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Month: December 2010

she’s a jar with a heavy lid

she’s a jar with a heavy lid

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It’s frightening, sometimes, when you realize how you actually think about yourself. For instance; I will often joke about how Hannibal Lecter (from the Thomas Harris books) is my ideal man. I mean, if I had to choose a man, I would like someone like him – smart, witty, rich, cultured, good taste in music, interest in fine dining, loves travel – though I’d rather not have a man at all. In the end, though, it really is a joke. Why? Because when I watch the movies or read the books, I’m not thinking about how I’d like to be with Hannibal, no, I’m thinking about how we’re very alike in certain ways. (Oh, I do eat people, just not physically.) It has occurred to me more than once that I’m like Hannibal searching for my Clarice Starling, when it comes to love. (Book version, not movie!)

That probably sounds hilarious until you realize what I truly think about myself. I hate myself. I view myself as a monster of sorts, incapable of truly comprehending proper human emotion. Because what I live through cannot be normal human emotion. The species would not have survived this long if it were. I see every day the scars most people never see. I see the blood, the medications, the way my attitudes and perceptions of things change at a moment’s notice. It can be terrifying, if I’m sane enough to look at myself and see what I’m doing.

Is it any wonder, then, that I would try to destroy myself? Destroy this monster I perceive? Cut the demons out from  my blood? I shouldn’t think so, especially when you take into consideration that I’m deeply religious and have an overwhelming urge to make the world a better place in any way I can. It’s just a funny irony that I see myself as one of the worst things out there.

another tea party for one

another tea party for one

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A curious thought this morning:

There are only two things in this world which do not despair. The first is the sun. What is the second?

And, you know? I can’t figure out the second. Obviously it can’t be the sky as it turns dark or grey, or the clouds with their tears. The earth violently cuts itself open. The stars are cold and distant. Trees abandon all life and colour. Flowers wilt, the moon wanes, art is impersonal, water goes down, music breaks your heart.

I honestly can’t think of something that doesn’t seem disastrously sad at some point in its life cycle. And I’m sick enough to find that somewhat of a comfort.

another bloody saucer?

another bloody saucer?

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Have you ever wondered what it might be like to have to live with your death sentence on your sleeve?

Odd question, isn’t it? Where does it come from? I just showed my roommate the movie RENT for her first time. We both completely sobbed through the second half of it. Yes, even me the “heartless” one. (For I have been repeatedly accused of being such to such a point where I joke about it now.) And although I am blessed not to have a disease that guarantees death, like AIDS which the characters in the movie had, I still really end up thinking after a film like that.

The one song that really always gets me in the softest spot is the one where they sing:

Will I lose my dignity
Will someone care
Will I wake tomorrow
From this nightmare

Besides the fact that it’s rather musically profound-  which always gets me as a former music student – I find that those are words that could come out of my mouth. And it’s so hard. So hard.

Will I lose my dignity? Have I already, by coming out about my condition and getting treatment? Have I shown weakness by letting myself cry when I’m sad and cut when I hurt and scream when I’m angry? Why is it so wrong to be human? Why can’t I be flawed just like everybody else?

Will someone care? When I cut myself, who notices? Who sees the new scars? Who tries to do something about it? When I finally kill myself, who’ll be at my funeral? My parents? My siblings? My roommate? Camp “friends” who’ve never bothered to try to know me? My ex who denied we ever had a relationship so I denied our friendship? The girls of my ranger unit? Or will they all forget me in a year? Haven’t I always been so easy to let go of? Haven’t I done that on purpose?

Will I wake tomorrow, from this nightmare? Will this disease never leave me alone? Will I ever find that magical combination of pills that makes me “normal”? Why me? Why have the gods chosen me for this fate? Have I not been a good girl all my life?

Nothing is guaranteed in this life except pain. We will all bleed at some point. The question becomes how much does it mean to you?

another spoon of sugar

another spoon of sugar

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First, read this touching article about understanding illness: the Spoon Theory. It’s on a Lupus site, but the author is very right in saying that the same idea applies to a lot of invisible illnesses.

Also, there’s this blog entry about invalidation which dear Karifish sent me to read.

That second one reminds me badly of the time one of my closest friends (at the time, I’ve since cut off that friendship) told me that my suicidal feelings could wait. “Not now, it can wait ’til morning.”

I drank myself unconscious that night. I don’t really remember much of it. But the pills I’d been intending to take were still on my counter that morning when I awoke. I barely noticed the hangover. I wake up dizzy, nauseous and sore far too often to know the difference anyway.

Is there any wonder I don’t trust people? Really? When close friends tell me what I’m feeling is unimportant? She was not the first nor the last one to do so, either.

milk tea & cookies for Santa

milk tea & cookies for Santa

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Dear Santa Claus;

This Christmas – do I have to say Christmas or will you respond to pagan holidays, too? Anyway.  I’d like a little peace of mind. I mean, I know it’s a busy time of year for you and you’re probably super stressed out too, but if you could find just a little bit to send my way…? It would mean far more to me than an iPad or a laptop or a -insert other useless fancy toy- or even the stand mixer I’ve been bugging my mum about. I just want to be okay.

I’m not asking you to find me a reason to live, just the endurance to find the strength I need to find my own. I’m not asking you to solve all my problems, just to give me the patience to see them through. I’m not asking for cure, just the ability to cope.

If you don’t have peace of mind in your magic bag for me, mr Claus, how about a little rent money? But you have to promise me you’ll give an equal amount to charity. Preferably one that supports either children or mental health.

Thank you, mr Claus, for your consideration. I will leave you a selection of some of my favourite cookies and tea with milk on the table near the tree for you.

love,
nutmeg

pass the scones?

pass the scones?

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Saw Dr. A today. He witnessed first hand some of the joy which is my trembling hands/weak muscles and decided to lower my lithium down 300 mg again to see if that helps with it. He’s also going to try to get me into the Royal Ottawa Hospital’s outpatient program, whereby I would see a psychiatrist on a regular basis. This is a good thing. I think. He’s also asked me to try and get involved with the Mood Disorder support group that’s run out of the RHO/with them/something. This makes me a lot more nervous. How can I talk to strangers about things I don’t even want to tell my closest friends?

On the plus side, I’ve now spoken to both a pharmacist and Dr. A about the nsaids and their affect on lithium. Both said Advil once or twice a day for pain shouldn’t be too bad. Especially since we are monitoring my blood levels and my lithium tends to be on the low end of medicinal. But there was another blood test today (yey more holes in my body) so we’ll see if the shaking is from poisoning or just regular side effect.

I just don’t know. Nothing really seems to help anymore. Can I just quit now? Please?

lemongrass with a touch of gin…ger

lemongrass with a touch of gin…ger

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It’s funny, but no matter how many times the bloodwork comes back good I’m still convinced that I’m slowly dying. I certainly feel like it this morning (and far too many mornings, I feel). If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was badly hungover. But I know better. a) I’ve never had more than a headache for a hangover in my life b) I haven’t touched alcohol in quite a while.

Why don’t I do alcohol? Well, partly because my meds tell me not to but mostly because an addictive personality is one of the fun possible side effects of being bipolar…

An addictive personality refers to a particular set of personality traits that make an individual predisposed to addictions. Addictions are characterized by a physical or psychological dependency that negatively impacts the quality of life of the person. They are frequently connected with substance abuse, but people with addictive personalities are also highly at risk of becoming addicted to gambling, food, exercise, work, and even relationships (codependency) . People engaged in addictive behaviour tend to plan their lives around it .

(Wikipedia)

I know I have a caffeine addiction. I’ve had alcohol addictions in past. I suspect I have an addiction to self-harm, but I’m not quite ready to face that one yet. (“Can’t sleep, not bleeding” has become far too frequent a thought…) I’m definitely guilty of people/relationship addictions, but those ones always end horribly. (Not surprising, though.) And the shopping addiction is just… not good. Maybe if I had a job and no other expenses, it might be okay. Maybe. Probably not.

Music is a huge addiction for me – I own over 500 CDs – as are DVDs – over 200 – but I’ve been very good to keep myself away from those temptations for the most part, as I know I can easily spend $100 in one blow. Books are just as bad for me.

As I sit here with my morning cuppa, let’s get back to the caffeine addiction which causes headaches if it is not fulfilled. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to keep caffeine to a minimum with my meds, but it just ain’t gonna happen with me. I mean look at the name of this blog.

Sometimes I can be really bad for me. Often, to be fair.

the spoon goes on the right

the spoon goes on the right

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This isn’t right, you know, what I’m doing to myself. Not with the amount of drugs I’m on.

There are some who believe I stopped cutting, after the incident this summer that caused me to end a rather crucial friendship of mine. I didn’t. I just stopped talking about it. It’s actually worse than ever.

I used to have someone I could talk to when I was feeling suicidal and would tell me “not now”. But at least I had that one person I felt I could go to.  What she did to me, her betrayal of my trust, has caused my introvert to come out seriously. I don’t trust anyone anymore. Which has lead to my burst of honesty. No one can betray me if I have no secrets, right?

I hate my life and I want to die. Every good thing in it seems to go sour as soon as I touch it. I want to die.

I can’t even escape to sleep to hide away from it. Fucking insomnia. Fucking life. Fuck me.