The Old Me's Dead & Gone...Dead & Gone

I've been struggling for awhile, as anyone who's been reading me probably already knows. Because of that, I've been feeling pretty goddamn pessimistic about this whole "recovery" bit. Something happened yesterday, though, that's got me feeling a little better about it.

I should probably say that this week has been odd. Normally, I spend weeks in solitude, but after ChaosKitty left last week, I've had two different visitors. My friend L. (female) was here Monday, and my friend L. (male) was here yesterday. It felt nice, masquerading as a normal person who actually has friends.

Anyway, this little anecdote is from my visit with L. (male). He is probably my oldest friend; we went to high school together. He's literally the only person in my graduating class that I still keep in touch with. We hadn't seen each other in about 3 years, not because of anything in particular but because time, I guess, just slips away without us realizing it.

Another thing I should point out about L. before I launch into this is the fact that we were friends with benefits for years as well. It was never a planned sort of thing, but both of us liked to drink (a lot), and we'd often end up having sex before we passed out. We've also talked a lot about sex and sexual things. He claims I'm the only person in the world he can be completely honest with about shit. I believe it, too, because bitches are crazy and freak out about shit for no reason, and most men don't think they can talk about sex with other men. So yeah.

L. is pretty much an alcoholic. Functional, but an alcoholic nonetheless. But, as a veteran of the Marines who was in Iraq not once, not twice, but three times, he has demons of his own in the form of PTSD, and I'm certainly in no position to judge how other people deal with their personal demons.

So it pretty much goes without saying that there was the expectation of drinking and sex last night, two things that I have done my best to stay away from.

The drinking I've mostly got a handle on. I was never the kind of person who drank "to have more fun" or whatever bullshit reason that manic people give for binge drinking. My drinking habit was only for two reasons: to numb the soul-crushing despair of depression or mixed states, or to shut my dysphorically manic brain the hell up for a little while. Admittedly, I was never an alcoholic, but I did have a problem with bingeing when things got bad in my head, and that *wasn't* a healthy way of dealing with the problem. That's why I've tried to stop doing it.

I haven't set foot in a bar in nearly two years. It's been over a year since the last time I was drunk. Wellbutrin is metabolized by the liver. Because I have to eat the damn things every day and have no desire to die from liver failure, I hardly ever drink anymore. Lamictal put the final nail in the drinking coffin by completely changing the way alcohol affects me. Sometimes, I still crave the way clear liquor feels, seeping slowly through my veins and softening everything around me, but I have a good bit of it still in my house that I never touch. My taste for it has gone.

The sex thing, though...that's different. I've only been trying to conquer that for the last year or so. And, yes, it's true that I've managed to abstain. I haven't had actual sex since late 2010, and I haven't had even so much as a kiss for nearly a year at this point. But that's not a testament of my strong willpower so much as it is of my ability to keep myself isolated from the world. I knew that, even though I was trying to break the old habit, if I were in a situation where someone pushed me, I would just give in. So in the way that alcoholics and drug addicts have to stay away from users while trying to get clean, I had to stay the hell away from men who wanted to fuck me.

One thing I could never make anyone understand about the sex thing is that it was rarely about sex at all for me. It was more about the desire to feel human, at least for a little while. That was probably one of the reasons I kept delving deeper and deeper and deeper into masochistic sex, too--the more of the same thing I got, the more intense it had to be in order to produce the same effect. So regardless of how shitty I felt about myself *after* doing it, the act of fucking felt more real to me in my altered state of mind than nearly anything else.

When it was with random people, it was more about the need to feel alive than the need to have some dude put his dick in me. With people I loved, it was more about the need to feel intimacy, to have an excuse to wrap myself around someone and be as physically close to them as possible for a brief period of time. Sexual arousal and the compulsion--and, yes, it was a compulsion--to fuck were symptoms, not the problem.

I never initiated sex. I never went to anyone and was like, "Hey, wanna fuck?" I didn't have to. They would initiate without any hinting from me, and I would go along with it because I felt like I had to. I wanted to please the person who wanted to fuck me, and I wanted to quiet the demon inside for a brief and shining moment. Even if I knew it was a shitty idea. Even if I knew I would feel horrible after it was done. Even if I initially resisted and eventually gave in because they kept pushing.

It was never done with the intention to hurt anyone. It was never a malicious act. It was an act of desperation, and one no one else will ever understand unless they've been driven there themselves by their own personal demons.

I'm not saying this for sympathy, mind you, or to make excuses for my own shitty decisions. I'm just trying to provide a little background to illustrate why what happened last night was a victory.

Anyway, L. and I hung out all night. He bought a case of beer for himself and brought some apple pie moonshine for me, since he mentioned that he had some the other day, and I'd said I'd never heard of it. I poured about a finger into a highball glass and sipped on it for maybe an hour. It was excellent, actually, and despite the fact that Lamictal has made me lose my taste for alcohol, I would've liked to have had more. I didn't, though, despite the fact that I was depressed as shit before he showed up. In the old days, that would've been more than enough reason to get absolutely shitfaced...but I didn't.

The night progressed. We watched Dexter; I'd never seen it before, but he brought it on DVD because it's, like, his favorite show, and he wanted to share it, apparently. It wasn't nearly as bad as what passes for TV nowadays, so I was entertained. He got drunk. I finished my 2 oz. of liquor and went back to drinking Powerade. (I pretty much have a Powerade in my hand anytime I'm awake because I have problems with electrolyte balance.) He got drunker, and we got hungry. So I drove his mud-riding truck to Taco Bell and back. We ate. He drank more. I didn't. He told me about a whole bunch of things we did a long time ago that I don't remember. I don't doubt his word; I just hate the fact that the crazy has taken so much of my memory.

Around 4 am, he came to sit down on the couch next to me. He was pretty freaking drunk and clearly wanting to fuck, hugging me and giving me back massages and so forth. I could've given in. In fact, the desire to do so was pretty big. It wasn't that I wanted to fuck him. I just wanted to take some of the depression away for a little while. You could've exchanged him for nearly any man in the world, and I'd have had the same reaction.

But you know what?

I didn't do it.

I didn't give in to the old compulsions.

Would I have done it if he had been less of the gentleman that he's always been and pushed the issue? Maybe. Probably. I don't know. I had to wrestle with myself as it was. The desire to just let my mind melt away underneath a man was strong--very strong.

But I don't know if the desire was weaker than it used to be or if I am just stronger than I was before because I went to bed alone, without so much as a kiss or a touch passing between us.

Don't think it was easy. Even after I went to bed, I thought seriously about going back out there and letting it happen. But I didn't.

It's not fair to use someone else to silence my own demons, even if that someone else is my oldest friend who understands completely and is totally willing to be used in such a way.

It's not healthy for me to use sex as a way to feel something that's not despair.

So I didn't. I had to fight with myself not to do it, but in the end, I fucking didn't do it, and I'm goddamn proud of that fact.

Two things that I have used as my biggest crutches in the past--sex and booze--stared me right in the face last night in the midst of a pretty bad depression, and I stared them down. I looked the demons right in the eye and said, "Fuck you." Then, I walked away.

It might not be much of a victory for other people, but it is for me. Why? Because, especially lately, I have been feeling like there's no point in fighting these demons, that they're stronger than I am, or, at least, that they have more stamina. But even in the throes of a pretty serious depression, I was able to resist the things I used to throw myself into headlong to make the depression ease for just a moment.

I used to labor under the delusion that, with the right meds, the compulsions would go away. But guess what. They don't. You still have to fight that shit tooth and nail. But, somehow, I feel a little more able to resist them.

And, right now, that's enough to give me hope and give me a reason to keep fighting.


The old me's dead and gone...but the new me'll be all right....

On The Art Of Non-Monogamy

This particular topic has been in my head for awhile now. I'm just taking the time today to sit down and write it out.

I find it curious the sorts of baggage people seem attach to those of us who aren't monogamous. Actually, I should be more specific. I should say the sorts of baggage they seem to attach to those of us who are genuinely polyamorous. Cheaters, swingers, and the "I'm gonna pretend to be poly so I can rope you into a relationship, then alienate everyone else you're with so that you're only with me, then when I have you trapped, I'm going to tell you that I'm not ok with you being poly anymore" people don't count.

I understand that it's a world view that's completely opposite that of most people. But what I don't understand is the refusal to believe that it's, y'know, real.

People seem to think that you're only doing it because you can't do any better. "Oh, that poor girl, look what she puts up with because she can't find a man of her own."

Or, alternatively, they think that you're doing it because you just haven't found the right one yet. "Oh, honey, when you find the right one, you won't want to share him."

That would be like me saying that all monogamous people are just selfish 2-year-olds who have to have everything to themselves. It's not true, and it's goddamn insulting to boot.

Yes, some monogamous people are crazy, jealous, selfish people. But let's be real, some poly people are, too. *Shrug*

I have been this way for as long as I can remember. Perhaps there's a tinge of narcissism involved. (Ok, perhaps more than a tinge.) I want lots of people to love me! But the reverse is also true: I want to cover lots of people in my love as well. I want the people who love me to have other people they love as well. Please. Get a girlfriend. For God's sake. I don't want to have to put up with you 24/7.

Maybe it's because I never had what someone would call a "real" family or whatever, so I have dreams (delusions) of Frankensteining one together myself. I don't know. Maybe I just really like being the center of attention. Maybe I love the idea of making other people the center of attention as well. I have no idea.

What I do know is this. I've always been this way, and it's not going to change. One of the biggest reasons that I don't want to get married is that I could only marry one person at a time. I think that's horrible. I mean, say I'm in relationships with two or three people. What am I supposed to do? "Ok, well, George, you've been here the longest, so I reckon it's gonna be you." How awful is that to the other people who share the same kind of love with me that the hypothetical George does?

While I personally don't think being married affords you a different relationship than being unmarried, I know other people do. And I would never want to set up a situation where it looked like one person was more important to me than another. That's hateful. So if I know this is what I want for the rest of my life, then it's only right to ensure that my relationships can all be on equal footing.

I don't know. I understand that people don't get it. But for God's sake, please stop trying to cram your sanctimonious monogamous bullshit down my throat. Kthanxbi.

Thoughts On Writing

I should be working.

But considering that I'm only about 36 hours out of praying for death to take me swiftly--and still not able to sit up for terribly long at a time--the clients may just have to fuck off for one more day. It won't hurt them.

Also the neighbors' kids playing basketball practically under my damned bedroom window does not help with my concentration in the least.

And so I write here, instead.


I wasn't able to do shit but wallow in misery Sunday, but most of yesterday I laid in bed and read. I have found myself reading Rick Bragg again. I was first introduced to his work in my Literature of the South class in Spring 2006, my last semester of undergrad. Our instructor in that class had gone to high school with Bragg, and she always included his work in her syllabus for both that class and the Alabama Literature class I was (unfortunately) never able to take. Also unfortunately, he usually was able to come and speak to her classes after they'd read his book(s), but that particular semester he was out of the country, I think (dammit).

So instead of wallowing in misery, I have been wallowing in the thick, rich prose of Rick Bragg. And what a pleasant wallow....


Unfortunately, it also has led me to thinking more about how I need to use the only talent God ever gave me for something other than porn ads. Not that I wasn't already thinking that, of course, but reading Bragg has only made me feel that way more.

Too bad I'm no good at fiction, at poetry, at comedy, or at damn near anything else.

No, Death Has Not Yet Come...Unfortunately

I was sick with a stomach virus yesterday afternoon and on into the wee hours of the morning today. I'm still not able to sit up for very long, but this time yesterday, I was praying for death, so I'd say this is an improvement.

One thing about being deathly ill--you're too weak to do anything, but you're too sick to sleep, so you're held prisoner to your thoughts. A captive audience, as it were. So you can't do anything but lie there and let the thoughts come. And delirium has a way of altering a lot of your thought processes.

Yes, I will be blogging about some of these things later. But for now, I'm going back to bed because I've used up my "sitting unassisted" time for the evening.

More Of The Same

I am trapped in a life I don't want.

I never wanted it.

I didn't ask to be here. Why the fuck am I saddled with this 24/7, day in, day out, ceaselessly?

Nothing ever changes. I'm sick. I'm tired. I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.

And it all comes down to this:

No matter how hard you try, no matter how hard you fight, the same demons always come back to you. Every time.

So why even try anymore?

Nobody would give a fuck if I were around or not.

I doubt they'd even notice.

I am so alone.

So, so alone.

The Truth

I found this on Facebook. I feel like it should be required reading for...everyone.

In Which Bunny Sees How Many Shitty Historical References She Can Fit Into One Post

It's amazing how quickly the demon takes over without my even realizing it.

You may have noticed in my last posts that I was more than "somewhat depressed," like I was claiming to be. I was just about to tip over into flat-out psychotic depression when I finally said, "Fuck this shit."

Two days of taking two Wellbutrin instead of one in the morning, and it's like somebody turned a goddamn light switch off. Fuck me, I can see in color again.

The demon is insidious. He sneaks up on me, and I don't realize how much control he has over me because he takes it little by little. If he snatched it all away at once, I'd notice it. But he's a cunning little bastard.

Luckily, with a little pharmaceutical assistance, I have gone from this:

To this:

Bunneh: Slayer of demons.


It's taught me something, though. The demon can't just be locked into some Cold War-era nuclear bunker and forgotten about. He has to be watched at all times to make sure he hasn't figured out how to burrow underground and infest everything he comes into contact with.

Crazy isn't something that can be defeated once, then never pose a threat again. Crazy is more of a guerrilla warrior. He attacks, then retreats, then attacks again. He waits until you are at your most vulnerable, and then he runs out of the mountains with a bunch of IEDs and hurls them in all odd directions, then runs away again, leaving you to deal with the fallout.

So remind me of this next time hubris starts getting the better of me, and I start talking about how I've "beaten" the demon, ok?

It's scary to think that I will have to fight this thing the rest of my life. But I see no other alternative if I want there to BE a rest of my life.

A rather inspirational speech from a fellow crazy--who likely suffered from the same form of the crazy that I do:



I shall go on to the end. I shall fight in France. I shall fight on the seas and oceans. I shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air. I shall defend my sanity, whatever the cost may be. I shall fight on the beaches. I shall fight on the landing grounds. I shall fight in the fields and in the streets. I shall fight in the hills. I shall never surrender....