Self-Indulgent Drivel

naked on the internet

Month: January, 2014

I don’t want to wonder if this is a blunder…

I don’t want to worry whether we’re going to stay together ’til we die…

I hate posting my relationship status on Facebook.

I hate how public it makes everything. I hate how people comment, seemingly to congratulate me for having found someone to put up with my shit. As if it solves anything. As if it makes anything at all better. I know they’re just happy that I seem to have found some happiness, and I appreciate the support, but waving a banner that says “I DONE TRICKED SOMEONE INTO LIKING ME” seems… gross.

But, yes. Yes. I am in a relationship. Grinding my teeth and wringing my hands and grumbling all the way, but here I am. Yes.

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Stop looking so goddamned smug, Jeremy.

It’s complicated/helped along by the fact that I moved in with him two weeks ago. My roommate situation was… not going well, and I knew that I’d have my own room here and that he’s enough of a sucker to put up with my nonsense. Silly bastard thinks he’s in love with me! The fool!

But, seriously. It’s easy to be with Jeremy. It’s fun! We get along really well. Things are good. We laugh a lot. He is very patient and kind and he isn’t sleeping with a bevy of 19-year-olds on the side and I don’t think he’s going to leave me because he’s feeling “itchy.” So far he’s shown no signs of being controlling or abusive. He didn’t have a dramatic personality shift as soon as I moved in, and he doesn’t seem to have a drinking problem.

I keep trying to trip him up, to make him be anything less than perfectly wonderful, but he refuses. I’m starting to believe that he might actually be, y’know, a good person. Good for me. Everything he seems to be and maybe more.

Maybe in six months we’ll be arguing about money. Maybe in a year we’ll be fighting about my bitchiness or the fact that he soaks the bathroom floor when he showers. Maybe five years from now we’ll hate each other. Maybe in 50 years we’ll die together of simultaneous heart attacks from having vigorous sex in the retirement home. Who can say?

Edited to ad some art by Tiffany Eby, who read this and decided to get cheeky:

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oh you bloody motherfucking asshole

I am not a great decorator. After Mike The Asshole told me my taste was tacky, I stopped putting things up on my walls for awhile. After we broke up, I of course plastered my walls with weird postcards and the like. But I’ve moved seven times in 3.5 years, and I seldom put anything up because it’s exhausting and I’m just gonna probably move in six months anyway.

So my current bedroom has  only one thing on the walls.

It’s a letter my dad sent me years ago, when I was desperately poor and felt, well, lame. Because I needed help again and I felt like a 28-year-old shouldn’t be asking her daddy for money every month. I should have had my life together, and I didn’t. He sent a check, and included this note, and everywhere I’ve lived in the past five years, this has been on my wall.

I am, whatever our problems, and whether I want to be or not, Daddy’s Girl. I have always wanted to impress him. I tell people, “my father is brilliant, I am merely very,very bright.” My father has something like 13 patents. My father had a part on the space shuttle, although I’m not sure what. My daddy does things with lasers and tank armor and makes assloads of money and lives in a house with a glorious view of the Pacific. My father is generous and charitable and at times astonishingly kind.

Which is why this is so hard for me.

He doesn’t goddamned get it, at all.

Martha says it better than I can:

You say my time here has been some sort of joke
That I’ve been messing around
Some sort of incubating period
For when I really come around

I’m cracking up
And you have no idea
No idea how it feels to be on your own
In your own home
with the fucking phone
And the mother of gloom
In your bedroom
Standing over your head
With her hand in your head
With her hand in your head

I will not pretend
I will not put on a smile
I will not say I’m all right for you
When all I wanted was to be good
To do everything in truth
To do everything in truth

I don’t know if that conveys it to you, but it’s playing in my head on a constant loop these days.

I talked to my dad about 10 days ago. It was about an hour after my weekly therapy appointment (and two days before I cracked up and went to the hospital.) And he gave me his usual dad advice that what I probably needed was some stability, that I should get a job, that the happiest and most stable I’ve ever been was when I was working, and that my first priority should be getting back into school.

Let’s address these points, shall we?

  • I probably need some stability.
    • Well fucking DUH
  • I should get a job
    • I totally agree! That’s why I’m working on becoming a cabbie! Also, if you haven’t noticed, I’m losing my mind like right now this very moment and perhaps a desk job isn’t going to magically fix things.
  • The happiest and most stable I’ve ever been was when I was working
    • Y’know, I’d noticed that too! And I looked for work for months, but I’ve been sort of bedridden with this whole “I want to die I want to die I want to die” thing I’ve been indulging in lately, so it’s made it hard to keep keepin’ on. I applied for everything I could until I could no longer work anyway because the depression and anxiety were close to killing me.
  • You should go back to school (even though I’m unwilling to adequately support you while you do it.)
    • I dropped out of school when I was 28 because of what I now know was a raging case of bipolar disorder. I could not sit still in a classroom. I spent my days at home hating everything and my nights at bars with pretty boys because they were the only thing that reliably made me even temporarily less horrid. You won’t help me pay for it, and I’m ineligible for more loans.

And I have some points of my own!

  • If I went back to school now, the same goddamned thing would happen. I would crash and burn. I know it. This is not a guess, this is the truth.
  • The last job I had, I had to quit after five hours because I got a panic attack so bad that it gave me diarrhea.
  • My top priority right now is to get healthy.
  • My top priority right now should be to get healthy.
  • I cannot do anything useful until I am healthy.

I have lost 15 lbs in the past MONTH. That’s terrifying (although I did have it to spare.)  When I try to eat normal food, I shit or vomit. I’m basically on a liquid diet most days, and that’s more expensive than you’d think. I’m going through withdrawal from Effexor, which means that I burst into tears sometimes and my head constantly feels like it’s receiving electric shocks. All I can think about all day is going to bed, but when bedtime rolls around, I’m wired and don’t get to sleep until 2am when I meant to be in bed at 9pm and have to be awake at 8am. I have not once been on time to the hospital where I spent 20-30 hours a week trying to get better. Getting better is exhausting. Lots of anger, lots of crying.

This is hell. This is hell. This is hell.

Honestly, I’m feeling hopeful and better and therapy is working and I think lithium might fix some of this so I go to my stupid groups and I take my stupid pills and I deal with the BZZZZZZZZZZT  in my brain and I get by on not-enough sleep and I try my hardest not to buy that cute vintage jacket or fuck that cute boy because I don’t want my mania to rule my life.

And I unreservedly say FUCK YOU to anyone who has never been through this but thinks they know what’s best for me.

This is HELL. And I am fighting, and I am BRAVE, and I am STRONG and I am going to fucking BEAT THIS even if you don’t believe in me. Even if you think I’m not trying hard enough. All I do is try. I fight and fight and fight and this is hell hell hell.

nothing gets in or away

I’ve been trying to get out and meet people. It’s been hard. I met two new people today, and both meetings were interesting and went well, but both left me feeling vulnerable and, to varying degrees, rejected. It’s like I’m too tender to handle the possibility that people  won’t immediately take to me, but at the same time, I desperately need people  in my life.

So it goes.

I’d rather be dreaming than talking, there’s nothing to hear or to say
With ears covered, mouth closed, the world is opposed
And nothing gets in or away

too proud to mention to you

My fever burns me deeper than I’ve ever shown to you

Today I saw my therapist, the one who isn’t affiliated with the hospital where I’ve been spending my days. I love my therapist. She’s amazing. And of course we had a lot of ground to cover this week. And a lot of things got stirred up.

I’m feeling angry. I don’t know how appropriate it is to try to talk to the people who I’m most angry at, because I don’t know how much good it would do. The people who seem to think I’m overstating my need for immediate help are the ones I do my best to be honest with, so it stings particularly to have these people telling me, essentially, to walk it off.

And I could yell. I want to yell. Or I could keep quiet, and let these relationships decay on their own. I still haven’t made up my mind.

You keep a lot of secrets, and I keep none…

…wish I could go back, and keep some

This week has been hard, and I’ve only had to do three abbreviated days of group therapy. It’s been exhausting. No amount of sleep is enough, but at least I’m sleeping.

Talking is exhausting. Trying not to dominate the conversations is exhausting. Being open to the experience is exhausting, but less exhausting that remaining closed to it. Today it occurred to me that maybe it’s where I need to be, and that thought terrified me. I’m learning things. They are not easy things to learn, sometimes. There’s a lot of common ground. The insight can be validating, and it can also be terrifying. Yes, I know I’m using the same adjectives over and over. They are the best adjectives.

I get to go to bed soon.

Which is good. Because I am exhausted.

So this is the new year

I am going to try to post every day.

It won’t happen, probably. But I’m going to try.

I went to the emergency room on Monday morning because I couldn’t get in touch with my psychiatrist and I couldn’t wait anymore to get some sort of help. What I really needed was a sense that I was doing something, ANYTHING, to try to get better. The social worker and doctor I spoke to at the hospital were both awesome in ways I can’t even try to convey right now– but for the first time in a long time, I felt really listened to in a clinical setting. The social worker and I decided that my best/most practical plan was to go to the day program at the hospital’s psych ward, so that’s what I did yesterday. And it was awful. But I’m going back tomorrow. Because I need to feel like I’m doing something to try to get better.

So this is the new year?

It’s kind of terrifying. But I’m feeling good-ish. Terrified but excited. We’ll see.