Psychologically Psyattered.

So, yeah.  Shit’s been popping.  Made it through he holidays.  Fucking barely, just fucking barely.  But I did it.  Or, should I say, we.  Yeah.  It’s come to referring to myself in the-help me out-second and/or third person plural?!  Like, in therapy and to close people, I have to say, “us”, and “we”.  Fucking WEIRD!!!!!

So, Saturday, January 1, 2017 @ 1 am, I stumble to the bathroom to pee.  I, being awesome, fall asleep on the shitter.  I wake up, on my hands and knees, drawers around ankles, shaking/quivering and fucking drooling with a screaming fucking head injury.  All I kept thinking was, “Fuck!  I have another head injury!  Fuck, this is number four!  Fuck!”  So, all I could do, was go back to bed-my evening meds are pretty strong.  See, The Roaches always threatened me with various methods of torture and psychological torment- for instance, they held a double barrel shotgun to my head-right temple, I was six- they racked it, and threatened that if I told ANYONE, they would kill me and my family and make it look like an accident.  Their exact words?  “No one would know.”  They also threatened- and this was their favorite threat, used the most often, usually with a knife to my throat, that they would sneak into my house at night- while you’re all asleep- slit my throat then kill my parents ion I told.  So, my silence was, quite literally, a life or death proposition.  Overtime I crossed the threshold into 7 Crawford, I never knew if I would walk out of there, alive or dead.  But, I had to save my family, right?  They were all I had.  The only stability and love and warmth and care I knew and, quite literally had.  So, no sleep for Zuzu.  Until booze.  But that’s later.  But, in 2005, my psychopharmacologist prescribed Sleeping Beauty Elixir-Chloral Hydrate.  I had NEVER slept the whole night through without being drunk, until I met Chloral Hydrate, the Original Mickey, My Laudnum.  Oh, how I LOVED that shit.  Sweet blissful peace and relief.  Then, Nicole Anna Smith and Heath Ledger happened.  Bye Bye, Chloral Hydrate.  I haven’t slept well, or deeply, or on a regular, let alone consistent schedule since they stopped making it about 2013/14 ish?  Fuckers.  So, I’ve been up since one today.  BUT!  Back to the head injury.  Series IV.

So, January 1, 2017, I wake up, and my fucking head, feels like a goddamn soccer ball used in the motherfucking World Cup.  Oh my FUCKING GOD.  I hadn’t been in that much pain since they cut me open and took out my insides for my hysterectomy in 2005.  Mother FUCK!  6 am.  Called dad.  No answer.  Called mom.  No answer.  Fuck, I can’t drive, I’m not ambulance worthy.  Fuck!  Call again.  Mom comes.  Takes me downtown.  I go in, meet Dr. Shitburger who did jack shit except-bless her pointed head-give me a cat scan.  And put me in a neck brace, which alleviated about 70% of the pain.  Once the cat scan came back clear and good, no eye test, no walk test, no follow my finger, no hand or face test.  Little Tramadol.  No call your PCP.  No call the Rehab Hospital DOWN THE MOTHERFUCKING BLOCK for the Post Concussion clinic.  She said, “Well, you’re good.  Let’s take this off-I said, But that’s helping!-popped off the neck brace, and walked out.  My mom and I looked at each other like, What the fuck, over?  That was fucking weird.  Yeah.  So, now, I can’t fucking drive long ways- like more than up a mile to one light and down one light to the other light.  I actually drove about 10 minutes one way to a store Sunday morning, and drove back after going to a meeting.  But, I went to Urgent Care, Tuesday or Thursday, was told to go straight to the ER, cuz I was having the spins, and some other new stuff, get to the ER.  That doc, said no extra radiation, here’s more tramadol, here’s a referral to the concussion clinic, see ya!  Two days ago, I went back, cuz the dizziness wasn’t going away, and I’ll admit it- I rolled my car in 2005.  Total freak accident.

I was stone cold sober.  Had two closed head injuries, lost my photographic memory my senior year of college, had to learn how to study-which I never had to do- and I was going to grad school in a year for my MSW,um, did I tell anyone?  HELL NAW!!!  Proud ass active alcoholic up in henh!  But, what was that?  12 years ago, there was no rehab for closed head injuries or concussions.  Then, in 2010, I was in the back seat of a Trans Am/Firebird, Pontiac thing, without a seatbelt, and it was night time, the Pistons were in the Playoffs, we were listening in the radio, my friend in the front seat looked to her left, and said, “Oh, Crap!”, I no sooner said, Wh-and I came to on the floor of the backseat in a ditch, having I don’t remember how many police and EMT people help pull me out of the car, then this HOT motherfucking, sexy ass voiced, firefighter, pulls me to him, to put his hands on my head to stabilize my head, in case I had injured my neck, so I wouldn’t be paralyzed.  I don’t remember anything until I woke up 50 miles away from home, in an ER room, with the doc telling me I was okay to go home.  I had no one to call to come and get me.  I had NO fucking idea what time it was, I wasn’t even sure where the fuck I was!  Then, the guy whose car was totalled, oh!  I felt so bad for him.  He- ANGEL, fucking ANGEL BOY- came back and got me and drove me home.  Even let me smoke a cig in his truck.  And I had chose a girl- his ex consort-over him.  And, he, Bless his heart, I still pray for blessings for him, and I would take a bullet for him and any of those other fucking guys in that group.  Cuz even though they’re all 31 flavors of fucked up in their and me included, ways, they are ALL, Stand Up Guys.  So, all these head injuries and car accidents, all alone, all me by myself in aftercare, all losing consciousness, I was scared.  So, it took me hitting the call button after 40 fucking minutes of no one seeing me, for someone to come and test me and tell me: “Unless you start vomiting and cannot stop or a limb, like your arm goes numb, you’re fine.  (Like I said, all things being relative)  We faxed the correct form to the post concussion clinic, we have another prescription for Trasmadol, and you’re okay to go.”  The reason for so much tramadol?  They can’t give anything more for pain or it will skew my head and they won’t be able to tell what’s the drug and what’s the head injury.  I’m okay with it.  I take it for my Osteoarthritis and Osteonecrosis in my knees.  And my Chronic pain.  I take a muscle relaxer for my fibro, watch my stress, and diet, and sleep- fucking har dee har har- and as soon as the pool is ready to go, I can get back to that.

So.  That’s been my 2017 so far.  Oh!  But wait!  There’s more!

So, my DID.  Which, aside of my fucking mad, whack a doo, circus side show life, is the meat and potatoes I need to focus on, but all this extra bullshit like a dime sized scab on my head, and after a week, finally being able to TOUCH and scratch my head, I get to wash my hair tonight.  FUCKING YAY!!!!  I’ve never been so happy to have a shampoo and conditioner party in my life.  Well, when you get out of the psych hospital, there’s that.  Cuz those fucking places are fucking nasty.  The spa, they ain’t.  But that’s been code for many a year…Miss that piece of shit too.  I’m such an asshole.  But, I digress…

So, last week, someone went batshit and spent, like $100-$200 worth of CRAP.  And, I have no idea what to do, my family is at their wit’s end, I’m at my wit’s end, I’m tap dancing trying to figure out  when and where and why and, most importantly WHO is doing it, because Zuzu?  Not a financial asshole.  Very financially responsible and smart.  Not a go blow fucking money we don’t have.  My mom told me a looooooong time ago, like in the 1990’s, “If you have an addiction, you support it.  I’m not going to pay for it.” So, I did.  And almost fucking died doing it.  So, yeah, once I sobered up, I took my last drink on August 15, 2008.  Dave and I drank from like, 3:30-4, I had been drinking already-he was the first and only person to straight up, balls out, call me an alcoholic.  But, we were drinking and drank for hours.  Then, I was all drunk and I had been being really erratic before?  Like I was getting all psychotic cuz I was drinking so much, taking all the wrong meds, yes.  Drinking and taking psychotropic medication.  Did it on and off since 1989.  It was like breathing to me, unfortunately.  I DO NOT recommend it, nor do I advocate drinking if you are mentally ill and being medication comp[liant.  If you’re mentally ill and drinking, and you’re prescribed meds- you might as well throw away your meds and give them to an organization or someone who Cannot afford them.  It’s like, one of the most dangerous and counter fucking productive things you can do.  Sobering up, was THE hardest thing and yet THE BEST thing that has ever happened to me.

But, Dave and I had been day drinking into night, I got all goofy, took a bajillion Valium, but here’s the weirdest thing- when I was putting the pills to my mouth?  I wasn’t moving my arm, it was no longer Zuzu’s arm.  It wasn’t until, in Forest View, in the Trauma Program, after having a sit down with Dr. Ross, and being told that I have DID, have had it my whole life, it’s a coping mechanism, it helped me survive, it’s not horrible, it’s just going to be a lot of work.  Okay.  -Oh yeah- I contacted HIV from Dave on our first date, June 6, 2008.  August 15, 2008, after I had taken the pills?  I ran out in the living room and told him.  I remember losing consciousness, and him driving like a motherfucker downtown to the ER, yelling at me, I can still hear him, “Don’t you fall asleep on me, Don’t you fucking fall asleep one me!  Wake up, God dammit, Talk to me.”  Funny.  He had taken my life two months prior, but between him, the staff and my HP- and Narcan, I lived.  Give me a minute…

Ok.  I’m back.  So, September 3, 2008, I get out, a Thursday, Dave picks me up, and we go home.  Did not have sex.  We had sex all the time, every time, anywhere.  That was one of our fucking problems.  Too much fucking.  Then, nothing.  September 6, 2008?  He breaks up with me.  The next day I went back to outpatient hospital and reported that I had been dumped by the man I was supposed to marry and who saved my life.   He dumped me, “Because the woman he loved, Zuzu, was gone and was never going rot return.”  Truth be told?  He went back to his meth, sub sex slave, fuck buddy.  By Mid September in 08, I was back in my apartment, going to substance abuse IOP at a solid, local, reputable, downtown,  all female, IOP.  I one to my first AA meeting in 20 years mid September of 08.  The next Month, October 18, 2008, 3 months and 3 days newly sober, diagnosed with a crippling psychiatric disorder, I tested positive for HIV.  When it fucking rains…

So, I had already began outpatient therapy with a trauma focused therapist.  Morning meetings with my parts, a grief timeline, morning meditations, daily meetings, um, doctor appointments.  Fuck, my first appointment at my Infectious Disease (ID- for all you non HIV people out there, and code for us) doc, they took 19 vials of blood, gave me like, fucking 5 or 7 shots, alternating arms.  I walked out of there feeling fucking confused and violated.  Fuck.  I think I cried all the way home and was numb for the rest of th day.  Couldn’t drink or drug.  Was fucking depressed and heartbroken, didn’t know how to form a cohesive, let alone coherent sentence, fucking housekeeping?  Fuck you.  I was lucky I kept going.  Cuz I had no choice.  What was my alternative?  To fucking give up?  Let this pieces of shit win- again?  Let Dave have the last fucking word?  Drink?!  Cuz, even in my wet brain state, I knew enough about alcoholism that I would pick up where I left off, which was death.  Wasn’t gonna do that.  I had done the chutes and ladders chart of alcoholism- fucking Jellnick.  That was IOP in 95 in Pontiac for fucks sake.  That was a scared straight program.  I found a sponsor and she told me- “You’re an alcoholic, you just don’t know it yet.”  Yup, Roberta, you were right on the fucking money.  I still have the 2 month coin from her.  That was back when month coins were big and heavy metal.  I know you’re supposed to put your coins back in the kitty, but that one? Pry that bitch out of my cold, dead, sober hand.

So, today.  Well, Saturday.  I was suicidal.  But I was not.  Someone on the inside was.  And they were very mean.  I even had a HUGE fight with a person I love very much.  Because I was angry- not at them-just my anger is finally coming out and it is coming out in weird fucking ways.  And I fucking said something that wasn’t clarified, she was not in a great place either, I don’t think.  All things considered, I tried to call, no answer, I text to clarify.  Nada.  Okay.  Okay.  Still take a bullet for her.  But, you know.  Just the way I roll, I guess.

So, I see my therapist today.  She had mentioned last week when she was explaining DID 101 to my mom and I so we could figure out where the spending was coming from and why things were happening.  Because my first therapist?  Is a damn good therapist and saved my life countless times, but she, I don’t think, after 2012 and the cult memories surfaced and I went fucking off the deep end, and I couldn’t manage my DID, cuz I had and have so much other shit going on and did go through, that the DID was not addressed.  There was just no room for it?  Like, I had to survive and get through the trial and Interferon and my parents moving up, and going in and out of the psych hospital with constant flooding of flashbacks and memories and fucking physical shit piling up and weight gain from all the damn meds I need to be on, and too fucking depressed and the fibro and chronic pain and fatigue to exercise, and, and fucking stay sober!!!  I was a lil bit overhwlemed.  Lil bit.

So, the new therapist said last week that- and I have heard this before, but of course, I denied it, I mean, not me, right?!  I don’t have parts that want to kill me.  HA!  FUCK YOU!!!!  TEN.  Count em.  10 fucking parts that want to see me dead.  Found out that little nugget this morning.  One of them came out to her in session today.  Max.  We discussed Harold.  They are all overseen by George.  Richard and Matthew have been around for a while.  I mean, they all have, but Richard and Matthew and I have worked specifically with Dr. Ross.  So, I am familiar with their/our ways.  See how fucking weird that is?  I can’t wrap my mind around it.  You would think I could pretty much wrap my mind around just about any damn thing, but, that’s fucked up.  Makes me say: That’s fucked up.

So, that’s been 2017.  9 fucking days of fucking, goddamn melee.  We aren’t even half way through he fucking month!  We’re just beginning the fucking second goddamn week ofJanuary.  Fuck!  Douchebag hasn’t even taken office yet.  Fuck.  Can’t even deal with that. The whole hot mic incident fucking triggered a bunch of sexual assault survivors.  That was not a good moment in history.  The next four years are going to be a big fucking, bloody massacre of freedom, while he wipes his fucking gold ass with our Constitution.  Taxpayers are going to fucking pay for the wall and Mexico is going to “reimburse” us.  Yeah, right.  Did he not hear what Vicente Fox said?

Yeah.  So 2016 was Death’s banner fucking year.  2017 in Numerology is a 1 year.  New Beginnings.  There’s a quote by Anais Bin- one of my personal favorite writers- and I am totally paraphrasing:  ‘And the time came when it was more painful to stay in the bud than to blossom’.

Google the I Ching Chaos tile.

Have a nice week.  I’m going to try not to get fucking killed by Wednesday.  I’ll keep you abreast of the situation.  Snicker.  I love that word: abreast.  Tee hee.








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