Dems Da Breaks!

Well, I just read one of my morning meditations, More Language of Letting Go, by Meoldy Beattie.  In the meditation reference, she citied an Emmet Fox reading entitled, “Don’t Be A Tragedy Queen”.  Not gender specific, Fox writes, but in this day and age, where a lot of people, myself included, play out very private moments.  Because it’s not socially acceptable to be a drug, alcohol, porn or sex addict, it’s not cool to be too fat or too thin, so, what’s as easy as picking up the phone and call THAT friend, or turn on E! Television to watch KUWTK?  I mean, it’s sick.

The other reading was about anger.  How, in recovery, we mostly agree anger is natural emotion, needs to be felt and expressed, but no harming yourself or others- hostages, as I call them.  Once again, guilty!

So, in order not to be a Tragedy Queen, it’s OKAY-something that I didn’t think was okay at all to do- to say, “This is fucking bullshit.  It’s not fair, and I CANNOT believe this bullshit is happening to ME!”  GARAGARAGAHHH  and just Feel This FUCKING FEELINGS!!!

See, when I was getting the shit knocked out of me, I couldn’t feel my feelings.  Feelings were a  liability, not an asset.  Feelings could have got me killed, so I split off and created alters/parts to handle the stuff that would have either killed me, or driven me insane.  Either way, both has happened, time again.  But, now?  In mental Health recovery and DID COOPERATION, NOT integration- new one I learned from the new therapist.  For 8 years, I had been striving for an unattainable goal.  There’s no integration.  They’re parts of me, aspects of my core, they’ll come closer, but it’s not cake batter!  They’re not going to Fold into me or Vulcan mind meld with me!  For fucks sake.  Makes me loathe that woman more, and I didn’t think that was possible.  I know why she did what she did, but the betrayal was unnecessary.  Could’ve gone my whole life without the betrayal.

Anyways, feelings used to be a liability.  Now?  Feelings are an asset.  Don’t drown in them, but feel them.  Yesterday was awful.   I had a headache all day from switching =, like, every two minutes-no shit.  I don’t know what triggered me so bad, but, damn!  So, emergency call to the therapist.  What do they like to do?  What do they want?  What do they need?  Oh.  DUH!  But when you’re emotionally special needs, these things take time.  So, I asked them.  And I told them that if they want certain things, they need to COOperaTe.  Man, talk about hostage negotiations.

My health is getting worse too.  So, I’m not loving that.  But I have a full day ahead.  Already have one load of laundry done- the only load for today!

So Have a good day, try not to be a, “Tragedy Queen”, and I’m going to be very mindful and not become one myself today.  Let’s feel those feelings and stay safe people!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gratitude is a Verb

Good Morning, this United States of Trump.  A misogynistic pedophile is our new president.  Excuse me while I swallow some bile.  A fucking pedophile.  My favorite kind of piece of shit.

I just got done writing an email to my Namaslayer.  My Yogi.  There are so many things whirling through my brain, because I have had a lot of A ha ha moments in the past week, it’s hard to tease them all out, but here goes:

I have been sick since the second week of October.  So, what is that?  A month?  Anyways, I have the HIV from Dave.  That is all too well known and all to well documented in this blog.  I had a Diet Mountain Dew for him yesterday.  He was actually a Democrat.  I know he would been with her.  Hell I was.  Had to cancel my extended family’s votes out.  But, I digress.

When you are on your ass, sick, and you can’t do shit but breathing treatments every four hours and small things around your house here and there, you have waaaay too much time to think.  I have bronchitis and a sinus infection.  My doc just put me on a short course of Prednisone.  I now want to eat my cat and anything else I can get my grimy, hungry paws on.  It sucks.  Because it is colder now, my pain has jumped up about 60 notches.  Nothing can be done.  Nothing.  But asymptomatic remedies.  And since I am an alcoholic, and had a bout with Oxi Contin, no narcotics for me.  That and the massive crackdown on pain pills.  Which is fine by me, they were prescribing those drugs like tic tacs.  And they’re not fucking tic tacs.  They’re some fucking dangerous drugs.  And you don’t poop, but whatever.  So, I think a lot.

I have realized many things:

  1.  My root chakra will never be healed unless I  directly, firmly, dance with my trauma, hold the pose, end the dance, and gracefully let it go. One incident at a time.  I FINAFUCKINGLY meet with my new therapist this morning at nine am.  I am ever so grateful.  I have a map made up, I made it upload it.  We’ll see if I can get it loaded up.  But, my remaining 4 or 5 parts, are finally speaking to me.  Apparently, we went shopping.  I didn’t recall buying $800 of shit, but apparently, we did.  I didn’t know until I started get email on my phone thanking me for our capitalism.  Great. After the last bout, I sent them All to their fucking rooms.  Mala, pronounced Malayla, is 13 and is my teen.  One of them. I’ve had a lot of teenagers.  If you don’t know me personally, you might not understand.  But if you know me personally, you’ll understand my behavior sometimes.  So, Mala was complaining (as teens do) that she didn’t have a room.  So, I created one for her- in my head, because for me and my system, except when I am dialoging or making a map, most of the action goes on creatively in my head.  DID is for extremely creative and intelligent critically traumatized people, men and women.  So, a lot of our recovery work, and sometimes our actual paid work demands intelligence and creativity.  So, I digress.  I created a room for Mala with whatever the fuck a 13 year old needs.  It was all pepto bismol pink, with maribou, and feathers, and fluff and stuff.  She was ecstatic.  I called them out there yesterday and told them time out was over.  I still have to have a morning meeting with them.  You hold a meeting- they have decided on a treehouse.  Whatever, I’m way too flexible sometimes, so we will have a meeting in the tree house and I will write it down.  That is how my parts system and my part recovery process work.  So, that is why I wake up so damned early.  I have to wake up, do morning meeting, recovery stuff, meditate, pray, chill, and then start my fucking day.  Life ain’t easy being cheesy.  So, until I figure out and work with these last remaining parts, I will never be free, never lose weight, never feel okay in my body or be able to directly look myself in the mirror.  I’m sure there’s a ICD-10 code for that, but I don’t give a fuck right now.

2.  I am angry. Very, very fucking angry.  The bitch who teaches the trauma program at Forest View here in town, helped me get in touch with my anger about 3 years ago.  It’s not just anger, it’s fucking bile rage.  It’s kind of a big deal.  Cuz I didn’t have just one perpetrator, I lost count as to how many perps I had abuse/assault me.  Men and women.  I have a long way to go on relationships.  So, this winter?  It’s going to be intense, on all fronts.  I’ve been angry all my life.   But being a woman, you can’t get angry.  You aren’t allowed to show, feel, or allow yourself to become angered.  It’s bullshit.  I call bullshit.

3.  I am sick.  Have been since October.  Went to the doctor yesterday.  No good news. I’m on Prednisone which interacts with my ARV drug.  So, short course, but my cat is looking good.  But, I have , whatever.  I mentioned this before.  It really- what?  PISSES ME OFF!!!!  Shocking, I know.

4.  I have only know conditional love, unrequited love, trauma bonds and parental unconditional love.  That’s got to change.  But it has to change with me.  I have to heal my root chakra, balance the energy, and as soon as soon as I can nail that one, I am going to soar.

5.  Another perk to being flat on your back is Pinterest.  I am on Pinterest, if you care at all, all, like 7 of you.  I am gypsyzuzu.  I decided to make a Self Care and Self Esteem board.  Along with the other boards I made. Well yesterday, I printed out my “How to Get My Poop in a Group” board, my Journal board, and my Self Care board.  Only relevant pins.  I printed for a good half hour.  Need a new color cartridge.  But that box o paper I bought for grad school was a super wise investment.  And thank goddess I recycle.  So, I have my three hole punch, a binder and time on my hands today.  Can’t go to class, but I sure can lay in bed and be productive as fuck.  Let the Healing Begin!!!  Whoever said that was a fucking genius, or wrote it.  What the fuck ever.

6.  Is there really a 6?  Does there need to be a six…Oh yeah.  My dad yelled at me earlier this week and swore at me.  So, I had to take a super quick inventory once I finished being childish hurt and mad and realized he wouldn’t have barked, had I not pulled his tail.  Which is the catalyst to what has led me to all of the above.  I tend to work in reverse order.  Top down.  Whatever.  My Scottish Laddie hasn’t emailed me back since I told him I don’t do BDSM anymore.  Kinda had my fill of it.  It’s fun and all, but there are limits and moderation in mostly all things.

I don’t have any groovy quotes or any wise words of wisdom.  Just a broken soul trying to put back together this shit show of a blessed life I have.  Oh yeah, gratitude is a verb.  I was taught, early in sobriety that it’s all fine and well to be grateful for things.  “Go around the table and say one thing you’re grateful for…”  Yeah, most of us have been there.  That’s when I try not to suffocate myself with the mashed potatoes.  But, don’t fucking tell me you’re grateful- show me you’re grateful. For instance?  This blog.  When I share these secret, greasy little tidbits about my psyche and my life and how I am trying to reclaim what those sonsabitches took away- my late 20’s, all my 30’s, and hopefully half my 40’s, I am being grateful. Honest, open dialogue is a great way to be grateful.  Because, right now? Even though a pedophile Cheeto is our president (OMFG), I am grateful that my coughing seems to have chilled out.  I am grateful that I can sit upright, in my messy, but beautiful, cozy little shack, type out my game plan, share it honestly and openly with whomever, and be on my merry way.  Even though I have to wear a mask when I go out in public, I’m fucking grateful.  And no, that is not a sarcastic fucking grateful.

I hope you all have a good day.  Color, do whatever makes your spirit soar.  And I will try to load the latest, and greatest pic of my map.  Y’all take care now, ya hear?!

 

 

 

I Need Ice…

Hello.  It’s been a minute since I have written.  I apologize for my vacancy, but, trust me, it was well worth the time away.  I spent most of the summer in hospitals.  That is a whole other story.  Truth be told, it began in April/May of this year, and ended in September.  So half my year was spent in a hospital.  I actually lost 35 pounds, only to gain it all back.  Thank you steroid shots in my Osteonecrotic knees!  But, I digress…

April and May, were spent in a mental hospital.  I was discharged, then was re-admitted- for ECT.  Yes, “shock therapy”.  Electroconvulsive therapy.  Don’t get all Cuckoo’s Nest on me.  Although lately I have been wanting, “My cigarettes, Nurse Ratchett!!!”  ECT is actually the gold standard for those people who suffer from treatment resistant depression. Which, I fucking qualify for, seeing as I had been suicidal since 2014.  Which no one knew or could tell; people could suspect, and did, but no one ever asked me if I was okay.  They saw me carrying on through life, as a normal person, albeit one with serious dents in her soul, but a person nonetheless.  So, yeah.  I had 11 sessions of bilateral ECT.  Was in the hospital for like, 4 or 6 weeks.  ECT gives you the sometime valuable gift of memory loss right before the treatments and directly during and even after.  So, you combine that with the memory loss that accompanies DID, I’m lucky I remembered my passwords to accounts due to severe memory loss.  But, I remembered who my tribe was, and that is really all that matters, I guess.

So, July 11th, 2016.  Crap day.  Why?  I had enough.  I had ECT brain, recalibrate med brain and stress brain.  I had kept going, kept dusting myself off, getting up again, begin to walk again only to be kicked in the teeth by someone or something again.  July 11th, I’d had enough.  See, the thing with ECT is this:  You have to give it a chance to work.  The shock from the electricity floods your brain with neurotransmitters- good and bad.  Until they recalibrate, even themselves out so to speak, don’t do a damn thing.  I kept doing things, instead of being gentle with myself and healing.  So, I attempted suicide.  Feel free to read that over gain, as many times as necessary, cuz this is where it gets intense.

I took one of those ginormously, supersize bottles of a benzo, tossed some neuroleptics in there and threw a few Motrin in there to sleep.  I wanted to die. Some people who attempt suicide don’t want to die, that is not their deep intention, they just crave relief.  My pain was physical, mental, emotional and spiritual.  The traumas had impacted every core, nook and cranny of my soul.  There were some crevices affected as well.  But, I had been on mental health road to recovery since 1999/2000.  It was 2016.  Shouldn’t I get a fucking reprieve sometime?  I mean, it just kept getting worse!  It never fucking ended.  Being a grown up is  not an easy task, but having emotional and psychological bullshit, Like, oh, I don’t know, finding out you were a sexual rag doll and sacrifice candidate at age 4, is a lil much.  I had enough.  And fuck anybody who says, “Depression is just anger turned inward.’  Okay, sparky, sometimes yeah.  Self-pity can go a long way, but my depression is in my DNA and my psyche.  My Major Depressive Disorder, Bipolar Depression, PTSD depression and DID Depression is more than anyone can bear for an extended point in time.  I’d been carrying it for 16 years- OVER IT!!!  DONE!!  FUCK YOU!

People were too busy, or all they talked about was themselves and their problems, and?  I let them.  Because what, why?  Who the fuck wants ro hear at age four I was forced to eat human flesh and that is why I can no longer eat Raw Salmon sushi?  Who in the right zip code of normal wants to hear that?  They’re just pissed at their man.  Or stressed due to life.  I have HIV, a serial killer for an ex, haven’t been laid in an eon because people are terrified to even kiss me, drink out of my glass.  Forget kissing.  Nope.  Even though in the fucking 80’s/early 90’s it had been determined the HIV could NOT be transmitted through saliva.  But whatever.  The things I miss and don’t have are things other people take for granted and are a necessary part of being human.  But whatever.  You’re just crazy Zu.  Get to a meeting.  Get out of the house.  Get out of your head.  Well, you know what?  Being outside with the human race is fucking scary.  Y’all ever seen Rosemary’s Baby?  That was my life.  Fuck!  That was my childhood.  That shit is real.  Who in the fuck wants to hear about that?  Who in the fuck wants to hear about Dave?  It’s not that easy  to just let shit go, just let it go.  I can’t.  I know what damage and how evil and disgusting and terrifying humans can be.  We are the worst specimens of depravity.  We’re horrible.  The evil men can accomplish.  Plus, I’m mentally ill, so that discredits me right there.  “Oh”, they say, “She’s just crazy”, or “She’s just having a bad day”.  No, thank you very little, I’ve had a bad life.  I finally asked my therapist if it was fair and not in the victim role, for me to say, fairly, “people have been excessively cruel to me.”  Trust me, I know what damage man can do.  Evil man, fucking some evil, hated shit.

And I get to keep that.  That’s always in the back of my mind.  When I got through Meijer- Oops!  Yes, I live in the lovely mid/central west.  Right in the buckle of the Northern Bible Belt.  But, I look at people and think, “What’s their story?”  “What evil has man done to them, or they to someone else?”  There is no Stranger Danger.  It’s your fucking neighbor, your coach, your minister, your teacher, the babysitter.  Whoever has the closest access to you, is most likely to fuck your world up big time.  Because they have access to you, they’re closer to you than anyone else.  And they’re going to take advantage of it, and you.

But, July 11th.  So I swallow a ton of pills, kiss the cat, and prepare for take off.  I wake up in a hospital bed.  With my infectious disease doctor at my bedside. I called her name, reached for her, then fell back.  Next thing, I know, my HIV case manager is at the foot of my bed.  Later, the next day, apparently, both my doctor and my case manager were at the foot of my bed.  The next thing I know, my eye are fluttering and this handsome ass, bald, black man says, “let’s go”.   I fall back into bed.  I come to in a hospital bed in a hospital room.  But it’s fucking LOUD!!!!  I grab a phone, start calling people.  Trying to piece together how in the fuck I wound up in this place, whatever the fuck this place was.  I knew it was part of a hospital, but it wasn’t at the same time.

My voice was squeaky and gravelly.  They had had to intibate me.  I look down in my hospital gown, my left boob, over my heart, has a big, black/purple bruise on it.  WTF, over?!  I was paddled?  What the Fuck is Going The Fuck on?!

In walks Brigid.  My psych PA.  Who the fuck are you, what the fuck is this place, what the fuck happened?  Somebody, please tell me what the fuck is going on?!  I felt like Chris Penn in Resevoir Dogs when shit goes down at the end of the movie.  But, Brigid and her lackey- who was very sweet, began to tell me that they decimated my, “polypharmacy”, because she didn’t like it.  They treated me like an addict.  Like I had taken all the drugs because I OD for a high, not to close the curtain.  I was told to go to IOP when I got out.  I had to call Brighton Hospital and put my name on the bed list.  In a month, and August 15th, because it was only like, July 18th, I celebrated 8 years of continuous sobriety.  Yes, I thought I had relapsed.  No.  I didn’t. I used a medication after a surgery to relieve pain.  It was prescribed for a legitimate medical emergency/reason, I did not abuse it, I did not sell it, I did not pawn my shit to go buy more or prostitute myself for more Oxy.  I didn’t.  I had been strung out on Oxy back from 2005-2007.  I detoxed myself off the Oxy like any good addict/alkie would.  With Benzos and more Booze.  So I didn’t go into A-Fib.  I survived, I kicked Oxy.  But the fact that I was using it to deal, or not deal with my post surgical pain, scary the everloving fuck out of me. And I panicked.

Anyways, Brigid slashed my meds to nothing.  Nothing for my psychosis, nothing for my nerves, nothing for sleep.  I basically never slept during my whole stay in PsychLab.  Yup, PsychLab.  6th floor of St. Mary’s Hospital.  Psychiatric Jail.  My mom had petitioned me.  As well she should have, she was the one who fucking found me.  Yup.  Christmas came early for my mom, courtesy of me.  Yeah.  Not a proud moment at all.  So, she petitioned me.  Turns out, e’erybody up in PsychLab had been petitioned and had medical problems.  So we were all nuts and physically ill.  There was a dude there who had just left prison- where he spent most of his time in solitary- I forgot what it is called now.  It’s not called solitary anymore, I think it is called Isolation or some such shit.  But he was put in solitary, because in the main population, he would’ve been kilt.  It was for his safety.  To keep him alive and safe.  Fo reals.  Anyways, my roommate was an older woman named Claire.  She was a Sundowner.  She had early onset Alzheimer’s.  The kind where you hallucinate.  She had kept me up for several nights.  I told Brigid she was in bad shape and she was a danger to herself and she didn’t  belong there.  But, I was just an addict.  What the fuck did I know?  So, one night, not long after I told em she was in trouble, she wakes up in the middle of the night and starts pulling the divider curtain down.  Like she’s climbing.  I’m hitting the fucking nurse button like my life depends on it.  Three of em come busting in the room, catch her in the act of tearing the curtains down- thank sweet baby Jesus- and move her into a private room.  Turns out there is a whole crew of Sundowners up there.  There was no segregation, no special treatment.  You were sick physically and mentally, and you had endangered yourself- or someone(s) else, and you get tossed into PsychLab.  Or, as I called it- The isle of misfit nut jobs.  That place was awful.  Not that it is supposed to be the four seasons.  Psych hospitals are not nice places.  You would think, “Oh they need to heal and recuperate in a calm and healing/soothing atmosphere.  So, let’s paint it green and cream and let em fend for themselves.  The social worker was a see you next Tuesday as well.  Didn’t want to hear about my continuous sobriety, or my PTSD or that I needed antipsychotics for my bipolar or PTSD or – forget DID.  It didn’t exist there or any of the damn fucking shitholes I frequented after.  Just wait. It gets better.

So, I saw my mom since I attempted.  Me with Coma, ECT and fucking OD Brain does the brilliant thing of putting it on social media.  I know, I know.  Trust me, I know.  But, she tells me I had been in a coma in Critical Care for four days- ICU- and there was a chance, a good one, that I would come out of the coma.  I am so grateful I never finished my advance Directive, because I would not be writing this.  I would cease to be.  Looking back, I realize I had been planning on exiting the scene for some time.  I made my mom my Legacy Contact for my Facebook account.  Was giving away shit hand over fist.  It was ridiculous.  I had been planning this for at least a year.  Made my world so small.  I only talked to like, two people.  Not including my therapist.  I mean, I figured no one would notice.  No one ever called, or emailed or text or IM me.  So, I figure I had made myself so unremarkable, no one would notice.  You know how shit never turns out the way we think it will?  How our perception totally does not reflect reality?  Yeah.  I’ve been dealing with that.  It’s September and my mom still has all my psych meds.  And I fucking let her because I fucking fucked up.  I screwed a big, ole pooch, big time.  I pissed off and hurt so many people.  I felt like dog shit.  Lower than a snake’s nuts, I did.  But PsychLab was interesting.

My new roommate after Claire was a straight up addict.  I know I can’t say that, because I don’t know and we never talked, because she was passed out all the time.  I mean, when you’re on Oxy, Norco and Valium, and you take all your blood pressure pills to attempt suicide, you’re in for some harsh fucking reality.  And I wanted to beat this bitch’s ass, so fucking bad.  She had a loving husband, who knew the pills were the problem, she had, like a couple of beautiful children, her husband was doting and devoted.  Things I would fucking eat a heart for, and she’s pissing it away for synthetic heroin.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  She was beyond active in her addiction, she was fucking thriving in it.  Because her disease of addiction was so entrenched and heavy, none of the other shit mattered.  I had to save her one night from a predator.  He saw her passed out on her belly.  Started mumbling about something he, “wanted to Show her”, and left the room to go get whatever the fuck it was.  Then, one of the Napalm Nurses- cuz the nursing staff there was tough as nails.  They were some of the best fucking Nurses I have EVER had the privilege of working/being treated by.  Those fucking Nurses.  My God, with the crowd in there? They should all be awarded the highest nursing honors in their field.  They were fucking tough.  I called em the Napalm Nurses.  If they liked you, which they liked me, the staff liked me, I liked the staff.  The nurses and staff were good to you and for you.  If you were a special flavor of fucked up, they could make your life a living hell.  I saw em do it.  The Internal Med doc was awesome.  I mean the staff there are five-star, top shelf, all aces human beings.  They were remarkable.  My only bitch?  They d/c ed me with only a seven day supply of meds- by the book according to the mental health code, but the problem was?  I wasn’t seeing a psychiatrist for another 28 days.  I had no benzos for my anxiety, no anti-psychotics for my PTSD and Bipolar.  I hadn’t slept but four hours every other night being there.  So, that was affecting my damn Bipolar.  My stomach was coleslaw.  I’m still taking prilosec.  But, it was a cool, neat little floor.  One of my friends tried to find me.  She teaches a physical wellness class at the hospital.  Her and the staff person couldn’t find me.  I wasn’t even listed in the computer- I was totally cloaked, totally not even on the radar.  Non existent.  But, Dr. Krause was the fucking bomb.

My last day there? I had this fucking, piece of shit, MA come in to take my blood sugar.  Now they have to poke my fucking finger to do this.  He is gloved, protected above and beyond Universal Precautions, doesn’t touch me, throws, Yes.  The fucking bastard threw the bandaid at me.  Everyone else put it on me, but he fucking shoves it at me, I take it and he snatches his hand away.  First of fucking all, I’m undetectable.  What does that mean?  I have less than 18 copies of the HIV Virus in my body, it is damn near scientifically and physically impossible for me to transmit HIV.  So, unless we pulled a blood brothers thing, he was just a piece of shit.  So I ratted on him.  I told Dr. Krause, that little fucker’s HIV Etiquette sucks, he’s lawsuit material.  If you don’t, somebody else will.  I’m just telling you that whole five minute exchange between me and the MA was fucking degrading, humiliating, and completely disrespectful and unecessary.  Dr. Krause was all over it.  Bless that man.  Dr. Bell was there too.  He’s bat shit crazy.  Dr. Frankenstein.  I begged him to be sent home.  I begged Brigid to be sent home.  I couldn’t fix my life and get better in there.  So NOT therapeutic.  Everything I need to get better was outside the hospital.  There was no AA in there.  There was no sponsor.  There was zero mental health care.  I needed to get out so I could get on.  Dig?

So, I was discharged July 28th.  I saw my old shrink two days later.  Didn’t sleep. My sleep has been erratic at best.  I have insomnia now like a mother.  So my shrink throws me into the View.  I finafuckingly slept.  I slept for 18 hours.  18 motherfucking hours.  My roommate was a Schizoaffective anorexic with a factitious disorder of MCS.  My mom cannot smell.  Her olfactory was knocked out the  she was a kid due to a fever.  She’s asomic.  So, this fucking bitch of a roommate claims my laundry smell is so overpowering, she was FORCED to stay up all night because it was affecting her “MCS”.  She kept the whole wing up that night crying at her wailing wall with her fucking Bible asking God to  help her, kill her, what the fuck ever.  Amir comes in- another Napalm Nurse, but a kinder, gentler Napalm Nurse at the View, comes in to give me my blood sugar and pee cup.  He says something about her (my roommate Stacy), and her, “shenanigans”.  Now Amir is a Lebanese (Arab) sexy young thing from the Bronx.  So try to imagine an Arab dialect combined with the Bronx, combined with a midwest dialect and you have Amir.  Or Amiree, as I called him.  Which is arabic for, “My Amir”.  You put the ya after a name, and it means mine.  It’s like the word Habibi- which means my love et al.  Term of endearment.  Anyways, Stacy was in the bathroom and Amir, in his dialect blasts out shenanigans I’m silently screaming and pointing to the bathroom.  He says, “Ah well, Fuck it”.  This is why I love Amir.  And Lord would I love to love me some Amir.  But I was in the View from the 30th (Friday?!) to Monday.  I used my last free standing, private hospital Medicare days at the view.  I will miss the people, the staff, the trauma program, Dr. Ross, the lunch ladies, who knew I was leaving and could never come back unless I married someone with fucking titties and beer mental health insurance and a phat paycheck, made, on my truly, last day there, no bake chocolate cookies for me.  I mean, From tough love PsychLab, to soft, gentle place to fall, Forest View.  I mean, man.  I’m going to miss them and that place and all the healing I did there. I was diagnosed with DID there in August of 2008 by Dr. Ross.  89 parts down to 4 parts in 8 years.  Suck on that!

But, Stacy was bitching about my laundry and blah blah.  I rolled over, pointed at her, and barked, “You bust on my mama’s laundry, I’m gonna bust on you!  We clear?” rolled back over and told myself she wasn’t worth going back to the eighth ring of hell for trauma patients, PsychLab.  Or prison, because I wasn’t the only one who wanted to beat her ass.  And I’ll be even more brutally honest- I haven’t wanted to kick someone’s ass since I went to jail in 99 for a domestic.  And I beat him down too.  Pierce of shit.  But anyways.  I’m freaking out because it’s three grand a day at the view without insurance.  It’s fucking expensive.  I don’t have the money.  My folks don’t have the money.  My doc wants me to stay another day.  I was in such a state of panic, he literally said he would pay for my stay if I had a bill.  He was going to make sure I didn’t have a bill and was making sure I was in good physical and mental health.  He used to be an Internal Med doc.  He gets it.  Apparently, I wasn’t the first patient for him to afford that much generosity to.  He does that from time to time if people need care and cannot afford to stay.  He’s a fucking top shelf, awesome, stand up guy.  He’s my Iranian father figure.  Love him.  Cancelled the other shrink.  Fuck him.  Seven days worth of meds.  I’m Dual Diagnosis/ Co-Occurring Disordered.  I’m nuts and an addict.  Get with the program.  I have to work mental health and substance abuse recovery programs.  I have to be vigilant with both or I’m completely fucked!!!  Completely.  But, whatever.  So I get out of there on Monday the 30th to start Partial Hospital on Tuesday.

This is where I end.  So much has happened, one blog ain’t going to cut it.  I really wanted to explain the whole PsychLab experience in further detail, but my computer has been down, it got a virus and crashed and I had to replace it just this week.  My laptop is also MIA.  So, I have been technology deprived.  I had my phone, but can you imagine me typing all this on a smartphone?  HELL NA.  So, I have to get ready for my women’s meeting, spell and grammar check this, and be there by 7:15 am.  It’s 5:29 am.  EST.  So, yeah.  There will be another few installments.  Shit has been popping, trust me.  This is the tip of the iceberg, fo reals.

So, on that note…

 

 

 

Where Did I Put My Big Girl Panties?!!!

I’m having a really rough day.  Not intentionally.  When you compare mental illness to Cancer or Hunger or Homelessness or, HIV, people put mental illness on the back burner.  Akin to HIV, it is your fault and of your own making.  Not a genetic, organic disorder of the brain, which receives a horrid rap because it affects my behavior.  Because if I act screwy, in our American, Western culture, I am defective.  If someone goes in for Chemo, because of the BRACA (sp) gene, you don’t see them getting blamed for her/his breast Cancer.  Yes, men get breast cancer, hard to believe, but they qualify too.  They get a ribbon, a race, a drive, pink EVERYTHING, and those of us with mental illness, get blamed, shunned and silenced.

Listen, about a month ago, I wanted to make out with a .45.  Not because I was having a pity party, or because I wanted attention or some such bullshit.  As a matter of fact, I carried on like nothing was wrong.  No one had a clue.  I don’t let but two people in my home, so no one could see how I was successfully NOT managing day to day life.  I suited up, I showed up, I was there for my family, and then I had enough.  I 911 called my therapist, and bless her soul, she proceeded to talk me off the ledge for 45 minutes, until I was calm enough and rational enough and wanted to live enough to see the next day.  April 2, I went inpatient.  NOT to the spa, where I usually go; because all my Free Standing Psychiatric Hospital Days from Medicare had been exhausted- for life.  So, God Forbid, I’m out somewhere traveling, have an episode, and there are no psych units attached to a medical facility.  I’ll be stuck with a ginormous bill, or have to, pray to God, my medicaid will buy me enough time to get back on my feet.

Now, most/three of you that read this blog, know my abuse was forced participation in a satanic cult, ritual abuse, religious abuse, and general overall physical, sexual, mental and emotional torture.  Hence the DID and PTSD.  NEITHER of which I asked for, nor had much of a choice about and was a child, so I was completely powerless.  My Bipolar, clinical Depression, ADHD- all genetic.  Had no say in those either.  Just like people with Cancer don’t get much of a say in their illness, or birth defects, etc.  Sometimes, you’re just dealt a farmer’s hand.  And you play your cards the best way you can, till you get a better hand.  Unless you’re stuck with the 6 of Diamonds or 8 of clubs and you’re playing euchre.  Then, you just gotta pray for your partner to get a loner, or “Partner’s Best”.  Even then?  No guarantees.  But, twice around the barn to get to the house- people with Mental Illness, even PTSD and DID, we don’t or didn’t have any say so in our diseases/disorders.  Mental illness has a HUGE stigma, and because it is a “behavioral” problem, not an organic brain illness, we are among the marginalized, discriminated, shunned, et al.  “My last girlfriend was a total psycho.  She was totally Bipolar”.  And what the hell were you to A.  Stay with her, B.  Make her stress worse so her Bipolar episodes were more frequent, and C.  you’re about a empathetic and compassionate as a ball peen hammer in the face.  Subtle, jerk off, real subtle.

So, I go to the Christian Mental Health Hospital 4/2 on my 5 month clean date.  I had my own room. My own shower, my own toilet, my own everything.  WHAT THE FUCK, OVER?  I’ve been in some shit holes when it comes to psych hospitals.  Roommates throwing their urine sample in my face when I’m sleeping, no shower curtains on the showers, people coming into your room in the middle of the night, just wandering around going through your shit.  On the same unit with prisoners, sexual predators; for a while they were putting the Dementia/Alzheimer’s patients in with Bipolars, Schizophrenics.  That changed pretty quick.  Now people who are violent, or volatile, are classified as, are you ready?  “Reactive”.  They do ECT at the Christian Place.  Fuck, I should call it the fucking Ritz Carlton, cuz that is what it was.  Actual Psych nurses who immediately answered your requests and addressed your needs.  If you needed to talk to someone, Boom!  They made time.  Even the techs had human heads.  It was very chill.  I should have stayed longer, as I am going back into their partial program on Monday.  The wheels are falling off the bus.  Not in the DID sense- although Easter week was pretty much the driving me over the edge factor due to heavy Christian calendar rotation and anniversary memories.  I mean, when I quit drinking and drugging 8.15.08, my DID system had 89 parts.  I have used up all my psych hospital days, twice a week therapy sessions, 12 step programs, DBT sessions, yoga, and now I’m all but down to 3 parts.  All of which, I am co-conscious with.  But it sucked.  It was hard work.  I lost friends.  Alienated people.  Being in a relationship, friend or intimate with someone who has a serious and persistent mental illness is a drain.  Just like caring for an aging parent or a sick spouse- I burned people out and turned people off.  All the while trying to maintain regular participation in 12 step program.  Which, even though all mental illness receives is a brief acknowledgment, a nodding glance, if you will, in 12 step programs, you’re there to talk about the reason for the 12 step group-whatever it may be.  The fact that I have, as a doctor put it, “A lot of internal triggers” (Just what the fuck does that mean doc?), means my thinking is awful.  Well no shit!  You needed a degree and a job to tell me that?  FUCK!  I had NO idea!!!!  Fuck you.  If you were forced to eat human flesh, watch people murdered/sacrificed, almost die umpteen million times over, get tortured, raped etc all from age 4 to age 8, what would you do?  Your ass wouldn’t be alive, motherfucker.  Don’t tell me I have, “internal triggers”.  I have horrific, intrusive, incredibly inconvenient, inconsistent, not friendly, not nice memories that plague me daily.  Sometimes they are louder, sometimes they stuff for the day, but let me make one thing crystal fucking clear:  The ONLY reason I have “Internal Triggers” is because some fucking douchebag grown up decided to torture an innocent child and not give two shits about my welfare and if I lived or died, because they were hard fucking core psychopaths.  CLEAR?!

So, yes, when I have days like today where I wake up to what feels like boundary ambush, I immediately, I mean, without even thinking go into automatic survival, fight, flight, freeze or play dead mode.  I don’t get a choice.  With my ex, and my HIV status, I had a choice.  I chose wrong.  But, he also didn’t have to run around giving everyone HIV without their knowledge, consent and lying to you while looking your dead in the eye while saying, “No, I’m okay.  I don’t know how, but I’m okay.”  I’ll own my part in that shit show.  But, for the most part, homeboy had a homicidal mission.  Much like the dick wads that tortured me as a child.  I used to call them, “People”, but human beings would not do anything like that to a child.  Monsters?  Yes.  People?  No.

So, I digress.  Obviously.  But I have been in fight or flight mode all day.  It’s not fun.  I would way rather be doing anything else than this, and thinking and feeling this way.  Because, honestly?  It feels like I never get a break.  I need a fucking vacation.  I mean to like Bali or some fucking where.  Where I don’t have to think or do or heal, I can just snorkel.  Fuck.

So, I’m clearly angry and clearly pumping quarters in the ass kicking machine and clearly forcing myself out of the nest waaaaaaaayyyy before I am ready to fly.  I’ve had enough bad days.  I need a few good days.  I don’t know how to have fun.  I only thought I had fun drinking.  I have yet to discover consistent sober fun.  And that’s on me.  That’s my fault.  But when all you’re doing is in and out of psych hospitals and constantly being told how sick you are and being rejected by the opposite sex because of this or that label, it makes me want to, say, make out with a .45.  It’s like give me a fucking break.  Just a small break. A reprieve from terror and fear and stress and intensity.  Joy.  Where the fuck is the joy?  I know I make it all happen by small steps.  Cleaning my sink, making my bed, but when you are constantly feeling hunted, those things aren’t real high priorities.  House keeping is important, for many obvious reasons, but who you’re fearing for your life and you rationally know there is no logical reason why you are terrified and hyper vigilant, and can hear an art fart across your home in your basement, a clean sink loses.  Every single fucking time.  Then you have the drudgery of housework.  On top of depression.

I was also- I know right, when is this shit going to end-sexually assaulted in the shower as a child.  So, me and showers, not the closest.  THAT is precisely when I know I don’t want to play ball anymore.  When my self care and hygiene are so shitty, I can’t even stand me, I know I’m in trouble.  And that is where I’m at.  I want to fetal and, I’m just tired.  I’m exhausted.

I met someone from a dating site.  That was how I met Dave.  They auto renewed my account so, I have to deactivate it, but this guy wants to Skype tonight.  I think that is the long distance equivalent of “Netflix and Chill”.  Sorry dude.  I ain’t got time for kindergarten games.  And I ain’t your bitch.

Well, my internet blog troll/rant is over.  I feel better.  Not better, alleviated.  I still want to hide under the covers and I have no idea why.  It’s super easy for me to spew this shit to a faceless computer and a nameless internet.  I can’t tell anyone this shit anyways and expect to keep people in my life.  It’s fucking horrific.  But, this is my life. “Pathetic and sad”, but my life.  Right now, I’m in a low, meantime point.  This too shall pass, my grandfather used to say.  I learned today that, “Grandpas don’t lie”.  Mine never did.  The Captain is on The Ship, and His Eye is on the Sparrow.

I’ll search for my big girl panties tomorrow.  It’s a whole new day, right?!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sanctuary! Sanctuary!!!

So, I’m lonely.  HIV, DID, and being overweight leads you- oh yeah, along with low self esteem-drops you right at the feet of being lonely.  So, I got on Tindr.  Wanted to see if I could get my, uh, needs met.  Also, to see what all the hubub was about.  Well, I swiped right, and so did Anthony.

Anthony and I talked for four hours the first night.  He came over and we talked for for four more. One small problem- Anthony would be homeless by today and had a SCRAM bracelet on and had just been let out of his halfway house into renting a room.  Now, here’s an interesting fact:  Ever since I started to have memories and flashbacks way back in 99/2000-2001, I have been madly attracted to Sociopaths.  Can’t shake em.

Cliff, Scott, Dave and Magic, and now Anthony.  So, I offer for him to stay here.  WTF?!  He had read me so well, I was hooked.  Sociopaths do that.  They can read a mark so well, know exactly what to say, and get under your skin.  So, Anthony grew up on the East side of Detroit. 7-8 mile near Gratiot, on the streets, “because nobody wanted” him.  He was a car thief, and at 12, was in Maxey by Ann Arbor.  So, I knew he had some shit.  And it wasn’t just an attachment disorder.  Three days.

I offered him up the chance to come correct with me. No way can they do that.  He told me he had a Domestic- a misdemeanor.  I laughed. Went to OTIS- 6 years for intimate Assault and Battery, which being his third time in- automatic habitual offender.  Dropped him like a bad habit.

So, Tuesday, I go to my therapist- that’s when I dropped him.  We talked.  We’re going to do a workbook- Mindfulness for Prolonged Grief.  And work on my cognitive errors. My story ended Sunday.  I need to begin a new life/story.  I need to return to the program.  I need, I need…I need to do.

The reason I finally didn’t act impulsively, was that I- my house is my sanctuary. It’s where my healing happens, for the most part.  I have a part system to keep safe.  If I don’t act like a responsible adult, my system will not trust me, and will take over.  Can’t have that.  I had to protect not only myself, but my system- which are one in the same.  That was the whole purpose of this blog.  If you want to heal from your trauma and integrate, you gotta act like a protective adult. The parents wee never had, the ones that were supposed to protect us and soothe us and love us.  If we don’t step up and take steps to protect ourselves, which includes our systems, we’re never going to heal.  We’ll never integrate.  Letting yet another Sociopath into my home and my life- I’d be dead within two weeks.  Whether by his fists, or my drinking- he was a drinker too- real winner. One of my mom’s coworkers told her- she’s not going to bring home an accountant.  Wouldn’t it be a hoot if I did?  I’d invite her to the wedding to just be a bitch.

But, I’ve been dope sick.  Quit the Norco.  Had a cold/stomach flu on top of the dope sickness.  That’ll teach me.  That’ll learn me, as I really like to say.  I had a dream about an Octopus.  Octopus medicine is very powerful and very fitting-clearly, or the Octopus would not have come to me- for what I am about to embark on.

You ready?

I am.