I’m Still Here

For now, at least.  I’m just tired of talking.  It doesn’t seem to get me anywhere; it just leaves me feeling more alone and hopeless.

Everyone wants to tell me I should live, and honestly, I just can’t take hearing it anymore.  That probably makes me an asshole, but I guess that doesn’t really matter anymore.  Maybe you’re seeing who I really am now, when I can’t keep up appearances anymore.  Maybe you’ll hate me.  Maybe it’ll make you understand why I can’t live.

I’m tired of people trying to fix me and solve my problems.  I’m pretty damn smart, okay?  And I’m pretty damn resourceful.  If there were resources to be found, solutions to be invented, I would’ve figured them out already.  I’m tired of being polite when people suggest the same things over and over.  Yes, I’m on disability and food stamps and Medicare and Medicaid, I’ve applied for energy assistance, I’m on the waiting list for housing, I’ve been to the food banks, I’ve tried the buses, I can’t afford paratransit.  I’ve tried forums and self-help books and support groups and CBT and DBT and EMDR and psychoanalysis and ECT and the Department of Mental Health and Community-Based Flexible Support.  I’ve been to respite, the ER, more psych units than I can count, two trauma units.  I’ve gone to church and prayed and mediated and done yoga and changed my diet.  I’ve been on antidepressants, anxiolytics, mood stabilizers, stimulants, and anti-psychotics.  I’ve taken 5-ASA’s and steroids and chemo and immunosuppressants and biologics.  I’ve consulted psychiatrists and chiropractors and reiki masters and neurosurgeons and physical therapists and acupuncturists and gastroenterologists.

Nothing helps enough to make my life survivable.

You can’t fix me because I’m too many problems to solve.  It’s depression and complex PTSD and DID.  It’s ulcerative colitis and hearing loss and brain surgery and mobility impairment.  It’s disability and isolation and poverty.

And you can’t solve just one because they’re just a big knotted mess.  You can’t untangle one thread from another; they’re all felted together now, and there’s no extricating them.  And nobody can fix the whole big mess.  Not even me.  I did everything I was supposed to do.  I tried so hard for so long, and things just get worse.  Now, I just can’t try anymore.

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Surrealism and Detachment

I talk to my mother on the phone.

Even that’s surreal, after several years of no contact.  She’s changed.  All my life, she expected me and my sisters to meet all her emotional needs.  Now she’s married, and she has someone age-appropriate to meet her needs.  She’s not as crazy anymore, not in the harmful ways she used to be, and I can talk to her without getting sucked into the crazy demands.  I still don’t trust her.  I know she’ll never acknowledge the harm she did to me for most of my life, but I also like feeling like I finally have a mother.  She hasn’t said anything cruel or manipulative in the year or so since we started talking again.  But it’s like she’s both my mother and not my mother simultaneously, on a number of levels, and that’s surreal.

She tells me my uncle, her brother, just sold his computer security company to Raytheon for $420 million.  I literally had to write that down because my brain couldn’t translate how many zeroes that was.  I can’t relate to that amount on money.  Right now, I have $7 to last me the rest of the month.  I only bought four rolls of toilet paper because I couldn’t afford any more than that.  I don’t think I’ll have enough money to pay December’s rent, and my power and heat bills are overdue.

But my uncle just sold his company for $420 million.  That’s $420,000,000, in case any of you also can’t conceptualize that many zeroes without seeing it.

He worked hard, and I don’t begrudge him his success.  But certainly the law of diminishing returns kicks in at some point, right?  I can’t even comprehend what you would do with that much money.  To put it in perspective, that’s more than three times the annual budget for the National Endowment for the Arts.  It’s surreal.  I don’t even really know him anymore, but even if I did, I don’t think I could ask him for it.  But it’s bizarre, realizing that a man with whom I share 21.9% of my DNA (yes, that’s an exact and oddly specific figure) has $420,000,000 and I don’t know how I’m going to pay $400 in rent.  How can that even be real?

My mother keeps saying how much she’s looking forward to seeing me for Christmas.  I tell her I’m excited about the trip too, but I’m detached.  I really don’t believe I’m going to live that long.  Three weeks, but I don’t think I can make it.  I think I will probably kill myself when I can’t pay my rent.  But I tell her I’m looking forward to it because I can’t exactly tell my mother I’m probably going to be dead before then.

Everything feels surreal, and I feel like I have no attachment to anyone or anything, like a helium balloon floating away.

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Sick (of It)

I saw my gastroenterologist today.  I seriously love this guy–he’s the best doctor I’ve ever had.  He listens, he actually cares, and he works hard to find solutions.  I wish I could clone him for various specialties and just see clones of him with different specific knowledge sets.

(Admittedly, I also like him because he rants, so we’re kinda kindred souls there.  Today he ranted, without my even saying anything, about how poorly they treated me in the ER when I was there most recently, the debacle with the antibiotics that left me literally full of shit to the point of severe pain.)

He’s really concerned about the fatigue and weakness too.  I was afraid he was just going to blow me off since my labs all came back normal–god knows I’ve had plenty of doctors do that to me.  But he didn’t!  I cannot even describe the sense of relief there.  He didn’t just think I was a depressed hypochondriac!  I mean, that’s how all doctors should treat their patients, but sadly it’s very, very rare, especially if you have a history of mental illness.

In true House, M.D. fashion, he ruled out lupus and similar autoimmune diseases.  I made the joke, “Come on, Dr. House, it’s never lupus,” and he got it, so more gold stars in my book.  My sed rate and CRP (markers of inflammation) aren’t elevated, so it’s not likely to be another autoimmune disease, although he did say that it’s still possible we’re getting a false negative because I’m on immunosuppressants and steroids.

There are several possibilities he mentioned.  He seems to think there’s a strong chance that the 6-MP is causing this, but he’s not sure.  We lowered my dose the last time I saw him, 6 weeks ago, but I didn’t get any significant improvement.  But he mentioned possibly taking me off it altogether, which makes me nervous.  The combination of Humira and 6-MP is the only thing that’s gotten my UC under any sort of control, and I’m afraid I’ll get really sick again if I have to go off it.  To his credit, though, he totally understands that and is concerned about the same thing.

He also thinks it might be somehow related to my MTHFR polymorphism (aka the motherfucker gene).  For those of you who aren’t familiar with that, I have a genetic mutation that makes my body incapable of breaking down folic acid, which can cause problems from heart defects to depression.  My gastroenterologist was actually familiar with it because it also increases the risk of colon cancer, which is just awesome for me.  He said he’d need to do more research on that.  It’s still relatively unknown, and there’s not a lot out there from valid medical sources.

There’s also a small chance that this is somehow a result of my brain surgery, although that’s highly unlikely.  I was diagnosed with an arteriovenous malformation in the left frontal lobe of my brain when I was 17, after over a year of worsening neurological symptoms that got blown off because I was mentally ill and therefore assumed to be attention-seeking.  (See why I’m excited when doctors don’t blow me off?)  This is unlikely to be the problem since it was surgically corrected when I was 18, and my three-year angiogram (the definitive test for AVM’s) was clear.  There’s a very slim chance that the surgery could’ve left scarring or something, but the frontal lobes are mostly associated with executive function and language skills, not motor skills.  And since they only operated on the left side, any weakness would be on the opposite side of the body; i.e., my right side.  My weakness is bilateral.

The other possibility is something neurological, and since it’s not his area of expertise, my gastroenterologist couldn’t really speculate as to what.  So he’s sending me to a neurologist.  He’s going to talk to my primary care doc and see if they can find someone good for me.

GI Doc: “I want to find a neurologist for you who’s genuinely interested.”
Me: “By that, do you mean not an asshole?”
GI Doc: “Exactly.”

I know I should see this as a chance to maybe get some answers about what’s going on with my body, and maybe even treatment that’ll help.  But mostly I just don’t want to go.  All the tests, the pain the fear…and I’ll probably just find out I have something else incurable.  I just can’t deal with having anything else wrong with me.  I feel way too broken already.

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No More Election=A Lot More Knitting

This is what I do with my time when I don’t have a campaign to work on.

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Baby sweater for a friend’s son; still needs ends sewn in and buttons added, but I think it’s pretty damn cute.  Fingering weight scrap yarn–I believe the darkest and lightest blues are two different colorways of Araucania Ranco, and I have no idea what the medium blue yarn is.

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This sock more or less speaks for itself.  The blue is tosh merino light; white is Valley Yarns Huntington (I think).

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Groovy sock.  Some self-striping yarn that has long since lost its label.  I think it might be Lion Brand Sock Ease, but don’t quote me on that.

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Current WIP: a modified Clapotis.  The pattern’s written for worsted-weight yarn, but I’m using a lace-weight that often behaves more like a fingering-weight, breaks WAY too often, and is a pain in the butt to unravel dropped stitches.  (Seriously, I have to ladder each stitch down row by row with a needle.  Huge pain in the ass, but there’s something oddly satisfying about unraveling something on purpose.  Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.)  The dropped stitches will look a lot less messy once it’s finished and blocked.  Yarn is Noro Taiyo Lace.

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I feel like the only way to make anyone in power notice how desperate I am and how much I need help is to die.

It won’t help me, of course; I’ll be dead.  But I keep thinking maybe it would be the tipping point so that The Powers That Be would have to notice what their lack of compassion and refusal to help is doing to poor people, disabled people, mentally ill people.  Maybe by dying, I’d finally make them notice and listen to me.  I obviously can’t accomplish anything while I’m alive, so maybe I can finally do something good by dying.  Maybe it’ll make someone listen.

But who am I kidding?  I’m not important enough for anyone in power to notice, let alone listen to.  When I die, I won’t even be a statistic.  I don’t even matter enough for that.

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On Anger and Helplessness

When I talk about my anger, I feel like people see me as someone who goes off on people, physically or verbally.  I don’t do that–mine is all directed internally.  I want to scream at people and pick fights, but I don’t.  It all just turns in on myself and makes me feel worthless and hopeless and suicidal.  If I had a foolproof way of ending it, I would.  But I don’t want to risk screwing it up and being “saved,” only to be abandoned again as soon as they decide I’m “okay.”

I don’t want to get rid of all the anger, either.  It’s the only thing that’s kept me alive this long–it’s a way of marking that a lot of terrible things happened to me, but the fact that they happened doesn’t mean they’re okay or I deserved it.  For a long, long time, I thought I never felt anger.  Nothing beyond mild frustration on occasion.  But I was slowly killing myself with my self-harm and eating disorder, and if that’s not the personification of rage turned inward, I don’t know what is.  I really believe that finally being able to get angry at the people and events that had driven me to believe I needed to annihilate myself was what saved me.  I could finally see that what they’d done to me wasn’t okay, and I could turn around and say, “No, it’s you I’m angry at, not myself.”  I could choose to stop destroying myself because I finally understood.

But now it’s different.  Now it’s not me destroying myself, and I can’t choose to change what’s happening to me.  The decisions and circumstances are, for the most part, out of my hands.  So I can recognize that it’s unfair and wrong, I can see that I don’t deserve to have my needs go unmet…but I can’t change it.  So all I’m left with is rage and the familiar desire to destroy myself.  Only this time I don’t want to do it piecemeal; I just want to get it over with and be done.  I just can’t live like this.  No one can really live like this.

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Angry All the Time

Lately, I’m noticing that I’m angry all the time.  I don’t like it.

I feel like I’m trapped in a life I don’t want and have little control over, no matter how hard I try.  I feel hopeless.  I feel abandoned because I’m not getting the kind of support I need.  I keep trying so hard to make my life work, but it feels like almost everything is beyond my control.

So I’m angry all the time.  I want to lash out at all the people who could be helping me but aren’t.  I want to make other people feel as hurt, powerless, and hopeless as I do.

I feel like a monster.

But the truth is I don’t really want to hurt people.  I want to be helped.  I want to connect.  But I don’t know how anymore because all my efforts have failed, so I end up angry and bitter, wanting to lash out and pick fights and hurt people.

I feel so stuck, and the world around me is just getting darker and darker.  Is there any help for me?

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Dis-integrated

C wants me to have a sit-down with my landlady and my roommate.  It makes perfect sense, except…well, I don’t know if I can.

I’m in PTSD hell, and I just can’t deal with anything else right now.  It’s too many triggers all at once–the bar thing last weekend and now this bullshit drama.  And I have nowhere to turn, no way to process any of it.

I know that if we have a meeting, one of two things will happen.  Possibility one: I will switch to a terrified child part who will just apologize and try to make nice or will freeze and shut down because she can’t handle conflict–it’ll all be about avoiding the abuse that comes with conflict.  (I know, the two aren’t always linked, but in this case, roommate has actually been verbally aggressive, even though it was indirect, so this fear is not invalid.)  The other possibility is that I’ll switch to the angry teenage part who will just want to verbally annihilate the roommate and is very well capable of it.  That would be the part who posted the gif post yesterday–the one who’s just like, “Bitch plz.  I am stronger and smarter and a whole lot goddamn scarier than you are, and if you wanna know what a REAL threat looks like, I’ll fucking show you.”

I know that, at this point, given my levels of stress, panic, and dissociation, I won’t be able to stay me without switching.  C asked me today which part of me could deal with the situation, and the truth is there’s nobody.  We’re triggered in different ways and by different aspects of the situation, but we’re all triggered.  That seems to be the way it usually works in my system–the boundaries between us are not rigid, so the responses to situations blur together too.  What affects one of us almost always affects all of us.

It’s times like these that I really need a therapist.  I need someone who can help me sort out the triggers and get all of us more grounded in the present.  I need to be able to integrate the child parts’ desire to be nice and not hurt roommate with the teenage part’s “I’m above this and you can’t hurt me with your stupid drama” sense of self-assurance.  I know they’re parts of me, and I can see them and feel their feelings, but I can’t integrate them into me, and I can’t manage to stay present when I even hear or think about the roommate, so I know I won’t be able to if we sit down face to face.

I know what I need to be able to do to manage this meeting, but I have no idea how to get there.  It feels really hopeless and terrifying right now.

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Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

So apparently the roommate is also Facebook-stalking me.  I vented about the situation and made a snarky comment to the effect of, “If you hear a news story about someone in my town who murdered her roommate, that’ll be me.”  Roommate and I are NOT Facebook friends, but she texted me some bullshit about how that’s illegal and she was only talking about it because her mom thought the apartment was gross.

BITCH PLEASE.

I used to do legal research for a defense attorney, so do you really want to get in a law fight with me?  REALLY?  Please, do call the cops.  I’d LOVE to see them laugh their asses off at you.
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See, it’s not actually a crime unless I actually intended to murder you or I intended to intimidate you.

Clearly I didn’t actually intend to murder you.  I mean, please, go through my Facebook and count up all the other people I’ve said I wanted to kill.  It ranges from members of Congress to my immediate family to people who walk on my side of the sidewalk.  All those people are still alive.  See, for it to be a crime, there has to be both mens rea (“the thought of the thing;” basically, intent to commit a crime) and actus reus (“the act of the thing,” or an actual criminal act).  I definitely didn’t have actus reus, and I could probably argue successfully that I didn’t even have mens rea, since I never actually intended to hurt you or anyone else.  I could also name off the top of my head at least a dozen people who’d testify to the fact that I’ve said in person that I wanted to/was going to kill them but who didn’t feel threatened.  Obviously they’re all still alive too.
nothowitworks

As for intimidation, you’d have a hell of a time proving that one in court, too.  My Facebook post was public, yes, but since we’re not Facebook friends and you’ve never mentioned your Facebook usage to me, I had no reason to believe that you’d see it.  See, I don’t feel the need to check up on what people I’m not Facebook friends with me are saying about me.  That’s normal.  Facebook-stalking your roommate isn’t.

I vented on Facebook specifically because I didn’t think you’d see it.  Unlike you, I have some basic consideration of other people’s feelings, even when they aren’t people I actually like.  If I’m not going to talk to them directly about what they’re doing that’s bothering me, I don’t pull passive-aggressive bullshit and scream about it where they can obviously hear it.  I deal with my frustrations in venues where I can reasonably assume that they won’t hear so as not to hurt their feelings while I deal with mine.  If you go searching for it, then that’s your fault.  It’s not my responsibility to protect you from unpleasant things you might discover while stalking someone.
fuckinnope
finger

I’m just so fucking far past done with this bullshit.  It takes a lot to get me really angry, but once I’m there…well, it’s not pretty.  I would never physically hurt anyone, but I can be pretty mean verbally.  It’s not a part of myself I like most of the time, but it is useful at times.  And once I’ve been pushed far enough that I no longer give a single fuck, which is where I am now…well, if she wants to start a fight, I’m goddamn well gonna finish it.

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soilooklikeicare

I have so many other appropriate gifs.  Maybe I’ll do a whole recap of this post using only West Wing gifs because that demonstrates exactly how many shits I give about this.

Actually, I’m bouncing back and forth between “LOL this is is so ridiculous it’s funny” and “It’s not safe and I have nowhere to go that is safe, so I have to kill myself right now.”  It’s lots of fun, lemme tell ya.

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Can’t Take It Anymore

I’m in a serious crisis.  My roommate is in the kitchen screaming about me to her mother, and it’s taking EVERYTHING that I’ve got in me not to just kill myself right now.  I need to pee, but I can’t even come out of my bedroom.  I’m afraid to be in my own house.  It’s so bad that the only way out I can see is to kill myself.  I know I’m not rational right now, and I’m really trying to stay in control, but I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to.

I’ve called and emailed C and asked her to get in touch with me as soon as humanly possible, but I don’t know if she’s even working today since it’s a holiday.  She doesn’t have a cell phone, and she doesn’t have internet at home–so if she’s not at work today, then she won’t get my messages until tomorrow.  I don’t think I can make it that long.  Even if she does call me, I can’t say very much because Roommate might overhear.

I also texted the landlady and told her I need to talk about the roommate situation ASAP, but I haven’t heard back from her yet either.  She’s probably working too.

I even left a message for my case manager, but she only works Wednesday through Sunday.  Besides, her answer is just going to be to hospitalize me, which won’t help.  I mean, it gets you away from the immediate situation, but then you get out and you’re right back in the same situation.

I don’t know what to do.  I’m seriously falling apart, and I don’t have anywhere else to turn.  Even if I thought a suicide hotline would answer, I’d be afraid to call because Roommate could hear me.

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