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?!