searching for you everywhere online trying to find your number...
Please talk to me when you call.
Monday, October 31, 2011
The Break
It's hard to stay positive knowing that the next conversation is going to be about separation papers that simply don't exist.
This is where I'm applauded by my therapist and by my grandmother who knows some of the story for my strength.
IN reality, I just want to be with him again, in those little bubbles of time that we are use to, no matter how dangerous to my mental health.
I'm not a patient person--but I've managed to wait for four years for these magical papers to appear that haven't. How long can I wait without seeing him?
This is where I'm applauded by my therapist and by my grandmother who knows some of the story for my strength.
IN reality, I just want to be with him again, in those little bubbles of time that we are use to, no matter how dangerous to my mental health.
I'm not a patient person--but I've managed to wait for four years for these magical papers to appear that haven't. How long can I wait without seeing him?
What Friends ARe For
ONe of my therapists tried this trick--if I wanted my only son to grow up to be MOrpheus.
Would I be proud of him?
Yes. He's very smart and high functioning. I would rather the kid turn out like him than to experience auditory hallucinations, a psychotic episode, severe depression, etc and be like me. How's that?
I can see the therapist now, her down in her notepad, writing softly, and then saying, "Do you really want a man who calls you up in the middle of the night, drunk?"
LIst faults, A, B, and C. Check mark. AT least he called.
It's frightening to face choices--girlfriend versus a marriage. Or perhaps he was thinking about our fight, and my psychotic behavior is what he found to be scary.
The therapist would not be interested in any of this. MOrpheus is the bad guy. Rationalizing any of his behavior just annoys Ph.D.'s and Master's alike.
I hear that a lot, "Do you really want...?"
I've been with a lot of men, more than the average woman my age, and I've never found one better. This is a statement that therapist will refute yet they can't rob me of my experiences. They can't claim the hours I've survived and lived. They can only argue about their standards and vision of life. About what looks good to them from their point of view.
"Do you really want some guy calling you at almost one am because he's lonely and wants sex?" A therapist will ask.
There's an shared intimacy at one am, and it's not just about sex. The problem isn't one am (who really cares about the time); the problem is the gift of friendship (I bail you out, you bail me out) isn't shared. IN other words, I can't call him at one am and cry on his shoulder. I have friends in which I can do that.
Therapists misread sex. Sex was my business, I know how it rolls around in the male mind and in the female mind. You have sex in these circumstances, it's like putting a pacifier in someone's mouth. IT works, but not for long, and we all have to grow up. IN the long run, it's not solving any problems.
Sometimes sex does help if it goes along with healthy verbal communication.
Good friends take each other phone calls at one am. WE listen to each other whenever we're drunk, sober, psychotic or delusional. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.
Would I be proud of him?
Yes. He's very smart and high functioning. I would rather the kid turn out like him than to experience auditory hallucinations, a psychotic episode, severe depression, etc and be like me. How's that?
I can see the therapist now, her down in her notepad, writing softly, and then saying, "Do you really want a man who calls you up in the middle of the night, drunk?"
LIst faults, A, B, and C. Check mark. AT least he called.
It's frightening to face choices--girlfriend versus a marriage. Or perhaps he was thinking about our fight, and my psychotic behavior is what he found to be scary.
The therapist would not be interested in any of this. MOrpheus is the bad guy. Rationalizing any of his behavior just annoys Ph.D.'s and Master's alike.
I hear that a lot, "Do you really want...?"
I've been with a lot of men, more than the average woman my age, and I've never found one better. This is a statement that therapist will refute yet they can't rob me of my experiences. They can't claim the hours I've survived and lived. They can only argue about their standards and vision of life. About what looks good to them from their point of view.
"Do you really want some guy calling you at almost one am because he's lonely and wants sex?" A therapist will ask.
There's an shared intimacy at one am, and it's not just about sex. The problem isn't one am (who really cares about the time); the problem is the gift of friendship (I bail you out, you bail me out) isn't shared. IN other words, I can't call him at one am and cry on his shoulder. I have friends in which I can do that.
Therapists misread sex. Sex was my business, I know how it rolls around in the male mind and in the female mind. You have sex in these circumstances, it's like putting a pacifier in someone's mouth. IT works, but not for long, and we all have to grow up. IN the long run, it's not solving any problems.
Sometimes sex does help if it goes along with healthy verbal communication.
Good friends take each other phone calls at one am. WE listen to each other whenever we're drunk, sober, psychotic or delusional. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
More On the REstricted Number
A few weeks ago, a restricted number started calling about five days a week, let it ring once or twice, and then hang up before I had a chance to catch it.
I didn't think much of it until today, thinking it was bill collectors or some type of spam.
I didn't think much of it until today, thinking it was bill collectors or some type of spam.
WE Would Have Had One Hell of a STory
"Because it’s boring to say that things don’t work out like they do in the movies. Everyone knows that. Even 21-year-olds. But it’s hard to resist a great story. If we had lasted, we would have had one hell of a story."
--When the Words Don't Fit
--When the Words Don't Fit
On Writing a Therapist
When I was senior in high school, my teacher wanted me to be published. ONe of my projects was a story called "Meredith Black" and the entire story was based in a therapy room.
Meredith was a tense, accomplished me with depression only (back then, I was depression and anxiety only), who was rather heartless at age thirty-five. NO marriage. NO long term boyfriends. She had no bad habits but smoking. Typical for a man, not so for a woman, she put all of her negative energy into her job. She was an economist (I after all at the time was an A econ student).
Except she fell in love with one of her male friends, and then promptly refuse to see him.
I sense the pain of make late night phone calls and hanging up.
I see a therapy sitting in a chair, doodling on a paper, completely unconcerned with Morpheus's position.
"This means he loves me," I want to say.
"Suffering is love?" is a witty answer, but not likely to be heard.
No one wants to suffer alone. People want to be remembered daily when they are in love and separated.
If I had to write a therapist again, I would write a therapist who is more along the lines of "try it and see if it bites you." IF it bites you repeatedly perhaps you should change your course.
What is forgotten is the fact that with the mood instability of an intense love high blinds you to the consequences of the bite felt weeks and months later. There's no moral argument to be made (who's soul could you save?).
I never grew up to be a Meredith mostly because I ended up being bipolar, and when manic, I experimented with sex and relationships.
Meredith was a tense, accomplished me with depression only (back then, I was depression and anxiety only), who was rather heartless at age thirty-five. NO marriage. NO long term boyfriends. She had no bad habits but smoking. Typical for a man, not so for a woman, she put all of her negative energy into her job. She was an economist (I after all at the time was an A econ student).
Except she fell in love with one of her male friends, and then promptly refuse to see him.
I sense the pain of make late night phone calls and hanging up.
I see a therapy sitting in a chair, doodling on a paper, completely unconcerned with Morpheus's position.
"This means he loves me," I want to say.
"Suffering is love?" is a witty answer, but not likely to be heard.
No one wants to suffer alone. People want to be remembered daily when they are in love and separated.
If I had to write a therapist again, I would write a therapist who is more along the lines of "try it and see if it bites you." IF it bites you repeatedly perhaps you should change your course.
What is forgotten is the fact that with the mood instability of an intense love high blinds you to the consequences of the bite felt weeks and months later. There's no moral argument to be made (who's soul could you save?).
I never grew up to be a Meredith mostly because I ended up being bipolar, and when manic, I experimented with sex and relationships.
Last night around 12:22am, one call from a restricted number.
Last night around 12:52am, another call from a restricted number.
IT was the third I decided to answer. d "Hello," I said. There was a long silence.
"Hello," he said back, quiet and distance-like.
It sounded like mOrpheus.
I couldn't tell for sure. "Who is this?"
Click. He hung up on me.
Last night around 12:52am, another call from a restricted number.
IT was the third I decided to answer. d "Hello," I said. There was a long silence.
"Hello," he said back, quiet and distance-like.
It sounded like mOrpheus.
I couldn't tell for sure. "Who is this?"
Click. He hung up on me.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
STuck Waiting
NO one encourages the Other Woman to cling to her fantasies of someday running away with The Husband (who is really the Ex-Husband). NO one encourages her to sit by the phone, and waste her life away patiently waiting.
Ask anyone in the "Other Woman" position, and it seems as if there is a forever hold on life, and we are stuck waiting. WAiting. WAiting. And waiting.
Rumination is high lately, which means my brain itself is on hold. Whatever space is up there freed from homework is focused on MOrpheus. When will he call? What can we say?
NOrmally it's not this bad, but seeing him downtown shook loose old feelings and memories.
Even the last therapist admitted that so much of my life had been bad, he was one of the good pieces. Who wouldn't ruminate about someone who brought you good feelings once you were with him? EVen if those times were few and far between?
Ask anyone in the "Other Woman" position, and it seems as if there is a forever hold on life, and we are stuck waiting. WAiting. WAiting. And waiting.
Rumination is high lately, which means my brain itself is on hold. Whatever space is up there freed from homework is focused on MOrpheus. When will he call? What can we say?
NOrmally it's not this bad, but seeing him downtown shook loose old feelings and memories.
Even the last therapist admitted that so much of my life had been bad, he was one of the good pieces. Who wouldn't ruminate about someone who brought you good feelings once you were with him? EVen if those times were few and far between?
How do you convince a therapist that you should stay with a married man who you only see a few times per year?
ONly if you have a romantic one.
Even the most hopeful of all therapists (this model would be my first psychiatrist ever who does therapy) would be worried about Mommy hitting Daddy, and still no separation filed.
I was drowning at this point in the story, and there was no psychiatrist to give words to me. I could see the sunlight shining through the water as my hands grasp towards the air. In one month, I would crack open and be psychotic. All would be dark and lost.
There was no romance in domestic violence nor was I well suited to give advice on the matter. I laughed slightly in the cab of the truck when MOrpheus told me about it, but order a therapist and a lawyer. My advice like my chuckle was ignored.
WE can all look back, and say this moment. You have a moment to walk away from a bad situation, and you have the balls to stay. There's just sad stories to be told. I called Morpheus back after I left him at his truck.
NO one is willing to say that love saves all, cares all, heals all, and makes all better. The truth is: it does, but the individual has to do the work too.
ONly if you have a romantic one.
Even the most hopeful of all therapists (this model would be my first psychiatrist ever who does therapy) would be worried about Mommy hitting Daddy, and still no separation filed.
I was drowning at this point in the story, and there was no psychiatrist to give words to me. I could see the sunlight shining through the water as my hands grasp towards the air. In one month, I would crack open and be psychotic. All would be dark and lost.
There was no romance in domestic violence nor was I well suited to give advice on the matter. I laughed slightly in the cab of the truck when MOrpheus told me about it, but order a therapist and a lawyer. My advice like my chuckle was ignored.
WE can all look back, and say this moment. You have a moment to walk away from a bad situation, and you have the balls to stay. There's just sad stories to be told. I called Morpheus back after I left him at his truck.
NO one is willing to say that love saves all, cares all, heals all, and makes all better. The truth is: it does, but the individual has to do the work too.
Cheating is STill WRong
AFter a while you realize that going to a therapy room and listening to common sense remarks to critical remarks to down-right bitchy ones don't help.
NO therapist is going to hold my hand, and tell me she feels sorry for me too even though I've been through hell. Some of the loneliest places I've been have been after break up's. There is no comfort, no rest, no joy found. You're on your own to soothe yourself.
The stigma against the Other Woman is great. NO writing I've read has been complimentary. It's about how we have as many issues as the married man we're involved with, if not more. Low self-esteem, etc.
Why treat the Other Woman bad? BEcause society still says that cheating is wrong. It's against our social norms. That's reason enough. Also, out of the three people involved, the Husband, the Wife, and the Other Woman, the Other Woman has the least amount of power.
NO therapist is going to hold my hand, and tell me she feels sorry for me too even though I've been through hell. Some of the loneliest places I've been have been after break up's. There is no comfort, no rest, no joy found. You're on your own to soothe yourself.
The stigma against the Other Woman is great. NO writing I've read has been complimentary. It's about how we have as many issues as the married man we're involved with, if not more. Low self-esteem, etc.
Why treat the Other Woman bad? BEcause society still says that cheating is wrong. It's against our social norms. That's reason enough. Also, out of the three people involved, the Husband, the Wife, and the Other Woman, the Other Woman has the least amount of power.
More On Therapy: The Family
Sitting on the therapy couch it's hard to argue the value of having a lover you only see once every few months. The longest I went? Nine. This is during the birth of his third.
I have a picture of him holding his youngest. He looks more scared than anything.
I see a therapist sitting on the chair, asking me without even words what am I doing in a family mess this size.
It didn't start out like that. He was sitting on a hotel (Quality Suites, to be exact) bed, and said to me, "It's not like I have a coach." It was a plead that I took seriously and with all my heart. It kept me from walking out of the door and never coming back (as I was ready to do after the first time we had sex). Asking me for help handling the responsibilities of mixing our relationship and his family (and keeping them separate). How do you juggle the juggle?
Scratch that. It did start out like that. A huge family problem I could never solve. But I was too naive, and too in love to care--this is selfishness in plain view on my part. You think you fall in love and it's just you.
This is again where therapists lose interest in arguing. It was so obvious, wasn't it? He's married. He comes with other people connected to him, who can be hurt by his actions with me. MOst therapists give a "He's the one married, not you" line to lessen my guilt, but I never forget the shake of the head. I seem so wise. Years ago, growing up, I was more mature for my age. Why fall into this trap when it can clearly be avoided?
Why not pick someone single, without kids, why not the guy next door? The guy holding the beer at the bar? For god's sake, there must be another guy.
Another guy never really stepped up. One of my boyfriends was so insecure about it, he always had a girl waiting for him, it's hard to tell who did the worse damage to whom.
ARguing that kids are baggage is like saying that my mother is baggage or any other family member. It's cruel for one thing. They're not dogs you can take to the pound when you don't want them anymore. I've had therapists argue about that. I find it appalling and bad taste. So, he has three kids. They're not mine, and I don't make decisions concerning them.
I have a picture of him holding his youngest. He looks more scared than anything.
I see a therapist sitting on the chair, asking me without even words what am I doing in a family mess this size.
It didn't start out like that. He was sitting on a hotel (Quality Suites, to be exact) bed, and said to me, "It's not like I have a coach." It was a plead that I took seriously and with all my heart. It kept me from walking out of the door and never coming back (as I was ready to do after the first time we had sex). Asking me for help handling the responsibilities of mixing our relationship and his family (and keeping them separate). How do you juggle the juggle?
Scratch that. It did start out like that. A huge family problem I could never solve. But I was too naive, and too in love to care--this is selfishness in plain view on my part. You think you fall in love and it's just you.
This is again where therapists lose interest in arguing. It was so obvious, wasn't it? He's married. He comes with other people connected to him, who can be hurt by his actions with me. MOst therapists give a "He's the one married, not you" line to lessen my guilt, but I never forget the shake of the head. I seem so wise. Years ago, growing up, I was more mature for my age. Why fall into this trap when it can clearly be avoided?
Why not pick someone single, without kids, why not the guy next door? The guy holding the beer at the bar? For god's sake, there must be another guy.
Another guy never really stepped up. One of my boyfriends was so insecure about it, he always had a girl waiting for him, it's hard to tell who did the worse damage to whom.
ARguing that kids are baggage is like saying that my mother is baggage or any other family member. It's cruel for one thing. They're not dogs you can take to the pound when you don't want them anymore. I've had therapists argue about that. I find it appalling and bad taste. So, he has three kids. They're not mine, and I don't make decisions concerning them.
Next weekend is my friend's wedding. I always figured she would marry before me, but I'm ill prepared to go. Going to the wedding brings up what my therapist says is anger (that I never deal with as I'm disassociated from my feelings).
I'm in love too, I asked a man to marry me, to which he gave no reply.
I don't feel like celebrating marriage--not that I'm unhappy for my friend.
There will also be the temptation to drink.
I'm in love too, I asked a man to marry me, to which he gave no reply.
I don't feel like celebrating marriage--not that I'm unhappy for my friend.
There will also be the temptation to drink.
If you had a towel in your hand, and were headed to the shower room with voices in your head telling you to hang, what would stop you?
This morning I took an "ethics quiz" for University of Phoenix, which reminded me of SAT and the military. Who are you, and what will you do if you find yourself in a fire-fight?
I promised "DAD" seven months (that I would not hurt myself nor committed suicide). DAD, of course, turned out not to be real. The threat of death in a sense turned out not to be real.
I thought about turning it into a sci-fi story. What if the government could hack into your brains, what if this technology was new, and they--in the spirit of Skinner--killed people this way if only to know how? The goal was to do it faster and better than anyone. Most people state the obvious if you can do that, you can induce a seizure, and kill someone within seconds, within minutes without the fun of driving them to attempt or commit suicide.
What if it was more of a military experiment on stealing the one thing we never thought we could--free will? And you can't get that by inducing a seizure. It could be a story about misuse of military technology being tested on ordinary private citizens, every paranoid person's worst nightmare.
It would be easy to write, although I wonder if it would be somewhat dangerous at this point (as if giving into my delusions again). The idea of free will, delusions, auditory hallucinations, etc is interesting to play with.
This morning I took an "ethics quiz" for University of Phoenix, which reminded me of SAT and the military. Who are you, and what will you do if you find yourself in a fire-fight?
I promised "DAD" seven months (that I would not hurt myself nor committed suicide). DAD, of course, turned out not to be real. The threat of death in a sense turned out not to be real.
I thought about turning it into a sci-fi story. What if the government could hack into your brains, what if this technology was new, and they--in the spirit of Skinner--killed people this way if only to know how? The goal was to do it faster and better than anyone. Most people state the obvious if you can do that, you can induce a seizure, and kill someone within seconds, within minutes without the fun of driving them to attempt or commit suicide.
What if it was more of a military experiment on stealing the one thing we never thought we could--free will? And you can't get that by inducing a seizure. It could be a story about misuse of military technology being tested on ordinary private citizens, every paranoid person's worst nightmare.
It would be easy to write, although I wonder if it would be somewhat dangerous at this point (as if giving into my delusions again). The idea of free will, delusions, auditory hallucinations, etc is interesting to play with.
The Pipe Dream
"We sold ourselves a pipe dream that everyone could get rich and no one would get hurt — a pipe dream that exploded like a pipe bomb when the already-rich grabbed for all the gold; when they used their fortunes to influence government and gain favors and protection; when everyone else was left to scrounge around their ankles in hopes that a few coins would fall.
We have not taken care of the least among us. We have allowed a revolting level of income inequality to develop. We have watched as millions of our fellow countrymen have fallen into poverty. And we have done a poor job of educating our children and now threaten to leave them a country that is a shell of its former self. We should be ashamed."
--America's Exploding Pipe Dream
A Make Believe Therapy Session
Sit down in a make believe therapy session. The therapist has out her pen and writing pad in a chair across from the couch.
"Do you think he'll call soon?" I think to ask, but don't. I just sit there on the dark pink couch with my eyes out the window. The butterflies are thick this time of year.
"Did you really think you two would end up together?" She thinks (in reality that question has been asked to me from another therapist).
Love is the biggest dreamer, is it not? It doesn't help if every time he's on the phone he dreams with me. He told me once I was the prettiest girl in the world.
"It takes more than sex and charms to make a relationship work," she says to me.
For how long? Because we have been doing this for four years. I have heard of worse stories, people and sex staying together for twenty years even though the rest of the relationship was bad, having sex right up until the final papers were through the court. People underestimate good or great sex. WE stupid people call it being in love. Define sex. Define being in love. YOu find yourself searching for words for a reason. They go together, and we can't easily separate them out.
I keep playing it out, over and over again, sitting in a little room, the children's room for kids with mental disorders--which has a big window to look out--my escape. My therapist sitting there, not wanting to talk about mOprheus. I ask the same silly questions a five year old would, no doubt his does when Mommy and DAddy fight. He says the fighting is so bad, he has to leave, and then come back later. I dissociate--Mommy and DAddy don't affect me anymore. Still, I ask, "What do you think he'll say?" My imaginary therapist is critical and sensible. When will Daddy be back?
"Yes, he will get a separation magically just because you finally said so." She replies with some humor.
In reality, no one has shown any humor. INstead, they want me to find out odds. 70% chance? 30%? What are we working with here, Lacey? All the while, the therapist(s) nodd and then sigh and want me to admit that the situation is hopeless. There's a maze. A rat. And some cheese if you get away from the married man. IF you grieve enough, you are rewarded. For most of this, I can't tell if I lie.
"Maybe he will hurry up then if he can't see me." I've never really said that, but that's the point right? WE break up. He has incentive now, more anyway, to get his separation. This says nothing about the odds. I don't have my calculator out. I didn't take statistics in college.
"And just exactly how long are you planning on waiting for a man to divorce when his mother runs a Bible bookstore, and his wife comes from a conservative background? A year? Two? Five?" The therapist sighs.
"So, do you think he'll call me this month? Probably not. It's like too late, huh?" This is a dip into the central portion of my thinking. Maybe the Wife took them to the second house for Trick-Or-Treating, and he stayed here in SLO. The therapist is not amused. "I'll know when it's time to give up. Or I'll find someone better." I lie. Even to a pretend therapist I lie. I can't stand talking about MOrpheus in therapy because you're always bound to lie. I can't see the point ahead in my future where I give up. That was closer to the truth. Was I just a kid who learned to bash his brains into the wall repeatedly? Was this my punishment, therapy?
She rambles on about how he isn't good for me. They all ramble at this point. He's not available.
I'm more of an act in a tragic play. CAn't they see that?
"NO. He's just taking advantage of you."
IN therapy, there was always that angle, which I loved. He was taking advantage of me, yet I went willingly and happily into his house without exception and this was not 1800's. It was hard to explain how happily I went into the bedroom without giving gross details of the sex to a new or bashful therapist. We were equals in how bad we were fucking with each other. Lately proved an exception (the psychotic break), but you can't say that was directly his fault. Even if it was (some of it, sure), did he do it on purpose? NO.
People confuse lack of insight into behavior with malignancy.
The whole circle is "people want better for me," and while I'm in love with Morpheus.
"Do you think he'll call soon?" I think to ask, but don't. I just sit there on the dark pink couch with my eyes out the window. The butterflies are thick this time of year.
"Did you really think you two would end up together?" She thinks (in reality that question has been asked to me from another therapist).
Love is the biggest dreamer, is it not? It doesn't help if every time he's on the phone he dreams with me. He told me once I was the prettiest girl in the world.
"It takes more than sex and charms to make a relationship work," she says to me.
For how long? Because we have been doing this for four years. I have heard of worse stories, people and sex staying together for twenty years even though the rest of the relationship was bad, having sex right up until the final papers were through the court. People underestimate good or great sex. WE stupid people call it being in love. Define sex. Define being in love. YOu find yourself searching for words for a reason. They go together, and we can't easily separate them out.
I keep playing it out, over and over again, sitting in a little room, the children's room for kids with mental disorders--which has a big window to look out--my escape. My therapist sitting there, not wanting to talk about mOprheus. I ask the same silly questions a five year old would, no doubt his does when Mommy and DAddy fight. He says the fighting is so bad, he has to leave, and then come back later. I dissociate--Mommy and DAddy don't affect me anymore. Still, I ask, "What do you think he'll say?" My imaginary therapist is critical and sensible. When will Daddy be back?
"Yes, he will get a separation magically just because you finally said so." She replies with some humor.
In reality, no one has shown any humor. INstead, they want me to find out odds. 70% chance? 30%? What are we working with here, Lacey? All the while, the therapist(s) nodd and then sigh and want me to admit that the situation is hopeless. There's a maze. A rat. And some cheese if you get away from the married man. IF you grieve enough, you are rewarded. For most of this, I can't tell if I lie.
"Maybe he will hurry up then if he can't see me." I've never really said that, but that's the point right? WE break up. He has incentive now, more anyway, to get his separation. This says nothing about the odds. I don't have my calculator out. I didn't take statistics in college.
"And just exactly how long are you planning on waiting for a man to divorce when his mother runs a Bible bookstore, and his wife comes from a conservative background? A year? Two? Five?" The therapist sighs.
"So, do you think he'll call me this month? Probably not. It's like too late, huh?" This is a dip into the central portion of my thinking. Maybe the Wife took them to the second house for Trick-Or-Treating, and he stayed here in SLO. The therapist is not amused. "I'll know when it's time to give up. Or I'll find someone better." I lie. Even to a pretend therapist I lie. I can't stand talking about MOrpheus in therapy because you're always bound to lie. I can't see the point ahead in my future where I give up. That was closer to the truth. Was I just a kid who learned to bash his brains into the wall repeatedly? Was this my punishment, therapy?
She rambles on about how he isn't good for me. They all ramble at this point. He's not available.
I'm more of an act in a tragic play. CAn't they see that?
"NO. He's just taking advantage of you."
IN therapy, there was always that angle, which I loved. He was taking advantage of me, yet I went willingly and happily into his house without exception and this was not 1800's. It was hard to explain how happily I went into the bedroom without giving gross details of the sex to a new or bashful therapist. We were equals in how bad we were fucking with each other. Lately proved an exception (the psychotic break), but you can't say that was directly his fault. Even if it was (some of it, sure), did he do it on purpose? NO.
People confuse lack of insight into behavior with malignancy.
The whole circle is "people want better for me," and while I'm in love with Morpheus.
That Married Man Business, Part II
Even though MOrpheus has seen me in public with and without his wife, he has never acknowledged my presence with a wave or a nodd. He pretends not to see me after a good long stare.
I am invisible to him.
Out of all the men I know, I want to take mOrpheus to my friend's wedding the most. He could meet some of my high school friends, and we could spend the day together. This won't happen.
If you were sick or dying or needing to get to hospital, you cannot call Morpheus and get help. I tried. Ten phone calls in one single day.
What do I get out of this relationship?
I am invisible to him.
Out of all the men I know, I want to take mOrpheus to my friend's wedding the most. He could meet some of my high school friends, and we could spend the day together. This won't happen.
If you were sick or dying or needing to get to hospital, you cannot call Morpheus and get help. I tried. Ten phone calls in one single day.
What do I get out of this relationship?
That Married Man Business
Being involved with a married man means we never celebrate any holidays together, no birthday's, no Valentine's DAy's, much less any of the other more important family holiday's.
Historically, if my lucky, I get to see him just before.
Historically, if my lucky, I get to see him just before.
"Up again in the morning to hit the gym. If I can grind hard enough, I can chase away much of my introspection and her from my thoughts."
--Life in the AGe of Byrony
--Life in the AGe of Byrony
Alcohol and ON Being Ordinary
Being ordinary and being happy have nothing to do with each other.
Can you get a fill of life's experiences, to hell with other people, and still end your life with a deep sense of fulfillment?
CAn you be ordinary and be a waste of a life and still be happy at your meaningless end?
EVeryone knows my end will come faster if I drink, whether psychosis will call for me like siren or in the physical sense. I could lose years to a thought disorder, losing friends, money, all helped by vodka.
I could drown myself to faceless death.
Some days it feels like it wouldn't matter--shot or no shot--but this is the depression over my shoulder bullying me around.
I quit opiates without looking back. I sigh at people who won't because of the withdrawals.
Drugs make you ordinary because there are a separation because you and people, your community, not to mention the damage done to you. The feeling is one of being extraordinary, but it is illusionary.
There are days when nothing matters.
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man in the parking with a beer in a paper bag, mumbling to himself, probably hearing voices.
I wonder how different we are from each other. Was it just the alcohol?
Can you get a fill of life's experiences, to hell with other people, and still end your life with a deep sense of fulfillment?
CAn you be ordinary and be a waste of a life and still be happy at your meaningless end?
EVeryone knows my end will come faster if I drink, whether psychosis will call for me like siren or in the physical sense. I could lose years to a thought disorder, losing friends, money, all helped by vodka.
I could drown myself to faceless death.
Some days it feels like it wouldn't matter--shot or no shot--but this is the depression over my shoulder bullying me around.
I quit opiates without looking back. I sigh at people who won't because of the withdrawals.
Drugs make you ordinary because there are a separation because you and people, your community, not to mention the damage done to you. The feeling is one of being extraordinary, but it is illusionary.
There are days when nothing matters.
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man in the parking with a beer in a paper bag, mumbling to himself, probably hearing voices.
I wonder how different we are from each other. Was it just the alcohol?
Friday, October 28, 2011
Therapy Session
I feel like he's gone.
I hate going to professional advice, and getting it--the ol' "you deserve better," and variation on theme.
From there, they point to me. What was lacking in my psychology to make me cling so hard to someone who is so obviously unavailable?
IN this, we (Morpheus and I) are both at fault.
From there, they only dig a little deeper and say that I like it this way, mourning and grieving for what is gone because better gone than clinging back at me. Better sorrow than love.
That is the box they fit me in.
After MOrpheus, I will find another man just like him. "Nevermind, I'll find someone like you..." Adele, "Someone LIke YOu."
He's not gone, they say. He'll come back. Or they won't say anything at all, staring at their paper because it's not important if he comes back. There's a pause and then they'll move on to a different subject.
"Does he love me?" I'll almost ask.
The silence is short. WE talk about my feelings. What are my feelings? Name them, one by one.
"Are you sure he's coming back?" I'll almost ask. It's right there. The question.
"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to pacify you with an answer even though I don't know?" The therapist almost says back. Her head is down, watching the paper closely.
"What if I'm different?" I want to say.
"But you're not." She wants to say. She's seen a case like mine before. A little girl all grown up, still looking for a daddy. Grow up, or you'll be stuck with the distant, father figure forever. YOu know? Alcohol, barely pays attention to you. Morpheus is not special.
"What if we're in love? What if it's forever?" I want to tell her over and over again. Therapists never see love. They never respect love. YOu walk into a therapy room, they will tell you 1,000 love went wrong. I wait for a little jerky remark about getting a dog. Or something cliche like "Morpheus won't be the last man in life you'll ever love." Sometimes I respect silence. Respect what love does to a heart, makes it hurt so bad that no words will be believed. You can't talk a heart out of love. You can talk it to death.
In my mind she points to all the bad ways Morpheus has influenced my brain. The voices, the mood swings, the psychotic break. What the fuck is next? IN reality, she's just sitting there in her chair, not at all concerned with Morpheus.
Talking people out of love, I've realized, is like talking them out of delusions. The more you talk the less people trust you. Who doesn't love love? And yet, there are people on the planet, therapists are a good example, who go around criticizing love as profession.
"HOw do you know he won't cheat on you?" The therapist asks. A real question, one of her first.
I was caught. MY grandmother in the room. The real answer was silence because I didn't know. NO one knows for sure. I loved a gamble. I openly admitted that. Did that make me a bad person?
"You deserve better," I hear the therapist saying as she sits in her chair, silent. d YOu didn't need voices for that shit.
"There's no one better," I want to say. I never have a chance to say it. I sense the therapist inwardly mocking me. YOung love, blind. WE will find and replace, easily. Give me six months. A few years, tops. I'm pretty, I stay in shape. I'll walk into a bar once, and find Mr. Right. I'll regret the extremist statements I've made about MOrpheus.
"He has baggage..." She almost says. "Three kids is a lot of work. Time away from you. All that responsibility even if he does get his separation. And he deals with his problems by drinking."
I picture my stepfather's alcoholism, and the environment. IF I ever want to leave that. If it's possible. CAn you believe someone is the greatest man in the world if he's an alcoholic too? Or does that make you at fault?
Does it make you at fault every time he was supposed to do something and disappointed you because you know what type of person he is?
The therapist wasn't interested in answering those questions as she sat in her chair.
I hate going to professional advice, and getting it--the ol' "you deserve better," and variation on theme.
From there, they point to me. What was lacking in my psychology to make me cling so hard to someone who is so obviously unavailable?
IN this, we (Morpheus and I) are both at fault.
From there, they only dig a little deeper and say that I like it this way, mourning and grieving for what is gone because better gone than clinging back at me. Better sorrow than love.
That is the box they fit me in.
After MOrpheus, I will find another man just like him. "Nevermind, I'll find someone like you..." Adele, "Someone LIke YOu."
He's not gone, they say. He'll come back. Or they won't say anything at all, staring at their paper because it's not important if he comes back. There's a pause and then they'll move on to a different subject.
"Does he love me?" I'll almost ask.
The silence is short. WE talk about my feelings. What are my feelings? Name them, one by one.
"Are you sure he's coming back?" I'll almost ask. It's right there. The question.
"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to pacify you with an answer even though I don't know?" The therapist almost says back. Her head is down, watching the paper closely.
"What if I'm different?" I want to say.
"But you're not." She wants to say. She's seen a case like mine before. A little girl all grown up, still looking for a daddy. Grow up, or you'll be stuck with the distant, father figure forever. YOu know? Alcohol, barely pays attention to you. Morpheus is not special.
"What if we're in love? What if it's forever?" I want to tell her over and over again. Therapists never see love. They never respect love. YOu walk into a therapy room, they will tell you 1,000 love went wrong. I wait for a little jerky remark about getting a dog. Or something cliche like "Morpheus won't be the last man in life you'll ever love." Sometimes I respect silence. Respect what love does to a heart, makes it hurt so bad that no words will be believed. You can't talk a heart out of love. You can talk it to death.
In my mind she points to all the bad ways Morpheus has influenced my brain. The voices, the mood swings, the psychotic break. What the fuck is next? IN reality, she's just sitting there in her chair, not at all concerned with Morpheus.
Talking people out of love, I've realized, is like talking them out of delusions. The more you talk the less people trust you. Who doesn't love love? And yet, there are people on the planet, therapists are a good example, who go around criticizing love as profession.
"HOw do you know he won't cheat on you?" The therapist asks. A real question, one of her first.
I was caught. MY grandmother in the room. The real answer was silence because I didn't know. NO one knows for sure. I loved a gamble. I openly admitted that. Did that make me a bad person?
"You deserve better," I hear the therapist saying as she sits in her chair, silent. d YOu didn't need voices for that shit.
"There's no one better," I want to say. I never have a chance to say it. I sense the therapist inwardly mocking me. YOung love, blind. WE will find and replace, easily. Give me six months. A few years, tops. I'm pretty, I stay in shape. I'll walk into a bar once, and find Mr. Right. I'll regret the extremist statements I've made about MOrpheus.
"He has baggage..." She almost says. "Three kids is a lot of work. Time away from you. All that responsibility even if he does get his separation. And he deals with his problems by drinking."
I picture my stepfather's alcoholism, and the environment. IF I ever want to leave that. If it's possible. CAn you believe someone is the greatest man in the world if he's an alcoholic too? Or does that make you at fault?
Does it make you at fault every time he was supposed to do something and disappointed you because you know what type of person he is?
The therapist wasn't interested in answering those questions as she sat in her chair.
IF there's one scenario you can forget, it's that there will ever be a family made up of MOrpheus and me.
I started to write a novel about the "what if's" in life, but quickly stopped. I didn't have enough fuel. What would we be like if we got everything we wanted?
That was unfortunate. AT the time, MOrpheus didn't want any more kids, and I wanted one.
I started to write a novel about the "what if's" in life, but quickly stopped. I didn't have enough fuel. What would we be like if we got everything we wanted?
That was unfortunate. AT the time, MOrpheus didn't want any more kids, and I wanted one.
All The Traditional Things You Give Up When DAting A Married Man
I think about all the traditional things I'm missing by being in love with a married man.
On FAcebook, it says that I'm single even though I won't date or commit to anyone else because it would be unfair to someone as I'm in love with Morpheus.
Morpheus and I have never actually made it to dinner (he asked me once, and then we got into a fight about his wife, and plans were canceled).
None of my friends have met him. My parents have not met him, although my mother use to talk to him all the time.
Then there is the lack of communication because he has to sneak around his wife. It is here-and-there txt-messages, and only seeing each other, at best, once every two months. I can't just call him, and say, "Hi." I have an easier time, I fucking swear to god, of getting ahold of the fucking Pope.
WE have never gone on dates.
WE have never made it to coffee, despite the fact that I have called and requested this several times.
WE are always dreaming, never putting into action for today, for tomorrow.
None of my other relationships with men will develop into anything because of him.
Morpheus gives no prior notice to when he is available. He just calls when he wants me to come over or meet somewhere. I am expected to show up.
There's no pictures. I've known the man for four years, and all of the pictures I have of him are from his wife. There are none of him and I together.
It's hard explaining my relationship with him to friends and family without pissing "traditional" people off. Everyone has an opinion, and they want to share and help and make things worse by judging.
I can never find the master bedroom. What is with that fucking house? Why? Because I've never been there when it's light outside!!!!
It's been four years, all those one night stands, and he doesn't know I drool on the pillow or that crusty morning look because why? I leave before then.
The dude has a hang up about coffee. One morning, I point to the coffee maker on the kitchen counter. "YOu make coffee?" NO. d "Okay...." He drinks fucking coffee. I went home that morning coffee-less. He just didn't want me to hang out in the AM, ruining his regular schedule. Really cute, right? I'm waiting for the morning when he leaves for work, I come over. It's me and the Wife. WE have coffee. Call him over then. "Honey. WE have stuff to talk about over coffee."
Our fights takes months. I'm learning this--this is new. A normal boyfriend or guy. YOu get into a fight, it lasts a few hours. Someone gives up, someone apologizes. Done. Not with MOrpheus. This shit is getting strung out. For god's sakes man. What the fuck are we doing?
Here's the obvious: You put in all that work. You stay up late. YOu answer your phone always. YOu provide interesting, entertaining sex. You can't marry a married man. A normal boyfriend after four years would be ready for the big question unless he was a complete dumbass.
On FAcebook, it says that I'm single even though I won't date or commit to anyone else because it would be unfair to someone as I'm in love with Morpheus.
Morpheus and I have never actually made it to dinner (he asked me once, and then we got into a fight about his wife, and plans were canceled).
None of my friends have met him. My parents have not met him, although my mother use to talk to him all the time.
Then there is the lack of communication because he has to sneak around his wife. It is here-and-there txt-messages, and only seeing each other, at best, once every two months. I can't just call him, and say, "Hi." I have an easier time, I fucking swear to god, of getting ahold of the fucking Pope.
WE have never gone on dates.
WE have never made it to coffee, despite the fact that I have called and requested this several times.
WE are always dreaming, never putting into action for today, for tomorrow.
None of my other relationships with men will develop into anything because of him.
Morpheus gives no prior notice to when he is available. He just calls when he wants me to come over or meet somewhere. I am expected to show up.
There's no pictures. I've known the man for four years, and all of the pictures I have of him are from his wife. There are none of him and I together.
It's hard explaining my relationship with him to friends and family without pissing "traditional" people off. Everyone has an opinion, and they want to share and help and make things worse by judging.
I can never find the master bedroom. What is with that fucking house? Why? Because I've never been there when it's light outside!!!!
It's been four years, all those one night stands, and he doesn't know I drool on the pillow or that crusty morning look because why? I leave before then.
The dude has a hang up about coffee. One morning, I point to the coffee maker on the kitchen counter. "YOu make coffee?" NO. d "Okay...." He drinks fucking coffee. I went home that morning coffee-less. He just didn't want me to hang out in the AM, ruining his regular schedule. Really cute, right? I'm waiting for the morning when he leaves for work, I come over. It's me and the Wife. WE have coffee. Call him over then. "Honey. WE have stuff to talk about over coffee."
Our fights takes months. I'm learning this--this is new. A normal boyfriend or guy. YOu get into a fight, it lasts a few hours. Someone gives up, someone apologizes. Done. Not with MOrpheus. This shit is getting strung out. For god's sakes man. What the fuck are we doing?
Here's the obvious: You put in all that work. You stay up late. YOu answer your phone always. YOu provide interesting, entertaining sex. You can't marry a married man. A normal boyfriend after four years would be ready for the big question unless he was a complete dumbass.
On Death Threats
The voices told me I wouldn't live to see twenty-ninth birthday, which doesn't leave a lot of room for major life adjustments. You can't finish an education, buy a house, get married (perhaps this is the easiest of the bunch to accomplish), or find a soul-enriching job in just a matter of a few months.
It's easy to run to a life coach, and say, "Fix me."
YOu can, however, get pregnant in a matter of months.
I made the first step in going back to school in order to finish my education, even if it wasn't my first choice school.
STraightening out my personal life takes time, and a lot of looking inside. This is unusual. My therapist doesn't want to talk much about MOrpheus, and neither do I--and yet I'm accused of being dissociated from my feelings--and need help getting reconnected. I'm left with doing it on my own with my writing.
A part of me is still spooked by the voices and their "deadline" (pardon the pun). This is my third brush with death, thanks to mental illness. I keep waiting for the voices to just pop up and take over again like they did in the past. "You thought we were gone! Ha!" I go for a drive on May 27, 2012, and BAM! Die in an auto-collision. The voices knew the whole time.
It's easy to run to a life coach, and say, "Fix me."
YOu can, however, get pregnant in a matter of months.
I made the first step in going back to school in order to finish my education, even if it wasn't my first choice school.
STraightening out my personal life takes time, and a lot of looking inside. This is unusual. My therapist doesn't want to talk much about MOrpheus, and neither do I--and yet I'm accused of being dissociated from my feelings--and need help getting reconnected. I'm left with doing it on my own with my writing.
A part of me is still spooked by the voices and their "deadline" (pardon the pun). This is my third brush with death, thanks to mental illness. I keep waiting for the voices to just pop up and take over again like they did in the past. "You thought we were gone! Ha!" I go for a drive on May 27, 2012, and BAM! Die in an auto-collision. The voices knew the whole time.
I go downtown, looking over every vehicle, and walk and walk and walk, trying to find him.
I've turned this into a daily exercise.
I'm facing the hard realization that the conversation we have will not be a good one. I picture us fighting in my head. I wonder where this will lead.
I wonder if we will see each other again.
I wonder if you can stay broken-hearted forever. The correct answer is yes, my grandmother did.
I've turned this into a daily exercise.
I'm facing the hard realization that the conversation we have will not be a good one. I picture us fighting in my head. I wonder where this will lead.
I wonder if we will see each other again.
I wonder if you can stay broken-hearted forever. The correct answer is yes, my grandmother did.
On Being Ordinary, Part II
Is it grandiose even to ask: am I meant for better and greater things, if it only means to give back to this earth?
Will life hold any significant meaning?
Or will I always struggle to apply justice?
To me now, life is life. It is meaningless because there is no "God" to give it meaning. WE make our own meaning as individuals whatever that is to us as creatures of biopsychology. Greater good is determined in actuality by others. You can be a great friend, a great spouse, a great parent--this collects into making you a great person, but still "ordinary" by social standards. For instance, you, this great person, never won the NObel PRize or became famous.
Then, sometimes "ordinary" is still just plain "ordinary" as you did not contribute any value back to society. Perhaps you were even harmful at times.
Faced with death everyone wants to have done more. Face with death at twenty-eight years old, I realized what I had done enough of--
LIfe had filled me with plenty of experiences already. I had felt no ordinary amount of passionate love. I need not to ever fall in love again. I knew the sensation, felt the consequences of it. I could live without it for the rest of my life.
LIfe had filled me with plenty of dangerous, impersonal sex. The other end of the spectrum and the scale.
And yet, at twenty-eight, my life was horribly empty of many things. I never talked back to the voices as they were intent on killing me. I never cried. I never whined or begged for my life. But I noticed. I still had things in life that I wanted at twenty-eight. My life was ordinary in both sense of the word. What had I contributed to society?
What had I given back to my fellow citizens?
I have a rule. IF I have a dollar in my wallet and I see someone who is homeless, I give it away (unless it's the last of my money).
What do I do to make other people's life better?
I came up with nothing. FAlling in love, and loving someone unconditioningly from afar isn't a substitute for a real, day-to-day relationship that is the cornerstone of our society. IT is the family.
Will life hold any significant meaning?
Or will I always struggle to apply justice?
To me now, life is life. It is meaningless because there is no "God" to give it meaning. WE make our own meaning as individuals whatever that is to us as creatures of biopsychology. Greater good is determined in actuality by others. You can be a great friend, a great spouse, a great parent--this collects into making you a great person, but still "ordinary" by social standards. For instance, you, this great person, never won the NObel PRize or became famous.
Then, sometimes "ordinary" is still just plain "ordinary" as you did not contribute any value back to society. Perhaps you were even harmful at times.
Faced with death everyone wants to have done more. Face with death at twenty-eight years old, I realized what I had done enough of--
LIfe had filled me with plenty of experiences already. I had felt no ordinary amount of passionate love. I need not to ever fall in love again. I knew the sensation, felt the consequences of it. I could live without it for the rest of my life.
LIfe had filled me with plenty of dangerous, impersonal sex. The other end of the spectrum and the scale.
And yet, at twenty-eight, my life was horribly empty of many things. I never talked back to the voices as they were intent on killing me. I never cried. I never whined or begged for my life. But I noticed. I still had things in life that I wanted at twenty-eight. My life was ordinary in both sense of the word. What had I contributed to society?
What had I given back to my fellow citizens?
I have a rule. IF I have a dollar in my wallet and I see someone who is homeless, I give it away (unless it's the last of my money).
What do I do to make other people's life better?
I came up with nothing. FAlling in love, and loving someone unconditioningly from afar isn't a substitute for a real, day-to-day relationship that is the cornerstone of our society. IT is the family.
On Being Ordinary And Under Water
One thing I learned while patiently waiting for the voices to kill me--how ordinary my life is. How I will live and die and not make much of a mark on this planet.
When we are younger, we have much larger aspirations, thinking this will somehow guard us from death.
I, instead, have succumb to an ordinary, plain, average life.
What makes the total of a life? Some people the greatest they contribute to this planet is their children.
Some of us have this realization, and battle it at certain points throughout our lives, we call it "midlife crisis," or other terms. WE wake up one day, and wonder where all the time has went, and you understand that the flexibility to be anyone you want to be, go anywhere you want to go--is closing. LIfe feels set. Bad choices. Good choices. Here you are. Try moving with kids, mortgage, with high unemployment rates, with a marriage.
For some of us it doesn't take "voices" screaming that they are going to kill you to ponder this.
I haven't paved my way for myself in a long time. Was prostitution and dancing an act of desperation? IN the beginning, it was, although I came to enjoy it. Losing dreams means settling for less than even second best. It means conforming to other's wants and expectations. When you sit in a hospital with raging "voices" your priorities re-align. You're stuck on survival, not kicking the world's ass. Your brain is taking hostage.
I wish I could say that I put up more a fight, but the vast majority of the time, I was ignorant of my delusions and paranoia. I can only be proud that I avoided the shower room at STanford while the voices were trying to make me hang there.
I lost nine months to illness, a psychotic break (stopping only when the voices disappeared completely). It was not my longest episode, but clearly my most severe and insidious. A few people knew there was something wrong with me, but no one knew how severely I was affected--including myself. Always previously, I was all informed of my own condition, and could help seek on my own without anyone prompting me.
The voices were sometimes pleasant, but you never remember that stuff. A large part of their banter was about my IQ, how smart or how stupid I was. I read a research article that says they can't find a link between auditory hallucinations and previous history of trauma. I can't figure out why the voices went after my IQ level unless it's just something I'm especially sensitive about. Again, this goes back to my ordinary status. My IQ is probably above average, but it's not genius level--the voices argued about this too.
After going through what I went through, I have a new sense of humility. I feel beaten down even though the voices are gone.
Sanity is thinner, the ice covered pond we all skate on. WE watch others fall through, our hands dipping into the cold water in hopes of helping, thinking we will never be there ourselves.
Schizophrenia besides HIV is the only disease that scares me. NOw I join it's family with Schizoaffective Disorder.
I was under water. The person I talked to the most, RAndy yelling and screaming at me because he didn't understand that I was experiencing delusions. I didn't know who he was. Capgras delusion. In a world in which everyone was unrecognizable.
The treatment to come back to the edge of the pond, safe and sound, was impersonal. I barely noticed it happening in the beginning except that it worked, and that it was Zyprexa. The people were just people rotating in and out of my room. NO one stood out. In return, I never made a great connection with any of the doctors during either visit. I was left to sit in my room and ponder health and illness. Open my mouth for the meds. Close. Therapy done.
I had no relative idea of how sick I was, and still don't to this day. The doctors seem to take it all in without affect.
Would they show it on their faces if I was dying? NO.
I didn't look at the other patients. Or talk to them. I wondered if they heard voices too.
I was at STanford. To this day, I wondered, even as a patient, if I belonged at STanford as student. Sick students end up there too. One of them was my roommate. The doctors didn't seem particularly concerned about my cognitive abilities or if I was high functioning or not. None of them gave me a pep talk on the way out, either visit. I would have to do the pep talk on my own. Or just do it. LIfe. Be the success story.
LIving the ordinary life is okay if you have love. If you married the greatest guy in the world to you. Then, an ordinary life isn't so ordinary, and your priorities change.
I wait patiently for MOrpheus to call, and I know he will. I have my script ready. I will address the fact that I asked him to marry me (while being completely psychotic). I will tell him about my bipolar symptoms (ignoring the diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder since it's too complicated at this point), and address the fact that I went to his house while his wife and family were there.
It's been over three months since we've talked to each other since I expect he will show up in one form or another soon.
I'm not looking forward to fighting about the no sex before separation papers rule.
When we are younger, we have much larger aspirations, thinking this will somehow guard us from death.
I, instead, have succumb to an ordinary, plain, average life.
What makes the total of a life? Some people the greatest they contribute to this planet is their children.
Some of us have this realization, and battle it at certain points throughout our lives, we call it "midlife crisis," or other terms. WE wake up one day, and wonder where all the time has went, and you understand that the flexibility to be anyone you want to be, go anywhere you want to go--is closing. LIfe feels set. Bad choices. Good choices. Here you are. Try moving with kids, mortgage, with high unemployment rates, with a marriage.
For some of us it doesn't take "voices" screaming that they are going to kill you to ponder this.
I haven't paved my way for myself in a long time. Was prostitution and dancing an act of desperation? IN the beginning, it was, although I came to enjoy it. Losing dreams means settling for less than even second best. It means conforming to other's wants and expectations. When you sit in a hospital with raging "voices" your priorities re-align. You're stuck on survival, not kicking the world's ass. Your brain is taking hostage.
I wish I could say that I put up more a fight, but the vast majority of the time, I was ignorant of my delusions and paranoia. I can only be proud that I avoided the shower room at STanford while the voices were trying to make me hang there.
I lost nine months to illness, a psychotic break (stopping only when the voices disappeared completely). It was not my longest episode, but clearly my most severe and insidious. A few people knew there was something wrong with me, but no one knew how severely I was affected--including myself. Always previously, I was all informed of my own condition, and could help seek on my own without anyone prompting me.
The voices were sometimes pleasant, but you never remember that stuff. A large part of their banter was about my IQ, how smart or how stupid I was. I read a research article that says they can't find a link between auditory hallucinations and previous history of trauma. I can't figure out why the voices went after my IQ level unless it's just something I'm especially sensitive about. Again, this goes back to my ordinary status. My IQ is probably above average, but it's not genius level--the voices argued about this too.
After going through what I went through, I have a new sense of humility. I feel beaten down even though the voices are gone.
Sanity is thinner, the ice covered pond we all skate on. WE watch others fall through, our hands dipping into the cold water in hopes of helping, thinking we will never be there ourselves.
Schizophrenia besides HIV is the only disease that scares me. NOw I join it's family with Schizoaffective Disorder.
I was under water. The person I talked to the most, RAndy yelling and screaming at me because he didn't understand that I was experiencing delusions. I didn't know who he was. Capgras delusion. In a world in which everyone was unrecognizable.
The treatment to come back to the edge of the pond, safe and sound, was impersonal. I barely noticed it happening in the beginning except that it worked, and that it was Zyprexa. The people were just people rotating in and out of my room. NO one stood out. In return, I never made a great connection with any of the doctors during either visit. I was left to sit in my room and ponder health and illness. Open my mouth for the meds. Close. Therapy done.
I had no relative idea of how sick I was, and still don't to this day. The doctors seem to take it all in without affect.
Would they show it on their faces if I was dying? NO.
I didn't look at the other patients. Or talk to them. I wondered if they heard voices too.
I was at STanford. To this day, I wondered, even as a patient, if I belonged at STanford as student. Sick students end up there too. One of them was my roommate. The doctors didn't seem particularly concerned about my cognitive abilities or if I was high functioning or not. None of them gave me a pep talk on the way out, either visit. I would have to do the pep talk on my own. Or just do it. LIfe. Be the success story.
LIving the ordinary life is okay if you have love. If you married the greatest guy in the world to you. Then, an ordinary life isn't so ordinary, and your priorities change.
I wait patiently for MOrpheus to call, and I know he will. I have my script ready. I will address the fact that I asked him to marry me (while being completely psychotic). I will tell him about my bipolar symptoms (ignoring the diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder since it's too complicated at this point), and address the fact that I went to his house while his wife and family were there.
It's been over three months since we've talked to each other since I expect he will show up in one form or another soon.
I'm not looking forward to fighting about the no sex before separation papers rule.
Monday, October 24, 2011
There's me down there, we're on a rescue mission to retrieve. I sense her bubbling up sometimes, but most of my day, she's out of my hands reach.
She enjoys things in life, the radio on while driving, movies, basics in life.
For now, the cab of the truck is silent while I'm headed into town. I rarely see the point in finish a movie.
She enjoys things in life, the radio on while driving, movies, basics in life.
For now, the cab of the truck is silent while I'm headed into town. I rarely see the point in finish a movie.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
One of the ideas that came up while I went for a walk was therapy for MOrpheus and I as a compromise.
Every time I've brought it up in the past, he has shot it down. However, things for me have been so bad that perhaps I can at least get him to listen to me.
If he attends therapy with me on a semi-regular basis, then I will continue to see him. There--will be an added safeguard against the mood swings that are inherent to our relationship.
Every time I've brought it up in the past, he has shot it down. However, things for me have been so bad that perhaps I can at least get him to listen to me.
If he attends therapy with me on a semi-regular basis, then I will continue to see him. There--will be an added safeguard against the mood swings that are inherent to our relationship.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
I don't binge eat anymore. I don't cut anymore.
I came back from the edge of nowhere that anyone understands except me.
NO one knows my cry because now it's silence.
They did it. They drugged me up that much.
I listen to my silly songs, and pretend to weep.
No one pulled me out, you understand. It wasn't human. It was just a pill or two. FAceless.
All through the psychosis, I kept trying to find him. A person. IN the end, there was no one.
I came back from the edge of nowhere that anyone understands except me.
NO one knows my cry because now it's silence.
They did it. They drugged me up that much.
I listen to my silly songs, and pretend to weep.
No one pulled me out, you understand. It wasn't human. It was just a pill or two. FAceless.
All through the psychosis, I kept trying to find him. A person. IN the end, there was no one.
Top-Down Control of Bottom Up Perceptual Processes Theory
Healthy individuals who ‘‘hear voices’’ are typically aware that
the ‘‘voices’’ they hear stem from inner thought and not from an
external source. They therefore seem to be able to cognitively
cope with the salient perceptual experiences by recruiting inhibitory
control functions. Thus, it is suggested that inhibitory control
functions should be important to modulate whether a
perceptual experience is interpreted as coming from an external
source or not. In other words, an expanded theoretical model
would have to take into account the dynamic interplay between
bottom-up effects and top-down information processing, where
perception is seen as a bottom-up process and inhibitory cognitive
control is seen as a top-down process.
--‘‘Hearing voices’’: Auditory hallucinations as failure of top-down
control of bottom-up perceptual processes
KENNETH HUGDAHL
Department of Biological and Medical Psychology, University of Bergen, Norway and Division of Psychiatry and Bergen Mental Health Center,
Haukeland University Hospital, Bergen, Norway
the ‘‘voices’’ they hear stem from inner thought and not from an
external source. They therefore seem to be able to cognitively
cope with the salient perceptual experiences by recruiting inhibitory
control functions. Thus, it is suggested that inhibitory control
functions should be important to modulate whether a
perceptual experience is interpreted as coming from an external
source or not. In other words, an expanded theoretical model
would have to take into account the dynamic interplay between
bottom-up effects and top-down information processing, where
perception is seen as a bottom-up process and inhibitory cognitive
control is seen as a top-down process.
--‘‘Hearing voices’’: Auditory hallucinations as failure of top-down
control of bottom-up perceptual processes
KENNETH HUGDAHL
Department of Biological and Medical Psychology, University of Bergen, Norway and Division of Psychiatry and Bergen Mental Health Center,
Haukeland University Hospital, Bergen, Norway
When I was a little girl, grammar-school-age, I would be sent out by my parents for something to do, and I would wander around downtown Lemoore, Ca.
Walking downtown is still one of my favorite activities. I watch the people pass, I watch the cars, the trucks.
MOst of the time when I'm there, walking around, my mood lifts.
Walking downtown is still one of my favorite activities. I watch the people pass, I watch the cars, the trucks.
MOst of the time when I'm there, walking around, my mood lifts.
"...Great Power..."
"A number of
studies using their Beliefs About Voices Questionnaire (BAVQ; Chadwick & Birchwood,
1995; Chadwick, Lees, & Birchwood, 2000) have found that appraisals of voices as
malevolent as opposed to benevolent predict levels of voice-related distress (Beck-
Sander, Birchwood, & Chadwick, 1997; Birchwood & Chadwick, 1997; Van der Gaag,
Hageman, & Birchwood, 2003). In addition, voices are frequently appraised as holding
great power over the voice hearer (Chadwick & Birchwood, 1994). The experience of
being subjugated by a voice that is dominant as well as hostile may compound related
distress, as well as being related to depressive symptomatology (Gilbert et al., 2001).
Accordingly, appraisals of voice power and dominance have been found to relate to both
distress and depression (Birchwood, Meaden, Trower, Gilbert, & Plaistow, 2000; Gilbert
et al., 2001; Vaughn & Fowler, 2004)."
--(emphasis is not the author's) British Journal of Clinical Psychology, NOvember 1, 2009; Neil Thomas1*, Hamish J. McLeod2 and Chris R. Brewin3
studies using their Beliefs About Voices Questionnaire (BAVQ; Chadwick & Birchwood,
1995; Chadwick, Lees, & Birchwood, 2000) have found that appraisals of voices as
malevolent as opposed to benevolent predict levels of voice-related distress (Beck-
Sander, Birchwood, & Chadwick, 1997; Birchwood & Chadwick, 1997; Van der Gaag,
Hageman, & Birchwood, 2003). In addition, voices are frequently appraised as holding
great power over the voice hearer (Chadwick & Birchwood, 1994). The experience of
being subjugated by a voice that is dominant as well as hostile may compound related
distress, as well as being related to depressive symptomatology (Gilbert et al., 2001).
Accordingly, appraisals of voice power and dominance have been found to relate to both
distress and depression (Birchwood, Meaden, Trower, Gilbert, & Plaistow, 2000; Gilbert
et al., 2001; Vaughn & Fowler, 2004)."
--(emphasis is not the author's) British Journal of Clinical Psychology, NOvember 1, 2009; Neil Thomas1*, Hamish J. McLeod2 and Chris R. Brewin3
Why Do WE Fall IN Love With These People?
"Love is sometimes compared to a flame, but there's a difference. Fire needs oxygen to burn; love seems able to survive on nothing at all."
--Harry
--Harry
What do you do when grief is sneaking underneath your door? When mourning is knocking?
When pain is rattling your house?
I sense a relief just from surviving it all.
It could have been much worse.
The days spent blindly typing at the computer looking for evidence of who the hacker might be feels like hypomanic because it was increased focus energy toward a goal. However, I was still sleeping a solid eight hours per night.
When pain is rattling your house?
I sense a relief just from surviving it all.
It could have been much worse.
The days spent blindly typing at the computer looking for evidence of who the hacker might be feels like hypomanic because it was increased focus energy toward a goal. However, I was still sleeping a solid eight hours per night.
Thoughts On College
When I see all those CAl Poly students, I think about how I use to be one of them, and how by going to online school, I'm taking a step down.
For me, this is a hit to my ego, but I'm allowing it if it means that I'm graduating from school on schedule.
Since 2006, I have continually struggled with my classes, inability to concentrate due to manic and depressive symptoms.
I am hoping that with the new medication, I will have an easier time at University of PHoenix.
For me, this is a hit to my ego, but I'm allowing it if it means that I'm graduating from school on schedule.
Since 2006, I have continually struggled with my classes, inability to concentrate due to manic and depressive symptoms.
I am hoping that with the new medication, I will have an easier time at University of PHoenix.
Grief and MOurning
"I'm at your door
I feel so crazy about it"
--"Lesson Learned" by Alicia Keys
The madness was driven by finding the true identity to "Jack" who I loosely and incorrectly concluded had not given me his real name previously. Hence, "Where's Jack?"
When I kept typing "Jack" using the touch-keyboard of my cellphone, sometimes the C would be capitalized, which is how I ended up at Morpheus's home in the middle of the day. "JaCk" must be Morpheus. I would stop at nothing to find my hacker, even if it meant an uncomfortable run-in. IF he was the hacker, he would know I was coming from the GPS in my phone, and therefore, the wife and kids would gone.
This all makes sense in the clouded world of a psychotic.
I've been through a lot. A pregnancy. IN which I had no part of. He told me in a text-message. I was devastated. I quickly gained my baby fifteen pounds. He got a vasectomy. MOnths of silence. I just dealt with it.
"Maybe you should think that there's something wrong when Lacey who usually doesn't act like this is calling you ten times in a row..." I left him in a message.
I cracked. My world of obedience and silence broke away into grandiose craziness. I sent ten's, maybe even more than that, of TXT-messages to a disconnected number. Finally, I sent twenty-some TEXT-messages to his working number, breaking down every single thing that he's ever done to me that hurt me.
I remember a story I read when I was doing research on marriage vs. singledom. A woman started the divorce proceedings, but quickly went into extreme grief--losing massive amounts of weight because she simply wasn't hungry. Her body went into shock.
Something deep down inside went into shock after that Facebook Message. It was a genuine grief. It manifested as psychosis.
Some of my appetite has returned although when the first hospitalization, I had practically none. Food was being brought into my room, which is typically against the rules.
People going into that kind of grief and mourning makes more sense when they have physically been together for longer. I have no other explanation.
I feel so crazy about it"
--"Lesson Learned" by Alicia Keys
The madness was driven by finding the true identity to "Jack" who I loosely and incorrectly concluded had not given me his real name previously. Hence, "Where's Jack?"
When I kept typing "Jack" using the touch-keyboard of my cellphone, sometimes the C would be capitalized, which is how I ended up at Morpheus's home in the middle of the day. "JaCk" must be Morpheus. I would stop at nothing to find my hacker, even if it meant an uncomfortable run-in. IF he was the hacker, he would know I was coming from the GPS in my phone, and therefore, the wife and kids would gone.
This all makes sense in the clouded world of a psychotic.
I've been through a lot. A pregnancy. IN which I had no part of. He told me in a text-message. I was devastated. I quickly gained my baby fifteen pounds. He got a vasectomy. MOnths of silence. I just dealt with it.
"Maybe you should think that there's something wrong when Lacey who usually doesn't act like this is calling you ten times in a row..." I left him in a message.
I cracked. My world of obedience and silence broke away into grandiose craziness. I sent ten's, maybe even more than that, of TXT-messages to a disconnected number. Finally, I sent twenty-some TEXT-messages to his working number, breaking down every single thing that he's ever done to me that hurt me.
I remember a story I read when I was doing research on marriage vs. singledom. A woman started the divorce proceedings, but quickly went into extreme grief--losing massive amounts of weight because she simply wasn't hungry. Her body went into shock.
Something deep down inside went into shock after that Facebook Message. It was a genuine grief. It manifested as psychosis.
Some of my appetite has returned although when the first hospitalization, I had practically none. Food was being brought into my room, which is typically against the rules.
People going into that kind of grief and mourning makes more sense when they have physically been together for longer. I have no other explanation.
Pieces of Me
"ONly tells me where she's been when she's had too much to drink."
--Hootie and The Blowfish
Looking around at the wreckage of my life, knowing it wasn't anything I ever expected--I was psychotic for seven months--wondering if I can push all of the puzzles pieces together.
--Hootie and The Blowfish
Looking around at the wreckage of my life, knowing it wasn't anything I ever expected--I was psychotic for seven months--wondering if I can push all of the puzzles pieces together.
Friday, October 21, 2011
SAD: Schizoaffective Disorder
."..the stability of the
SAD diagnosis has been particularly poor. For
example, one study has shown that only 36% of
those initially diagnosed with SAD received the
same diagnosis at a later time point (22)..."
--Malhi GS, Green M, Fagiolini A, Peselow ED, Kumari V.
Schizoaffective disorder: diagnostic issues and future recommendations
SAD diagnosis has been particularly poor. For
example, one study has shown that only 36% of
those initially diagnosed with SAD received the
same diagnosis at a later time point (22)..."
--Malhi GS, Green M, Fagiolini A, Peselow ED, Kumari V.
Schizoaffective disorder: diagnostic issues and future recommendations
I was happy, homework almost done, the voices gone, and then one sad song on repeat--
"I had hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded
That for me it isn't over."
--Adele, "Someone LIke You"
What choices do I have? You call and we fight. WE only have the option of getting off on the anger that has been brewing between us since February.
Is there a compromise between us?
Is there a workable contract?
"I had hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded
That for me it isn't over."
--Adele, "Someone LIke You"
What choices do I have? You call and we fight. WE only have the option of getting off on the anger that has been brewing between us since February.
Is there a compromise between us?
Is there a workable contract?
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Sydney NO MOre
Isn't music and literature made out of every bad turnout?
EVery down period?
My Mercedes sitting in the garage, parked here instead of D.C.
When trapped by the voices, who threatened death, I regretted nothing but not finishing my education. I never got my Ph.D. Too many obstacles in my way. d. First a diagnosis of major depressive disorder, then bipolar disorder, then chronic pain condition, and now schizoaffective disorder.
DAncing is like gliding on the surface of life. Taking what you can of experiences. If you live forever, and in forever, you can get those other solid experiences later. Home. Family. Education. REgular paying gig.
I can no longer straddle two worlds. I have to come back. Who are you? Sydney no more.
EVery down period?
My Mercedes sitting in the garage, parked here instead of D.C.
When trapped by the voices, who threatened death, I regretted nothing but not finishing my education. I never got my Ph.D. Too many obstacles in my way. d. First a diagnosis of major depressive disorder, then bipolar disorder, then chronic pain condition, and now schizoaffective disorder.
DAncing is like gliding on the surface of life. Taking what you can of experiences. If you live forever, and in forever, you can get those other solid experiences later. Home. Family. Education. REgular paying gig.
I can no longer straddle two worlds. I have to come back. Who are you? Sydney no more.
I'm starting over with scratch. My car is in need of serious repairs that I cannot afford.
I am living at my parent's house.
I am coming out of a psychotic episode.
I still have a problem with hacking that I can't afford to fix at the moment.
My only income is that of disability which is under the control of my mother.
My positive is that I'm in college.
I look at myself, "How did I get so low?" What happened to D.C.? What happened to Cornell?
What happened to my dreams?
Wasn't I headed up?
I am living at my parent's house.
I am coming out of a psychotic episode.
I still have a problem with hacking that I can't afford to fix at the moment.
My only income is that of disability which is under the control of my mother.
My positive is that I'm in college.
I look at myself, "How did I get so low?" What happened to D.C.? What happened to Cornell?
What happened to my dreams?
Wasn't I headed up?
Dissociation and Deal With Emotions Better
Where is the place where people spend time with their loved ones, date, move in, get married the old fashioned way? Where is this mystical place that I have never visited?
My most normal relationship started out long distance, which according to my new therapist says that it was well controlled. It was with Randy, and last a year.
With Lucky there were more up's because I was manic that summer. WE were not together long enough to include some of the more progressive elements of the romantic development.
After that, I met MOrpheus. Yes, he is unavailable. Yes, something about that must go along with my personality, which does not apparently want a full-time man.
IN all honesty, I don't buy that. I buy that his personality clicks with me, and his unavailability is just a byproduct I deal with after I initially fell in love with him.
I enjoy my time alone, and do not hunt down boyfriends, but I hunt down sex toys, living and breathing, although that has changed this year too since I've been sick. My therapist noticed just a pattern of dissociation, and it's there in the area of sex as well.
There is no dissociation with Morpheus. There's no chopping him up in bits. I've never had to deal with him for more than one night. I've never had to guard up my heart. What would I have to do to turn down the volume if I had to deal with him more, or would I learn to deal with my emotions better?
My most normal relationship started out long distance, which according to my new therapist says that it was well controlled. It was with Randy, and last a year.
With Lucky there were more up's because I was manic that summer. WE were not together long enough to include some of the more progressive elements of the romantic development.
After that, I met MOrpheus. Yes, he is unavailable. Yes, something about that must go along with my personality, which does not apparently want a full-time man.
IN all honesty, I don't buy that. I buy that his personality clicks with me, and his unavailability is just a byproduct I deal with after I initially fell in love with him.
I enjoy my time alone, and do not hunt down boyfriends, but I hunt down sex toys, living and breathing, although that has changed this year too since I've been sick. My therapist noticed just a pattern of dissociation, and it's there in the area of sex as well.
There is no dissociation with Morpheus. There's no chopping him up in bits. I've never had to deal with him for more than one night. I've never had to guard up my heart. What would I have to do to turn down the volume if I had to deal with him more, or would I learn to deal with my emotions better?
ONe of my friend who I've had the longest excited about getting married.
Can't you see? This is heartbreak alley.
Do you love me?
Marry me.
Do you take the psychotic girl seriously?
"You said it because you felt safe," my therapist said.
NO. I said it because I can't imagine loving someone else more. And yes, I am safe with him.
Help. I'm split in pieces, put me back again.
Can't you see? This is heartbreak alley.
Do you love me?
Marry me.
Do you take the psychotic girl seriously?
"You said it because you felt safe," my therapist said.
NO. I said it because I can't imagine loving someone else more. And yes, I am safe with him.
Help. I'm split in pieces, put me back again.
When I died, love, when I died
there was a war in the upper air:
all that happens, happens there;
there was an angel by my side
when I died, love, when I died.
--A Western Ballad by Allen Ginsberg
I had the towel in my hand. I was going to hang myself for love. I was psychotic and delusional and hearing voices ordering me around.
I almost believed them. Almost was enough. Not this time.
there was a war in the upper air:
all that happens, happens there;
there was an angel by my side
when I died, love, when I died.
--A Western Ballad by Allen Ginsberg
I had the towel in my hand. I was going to hang myself for love. I was psychotic and delusional and hearing voices ordering me around.
I almost believed them. Almost was enough. Not this time.
I've given up morphine, and now the voices are gone, and I've been through manic episodes and been crippled by both horrible physical pain and extreme depression.
The one thing I can't beat to date is his memory.
The smell of his hair.
I am too young to feel beat by anything.
IN time, I will ask myself, what do you miss? d
That moment at the door when he opens it. "Lace."
The one thing I can't beat to date is his memory.
The smell of his hair.
I am too young to feel beat by anything.
IN time, I will ask myself, what do you miss? d
That moment at the door when he opens it. "Lace."
One look is all it takes to bring back all memories, all patterns of thinking, all the old "I miss you's" and "I love you's." x.
I've spent the time ruminating about what I'm going to say during the next phone call which won't be pleasant as I've decided not to sleep with him unless he separates, around and around my mind goes.
I've spent the time ruminating about what I'm going to say during the next phone call which won't be pleasant as I've decided not to sleep with him unless he separates, around and around my mind goes.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Separate Myself From Myself
I felt free only when I could separate myself from myself — when I could imagine that I was apart from my life and body. There, in the ephemeral nothingness, in the quiet space of the mind, I found peace.
I liked it there. I didn’t want to return to the world. Life was too hard and treacherous. I was too weak and vulnerable. I couldn’t live in sorrow forever. So, in that instance, with no forethought, I decided that that night would be my last. No note. No nothing.
--The Bleakness of the Bullied
Thursday, October 13, 2011
At the bar in L.A., one of the guys I was talking to said that the brain hacking made him smarter.
I wonder now if he heard voices, if the 'd' came after him, if he lost sleep due to the "bad, negative" voices, and how long it took convincing that "this was real." 9.
"Hearing voices" has been a psychiatric symptom long before the invention of hacking.
Why is my brain experiencing these weird symptoms? I don't know. d
I wonder now if he heard voices, if the 'd' came after him, if he lost sleep due to the "bad, negative" voices, and how long it took convincing that "this was real." 9.
"Hearing voices" has been a psychiatric symptom long before the invention of hacking.
Why is my brain experiencing these weird symptoms? I don't know. d
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
At Least
At least if there were brain hackers out there testing equipment and they were set on killing me, and they failed, at least that meant I succeeded at something in my life.
My brain wants to give me a sense of accomplishment.
We knew that the shower room was bad9. DO NOT ENTER. x
My brain wants to give me a sense of accomplishment.
We knew that the shower room was bad9. DO NOT ENTER. x
Looks LIke CReativity
When you're psychotic, the world is about connections and associations that you wouldn't otherwise make.
In the beginning, this can look like creativity, but then this passes because you are stretched like a balloon, too far gone from reality to make any sense to the average reader.
In the beginning, this can look like creativity, but then this passes because you are stretched like a balloon, too far gone from reality to make any sense to the average reader.
Does asking constitute a desperation on my part?
From the outside, I supposed it did.
I didn't want to know so much as I wanted to get rid of the hacking. I assumed incorrectly that the hacker had deep personal interest.
What is embarrassment if it solves the problem?
MOst wrote back, taking the stance that I was just mental ill (to a degree I was, and who in the hell thinks that he or she alone can track down an anon hacker when the FBI gets their asses kicked constantly?).
From the outside, I supposed it did.
I didn't want to know so much as I wanted to get rid of the hacking. I assumed incorrectly that the hacker had deep personal interest.
What is embarrassment if it solves the problem?
MOst wrote back, taking the stance that I was just mental ill (to a degree I was, and who in the hell thinks that he or she alone can track down an anon hacker when the FBI gets their asses kicked constantly?).
I ended up apologizing to him, although now I'm not too sure why. He was the one who lied the night we met or he is lying to himself when he wrote the latest email (about his on-and-off again relationship).
So, I asked a straight up, ridiculous question. What was the harm? I almost flew to the UK to be with the guy.
Does honesty about love frighten people that much?
So, I asked a straight up, ridiculous question. What was the harm? I almost flew to the UK to be with the guy.
Does honesty about love frighten people that much?
Maybe it was the wrong question to ask. d
I found out years later that a one night stand was helping a guy cheat on his girlfriend. d All because I was searching for Jack that I looked him up again. 9.
I saved it for last. "Do you love me?"
That was a "NO." 9.
He was the only member of intelligence I knew.
I found out years later that a one night stand was helping a guy cheat on his girlfriend. d All because I was searching for Jack that I looked him up again. 9.
I saved it for last. "Do you love me?"
That was a "NO." 9.
He was the only member of intelligence I knew.
AFter February, nothing seemed to work, make sense or reason.
I went on a bender of senselessness--anger, love, all of it--
"Do you love me? Do you love me?" RAndy mocked me.
My hunting for Jack went too far.
AS if love would pull together the frays of my life.
AS if I found that one person who loved me, that would pull me to the shore.
I was talking to him the whole time, but couldn't see that. x.
I went on a bender of senselessness--anger, love, all of it--
"Do you love me? Do you love me?" RAndy mocked me.
My hunting for Jack went too far.
AS if love would pull together the frays of my life.
AS if I found that one person who loved me, that would pull me to the shore.
I was talking to him the whole time, but couldn't see that. x.
The First Hints
The first hints that something might be off came in mid-FEbruary or late FEbruary of this year.
I was stubborn in my insistence that A) I was too old in having my first psychotic episode and B) I was a bipolar and not in a major mood episode, which was criteria you have to fill for psychotic symptoms.
nO one wants to believe that he/she has lost faith in him/herself. That is the very nature of psychosis. 9.
I was stubborn in my insistence that A) I was too old in having my first psychotic episode and B) I was a bipolar and not in a major mood episode, which was criteria you have to fill for psychotic symptoms.
nO one wants to believe that he/she has lost faith in him/herself. That is the very nature of psychosis. 9.
I should have listened to my first red, flashing sign that said, "WARNING," but county mental health didn't seem that concerned--so they figured and I figured that with a few days of sleep and some time away from the stress, I would recover.
I didn't.
The whole world lit up with connections and numbers and letters and random wasn't random, but if you could just tie it all together--if you were smart enough--all of it made sense and could fit inside a sequence. Something usable.
I didn't.
The whole world lit up with connections and numbers and letters and random wasn't random, but if you could just tie it all together--if you were smart enough--all of it made sense and could fit inside a sequence. Something usable.
Then I went crazy. Was it slow?
I thought a reader was passing me a secret message by viewing certain entries. That was my first hint that something seriously was wrong with me. I phone the Case Manager in a panic.
Was I have my first psychotic episode as old as I was?
He told me, "NO." 9.
It seemed impossible that I could crack this late in life.
I thought a reader was passing me a secret message by viewing certain entries. That was my first hint that something seriously was wrong with me. I phone the Case Manager in a panic.
Was I have my first psychotic episode as old as I was?
He told me, "NO." 9.
It seemed impossible that I could crack this late in life.
I never met sorrow in the face, or what Ithaca was like in the winter, or rejection at the hands of the administration. I never saw the nose of the plane or ate the stale peanuts even though in the whole package, there were probably only three or four nuts. 9.
I never walked off of the plane and realized I was all alone.
I didn't take my thin, sliver of a chance and fly9.
I never walked off of the plane and realized I was all alone.
I didn't take my thin, sliver of a chance and fly9.
So swung by romance of a scholarly life at my dream school and meeting a man I've spent over a year talking to, I booked a ticket to Ithaca, NY.
Perhaps the dreams were too heavy on my shoulders, leaning too deeply into my heart, strapped with too many pounds on my ankles--but I never boarded.
I never tried for myself.
That afternoon, I cracked open a bottle of Grey Goose at my grandmother's house to celebrate my self-sabotage.
Perhaps the dreams were too heavy on my shoulders, leaning too deeply into my heart, strapped with too many pounds on my ankles--but I never boarded.
I never tried for myself.
That afternoon, I cracked open a bottle of Grey Goose at my grandmother's house to celebrate my self-sabotage.
There's some guy out there who has me completely.
Sometimes when he answers the phone, he introduces himself.
It took me a while to figure out why.
I picture a wife standing next to him, sipping wine in a glass, leaning over a counter, flipping a magazine. "Who was that?"
"Agh...no one. WRong number," he would say. x9.
Sometimes when he answers the phone, he introduces himself.
It took me a while to figure out why.
I picture a wife standing next to him, sipping wine in a glass, leaning over a counter, flipping a magazine. "Who was that?"
"Agh...no one. WRong number," he would say. x9.
The psychosis was seeing my limits to handling life.
This is how much I can take. That's it. No more. Or I fall apart.
One push too many, and some other part of my brain awakens. x. To fight back against the unfortunate circumstances I find myself in, blame myself, blame other people. 9.
DAD is there to combat the other voices. I become wildly combative with friends because of an unknown enemy, this hacker who is just out there. no9. e.
This is how much I can take. That's it. No more. Or I fall apart.
One push too many, and some other part of my brain awakens. x. To fight back against the unfortunate circumstances I find myself in, blame myself, blame other people. 9.
DAD is there to combat the other voices. I become wildly combative with friends because of an unknown enemy, this hacker who is just out there. no9. e.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
I couldn't help myself, and I opened up Jack's blog a few days ago, thinking he probably wrote 5 entries, life gone on as usual.
I have no idea who the man really is. Instead of shouting, "Where's Jack?" constantly. I could have said, "Who is Jack?"
There was no entry.
This is another online friend that I miss, another trigger in the great psychotic mess. 9.
EVery once and a while, an entry on this blog will duplicate, and the spare will be in the drafts. I think of it as someone out there sends a "like."
I have no idea who the man really is. Instead of shouting, "Where's Jack?" constantly. I could have said, "Who is Jack?"
There was no entry.
This is another online friend that I miss, another trigger in the great psychotic mess. 9.
EVery once and a while, an entry on this blog will duplicate, and the spare will be in the drafts. I think of it as someone out there sends a "like."
Through the whole thing, I only lost a few friends. One of which I really want back, but he won't return any of my emails. WE were buddies for a while, laughing at our drunkenness. WE bonded over the craziness of being bipolar.
He's gone now.
Back when I was psychotic, I would think I saw him in town, jogging around without his shirt on. There's Thomas. WE would coolly cross paths, but never speak.
He owns one of the largest houses in the area just a few miles away.
One day, I'll get lost and go up to his driveway.
This was my fantasy while playing psychosis.
NO. He doesn't want to speak to me. 9.
He's gone now.
Back when I was psychotic, I would think I saw him in town, jogging around without his shirt on. There's Thomas. WE would coolly cross paths, but never speak.
He owns one of the largest houses in the area just a few miles away.
One day, I'll get lost and go up to his driveway.
This was my fantasy while playing psychosis.
NO. He doesn't want to speak to me. 9.
I finally called the District Training Manager today after he brushed me off last time I invited him out.
My trained dancer senses tell me that with the possibility of him moving, he doesn't want a relationship-in-progress.
But he likes me a little tiny bit.
It has been a while since I've been flat-ass-rejected. 9.
My trained dancer senses tell me that with the possibility of him moving, he doesn't want a relationship-in-progress.
But he likes me a little tiny bit.
It has been a while since I've been flat-ass-rejected. 9.
Never Settle
My first psychiatrist told me, "Never settle."
Never settle for anything less than that elusive mixture of crazy romance, heart pounding, love at first sight and good companion, best friend forever.
Never settle for anything besides--
The love of your life. 9.
Never settle for anything less than that elusive mixture of crazy romance, heart pounding, love at first sight and good companion, best friend forever.
Never settle for anything besides--
The love of your life. 9.
Why do crazy people make better bloggers?
Crazy people are constantly in conflict: with themselves, with the world, with the voices in their heads. Want to know why no one reads your blog? You’re boring. You’re not in conflict, or you have no ability to articulate your conflict, or, more likely, you’re unwilling to share your conflict. That makes you boring and cowardly. A blog isn’t something you write when you feel like it. It’s the digital representation of who you really are. No one wants to read a blog by a boring coward. Because no one wants to be a boring coward.
--http://susannahbreslin.blogspot.com/2011/10/crazy.html
I never told any of the doctors what is going on at the keyboard. no 88.
"Are you receiving any messages from the computer that only you understand?" was one of the questions I got during my entrance back to STanford. No. 9.
Not really. It's either neurostimation or some part of my brain is constantly commenting and interjecting.
"Are you receiving any messages from the computer that only you understand?" was one of the questions I got during my entrance back to STanford. No. 9.
Not really. It's either neurostimation or some part of my brain is constantly commenting and interjecting.
Listening to the voices all day or parts of the days while being on a drug like Clozaprine, the last resort drug, knowing that the next step is just ECT, makes a person worried. 9.
How the voices talk to me has changed. They are no longer harassing or mean or telling me to hang myself in the shower and/or garage. But they are still there. No 9.
How the voices talk to me has changed. They are no longer harassing or mean or telling me to hang myself in the shower and/or garage. But they are still there. No 9.
Was It All Me?
Brain hacking or no brain hacking, my mind was under attack (by disease).
One of the voices told me, just before I entered the hospital, maybe several hours, that she could be put in a coma. I felt dizzy, like my blood pressure was seriously low. I panicked. 9. I was afraid that was it, wake up ten years later, no friends, only would my family hang on that long to hope? I get up out of bed and stand up and walk quickly through the house with no point of going anywhere, just keep moving. I dialed 911, but didn't press send. 9. The sensation ceased. It was like an electrical storm going on in my brain. Some parts of my head actually hurt. Did the brain hackers (as I thought then) take off years of my life with that shit/ No.
I keep being told I won't see my 29 birthday. x. Even if it's not true, it's a little spooky. 98.l Did I watch the wrong video?
One of the voices told me, just before I entered the hospital, maybe several hours, that she could be put in a coma. I felt dizzy, like my blood pressure was seriously low. I panicked. 9. I was afraid that was it, wake up ten years later, no friends, only would my family hang on that long to hope? I get up out of bed and stand up and walk quickly through the house with no point of going anywhere, just keep moving. I dialed 911, but didn't press send. 9. The sensation ceased. It was like an electrical storm going on in my brain. Some parts of my head actually hurt. Did the brain hackers (as I thought then) take off years of my life with that shit/ No.
I keep being told I won't see my 29 birthday. x. Even if it's not true, it's a little spooky. 98.l Did I watch the wrong video?
Half of the picture is: "Where's Jack?"
Which is another trigger.
Jack stopped answering emails weeks before I started on a rampage to "find him," on the assumption that he was in CAlifornia. 9.
I jumped to the illogical conclusion that a guy at STarbucks looked like him. 9.9. This would be the General. But the names were wrong, of course.
From there, I just kept looking for Jack. 9.
Which is another trigger.
Jack stopped answering emails weeks before I started on a rampage to "find him," on the assumption that he was in CAlifornia. 9.
I jumped to the illogical conclusion that a guy at STarbucks looked like him. 9.9. This would be the General. But the names were wrong, of course.
From there, I just kept looking for Jack. 9.
"Someone broke into your brain." ONe of the voices says 9.
"What are you waiting for?" "Lucky" says with his distorted voice in the middle of the night. Cell phone problems? Or the Switchboard Concept. 98.
Dr. Pait, who refuses to see me and is sending me to another clinic because of that, said it was all an auditory hallucination.
"What are you waiting for?" "Lucky" says with his distorted voice in the middle of the night. Cell phone problems? Or the Switchboard Concept. 98.
Dr. Pait, who refuses to see me and is sending me to another clinic because of that, said it was all an auditory hallucination.
I Survived Something
"You were supposed to die, but you didn't." No. d
While I was in the hospital this last time, I was told by the Resident that I could stay in there until the voices went completely away.
It felt like death, like psyche death, laying there in the hospital bed, not knowing if I could move anymore, staring at the cups of water and Sprite that nurses had brought me.
The voices tell me in the least that I survived something--I survived a fire, a natural disaster--a robbery inside my mind--a rape of my soul--fraud of my consciousness--siege.
I figured if I was completely still the voices couldn't hurt me. I wouldn't hang, cut, etc. 9.
While I was in the hospital this last time, I was told by the Resident that I could stay in there until the voices went completely away.
It felt like death, like psyche death, laying there in the hospital bed, not knowing if I could move anymore, staring at the cups of water and Sprite that nurses had brought me.
The voices tell me in the least that I survived something--I survived a fire, a natural disaster--a robbery inside my mind--a rape of my soul--fraud of my consciousness--siege.
I figured if I was completely still the voices couldn't hurt me. I wouldn't hang, cut, etc. 9.
There is the alternative. I found the love of my life, and we cannot be together.
I can be alone with a lot of pets. d
I asked my grandmother a long time ago to promise that I would never marry number two. d ONly a number one in my life. That I would never settle.
Is companionship love not settling? That's the question. Since I've never had it, how can I judge?
I can be alone with a lot of pets. d
I asked my grandmother a long time ago to promise that I would never marry number two. d ONly a number one in my life. That I would never settle.
Is companionship love not settling? That's the question. Since I've never had it, how can I judge?
A Young Russ
Sometime during this month in 2009 the best companion I ever had (remember? NO human companion) was euthanized. d He was a Border Collie named Russ.
My best memory I pull up of him. I was a freshman in college. He is running circles around my tragic attempts of riding a bike. d His tongue is hanging out. d HIs coat is perfectly groomed. He is just watching me, staring at me right in the face as he jogs.
My best memory I pull up of him. I was a freshman in college. He is running circles around my tragic attempts of riding a bike. d His tongue is hanging out. d HIs coat is perfectly groomed. He is just watching me, staring at me right in the face as he jogs.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
The Little Girl Made Proposal
I've always hated weddings. d The gaiety of the entire matter. It's a time to get drunk, but I can't drink. It's a time to be with someone you love, hinting for marriage (if you're not), but I dropped that bomb, and I wish I was drunk then, but I wasn't.
I had the mentality that day that "just before you go" as if farewell wishes included marriage proposal. d
There's the little girl inside of me that yells and kicks and screams that Morpheus is never coming back every time he leaves--history has proven this isn't true--
That little girl made a marriage proposal.
You can say no, not now, later or yes when I'm divorced--but the little girl has to kick and scream.
The adult Lacey had the realization that this could scare him away (no) d, this could be more drama (possible), this could be ignored (possible), when you love someone, you are supposed to mention marriage after set number of years. I believe that four is plenty.
Just before you go, in case we never speak to each other again, the little girl says, I want you to know, that if I was going to get married, today, to someone, you would be that person. The end.
I had the mentality that day that "just before you go" as if farewell wishes included marriage proposal. d
There's the little girl inside of me that yells and kicks and screams that Morpheus is never coming back every time he leaves--history has proven this isn't true--
That little girl made a marriage proposal.
You can say no, not now, later or yes when I'm divorced--but the little girl has to kick and scream.
The adult Lacey had the realization that this could scare him away (no) d, this could be more drama (possible), this could be ignored (possible), when you love someone, you are supposed to mention marriage after set number of years. I believe that four is plenty.
Just before you go, in case we never speak to each other again, the little girl says, I want you to know, that if I was going to get married, today, to someone, you would be that person. The end.
All I can see as I project into the future at my friend's wedding are the "forever's" and "I do's" and didn't I deal with the guilt of the Facebook Message enough through the voices.
Didn't I in some way want myself to pay for going against an institution like marriage? dd
Didn't I hate marriage and feel guilty for disrupting what marriage stands for?
Who am I?
I certainly couldn't look to the voices to tell me.
Didn't I in some way want myself to pay for going against an institution like marriage? dd
Didn't I hate marriage and feel guilty for disrupting what marriage stands for?
Who am I?
I certainly couldn't look to the voices to tell me.
The Wedding
I have a wedding coming up in my life. d
From one of my oldest friends.
SElfishness says stay home and pout about life of being single and without the love of your life.
Isn't that pain enough without parading out once and facing reality? d
Reality is, people go on and marry second's or third's or they snag their first's on some blind, rare ugly twist of fate. d
Lacey says crawl deeper underneath the covers and pout about how life didn't turn out the way she wanted. No one will notice I didn't go except the bride.
I already have her prepared that I might still be "too ill." d
Can't it be a day about the bride?
NO. d. It's a day about me and my singledom. The invitation is made out to "Lacey & Guest."
I have a guest. I could ask Joseph or even maybe Lucky. 9.
NO. This is about the split in my brain, about the trauma, about being in a room of happy people or people pretending to be happy about another person's happiness--the best day of her life. Me, I'm in the room holding my brain together like this--trying to keep the split from tearing me in two over a man who is not my guest, only my visitor, my ghost. d. I can see her, the bride, coming at me with a large smile, and I have nothing but the split to dealt with.
People play with the word broken heart, and they draw it with a split in the middle, but they don't know. Their hands never run away with them, and they don't call disconnected numbers in the middle of the night thinking that the delusional process will magically phone their loved one.
I know splitted hearts this coming fall season, and I'm supposed to show up to a wedding with a guest?
9.
From one of my oldest friends.
SElfishness says stay home and pout about life of being single and without the love of your life.
Isn't that pain enough without parading out once and facing reality? d
Reality is, people go on and marry second's or third's or they snag their first's on some blind, rare ugly twist of fate. d
Lacey says crawl deeper underneath the covers and pout about how life didn't turn out the way she wanted. No one will notice I didn't go except the bride.
I already have her prepared that I might still be "too ill." d
Can't it be a day about the bride?
NO. d. It's a day about me and my singledom. The invitation is made out to "Lacey & Guest."
I have a guest. I could ask Joseph or even maybe Lucky. 9.
NO. This is about the split in my brain, about the trauma, about being in a room of happy people or people pretending to be happy about another person's happiness--the best day of her life. Me, I'm in the room holding my brain together like this--trying to keep the split from tearing me in two over a man who is not my guest, only my visitor, my ghost. d. I can see her, the bride, coming at me with a large smile, and I have nothing but the split to dealt with.
People play with the word broken heart, and they draw it with a split in the middle, but they don't know. Their hands never run away with them, and they don't call disconnected numbers in the middle of the night thinking that the delusional process will magically phone their loved one.
I know splitted hearts this coming fall season, and I'm supposed to show up to a wedding with a guest?
9.
Schizo and Lacey A and Lacey B
The General "voice" made a poignant observation on Friday while I was walking around. I'll know that it's over when the "split" of the hands has ceased. When the "d" 's disappear and the "a" go back into their corner where they belong, and I no longer write out my lover's initials behind my own self's back. a.
When Lacey A and Lacey B as a friend of mine would say--when they make their peace and they join again.
When Lacey A and Lacey B as a friend of mine would say--when they make their peace and they join again.
I stopped believing in things. God, being one of the largest. Another life after this one is through with us.
Why should I believe in some extra letters that show up on my drafts, and a man who motioned to me through a window while driving a BMW?
Yesterday afternoon I sat only a few feet away from where I sat that day. I watched the cars uneasily. Can you prove the Switchboard Concept ?d
I watched a cellphone move inches in the front of my Mercedes. How? The voices say I did it with my mind.
But I don't believe in things and yet, when psychotic, I believe in all sorts. I call it "the delusional process," acting out of faith. Calling a number which is disconnected, but dialing it over and over again in the middle of the night when frightened or in pain.
The brain hangs on to little scraps of evidence saying maybe even when psychotic we can have faith, belief in the bizarre, in the unusual because it mattered to us. Our history fast forward and now our present will make more sense. WE can bind time together. Our brains will rattle around, and then stop.
That guy in the BMW was person A.
I know him now, and can continue onward towards goal B.
Psychosis is chaos. a.
WE hunt and travel around through our scattered histories to find one timeline.
Why should I believe in some extra letters that show up on my drafts, and a man who motioned to me through a window while driving a BMW?
Yesterday afternoon I sat only a few feet away from where I sat that day. I watched the cars uneasily. Can you prove the Switchboard Concept ?d
I watched a cellphone move inches in the front of my Mercedes. How? The voices say I did it with my mind.
But I don't believe in things and yet, when psychotic, I believe in all sorts. I call it "the delusional process," acting out of faith. Calling a number which is disconnected, but dialing it over and over again in the middle of the night when frightened or in pain.
The brain hangs on to little scraps of evidence saying maybe even when psychotic we can have faith, belief in the bizarre, in the unusual because it mattered to us. Our history fast forward and now our present will make more sense. WE can bind time together. Our brains will rattle around, and then stop.
That guy in the BMW was person A.
I know him now, and can continue onward towards goal B.
Psychosis is chaos. a.
WE hunt and travel around through our scattered histories to find one timeline.
The Life In Full
Just to feel normal again, what would you trade?
This is an easy, a lot. 9.
The voices remind me of my brushes with death (my attempt of August 20, 2008 and then my accidental OD in October of 2009).
I'm reminded of my silly, early teenage promise to commit suicide at age thirty.
Predictably, I hitting the mountain of wisdom that says, thirty is young. no8. dx. There is so much left to do. I have my degree left to get, and the graduate degree after that. I have a book to write.
If I never fall in love again, ever, I consider myself still lucky in love as I have felt deep passion and attachment, and will not go to the grave missing out on anything as far as "in love."
What have I missed? A genuine, true, loyal companion. 89. Someone who shares books, hugs, life, tolerates my moods, bad cooking and housekeeping, who is there every day.
In this sense, I could marry for a companion and not for the passion and you could say that at some point in my life, I've had it all. i.
I am being reasonable. 9.
I think of that more and more as I think of sex (the act) less and less. Trauma of psychosis aged me fifteen years.
I could find a guy who holds conversation and my hand, and never be in love, and live fully. 9
Would I ever be fully happy?
Didn't the Morpheus voice go away? Didn't he disappear?
Could I be in love with a distant man who I never see, and live this kind of mature, bookish life?
I almost see it happening, walking the fine line I have to for my own health, knowing I was passionate once. I dared on illness so I could be fully in love. d
I dared on pain to be in love.
I dared on destruction to be in love.
I was brave.
And then those times ended. d
This is an easy, a lot. 9.
The voices remind me of my brushes with death (my attempt of August 20, 2008 and then my accidental OD in October of 2009).
I'm reminded of my silly, early teenage promise to commit suicide at age thirty.
Predictably, I hitting the mountain of wisdom that says, thirty is young. no8. dx. There is so much left to do. I have my degree left to get, and the graduate degree after that. I have a book to write.
If I never fall in love again, ever, I consider myself still lucky in love as I have felt deep passion and attachment, and will not go to the grave missing out on anything as far as "in love."
What have I missed? A genuine, true, loyal companion. 89. Someone who shares books, hugs, life, tolerates my moods, bad cooking and housekeeping, who is there every day.
In this sense, I could marry for a companion and not for the passion and you could say that at some point in my life, I've had it all. i.
I am being reasonable. 9.
I think of that more and more as I think of sex (the act) less and less. Trauma of psychosis aged me fifteen years.
I could find a guy who holds conversation and my hand, and never be in love, and live fully. 9
Would I ever be fully happy?
Didn't the Morpheus voice go away? Didn't he disappear?
Could I be in love with a distant man who I never see, and live this kind of mature, bookish life?
I almost see it happening, walking the fine line I have to for my own health, knowing I was passionate once. I dared on illness so I could be fully in love. d
I dared on pain to be in love.
I dared on destruction to be in love.
I was brave.
And then those times ended. d
My doctors missed the point.
Every psychotic episode has a trigger, especially if it is without major mood symptoms.
Most of the mental health professors honestly weren't interested in finding a trigger or a beginning point or the real key.
What day was it that I woke up and something was off?
I remember that day. I was at STarbucks. 9. It was raining. 9. Instead of going into the hospital like I thought about doing and even discussed with my mother, I drove to my grandmother's house instead. 9. By then, I already knew some of my things had been hacked. Fight with Morpheus had happened. I purposefully dodged out of my flight to NY and my interview with a department at Cornell.
But what was the major trauma? x Was it even one thing? x
Every psychotic episode has a trigger, especially if it is without major mood symptoms.
Most of the mental health professors honestly weren't interested in finding a trigger or a beginning point or the real key.
What day was it that I woke up and something was off?
I remember that day. I was at STarbucks. 9. It was raining. 9. Instead of going into the hospital like I thought about doing and even discussed with my mother, I drove to my grandmother's house instead. 9. By then, I already knew some of my things had been hacked. Fight with Morpheus had happened. I purposefully dodged out of my flight to NY and my interview with a department at Cornell.
But what was the major trauma? x Was it even one thing? x
I use to have like waking nightmares about a couple. The woman I could never see her face, but she was a tall, thin, blonde, much like my mother but she was too young. 9l .
She was always falling down from walking in her heels. 9.
Sometimes I wonder if they aren't real memories distorted, from my past as a child. If it isn't my parents fighting that I stored after all this time, and the psychosis brought it all back.
Even typing about it makes me unbelievably tired. n9
She was always falling down from walking in her heels. 9.
Sometimes I wonder if they aren't real memories distorted, from my past as a child. If it isn't my parents fighting that I stored after all this time, and the psychosis brought it all back.
Even typing about it makes me unbelievably tired. n9
Heart's Worth 9
What is a heart worth in all of its brokenness? d4 A glance, a stare, a movie, a date, a year of commitment, five or more? d
Do you love me? d4 I asked many of them.
--
ONe strong daydream I had. DAydreams that floated in and out of my consciousness just before I started to have voices. 9.
Where are you going/ she says as he is headed out the door.
Out. comes his reply. 9.
I'm following you then .
--
Why do we fight. 9l Is a heart worth patience/ A mouth in silence when someone is yelling at you. Is a heart even in dismay and hurt worth more than what it has received in the past.
Do you love me? d4 I asked many of them.
--
ONe strong daydream I had. DAydreams that floated in and out of my consciousness just before I started to have voices. 9.
Where are you going/ she says as he is headed out the door.
Out. comes his reply. 9.
I'm following you then .
--
Why do we fight. 9l Is a heart worth patience/ A mouth in silence when someone is yelling at you. Is a heart even in dismay and hurt worth more than what it has received in the past.
Involuntary Love 9
This morning, I kept typing the initials of Morpheus's name without thinking about it or realizing. 9. 4. It was completely involuntary.
Times like this, I know there is so much about the brain we just don't understand. No. 8. Do we even really comprehend the mourning process? d Isn't that what this psychotic break was about? Just a shitload of impossible tears never to be seen or let out? d. Instead, I was slammed into this artificial state where for once I allowed myself to be crazy for him. 0. 0x. I allowed myself to be free.
Times like this, I know there is so much about the brain we just don't understand. No. 8. Do we even really comprehend the mourning process? d Isn't that what this psychotic break was about? Just a shitload of impossible tears never to be seen or let out? d. Instead, I was slammed into this artificial state where for once I allowed myself to be crazy for him. 0. 0x. I allowed myself to be free.
PIcture Guns
AT the very worst in the hospital during this year's first admission, I kept seeing repetitive violent images over and over again. I have no idea if I had conscious control over them.e This is where DAD stepped in. When it got to be too much, DAD said he got rid of them for a while.
The General "Voice" Came Back 98
The General "voice" came back into my brain, and the scenario is something like this, he says as I'm walking along:
He's a brain hacker because the next war is inside minds. 9. I was just randomly picked to be experimented on for a kill, but I am surviving due to DAD. 9.
He works out of a think tank. NO.
And as I'm wandering around downtown San Luis Obispo, I'm wondering about the drug of last resort. THere's no place to go from here except ECT.
"You almost died," The General kept saying. "You, the you that you know." dx9.
He blames my inability to concentrate for long periods on every day "boredom." 9999.x.
He's a brain hacker because the next war is inside minds. 9. I was just randomly picked to be experimented on for a kill, but I am surviving due to DAD. 9.
He works out of a think tank. NO.
And as I'm wandering around downtown San Luis Obispo, I'm wondering about the drug of last resort. THere's no place to go from here except ECT.
"You almost died," The General kept saying. "You, the you that you know." dx9.
He blames my inability to concentrate for long periods on every day "boredom." 9999.x.
Friday, October 7, 2011
The Last Resort
Even while i'm on clozaril, one of the voices says, "your brain is being opened up." d
So-called Clozaril, the drug of last resort.
While in the office of the Case Manager, he tried to put fear in me, "You could die" [from taking this medication] in order to make sure that I would go along with protocol of getting blood draws.
Yesterday while walking downtown, the General voice came back into my head for a period of time. I blamed it on the fact that I missed my evening dose.
I wait. Is Clozaril the miracle worker everyone says it is? d
So-called Clozaril, the drug of last resort.
While in the office of the Case Manager, he tried to put fear in me, "You could die" [from taking this medication] in order to make sure that I would go along with protocol of getting blood draws.
Yesterday while walking downtown, the General voice came back into my head for a period of time. I blamed it on the fact that I missed my evening dose.
I wait. Is Clozaril the miracle worker everyone says it is? d
Looking Back ad
Looking back, I'm trying re-trace everything, finding answers where none were before because my paranoia was too bad. Now that I'm medicated, maybe I can hunt up good explanations.
For instance, finding the car unlocked.
Maybe I just left it that way, instead of thinking someone is unlocking it behind my back, etc. a.d.
I was told by STanford that this would just take time as I'm on the Clonzaprine.
For instance, finding the car unlocked.
Maybe I just left it that way, instead of thinking someone is unlocking it behind my back, etc. a.d.
I was told by STanford that this would just take time as I'm on the Clonzaprine.
One of the nursing students said me, "Can I ask you a personal question? If you don't want to answer that's okay."
"Okay."
"Did the voices tell you to become a prostitute." d
"NO. " d
I look back on that and chuckle. AT the time, I was a little embarrassed. a. 4. I explained to her that my first client I had when I was manic.
"Okay."
"Did the voices tell you to become a prostitute." d
"NO. " d
I look back on that and chuckle. AT the time, I was a little embarrassed. a. 4. I explained to her that my first client I had when I was manic.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
My hospital stay was completely uneventful, besides battling the medication's side effects, I only had a stressful run-in with the voices a few times. Otherwise when they came on, I could handle it. For the most part, I was treated like a uneventful case as well. I only saw the attending doctor once. The rest of the time I dealt with the resident.
The major issue was the sedation of being on three antipsychotics without being allowed any coffee. I was almost always in bed.
The major issue was the sedation of being on three antipsychotics without being allowed any coffee. I was almost always in bed.
What to Do ABout the D
All that time spent at STanford, and I have no idea what to do about the involuntary movements at the keyboard, the 'd.' Is it just a neurological symptom or tied into the psychiatric? NO .9.
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