magically know and punish me again.  I thought all that stuff would come up and it would be scary.

 

But it wasn’t.

 

Instead, I felt not only heard but wanted.

 

I almost always feel like what I have to say is stupid, useless, whiny, needy, boring, or whatever other negative adjectives.  I often think that people just put up with me because they’re too polite to tell me to shut up.  Sometimes I obsess for days or weeks about something I wish I hadn’t said, even though I know the other person probably didn’t think anything of it.

 

When I could write, I could have a voice.  I was good at that, and I got better.  I did an MFA-level creative writing program in high school; I won contests; I published.  There was concrete proof that people liked what I said and the way I said it.  And then I just couldn’t write–not since I was 19.  It was devastating because that was the only voice I had then.  I’ve tried so many times to write again, but everything comes out dead.  I can count on one hand the number of good pieces I’ve produced in the last 8 years.

 

I still wish I could write, but I’m learning to have a voice without poetry or fiction.  In a way, I think maybe I need to tell MY story before I can write other stories.  My whole story, not just coming off psych meds.  It’s just this hunch I have, and I can’t explain why or how I know.  And telling my story scares the shit out of me.  There’s a lot I don’t want to remember,  but maybe that’s why I can’t be creative.  But I think telling that part of my story at this workshop was really good for me because I did it in a setting where I felt held.

 

While I was telling my story, what stood out to me was my need for autonomy within support.  I never had that as a child–abuse is all about removing autonomy from the victim.  Then mainstream psychiatric treatment enforced that through so many coercive acts.  I was hospitalized against my will, strip searched, told what was wrong with me rather than asked, medicated against my will, involuntarily committed.  I had to write my junior thesis–about red and black color symbolism, reversed yin and yang, gender roles, and androgyny in The Scarlet Letter—in crayon because I wasn’t even allowed to have a pen.  I was turned into something less than a person and pressured to be grateful for it because it was for my own good.

 

“Everybody wants to tell you how to recover,” I said.  “Take this drug, eat this food, do this kind of therapy.  It makes me crazy.  You don’t know me!”  For so long, I tried to be a “good patient” and did what I was told.  Things got worse instead of better.  Now I have my own opinions, and it feels so much better.  I don’t always know exactly what I need, but I usually figure it out.  I know me, or I’m in the process of knowing me.

 

Now I have a team that actively encourages me to figure out what I need.  They give suggestions, but the choice is always mine.  I’ve done things in ways no other clients in the program have done before, like going to Sheppard Pratt and then coming back, and they’ve been incredibly supportive and committed to making things work for me rather than by some dogmatic reliance on formulae.  Now that I’ve experienced it, it seems so obvious I don’t know why all treatment providers aren’t like that.  I wish everybody had access to treatment teams like mine, but for most of my life, I wouldn’t even have known it was possible.  When the only treatment you’ve gotten is coercive and retraumatizing, you can’t even form the idea of another approach.

 

It was such a good experience to go to the workshop.  I feel so much more connected than I had been feeling.  The internet is great, and I really value the people I’ve met and shared experiences with that way, but there’s a different kind of benefit to experiencing that in person.  I wish there were more opportunities for me to do that.

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Round and Round She Goes

Today T accused me of being a Republican.

 

Those of you who’ve known me for a while know that I’m loudly liberal, but I come from a very conservative family.  I worked on the last Presidential campaign as well as the campaigns of two Democratic senators from my state.  I’m about to start a political organizing fellowship for a liberal lobbying group.

 

“You’re secretly a Republican,” T told me.  “But only in regards to yourself.  You think you don’t deserve any help.”

 

Shit, I thought.  She’s right.  I’m secretly a Republican.

 

She’s right: I don’t accept help well.  I feel like I don’t deserve to have needs at all, so I definitely don’t deserve to have those needs met.  And the worst of all is when I need help to meet those needs.  When I need help, I’m slammed with massive amounts of shame.  I feel worthless, needy, manipulative, incompetent.  I feel like it would be better to die than to need help because if I let myself need, I’ll become a black hole that swallows up everything and turns it into nothing.

 

I’ve gotten slightly more comfortable with having needs.  At one point, I nearly starved myself to death to prove I didn’t need anything.  I pushed everyone away from me and wouldn’t let them care about me.  I took care of everybody else because if I was busy it was easier to deny my needs, and if I was helping other people, it gave me permission to exist (but only a little bit).  I’ve improved and gotten a little more comfortable with my needs–but I’m more comfortable with it in the same way I’m more comfortable with getting attacked by a mountain lion than by a grizzly bear.

 

It’s so tied up in guilt and shame, and it’s now become an endless chicken and egg situation.  In the beginning, though, I think the shame and guilt came first–but the shame and guilt that comes to mind with this is from failing to meet my sisters’ needs, so I’m not entirely sure the guilt and shame came first.

 

With S, my middle sister, who’s 2 years younger than me, the guilt is for not saving her from our father.  I remember a number of times when he abused both of us together or made one of us watch him hurt the other, but the memory I can’t get rid of is from the summer I turned 11.  He wanted me to choose whether he’d hurt S or me.  I couldn’t choose, so he held a gun to my head.  I wanted to tell him to hurt me because then S wouldn’t get hurt, but I was already in a lot of pain and didn’t think I could take anymore.  I chose S.  He made me watch him rape her, and I’ve never forgiven myself.  I know on a logical level that there was nothing I could’ve done, but I still feel like I should’ve saved her somehow.  In my mind, this is THE representation of my father’s abuse, and if I could’ve saved her in this one moment, it would’ve saved her completely.

 

With E, my youngest sister, who’s 6 years younger, the guilt is for not saving her from our mother’s verbal and emotional abuse.  When all three of us were living at home, I was the bad kid, S was the perfect kid, and E mostly got ignored.  When I left, E became the bad child, the focus of our mother’s rage.  My mother put her in a different high school every year, so her GPA was crap even though she was smart, and then my mother sent her to a wilderness “treatment program” because she didn’t accept the way our mother treated her.  E hasn’t told me much about what happened there, but what she has said sounds pretty horrific.  She wasn’t allowed to speak for the first 2 weeks, they took her asthma medication away, she got double pneumonia and was still forced to do a lot of physical activity outside in the winter.  One of the other kids there lost a toe to frostbite.  If I hadn’t left, I would’ve kept being the target.  I spent years shielding her from our mother’s abuse as much as possible, but then I left her there to deal with it all alone.

 

In both cases, I put my needs above theirs.  It’s human nature, the biological imperative for self-preservation, I know.  I would never judge someone else for doing those things, but the rules are different for me.  If I hadn’t prioritized my needs over theirs, they would’ve been safe.  I didn’t abuse either of them, but I feel like I’m not much better than our parents.  In both cases, I knew they’d both be abused, and I let it happen.  Yes, yes, I know I was only a child and probably couldn’t have stopped my parents from abusing them if they wanted to…but I was never really a child.  I had to be the grown-up in our family because my parents sure as hell weren’t being adults.

 

I feel guilty for putting my needs first, so I try not to have needs.  I have needs anyway, which fuels the guilt.  Then I feel even more like I shouldn’t have needs.  Round and round she goes; where she stops nobody knows.

 

And on top of all of that, now I’m a secret Republican!

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Wow.

Apparently my mother is getting married. In three weeks. And she wants me to come to Florida for the wedding.

 

If it were just her, I wouldn’t go. The woman is a pathological narcissist (diagnosed by the guy who started McLean’s trauma unit) who verbally, emotionally, and occasionally physically abused me for most of my life. There’s a very good reason why we live 1400 miles away from her.

 

But my sisters will be there. The middle one I haven’t seen in three years, and I haven’t seen my baby sister for 5 years. I miss them SO much. I checked prices for the train, and I could get a round-trip ticket for $300. It’ll really stretch my budget, but I think it’s doable.

 

I just don’t know if it’s going to make things worse for me and for parts inside. I have a whole group of alters who were created to deal with my mother, in a whole variety of responses. What if they get triggered and come out and I say something terrible?

 

When I’m around my mother or grandparents (who might also be there), my grip on reality goes away–I start thinking I really AM this horrible, manipulative, too-needy crazy person who’s faking everything for attention or so she doesn’t have to grow up and be self-reliant. I start thinking my mother was a good mother; I was just being crazy to think she was abusive.

 

I don’t want that to happen. I’m in a much better place emotionally than I was the last time I saw them, but I’m not sure I’m in a good enough place that I’d be okay. But I want to see my sisters so much. I don’t know what to do.

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Done.

I’m done.

 

Clearly my needs don’t matter, so I’m done having them.  I’m cancelling the GI appointment for Friday.  I’ll tell them I can’t make it.  It’s my body, and I can screw it up if I damn well want to.  Nobody else gets a say anymore.  If they can’t be bothered to show up and take me to appointments they made without my permission, then they don’t have a right to object to me canceling appointments.

 

I’m thinking about not showing up for my shift tomorrow either.  I don’t want to fucking deal with any of them.  In team meeting today, nurse kept asking if I forgave her.  I said yes even though I hated myself for it as it was coming out of my mouth.  I’m such a fucking pushover.  I can’t get mad at people.

 

So instead I’m just going to sabotage my own life.  It’s one of the very few things I’m good at, and I’ve been told you should use your talents.  Sabotaging and hating myself seem to be my only talents anymore, and I’m too fucking sick of myself to fight it anymore.  I don’t even fucking want to be alive.

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Can’t I Count on ANYONE?

So mad I can’t even think straight right now.

I was supposed to have an appointment with the GI NP this morning at 8:45, and the psych nurse from my team was supposed to take me. She made the appointment without even asking me first, which was already frustrating.

So she was supposed to pick me up at 8:30. At 8:25, I was outside waiting. I can’t stand up straight or the pain gets worse, but I was out there anyway. Oh, and it was raining, too. And I’m waiting…and waiting. Called her once; no answer. Called my team leader, but she doesn’t have a cell phone, so I had to leave a message on her office phone. Called nurse again; still no answer. Texted her; no answer. I waited out there in the rain for 25 minutes, and she never showed.

Then, of course, as soon as I went back inside, then she calls. She said she’d call the GI office and see if they could fit me in, and she’s coming to get me. On the way over there, the office calls me back. The only time they can fit me in is smack dab in the middle of our therapy session, which I now NEED to deal with the anger, since that’s supposedly better than throwing things at people. I told the receptionist I couldn’t make it then. The next appointment they have is Friday afternoon. I said I’d take it, but I’ll have to cancel if I can’t get a ride that will actually show the hell up.

Nurse was apologizing. Said she’d been up sick all night and totally forgot about the appointment. Well, guess what? I was up sick last night too. And the night before that, and the night before that, and the night before that. And yet I still managed to get up and dressed and out of the apartment on time. I’m sleep deprived and feel like crap too, but I set two alarm clocks ten minutes apart to make sure I’d get up. It’s not that goddamn hard.

I’m just really fucking sick of people not doing what they say they’ll do. It’s not like I like having to rely on people to take me places, but I can’t afford a car. And I’m supposed to trust that these people are gonna find me a place to live come January? Yeah fucking right. They’re just gonna cut and run like fucking everyone else, and I’m gonna end up living under a bridge. That’s what you get for trusting people. It was stupid to even think about trusting them. I thought I’d finally found people who were different but apparently I’m just an idiot. Nobody cares enough to make sure I’m taken care of. I don’t really matter to anybody in real life.

I’m just so far past fucking done.  I want to go to my kung fu and hit things, but I can’t stand up straight.

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