2f240ee700000578-0-image-a-53_1449501705474Okay, I know it’s totally a first-world problem but I need more Internet in my life. My mental health depends on it. I can’t stand not being able to write down what I’m saying for the world to see, even if it’s tucked within the megapixels and nonsense spouting out from every other computer on the face of the Earth. It makes me feel better to post it in the ether and walk away. It’s not on a piece of paper for someone to find, for prying eyes. The impersonal nature of the whole thing is enticing to the point that I’m becoming one of those people. I need the Internet again. I need it more than ever. I’ve been sitting in the library for an indeterminate amount of time, watching my future plans fall to ashes around me and I’m completely helpless to do anything about it. Well, at one point I wasn’t, but now I am. It’s too late. The world is turning and turning and I can’t find enough courage to jump off…or jump back on.

Physically, things are what they are. I’m getting monthly injections, waiting for enough time to pass for my doctor to declare that the spinal cord stimulator is our only option. My other CRPS friend had one put in and has thus had a rash of complications. But I remain undeterred. I need this to make my life semi-normal again. Granted, it won’t fix everything, i.e. the inner turmoil that is my brain, but it will sieve off some of the pressure to conform, to walk up the stairs rather than take the elevator. To park in a normal parking spot instead of the handicapped one. And the pain will be over. God, that is what I look forward to the most.

I’m applying for University of Maryland, School of Social Work for the spring semester. Halfway down the application, they ask for three reference letters, none of which can be from family or friends. The problem with this situation? I’ve been so removed from the outside world, even in my academic pursuits that I have literally no one I can contact for these references. One of the professors I did attempt to speak with told me she would be hard-pressed to say anything positive about my work ethic. That’s what I mean when I say I can’t jump back on or jump back off. The world was spinning so damn fast that I lost it, got motion-sick and had to get off. And once I was off, getting back on was seemingly impossible. The hospitals, the medication, all of it threw me so far off the track that once I managed to reassemble a “normal” existence, it was too late. I didn’t make friends, I didn’t establish connections, I didn’t network, dine or have tea with the right people. I didn’t make acknowledgments the way I should have and now my future suffers because of it. I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Part of me wants to blame myself; if I hadn’t completely lost my shit, this wouldn’t be an issue. The other part of me blames society as a whole. Why do we create these webs of connections that seemingly establish who we are as human beings? What we experience, how we live, what we do on a daily basis doesn’t matter a single bit. Who you know, how you communicate and your ability to manipulate both of those skills is what gets you through life. That’s how we ended up with George W. Bush as President of the United States. My inner turmoil, any sort of insight into human nature and the darkness that lurks in all of us doesn’t matter. What if you’re autistic and lack communication skills? What if you were sexually assaulted as a child and have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as an adult? What if you fought overseas and return to find your spouse in bed with another person? None of that matters if you can’t speak to your professors, if you can’t imagine yourself as a sexual creature or if you never developed a trade skill. That’s all your fault, according to society. The strength it took to survive those things, the courage, the determination, the struggle of bearing such a heavy burden doesn’t matter if you don’t have a white picket-fence, a dog, kids and are married. The American dream isn’t a dream at all. It’s a spoon-fed nightmare that all of us have been conditioned to want to experience. Despite the hoards of people that flock to fandoms, to conventions, to fetish chat rooms and underground parties themed with coffins and fangs, all of those people are considered abnormal. They’re considered to be the fringe of society. But if everyone is on the fringe, doesn’t that mean we’re all the majority? Doesn’t that push everyone closer, ever inward until the gap is closed and we are all united as a single group of people. Though we may look different, sound different, act different, we’re all the same. It’s like penguins. When the blizzards and snow storms hit the ice caps, adult emperor penguins, waiting for their mates to return from fishing, and waiting for the eggs nestled on their feet to hatch, huddle together in a huge mass of slick feathers. They rotate constantly, making sure that anyone getting hit with the impossibly cold winds on the outer edge of the cluster, experience the radiating warmth in the center. Everyone is cycled through the heat to make sure they all survive the storm, that their eggs survive and their mates return to happy spouses and little chicks covered in down. Why can’t we be like penguins? Why can’t we just wrap each other up and love each other? Instead, I am stuck questioning my very existence because I didn’t establish enough connections in college to receive recommendation letters from anyone. People suck.

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I’m in the public library. It’s been quite some time since I’ve done this. But I needed to be here. I spent all day in bed, watching NCIS and scrolling through Facebook. I needed a change of scenery, a change of pace. I was getting pretty restless. It’s sort of funny that you can get restless during a self-imprisonment. I’m supposed to be working on not one, but two papers. Instead, I’m listening to music and writing a journal entry. I just couldn’t help myself. I should probably also be outlining the next few chapters of my sociology textbook to make sure I friggin’ pass that class but again, not doing it. At least, not yet. It may happen after this post. Mostly because I won’t have anything to preoccupy myself with once this is finished. I’m feeling….God, even after all that therapy and junk, I still hate saying statements like that. “Use ‘I am’ statements.” Um, no. I don’t wish to be possessive of most things, let alone my emotions. That’s too much liability. My legal representation (my brother, Thomas) wouldn’t not approve of such admittance at this time. Let’s say, instead, that this sort of knot is building up in my guts. It’s twisting them and tying them and I’m not really sure what to make of it. I’m having spontaneous urges to throw things, punch things and any other manner of destruction. I also desperately wish to take drugs until I’m pooping blood but that’s mostly out of pain. My hip has been hurting so badly lately that I can’t walk, I rarely leave my bed (not like I was doing much of that before this became a problem) and Brendan has been driving me around as of late. I have an ultrasound scheduled with my gynecologist on Wednesday but I’m not holding my breath. Usually, when I am in pain, there is no cause and I’m left to splutter through the endless days and weeks until a doctor decrees they will take sympathy on me and prescribe a temporary sedative or opioid. It doesn’t last long and once a doctor has admitted to such weakness, it isn’t long until I’m stonewalled into finding other help. It makes me look like a drug-seeker but I’m being framed by the system, I swear! That could be part of the problem. Right now, I’m shaking from the pain being so intense in my hip but I can’t express it. I can’t explain anything to anyone or convince them that I’m in horrible, agonizing pain. It just doesn’t work. I’m too tough for them. My mother shows pain like a normal person. I mean, she isn’t a sucker, but she will concede to her limit. My father is the opposite and never admits defeat. He would saw off his own foot and walk 20 miles before he even considered saying something about being in pain. Me? I’m sort of the neutral party. I will concede that I’m in pain, I will admit that my body has reached its limits but like my father, I can’t express it. It stays cramped and bottled up inside until someone shuts the door in my face and I’m out on the streets again, looking, begging for help. Wow, I didn’t know this post was going to twist into a pity party about pain. My apologies. Really, I should have been talking about the knot that’s twisting my intestines (and probably contributing to the pain I’m already in). It’s leaving me feeling both uplifted and elated, like I’ve got the energy to bang out both of these papers and complete my sociology class by tomorrow. It’s also got me feeling like I need to destroy, to self-destruct, to do whatever it is that the villains of Gotham did to piss off both Superman and Batman. It’s confusing and I feel trapped, like that poor elephant at the National Zoo. Mother, TomTom and I took a trip to the National Zoo over our mutual spring breaks. It was a grueling walk that left me out of commission for days but it was enjoyable to spend time with them. And I’d never been to the National Zoo so I got to see pandas! Anyway, off topic. The point is, while we were there, one of the Asian elephants, housed across from the pandas, was throwing its front legs out in front of it while standing in place. It sort of looked like the potty dance on four legs. Except, elephants can pee wherever they want so I attributed it to nervousness. Like, he was anxious, all cooped up in his pen with the others. It was sad. That’s how I feel though. I’m not a tiger pacing in its cage. The danger in that would be too obvious. People know to fear tigers. They aren’t as wary of elephants, creatures that have been used by mankind for centuries. We sort of treat them like passive horses or something, but really, elephants kill a lot of people every year. They’re destructive and docile at the same time. That is how this knot in my stomach is making me feel. It’s making me feel like a time bomb that could go off at any second, that only needs a bit more pressure before the bough breaks and everything falls apart. If I ever wrote an autobiography, that is a title I would seriously consider: When The Bough Breaks or Everything Falls Apart or Why Elephants and Invalids Are Alike. Ooh, I just thought of that last one and I like it! Alright, focus, time to actually write something. Or sit on Facebook for the remainder of my time here. Who knows what could happen? I certainly–oh! And to top off this growing knot in the pit of my stomach, I’m doing two things. One: I’m binge-watching NCIS to the point that every sentence that comes out of my mouth usually makes some connection back to the show. Not a good thing. Whenever I get this binge-y, it takes a while for me to snap out of it. It also makes me really depressed when I reach the end and can’t continue at the current trajectory. Two: I’m not seeing Craig this week. He cancelled early this morning, which means this blog will most likely be the last confession I will make this week. I realized when I was driving here that even Craig, the person I’ve spent two years with, doesn’t know me. I can divulge lots about my illnesses or my past but it’s much, much harder to say anything definitive about myself. My dad asked me once why Craig accused sabotage as being my saboteur in my “recovery” (*gag*). I told him I didn’t know, that I couldn’t know because I was ultimately doomed to spin on this hamster wheel until I died. Like, if I’m subconsciously sabotaging myself, it would theoretically never end. Well, at least not until I died. I need to get out of this headspace. I’m going to actually go work on my paper because it’s both boring and horrible, two things I excel at.

I was given homework. Believe it or not, Allistair feels that I’ve slipped so much I need a weekly homework assignment to survive from appointment to appointment. And so, here I sit, in the public library, blogging. It’s been so long that I forgot my password to this account (I remembered it eventually, obviously). I don’t particularly like the set-up of these computers because they’re all facing the same direction, which means the only people with true privacy are those in the very last row. And because computers are assigned to individuals to limit usage, you can’t automatically choose to sit in the back. It kinda sucks. As has my mood lately. I can’t explain why but it’s gotten to the point that cutting seems to be a very real option. All the old analogies of drowning, of falling off some impossibly high precipice come to mind when I want to describe how I’ve felt this past week. I was denied my graduation application because I’m short 1 or 2 credits (it’s still quite unclear) and I haven’t heard anything from any of the graduate schools I applied to. Not like it really matters in the end because I’m not going to graduate when I thought I was. Thomas sends me the usual texts pertaining to medical questions but most of them lately have revolved around our differences despite growing up in the same environment. It’s not an easy thing to explain and it certainly doesn’t make me feel like a worthy person. Even last night, I went out to dinner with my mom and Thomas and the entire ride to the restaurant was full of questions about his classes and future endeavors and applying to graduate school. Thomas is a sophomore. I sit on my ass and do nothing while he excels at everything by simply existing. It goes beyond any sort of resentment I may have felt towards him for being the “favored” sibling though. I understand that Thomas didn’t choose that, that he was simply a product of his environment, but when I try to apply the same thinking to myself, it doesn’t work. It becomes a personal vendetta against myself to find all problems and their impossible solutions. I don’t blame Thomas for his success in life. I don’t blame my parents for liking him more. I really don’t. My main problem right now is the fact that…wait…maybe I don’t know my main problem. Maybe I’m not sure where the issue lies. Has my resentment evolved into envy? Jealousy, even? Is this some sort of resignation of…life, basically, because Thomas is ultimately and fundamentally better at it than I am? That’s what I used to do when I was a kid. I would feel unique and excel at something until someone else came along that was better than me. Once that happened, once my unique-ness was taken from me by the existence of someone better than me, I quit. I hated everything about whatever I was good at. I resented the person, I hated the activity or whatever, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Maybe that’s what’s happening here. Maybe, because at one point I excelled at school, I was better at certain things than Thomas (like writing), and Thomas has come along and blown any and all performance out of the water, I want nothing to do with it. Writing was my thing, right? Then, Thomas wrote a 2-volume novel, filling 2 composition books. He continues to write a story, like an ongoing saga, about him and his friends in a mythical place that he’s contemplated sending to Cartoon Network and the like to have it animated. I’ve finished one story in my…no wait, two, in my entire life and both of them were fanfictions. They weren’t even based in my original universe. When I was in grade school, I was mixed with curly hair, that’s what made me unique. Then, all of a sudden, 2 different mixed girls were suddenly being mistaken for me and it became a game of correcting roulette, trying to convince the gym teacher that I was, in fact, Lucy and not Briana or Jessica. I want to be the hero in the story that makes such an impact in people’s lives that they can’t imagine anything before or after my presence. As self-centered as that may seem, that’s what I want. I want to be the Doctor in someone’s life. I want to be Sherlock Holmes, with my quirky residence and annoying habits that people can’t help but to love. I want to matter. And I don’t. I’m just an ordinary human being, with no exceptional skill set, that will wither and die on this miserable rock and no one will hear my flame extinguish, or care, even if they did. That’s how I feel right now. I don’t have a “real” job (I’m a nanny, if you want to be fancy), I live off the government, I don’t own any property or live in a place not owned by my parents. Literally, I am one of those people that could disappear in shows like CSI and NCIS and no one would notice for months, and when it came time to solve my death, they wouldn’t know where to begin. This is the most I’ve written in a while. I have a paper due March 1st that I’ve yet to start. I have to read 2 books for my Sociology of Mental Illness class and haven’t started. Speaking of which, that class brings up so many memories about all my inadequacies, it isn’t funny. My teacher doesn’t speak with the same political correctness that my psychology teachers do, as he shouldn’t. He’s a criminal justice professor, though his original field is social psychology. Because of that though, I feel as if I have a huge neon sign on my head that says that I’m Bipolar, that I have Borderline Personality Disorder, that I’ve stayed in places like the hospital in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. I’ve entrusted my entire life to the “system” of psychology and psychiatry, and for what? It’s gotten me up, sure, but up this cliff that I’m now falling back down. I don’t resent Thomas. I’ve said that. I’m past that. But I do resent my past, what’s happened to me, and all the damage it’s done to the road in front of me. I do resent that. And currently, I resent Brendan. He told me last night to “get over it, just do something.” I try extremely hard not to hold his lack of experience against him but when things like this happen, when I go through this shit over and over again, I need him to understand. I need him to be more supportive than select few were. I need him to want to change and learn like my family has to support me and get me through this. I need…I don’t know what I need. I need air, I need space, I need freedom, I need a break from my brain.

“Tomorrow Is Stronger Than Yesterday…”

imagesHola amigos. It has been quite a long time since I have clicked away at my keyboard, much to the annoyance of the dog, and discussed my personal affairs with you. But, here I am, back again, for another go around. There is something indescribably therapeutic about not having a face to express all of my emotions, problems, and innermost thoughts to. Don’t get me wrong, Allister is the best therapist on the planet (and will remain so until I finish school to claim my rightful place atop the pyramid! :P), but the anonymity of posting here, explaining things that I’m not quite brave enough to say aloud is perfect. It’s exactly what I need as I am draped across my armchair, typing this by the light of the antique lamp that has returned home to my grandmother’s house. My mom is here; the powerwashing company and the landscapers are coming tomorrow and I have class so she agreed to babysit them. It’s a bit of a funny thought: my mom, this tiny woman, ordering husky, buff men around as they rip up the plants and trees we simply refused to. Most of the work that needs to be done around here…wait, did I even explain this to you all? I moved into my grandmother’s house in March, as the tenant found a new place of residence (oddly enough, just up the road). The Trust (with a capital T as it contains 3 people of extreme importance) thought having someone remain in the house until it was sold was the best idea, so things don’t go to rot and ruin. So here I sit, eerily reminiscent of when I was a small child, curled up underneath my grandmother’s needlepoint. She would send the needle down, and I would send it back through. That is one of my most favorite memories. I enjoy living here. The independence and solitude is exactly what I wanted. I have the dog, a faithful companion through all of the scary trips to the basement, and Brendan visits only when I ask him. The situation is nice…but. Always hanging over my head is the thought that I am not doing enough. I don’t have a job, and am forced to return home almost every weekend for money. I feel shamed and worthless when I do so, like I was somehow irresponsible in my spending. I usually buy groceries and gas, sometimes paying for the finer things in life, like Starbucks, but only on occasion. It’s just that when I have to bring up money, I feel like Marley from A Christmas Carol, saddled with the chains of my spending habits past. I don’t steal money, I don’t lie about what I buy, but the guilt is still there. Some of it lies in the fact that I am not pulling in my own income. I don’t have a job and have been completely and utterly unsuccessful at being hired either here, or in my hometown. I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong, but it has been consistent throughout my applications. And I am active, in applying. It’s not like I only do it once a year, and then complain the rest of the time that I’m not being hired. I apply to many places and many positions, with no luck. And it ends up reflecting back on me. People think I’m lazy, spoiled and usually, rather pretentious. I try not to care what people think, but in the end, I always do. I see how my classmates look at me with confusion and mild disgust. I know what I look like when I walk in with food, or coffee, and appear to be stuffing my face. I can feel all of that and it hurts. It cuts really deep. There’s a girl in my class, for example, and because we sit in opposite corners of the room, our eyes lock pretty often. And the rays of contempt coming off of her are almost palpable. I haven’t ever spoken to her, or attended previous classes with her, but her disdain for me grows with each eye-lock. For some reason, I want nothing more than to be her friend. I want her to like me, to want to be around me, and it has masterfully backfired. That’s always what it comes down to with people. I want to be liked. I want to be that person in someone’s life that truly, and utterly makes a difference. I want to have profound and provocative thoughts that shake people to their core, but instead, I say “like” and “whatever” a lot like I’m some idiot from the Valley. I complain, criticize and am overall judgmental, rather than kind and compassionate. I am a bully. And it hurts me, but I can’t, or rather don’t know how, to change it. I have hurt many people that I love, but am praised for my harsh critiques at the same time. This conversation took a turn that I didn’t think would happen. I was thinking about it almost all day, but didn’t know it shook me this deeply until now. I guess Allister and I need to have a talk. And I won’t be claiming that title from him as soon as I had hoped…

“Easy Street…Better Get There Soon!”

Snow ballSo…this week has been rather eventful. And it’s been swinging both ways. For some reason, my anxiety has been through the roof and my OCD has been spiraling out of control. I’m constantly cleaning and straightening things up, even when I’m not in my own house. It’s like I’m the Energizer bunny. I can’t stop moving, no matter what I’m doing or where I am. Even in the shower, which is usually my safe haven, I have to be dancing. This energy makes my mom happy because I’m cleaning but she knows that’s a fine line to walk because I’m becoming obsessive. And it’s not just about that. It’s about my weight too. I’ve lost 50 pounds since April and I plan on keeping it off. Being able to fit into my size 16 jeans was like the best feeling I’ve ever experienced. I like being able to shop in my own closet for clothes that are smaller than the ones I’ve been wearing for the last 6 months. But Dr. Glover (my psychiatrist, in case you forgot. It’s been a while) increased my Lamictal (for picking/cutting) and my Seroquel (for the anxiety and depression), which she casually mentioned might cause weight gain. Of course, to her, that doesn’t mean anything. To me, it means back into bigger clothes, eating more, hating myself more…it’s just an ugly cycle that I’d rather not repeat. Coupled with my anxiety, it’s led to constantly weighing myself, obsessively watching what I eat and constantly worrying about what I look like in my clothes. And then, when I sit still, when I slow down because there’s nothing left to clean, nothing left to do, the bottom falls out from underneath me. I am dropped into this dark abysmal place, where I can’t see anything, where I can’t breathe, where I can’t think of anything but no longer existing. I can’t help but think of terminating myself. And it’s exactly like that. Usually when I think of ending my life, it’s sort of this dramatic, operetta-type deal. I imagine the whole scene. But when this place swallows me, it’s not that…emotional. It’s cold and calculating. I am not important enough to have such a grand farewell. I don’t deserve to have a standing ovation upon my passing. I need to exit stage right like a shadow, like the set designers that organize the props for the next scene, dressed in all black and invisible to the crowd that is enthralled in the show going on around them. I go out more like a candle, than a 4-alarm blaze. But as soon as I’m up, as soon as I’m running around, doing things, occupying myself, I’m fine. It gets even better though. BPD has very distinct behaviors, just like every other personality disorder. And now that I am aware I have BPD, I can more easily recognize those behaviors. And lately, they’ve been rearing their ugly heads like snowflakes in winter. I can see myself doing it, I can see myself being manipulative and bitchy. I can see myself being defiant and switching between all-or-nothing. I can see myself behaving in this way that I’ve worked over a year to not behave in. And all of a sudden, it’s not working. It’s almost like I’m a third-party observer. I see what I’m doing, I realize how I’m acting, but I can’t stop myself. It’s greedy, and shameful and horrible. And the snowball keeps turning…I beat myself up for being a bitch, for being fat, for being energetic, for being on Earth. And the holidays are extra weird for me because I’m not used to going broke buying Christmas presents for people who aren’t family and treat me like dirt and then having to do the same thing in 2 weeks because it’s their birthday. Speaking of which, I did something the other day that even surprised me a little bit. I messaged Lexi on Facebook (since you can do that without being friends with someone) and apologized for being a horrible human being. We’ve been texting/talking ever since and we’re working through it. I had to recount my story for the millionth time but like I told her, that is my cross to bear. In order to repair the relationships that were severed by my stupidity, I’m going to have to tell that story a million more times. It’s good to know that I have someone like that playing on my team again. She was always a better friend than Mara ever was. But even with this type of healing going on, even with her hopefulness for the future of our relationship, I’m still dealing with the problems mentioned above. I’m still trying to figure out why I had a meltdown half an hour before my pinning ceremony last night and told my mom I wasn’t going to go, then completely changed the planned outfit and wore something totally different. I’m still trying to figure out why I was super conscious of what I ate for breakfast but then pigged out at lunch and am super worried about dinner because I’m supposed to be going out with Dick to eat tacos or something. Oh, and then there’s the problem with him. He lives a good bit away, which has been a strain on our relationship but it hasn’t been a major factor. We always seem to work things out. But lately, because my moods have been, well, BPD-ish, driving that far and committing to something that long-term (even though it’s only a few hours) is really hard. And even getting him to come out here and then sending him home after an hour or 2, would be really ridiculous! This relationship is literally the best I’ve ever been in in my entire life. My parents like him, I like him, I think his parents like me. I can see myself marrying him. I don’t want this to end but I don’t know how to get around this little snag. Because, of course, it’s my problem. Things are always my problem. It’s never someone else’s. And, of course, that’s a BPD standpoint. Things happen to me, not because of me. That’s the shit I’m talking about. I just sort of slip into it and by the time I realize I’m doing it, it’s too late. The behavior has started and it’s too late. The gasoline has been poured and the match is lit. I just feel so out of control. I don’t know how to stop it. I’ve been diligently taking my medicine; that’s never been anything I’ve struggled with. But this inconsistency in my moods, in my energy, in my anger…it’s ridiculous. And Dr. Glover will probably try to say it’s Bipolar Disorder. I don’t have Bipolar Disorder. This is not a manic episode. I know my body and I know what I’m going through. I know enough about that disease to know that this isn’t that. I don’t have anything against people with Bipolar; I just know I don’t have it. If I’m slipping though, if this is the beginning of another end, I kind of need to brace myself. I can’t do that right now. I have too much shit to do. And I can’t handle that on top of everything else. That sounds so cold and heartless but it’s the truth. That’s how everyone else deals with me, so I’ll deal with me like that too. Easy enough, right?