Also This

I know it's actually 4:35 am, rather than 3 am, but Sylvia Plath is still my favorite poet. Nobody else can nail my feelings quite like she manages to

Monologue at 3 am

Better that every fiber crack
and fury make head,
blood drenching vivid
couch, carpet, floor
and the snake-figured almanac
vouching you are
a million green counties from here,

than to sit mute, twitching so
under prickling stars,
with stare, with curse
blackening the time
goodbyes were said, trains let go,
and I, great magnanimous fool, thus wrenched from
my one kingdom.

~Sylvia Plath

Now I'll Follow My Own Way, And I'll Live On To Another Damn Day

Why a song? Because I'm too fucking busy being crushed by depression to actually post a blog.

Why this song? Because it fits right now.

Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to go lay in bed, stare at the ceiling, and reflect on what a horrible person I am until exhaustion overcomes me.



Kiss me while I'm still alive
Kill me while I kiss the sky
Let me die on my own terms
Let me live and let me learn
Now I'll follow my own way
And I'll live on to another damn day
Freedom carries sacrifice
Remember when this was...
My life

Demon 1, Bunny 0

I can't do this anymore.

I'm so tired. So. Fucking. Tired.

I'm sick of struggling with everything. Work. Money. My family. Trying to be strong for other people who need me when I don't even have it in me to be strong for myself.

I need a med adjustment. But I don't even think I can make myself call about it. I'm tired of fighting.

So tired.

I just want to curl up in bed and hide from the world and never come out again.

I have such a headache. Actually, my whole body aches, my heart included. I've been crying all day, basically, because of all these problems I have that are beyond my control.

I know there's a problem when I start debating the relative merits of driving my truck into guard rails, trees, etc. when I'm driving. And I noticed myself doing it today. Psychotic depression, here I come.

I lied when I said the demon wouldn't win. He doesn't have to be stronger than me or than modern medicine. He just has to be more persistent. He'll just wear me down in the end, anyway.

What's the fucking point?

I really don't see the fucking point.

I Wear My Crown Of Thorns Upon My Liar's Chair....

I might as well admit it. I've been depressed for two goddamn months, despite my best efforts at fighting it off. The intensity comes and goes, and I can even push it back for awhile...but it eventually comes back and hangs over my head like some kind of stalkerish storm cloud.

As I've said before, I'm so used to being balls-to-the-wall crazy that I'm still unfamiliar with the subtler shades of it. I haven't been able to figure out why I've been so tired--aside from being sick with what was most likely walking fucking pneumonia, picked up the day I took ChaosKitty to my doctor back at home, since both of us have it now. I haven't been able to figure out why every task seems daunting, why shit looks so bleak, why I feel like I'm standing at the end of a hallway, looking down a corridor that represents the rest of my life...and every single door on either side of that hallway, every day it represents, looks exactly the fucking same.

I try to tell myself that my whole life won't be like this, but I'm afraid it will be...because it's always been this way.

I understand why people kill themselves. It's because everything looks like it will be exactly the fucking same forever. And do you know what keeps me going? It's not the hope that tomorrow will be better. It's not the belief that something good has to happen to me eventually, after having being kicked in the teeth repeatedly my whole life.

No.

I live off all the anger and hurt and bitterness and resentfulness and pure fucking spite that's inside me. It feeds me and gives me the fuel I need to keep placing one foot in front of the other, even though I know nothing is ever going to change.

I live because I don't want to give any of these sonsofbitches the pleasure of thinking that they were the reason I killed myself.

That's it. That's all. That's the reason I'm still here.




Six years ago today, March 19th, I met the man who ruined my life.

I loved him. I worshipped him. I believed from the bottom of my heart that the man was second only to God himself and that there was something truly human and wonderful inside him.

And what did he do? He betrayed me. In the worst way possible.

He bled me dry and then stabbed me in the back when he was done with me. Two people whom I love more than life itself now think I'm a liar, a manipulator, a histrionic, self-centered, narcissistic bitch because he painted me that way to save his own ass.

The real story will never be known. Why? Because I'm the only one who'll ever tell it, and he thoroughly discredited me before I ever even knew the extent of the game he was playing.

How Machiavellian of him.

I didn't lose one person I loved. I didn't even lose two people I loved. I lost three of them, and nobody--NOBODY, goddammit--knows how I feel.

How I still cry if I have to think about it very long.

How I hate myself for allowing it all to happen.

How I revile myself for my shitty choices.

How I blame myself, though I know I'm far from being the only one to blame.

How I have let the whole experience convince me I'm a shitty fucking person.

How empty I feel inside.

How I feel that I've lost everything and all that remains is a shell of what was.

How much I still love them and would give anything just to see them--all 3 of them--again.




The other morning, when I woke up, I had an email from J. Spammers had hacked her account and started sending out emails. But for a brief moment, my heart caught in my throat, and I hoped for the tiniest second that maybe she had changed her mind about talking to me again.

I should've known better. I don't deserve to hear from her. What the fuck did I expect?

But, still, I wonder. Do they ever think of me?

Probably not.




God, there's so much I wish I could say. But I don't think I even have it in me to say it anymore.

I lost them all and my mind to boot. What more can I say?

I have nothing. NOTHING.

I'm not trying to be dramatic. It is what it is.

I loved. No, I still love. I am the only one who's left sitting in the wreckage. I'm the only one who gives a shit. Maybe I'm the only one who ever did.

And, yes, I'll continue on with my life, but it never stops hurting. Everything I ever loved is gone. And it's not just not coming back--it's veered off onto another path altogether. And I'm the only one who still holds on to it....

Regardless of what happened, regardless of how much I fucked up, regardless of how fucked up the whole goddamn situation was...I still love them. There was so much that I should've done. But I always had the best of intentions, and I never meant to hurt anyone. I'm just a fuck-up, is all.

But God knows I love them. I do. Even if he's the only one who knows.


You are someone else.

I am still...right here.

HAHAHAHAHA

Owwwww

I just burned the shit out of myself. On the stove. Like a retard.

I now have large white lines burned into the index and middle fingers on my left hand. And I'm typing like a monkey.

FML.

Losin' My Sight, Losin' My Mind....

ChaosKitty started a blog today. She took some old posts from another blog she was writing a couple of years ago and migrated them over to her new one, then wrote a brand-new post. I'm glad she's doing it because I know how much it helps you get better. It's no substitute for meds, mind you, but it helps, having a place that you can say what you need to say without fear of repercussions.

Anyway, she put up this post about being bipolar today, called Brain Dragons. It's certainly more insightful and poetic than anything *I* could've come up with, and I encourage you to follow her if you've come here looking for insight on being crazy, or if you're just curious about this person called ChaosKitty whom I talk about so much. You know...the one who leaves notes that make me smile on my bathroom mirror for me to find every morning (afternoon) when I get up for no other reason than because she wants to. (Today's was "Top Five Reasons Why Everyone Loves You.")

Anyway, I encourage you to read her Brain Dragons post, for sure, before you start reading this drivel I'm about to spew forth.


After reading her post about bipolar, I decided I'd stop whining about how much my life sucks for a minute to try to describe the way I experience it. Admittedly, it's very similar to ChaosKitty's description, but there are some differences. So, anyway, here goes.


A lot of people say that being crazy is just a part of you, but I don't think that's true. In fact, I think anybody who's been genuinely mentally ill, rather than just self-pitying and attention-seeking, will tell you that.

I told ChaosKitty once that I understood why they used to think that crazy people were possessed by the devil, back before they understood what mental illness was. I know that, technically, we crazies just have something in our brains that's defective, but it hardly feels that way.

To me, bipolar is a separate entity. In my head, there is Bunny, and then there's bipolar. It's not even Bunny's bipolar because that in some way insinuates that I allow it to be there, that I invited it there and don't mind the fact that it takes up residence like somebody's nosy old relative. There is Bunny, and there's the bipolar. They are separate entities, and they are always at odds with one another.

It's like I have a demon inside me. This demon is stealthy. He's crafty. He avoids capture. He does his best to keep others from knowing he's there at all. He takes control of my body and my mind and makes them do things; then in the aftermath, he runs into the shadows to hide and lets Bunny take the fall for whatever it is he did.

He rarely shows himself for what he is. He is adept at making it seem like Bunny is just an asshole or Bunny is self-destructive or Bunny is cruel and selfish and lazy. He knows how to hide and set Bunny up to be the fall girl for him.

And, worst of all, he fights all Bunny's attempts to control him. He fights to sustain himself, like a dying fire gasps for oxygen from all corners and roars back to life at the first gust of wind. He tells Bunny things like, "You'll always feel this way," or "There's no point in taking your medicine because it won't help you," or "They're all out to get you, so don't trust any of them."

And he is perfectly willing to destroy Bunny in order to live himself.

Don't think for a moment he's dead. He's not. He's locked pretty safely away, but he could get crafty and burst free at any time. So if I sometimes act as if I'm living on borrowed time, it's because I am. But one way or another, I won't lose. I may not win, mind you...but he won't, either.

Short & To The Point

I saw my daddy today. He's not in as bad a shape as I was afraid. He went to the doctor, and, supposedly, his rib's not broken. You can tell he's having a hard time moving around, though.

In other news, I'm lonely as fuck. I know, it's stupid. But I am. I don't think anyone knows how I feel right now.

Just When I Thought It Couldn't Get Any Better

This day has been the clusterfuck from hell.

Yesterday, I went with ChaosKitty to Birmingham for her doctor's appointment. Neither of us slept a whole bunch the night before, so we both decided last night that we'd take medicine and go to bed early. She's sick with what I'm starting to get over, so we both clearly needed the rest. Ok, fine, right?

Well, this morning at 6 am, the goddamn smoke detector started beeping. Not going off like something was on fire, but beeping because the fucking battery was low. AT 6 AM. Of course, I had no 9-volt batteries in the house. So after listening to it for 30 minutes without being able to go back to sleep, I was seriously contemplating shooting the fucking thing.

Good sense prevailed, though, and I staggered sleepily into the kitchen to get something to stand on with the vague idea of putting the battery in the freezer for a little while, then sticking it back in the smoke detector, in hopes of squeezing enough juice out of it to shut it up until I could go out to get a replacement battery at a more reasonable hour. I grabbed a stool from the kitchen and climbed up on it, holding the wall for support.

Well, I managed to get up and get the battery out of the damn thing. It was the return trip that was less than pleasant.

As I was squatting down so I could step off the stool, it started to tip over on the uneven floor. I grabbed desperately for the door frame, but it wasn't enough to right myself. So I wound up falling off the damn thing, then landing on it and rolling off the side. I bruised and scratched myself up in several spots on my legs, and also managed to wrench both my left wrist and my already fucked up left ankle, which I still have a lot of trouble with due to a bad injury 15 years ago. Naturally, I began screaming every curse I could think of, which woke ChaosKitty up and scared the fuck out of her.

In the end, we ended up having to go out this morning at like 6:45 to Walgreen's to get a goddamn 9-volt battery that cost SEVEN DOLLARS for just one. I was so pissed.

We finally got it replaced, which shut the fucker up, and went back to bed. Naturally, at 9, right about the time we'd both gotten back to sleep good, the fucking pest control guy shows up. And bang on the door. And bang. And bang. And bang. AND BANG. Then, he tried to come in. Then, realizing that the latch had caught the door, he proceeded to BANG SOME MORE.

Look, dickface, if we didn't come to the door the first time you pounded like a goddamn creditor, we're not going to come the fiftieth time, either, so just FUCK OFF.

But, still, it gets better.

After deciding that I have walking pneumonia now, due to the achy chest, the unrelenting dry cough that doesn't go away, despite the cough drops and the cough medicine and the inhaler, and, most importantly, the fucking death rattle in my chest, I went out to lunch with ChaosKitty. Right after we came back, my mother called. Apparently, my daddy was hurt again today at work.

While he was unloading the trailer, a cabinet fell on him. A cabinet that was so big and heavy that he couldn't move it off of himself. Now, my daddy is NOT a small man. It took two of the people who worked at the place he was delivering to to get the fucking cabinet off of him.

He's on his way home now, but he thinks he has a broken rib and some damage to his kidneys. My mama tried to make him go to the doctor there, but he wants to wait til he gets back here. I hope he makes it home without puncturing a lung or something. :(

This has happened so many times, but this is the worst of all. I seriously think it's time someone talked to a lawyer because the company is aware of all these drivers getting hurt by these improperly loaded 700-pound cabinets, but they won't do anything. At the very least, someone needs to drop a call to OSHA.

It's just really fucking upsetting to me. I mean, he's my daddy, and he's not young anymore. He's 62. And, clearly, no one at that place he works at gives a shit one way or the other.

And THEN, I posted about it on Facebook and got several "We'll pray for him" comments. Not a "How is he?" or a "What happened?" or an "Is he ok?" or even an "Are you ok?" Just "We'll pray."

You know, I don't have a problem with people praying. What I DO have a problem with is using someone else's personal crisis as a way to make sure everyone knows you're a "good Christian." You obviously don't give a shit one way or another, or you'd have asked something. But nope. You just jumped up to say you'd pray and then went on about your merry little way, content in the fact that now everyone on Facebook knows you love Jesus.

Apparently, we missed all Jesus's rants about the Pharisees when we read the Bible, eh?

And, then, to top it all off, someone saw it on my Facebook and CALLED MY MOTHER about it. They couldn't be bothered to just, you know, ask me. Oh, no, they had to make a big production out of it. You know, to make sure everyone knows what good people they are.

I got SO angry. I hate when people use religion as a tool to make themselves look good. I mean, if my friends prayed for me and my daddy, I'd appreciate that. But when it's people I never even talk to because they only added me on Facebook to be all up in my business since I was the only one in town who had the audacity to leave and never come back? Fuck you.

So I ended up purging everyone from that shithole of a town from my friends list except for the 3-4 of them I still talk to periodically. And now I feel so much better.

Like I said, I'm done with drama and bullshit. I'm cutting it out of my life.

That being said, if anyone who actually does give a shit about me would like to remember me and my daddy to the big JC, I would certainly not be averse to it. Just don't be a dickbag about it.

Aaaand now the Internet's gone out. I guess I'll post this tomorrow when it's back up, then.

I Think I'm Dying

Oh, God, I'm so sick. I don't know why or what happened. I just woke up a few days ago all congested and shit. And it comes and goes in waves. I've been popping this Advil Congestion shit every 3-4 hours, and that keeps it down some.

But ChaosKitty washed the sheets and the towels earlier, and I was putting my sheets back on my bed just a few minutes ago, so I could go to sleep soon. And I barely got halfway finished making the bed up before I was so overcome with exhaustion and nausea that I had to sit down. ChaosKitty had to come help me get it done.

Now, I'm having chills and hating life. Fuck this stupid plague I have. *Angry face*

Status Update From The Crazy House

Well, we're still barely holding it down over here.

It turns out that the Symbyax the doctor gave ChaosKitty is both helping and hurting. See, Symbyax is a combo drug. It's got an antidepressant (Prozac) and an antipsychotic (Zyprexa) both in one pill. The doctor gave her this because she had samples of it, and she didn't have samples of just plain Zyprexa. And, even though Zyprexa is generic now, we're still talking about $250 for a month's supply of them.

So the doctor gave her these Symbyax samples. The Zyprexa in them is helping her sleep and calming her brain down...but the Prozac is making her have panic attacks in the daytime. Add that to the fact that we really don't have enough of them to keep her steady until her psychiatrist's appointment. The doctor gave us a two week's supply over a week ago, and it's still going to be another two and a half weeks until she sees the psychiatrist. So we're having to ration them heavily, and it's just not going as well as it could.

She does have another psychologist's appointment in Birmingham on Monday afternoon, though. That should help a little, just having someone to talk to about it.

She's not going to be able to move right this second, but hopefully within the next couple of weeks. We'll see.

As for me, I'm losing my mind trying to help her. I'm also about to start, which always makes me go a little nuts. So I'll be glad when she gets to the psychiatrist and then gets on a patient assistance program of some sort to get her drugs. After that, maybe I can worry about getting my own head on straight again.