The End

I'm closing down the blog because it's a year old, and no longer represents how I feel and where my life is going.

I will probably start up writing elsewhere.

I think about writing him every day, but make an argument against myself just as easily. Maybe I'm going through the stages of mourning--maybe I'm processing.

Maybe there's an end to this after all.

Can Go On

I cried a lot when I got the news about my car. It signaled the end of my hope that I might someday have my freedom back.

I hardly leave the house unless I have a doctor's appointment or need lab work done.

My days are filled with housework, reading and watching TV.

I wonder how long I can go on like this.

The LSU Professor will not loan me the money for me to be able to fix my car.

I am now stuck.

The General Drinking Mode

I've been drinking, feeling sorry for myself, the general pity mode.

I have to figure out how to come up with $1,500 dollars to fix my car (in addition to the money I've saved, and the money my parents are pitching in). This is close to the amount the car is worth. It's either this or buy a used Honda Civic or Accord.

Most of the time, I'd just spread my legs to get it, but it's a little difficult when you have no wheels and you live at home with your parents.

The original estimate for the car was around $1,800, but once the mechanics opened it up, they saw there was more damage. The service advisor called me after they inspected the Mercedes and said they need $3,200. My parents wouldn't make up the difference even though I know that they have the money. So much for my birthday present. 

 I have made two phone calls to the LSU Professor, the only person I know who knows cars, and would possibly loan me the money. I haven't heard back. Money comes between friends, but I'm especially desperate.

I've been highly irritable.
 Sometimes I want to die.


I don't know what keeps me going, to be honest. Why I wake up everyday, and get out of bed. Habit, it seems. I take no joy out of life.

I realized a few days ago that there is no one here for me, if I was in the ER, if I was hospitalized, no one would come and be by my side. I have friends, sure, but many of them are far away.

Some of my depression is the knowing that the LSU Professor would not be there for me if I was in mortal danger again.

But most of my depression is about Morpheus.

I've decided to disappear--not physically, of course--but only off of the communication channels with friends. I'm doing this because I don't have anything to say to anyone.

Hello. How are you?

I'm sad. 

The end. 

I try to be sympathetic to friends' needs and wants, but I can't handle it now. It's draining.

Everyday is the same. I can't imagine a way out.

Kill YOu

"These drugs can kill you."

--my psychiatrist, referring to my daily cocktail

Mysterious Ways, REply

Re today's post: Maybe good things come in threes.

--Harry, one of my readers

Mysterious Ways

I doubt it seriously that the Universe will throw me another handsome, rich guy with an eight inch dick considering during my lifetime I've already had two (Mr. G-Force and Morpheus), but then again, it does work in mysterious ways.

Hold Down a Fucking JOb

In the beginning, I didn't deal with it because I was psychotic.

Now, I'm left with it, every day.

I don't know how people break up and hold down a fucking job.

Give

I promised myself that I would always forgive Morpheus for being the person he is.

That includes right now.

Not returning my email that is over a month old.

You can't make people be who they are not.

YOu can't make them give what they don't have inside.

Tears For Lies

I don't know why I've been feeling so alone lately. Nothing has changed.

Every now and again, I will conjure up the image of his smiling face in the kitchen of his home.

And I am reminded that I am being punished by God and his gods for being with a married man--not separated, not divorcing.

Just married.

And then I start to cry,

Good Grief

No one knows the pain. The people who do--they defy the statistics. They don't marry or they don't marry again.

They wander through life, closed off, cheated out of love, cheating others out of affection and closeness. Gifting cruelty.

I sense I'm about to enter a league of permanently fucked up people.

Maybe that was his present to me, a lesson of sorts, and now, I carry it on my back, this boulder of a burden.

Do you still love me?

No one gets it because I don't. Mourning isn't a practiced art usually. YOu don't walk into a room, wave your arms, and say, "Oh, pick me! Pick me!"

You, in the back, you're next.

No one knows when it's going to get better, when the pain will go away, and neither do I. We've never done this before.

It's the absolute alone-ness in the pain that drives in the insanity. No one can dig you out. Friends peer at you as you struggle down at the bottom. Some make comparisons to break up's that they've had, but no one has had voices of their ex-boyfriends, now have they?

Almost No ONe Cares, Part II

I've decided to pretend that I'm getting over him, at least to Morpheus himself.

That means, no more emails sent.

I will pretend until it's an actuality.

I'm trying to move forward with my life.

Almost No ONe Cares

Almost no one cares.

They've all heard it before--about Morpheus.

The fact that it's still living hell for you is no concern of anyone else. IT should be over by now.

I rarely talked about him with my therapist for a reason. She never understood.

I'm locked in a battle that I'm not sure I'm going to win half the time. Morpheus roams around my brain freely. He says what he wants to say, conning me, toying with me, teasing me.

"Love you, Lace," he just said.

The real person is conveniently absent for reasons that I pointed out in the email sent, called "On Cheating."

"I was, and I am low on your list of priorities..." I wrote to him.

ONly In Silence

You send out a letter baring your soul, you expect some reply.

"Fuck off."

"I love you more."

"I can't."

Instead, only silence.

IF I could learn to read silence, I would make millions in practice, books, TV shows and touring.

It's all very tragic, can't you tell?

In Saving You

All I ever wanted to do was to love you and to be loved by you. I was happy just being next to you. I had such high hopes for us.

Now I don't know how to even talk to you. I am blade you are healthy now. I wish I could be a part of that life I wanted you so much to get there.

I feel like I am left with nothing and it is hard to take, sometimes. In saving you I was hoping that you would breath life into me.

--Hades, in a comment

DEpression Crawling

Today, I feel the depression crawling back from whatever corner it was hiding in. Today, I feel it taking ahold.

I don't want to do anything, I don't want to move from this bed, even though I know I need to exercise, and ride Gizmo, and do some housework.

I try to think of positive things, but a part of me wants to die, and another part of me is afraid of death.

Time is precious, but the schizoaffective disorder is stealing it away from me.

On the Mirror, "No SEcond Troy"

WHY should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great.
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn? 

--W.B. YEATS "No SEcond Troy"

Madness Until Death

Remember when I told you that you were the greatest guy in the world?

There was no other guy then, just like now.

I don't know how I'll replace you, what I'll do without you. Sure, the mechanics are easy (it's called a Magic Wand). The loneliness is bearable.

But the idea--of something better--the magic of life filled with passion.

I live a life without motivation. I want for nothing, and therefore have no direction. At least psychosis, in its madness, is a compass, if only pointed to the wrong star. Every day passes the same.

I wanted you. Could you blame me?

I barely remember your face, your smell, it is as if every day, you are dying, slowly, bit by bit in my diseased brain--what day will you finally disappear forever from me? Slip through my firing fingers?

Could I make love to you one more time and remember you until death? Would God grant me that? OR would I dive deep into madness like so many times before as punishment for loving you?

"I thought I was meant to be with you..."

(ON Cheating, an email sent to Morpheus)

Make Me Sick

The truth is, I wish I was married to a man who just won’t give up on me. So, I admire him for that. And in the same stroke, it makes me a little sick.

--May 162012 file from private journal

Short Conversation

It would be a short conversation.

“Hello. So, you don’t love me and you won’t leave your wife. Is there really anything we need to talk about?” Perhaps there’s something I’m missing. 

--May 162012 file from private journal

Some of My Happiest Moments

"Some of my happiest moments on this earth, I was with you."

--ON Married with Children, email meant for MOrpheus


"And I know they will never happen again..."

I would write him a letter every day if I thought it would change anything, if he would think of me more often, if he would consider my heart, if he would make a decision.

WAiting

Eventually, I will have to move on, instead of thinking every stray call is him or anxiously hoping every time my phone dings that it's an email from him, etc. Eventually, I will have to stop waiting.

What I want, what I'm looking for--doesn't exist.

I'm waiting for a reality that will never be.

No SEcond Troy

The only thing I've learned like the song "I Grieve" says, in all the mourning I've done, and bearing the sadness, life does carry on, whether you choose to participate or not.

EArly this morning, I sat in the truck outside the hospital, and just waited and waited--for nothing, but I couldn't force myself to move. I was struck by the gravity of grief. Locked inside the body of a prisoner, who gave up all rights to hope and happiness.

Every day the same, you get up, you brush your teeth, you look at yourself in the mirror and brush your hair, the voices talk to you, your reflection gives speech, wants to be heard, you deal with the fatigue, you might drop the coffee cup again on your way to the coffee pot, you grab a blanket from the chair so you're not cold, and you do this every morning, and your life is predictable, and boring on a level--

Today you didn't cry, just like yesterday, and every day you read on the bedroom mirror,

Yeats

No Mood Lift

"Nothing yet has really sunk in."

--Peter Gabriel, "I Grieve"

I have socially isolated myself. I only have one friend in the area, and he and I are not getting along too well at the moment.

Some of this has to do with the fact that my car is not in working order. Other explanations are I've never had a lot of friends even from the time I was growing up. I usually gain friends when I'm manic, but I haven't had a mood lift in years thanks to the lithium and the Topamax.

So much of my time is absorbed in mourning Morpheus. I hardly feel like I have the energy for other people, either sex. 

My psychiatrist wants me to change this, and gain a circle of friends--but I can't see this. For one thing, you can't just join a group of friends like you join a yoga class--it takes time, months or years. For another, I usually don't get along with a harem of women.

Undone

In the hospital last year, when the voices were telling me that I was dying, I was gripped with a feeling of complete insignificance.

I had done nothing with my life. I had wasted years, never reaching my goals. Never even finished college.

I still feel that at times--it haunts me. I could die today or tomorrow, and leave so many things left unsaid, undone.

Few People Read This Blog

Few people read this blog, only a handful of readers who have known me for a long time, and one person who I don't know (the IP address bounces around, so the person travels). Even including my hits, the blog on average receives eight total visits per day. For the record, it is the most unsuccessful blog I've ever had.

I blame this on several things:

1) I was genuinely psychotic when I started the blog although the title was meant to be ironic, and to poke fun at the doctors who said I was delusional. REading the writing of someone who is losing his/her mind is only so entertaining.

2) Subject material. I no longer write about one of my favorite subjects--sex--because simply I don't have it anymore.

3) I haven't felt creative in probably about a year, and therefore my writing has suffered.

I have tried marketing the blog to mental illness websites and a few other like-minded blogs, but traffic never really increased.

I have considered closing the blog, which will probably happen regardless.

In the meantime, I will continue to write in here until I come up with a better plan.

"I bought all you were selling, the lies too."

--On Married with Children, email meant for Morpheus

Blinded, Truly, By Bliss

"Blinded, truly, by bliss."

--On Married with Children, email meant for Morpheus

NO one asked me what I wanted because--of course--what I wanted came exactly last. IF you were to ask me, I would demand for all parties to be content, and I can no longer naively assume that Morpheus would be happy with me.

I wrote him an email that he may never receive over a sore holiday for many reasons.

I will never have children. I wish there would have been a mistake when mistakes could have been made. Now I don't even ovulate. I have a disease that breathes too close to schizophrenia for my liking. Can I hold a daughter who is in the grasp of voices and delusions? Would I dare to play Russian Roulette and take the off chance that she is born perfect and wait until eighteen sets to see if depression rises? Neurotically peer over her shoulder as she goes to college, knowing the statistics on likelihood of developing a psychiatric disorder, hoping against odds she doesn't crumble or zoom into mania?

A mistake, I mean, with him. I dare write this not in an email for surely the man needs no more surprises, and it's not worth it. He cut his balls, and I don't cycle.

MOther's DAy is sad, a reminder of the events in life I will never go through for myself.

INside of Me

I don't remember what it was like to be with you--to have you inside of me.

Time has raped my memory.

Time has quieted my lust.

Trip to the ER

I woke up a few days ago in my bedroom in the middle of the night, naked from the waist down with no recollection of how or why I wasn't fully dressed. I must have at some point blacked out. I had to used the restroom, so as I moved off the bed, I fell down, almost to the floor, but I was able to grab onto the bed for support. My legs just gave out. I tried the same thing again--to walk--and my legs refused to move. I waited for a few minutes, and then I was able to walk to the bathroom.

I re-told the story to my psychiatrist's assistant because we were disagreeing over whether or not I should see the Neurologist. I have an appointment with her on May 30th.

The psychiatrist called me back personally, and told me that I was in "danger" and that I should go to the ER.

I went to the ER, and dealt with a condescending doctor. He just drew blood work, and that was it. My lithium levels came back high--1.5. He said this was my problem, and discharged me.

After speaking with my psychiatrist, we reduced my dose of lithium down to 600 mg from 900mg. 

 I've been trying to make it happen again, but I haven't been able because I don't believe it had anything to do with the lithium toxicity.

I also don't understand how or why I blacked out. I haven't discussed this with anyone.

You Get Smart, Buy It Now

You get smart, but the world keeps getting smarter. YOu push back, but they throw you down.

Tie you up, gag you all around.

Sometimes I think I'm never going to win.

I'll just sit there, quiet, don't move, and maybe I can sneak out the back, disappear into the night--forget getting ahead--forget the numbers--forget achievement--plaques on the walls--or smiles from the goons.

We're just out here trying to survive.

STay

"I'm high.
It eases the wearisomeness of all this. So belabored. I had told her before, I genuinely thought and felt it was over. All this rigamarole just delaying the inevitable, the obvious, and the trite.
I don't know why they expect me to ask them to stay.
There was only one girl I'd do that for. But then, we don't talk about that anymore."
--Life in the Age of Byrony

With Money

There's nothing in my heart to give away.

I'm now after a man with money.

Selling Beauty

Life taught me that you can sell being beautiful like you can sell anything else.

Sometimes when you're down, it's all you got to hang onto as you're climbing up.

The Day She Gave Up On Love

In my mind, there was a day that my mother gave up on love.

She always says that Richard shouldn't have been my father--biology being biology, Dad should been the boyfriend before she took her vows.

Your whole body can give up, bits and pieces at first, piling up, adding to dead weight. I feel it. Like your insides are being dragged to slaughter.You dig inside and hand over a chunk of liver.

She tells the story when there is no one around but us.

The day she gave up on love.

I want to name my baby girl "HOpe" so that every day and any time she's down she always remembers to believe in the idea.

I'll never have any children, but I dream about them. I don't want to find my daughter in the ER with cut up arms or struggling to breathe under a ventilator because she decided she couldn't live this life anymore.

Unrequited Love

My psychiatrist threw out the idea that this was unrequited love I had towards Morpheus, and that's why it was "obsessive."

It just made me angry.

No Matter How Unhappy

"But it's never going to happen because you've built a life with someone else, [The Wife]. And no matter how unhappy you are or how unhappy she is, it's not something easy to give up on--and cut in half."

--On Cheating, an email sent to Morpheus

Perhaps we all say this in the end and then somewhere go against our own words, but I promised myself I would never love another like I loved him.

Tour de Bars

"Who dares to love forever?"

--Queen and "Who Wants to Live Forever"

Last night, I went out downtown with my grandma. She hadn't been inside any of the bars.We ended up going into two--Firestone and a new wine bar called Luis.

I could only think about how Morpheus and I had never been in any of those places together.

We never went anywhere except his place or mine---and talked for a little while--and had sex.

There's a hole in the middle of me, but I wake up anyway. Every day.

I'm Tired of Wanting YOu

"I'm tired of wanting you to give me something that you cannot or will not."

--On Cheating, an email sent to Morpheus

In the core of my being, of course, I never want it to end. I want him to call, and say he's filing for divorce, and that we can finally have that damn cup of coffee.

At some point, you promise yourself that you aren't going to wait anymore, but depression is all about time being stretched into miserable hours slowing. All you do is wait--staring at walls--staring at bowls of food you can't eat.

He never shows up, he never calls, he never TXT-messages. He's oblivious to the pain on the other end of the phone.

Perhaps that has always been what's angered me the most--the quiet disregard he has used as a wall. Life lives on between our meetings, and yet, he has no knowledge of me.

Long Time to Get Here

"I deserve someone who loves me. I can wait for that."

--ON Cheating, an email sent to Morpheus

I can let you go.

It has taken a long time to get to this place.

The Heart Loves On

"Which is why losing you...so painful...I can hardly bear it..."

--ON Cheating, an email sent to Morpheus

Some days are better than others, but the realization that he's gone, physically out of the area, has been hard to compute. Is he coming back? Will he show up on some street corner someday?

It is the heart's everlasting longing, always plodding along down some road to hell, refusing to remit to another path of least resistant. The heart loves on despite the turmoil.

Mourning You

"I still mourn you."

--ON Cheating, an email sent to MOrpheus

I wait for this grieving process to lessen, but so far, it's the same day after day. It brings forth the same questions, "Did I do the right thing? or "Did I just hurt people needlessly?"

Mostly I find myself battling the condition of being alone, a future without him. What does it look like?

 "Life carries on and on and on..." by Peter Gabriel, "I Grieve."

Mostly I just pay homage to the message that it's just one foot in front of the other.

Concern about MS

"Facebook is the devil's playground and Mark Zuckerburg is probably the Anti-christ.  Anyone who wants to control that many people in that many countries has got to be evil.  That is all I have to say on that."

--Hades

I've been twitching and dropping things from my hands. I went to see my GP, and he said to make an appointment with The Neurologist, which I really don't want to do since I googled "twitching" and nothing life threatening came up. I hate to waste her time.

I made a rule: if I fall from the twitching (or some other form of ataxia), I will make an appointment with The Neurologist then. 

For those of you who have been reading for a while, I've been concerned that I have MS, but I've never been diagnosed. In fact, my last brain MRI was just a few months ago, and it was clear of lesions.

From DearDiary.Net

One of the amazing things about blogs is the fact that our little group from DearDiary.net is still together--we don't always connect with each other, but we have remained friends throughout the years since 2002. This includes Brandon, Cali, Hasher, and Amara.

"Communication is down [between us]...[The Wife] said I have to give you up or else..." Morpheus said the last time we were on the phone together.

About Dying At Age Twenty-Eight

I have this little, teeny, tiny fear that the voices will be right, purely by coincidence that I'll die before my next birthday--I'll choke on a cherry tomato at a restaurant or I'll get into a car wreck on my way home from downtown or I'll have another accidental OD mixing my regular psych-meds with the pain meds for my back.

And then in the uber-creepy voice that I know so well, he will finally say, "Lace, you are dying."

And be right.

Maybe the Best Thing YOu EVer Had

"I'm telling you this because you'll wake up one morning, and you're fifty. And maybe the best thing you ever had was fifteen years ago. And you can't get it back again."

--"ON Cheating," an email sent to Morpheus

I've known Morpheus now for almost five years (it will be on August 25).

Over the years I've gotten use to a pattern of behavior. You call him, and he takes whatever amount to respond, usually months. It doesn't matter how important the calls are. I once called him when I was very ill (psychotic), and he just ignored me, and my ten phone calls (with messages). Obviously he's not available because he's married, but it's more than that. There's been "gross negligence" on his part where he's had time to respond, and never did.

Now, there are no phone calls, unless he makes them because I don't have his phone number. I just write my stupid emails.

EVentually as "The Other Woman," you get tired of being last on someone's to do list.

You do this because, supposedly, two people are in love. When he said he wasn't in love with me, it made me really think about why I go through the trouble of participating in an affair.

The sex, while incredible, is no longer worth it. And no, it can't be replaced with someone else. Every partner is unique.

REally?

The voices keep telling me that my IQ is 165.

I am a little vain.

That Special Thing

"How long was I supposed to wait for you?"

--email for Morpheus called "On Cheating"

I only wanted to live until thirty--I've had that plan since I was a kid--figuring that was enough time to do all there is to do (besides raise a family, which I was never very interested in)--if live is a buffet, then you can sample it all by thirty.

The voices say I won't live to be twenty-nine.

I'm twenty-eight, and I've found that time has gone by quickly doing things that I wasn't particularly interested in, and I'm not referring to the time I spent dancing.

Illness has derailed me in so many ways--financially and socially. I've lost months, and this is time that cannot be returned to me.

I know with some certainty that there will be another psychotic episode knocking on my door in the future. The severity will depend on the medications I'm on and how well prepared I am. I've been through various forms of hell--depressions--manias--but nothing is like being psychotic. A few nights ago, I was asleep, all I could see is black, and next I heard was, "Lace, you are dead." I jumped awake. The voices are daily now. I cannot imagine passing that down with bringing a child into the world. The saddest aspect of being psychotic is, of course, losing friends, pushing them away either by the delusions or because they try to help and you refuse to take that help.


I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do... ---Virginia Woolf


I know that pain.

Sometimes I find myself talking to the voices, and I try to stop--because they're like animals. You can't encourage them. I tell them to "shut up," but of course it doesn't work.

"We're just a part of you, Lace," one of them says.


When I was a teenager, I couldn't image having a psychotic disorder. I know I was depressed, but never this. I don't know what special thing is going to make me different and allow me to succeed when so many others with this disorder do not.

"We'll Ride Them Someday"

Here I am, sitting in STarbucks, crying to "Wild Horses" by the Rolling STones.

I miss you, and everything you broke and stole and ignored.

Number Three

I need and deserve to be important to someone.

--email called "On Cheating" sent to MOrpheus

I wanted a baby, damn you.

But you took that away from me too.

dW

Every day whenever I take a shower, I'm highly irritated by staring at the initials "dW" that are drawn into the wall opposite the water facet. I wonder who put them in there, and why since nothing in the house was stolen whenever he/she broke in. I feel like it's a message that I never decoded.

My parents, of course, are oblivious to the fact that someone broke into our home at least once. My concerns about it are blamed on my "paranoia," which of course only makes me more suspicious.

The initials mean nothing to me, and the handwriting does not look familiar.

It's just there. A giant fuck you, Lace. Since no one else can sense the danger.

Without the Voices

"But things just get so crazy, living life gets hard to do  
And I would gladly hit the road, get up and go if I knew
  That someday it would lead me back to you"

--"Sunday mOrning" by Maroon 5

I've been trying to figure out if there is a way to control the voices somehow since there's connection between them and pre-cog's. All of Beck's work was about controlling the thought before the thought; surely there's a method to dispelling auditory hallucinations or at least changing their subject matter. 

I dislike the notion that I will be living with auditory hallucinations my whole life when for the past twenty-eight years I lived without them. 

 

The Bad, The Obsessive

"The truth is, Billy is never far from my thoughts..."

--Hades, entry: The Truth

I have a bad, obsessive habit of checking out every black Denali SUV (there are a lot of them in town), and truck because MOrpheus owns one of both.

I was walking out of the local Costco, and off in to the side in parked in the loading zone was a black Denali GMC SUV. I checked the rims, which I didn't recognize, but I did remember the tires from the last time I got close to MOrpheus's vehicle, and the tread looked the same. 

I kept walking, and tried to make eye contact with whoever was inside, but he wouldn't look at me.

From the side of his face, it looked like Morpheus.

I stopped at one point, and waved, but he ignored me.

Truisms

"You need to find a good ol' boy who loves his momma," my psychiatrist says smiling. "Some of those truism hold. YOu know, women grow up to marry their fathers, and men grow up to marry their fathers."

Almost Normal

I'm doing rather well. ON the Beck inventory, my scale this week was only a thirteen. This is down from last week, which was a nineteen.

As you can see, I'm almost "normal," which would been a ten or less.

I'm dealing mostly with fatigue, and problems still with my creativity. I can't write like I use to when I was in a normal mood or even psychotic. I wait for the day when the tides turn, and I can write pages upon pages.

I wish when I woke up in the morning, I woke up next to you.

"See that twitch? Those are the twitches of death," says one of the voices.

What To Do

What would I do with my life if I could do anything?

I want be self-employed, and run my own business. I haven't decided what business plan to develop yet mostly because I'm still trying to find myself in school.

I want to own and operate an equine rescue in Santa Ynez, and live there. The house will either be small or I will stay in an apartment in the barn.

I do hope someday to publish a book.

NOne of these plans include marriage or children. It's hard to think of falling in love with someone else--especially at that level, and I know I won't have any kids (because of my illness).

It ONce Seemed Easy

"So, what do you want to do, in your heart of hearts?" The psychiatrist asked, another question I couldn't answer.

I had so many dreams that my illness killed off--I was afraid to plan anymore.

"If you want to get into science, I encourage you," he later said.

Plans Of Marriage

"Do you plan to marry?" The psychiatrist asks.

I wait before answering. Does it help that while psychotic I asked Morpheus to marry me? I shake my head. "I don't know."

"MOst people pair up," he replies.

Schizoaffective vs Bipolar I

We were at the end of my session with my psychiatrist when he handed me a slip for getting my lithium levels checked.

I noticed the DSM code at the bottom of the piece of paper. "What diagnosis is that?"

"Bipolar," he responded.

"Do you think I'm bipolar?" I asked.

"No. I think what we're dealing with here is schizoaffective disorder, and someday I'll get around to changing it there."

My heart sank. I never identified myself with that diagnosis. I was hoping in the long run he would disagree even though STanford was certain that I was in fact schizoaffective.

All I Hear

"And I'll never give myself to another
The way I gave it to you"

--"Rehab" by Rihanna

The voices keep saying over and over again, "Promise me you won't hurt yourself."

They also talk about Morpheus.

"We want to keep you from harm," one of them says, the height of irony.

"[Morpheus] is coming back," another comments.

That's all I hear. Chatter.

More On Letters, Part II

After we broke up, the Writer Ex-boyfriend said that he would write a letter explaining what happened on his side and an apology.

We were use to conversing through emails because that's how we met and communicated for years before I moved to New Jersey so we could be physically together.

He never wrote it.

I wondered around that time what would have happened if he did.

More on Letters

I wrote Dante two letters, to which he responded to both with a phone call the following morning. He would never say if he loved me or not (which was at least half of the purpose of the letters).

He remains to be one of the best friends I've ever had.

Losing Hope, Lesson 1

After Lucky dumped me, I tried getting him back by writing a love letter.

He told me months and months later, "I already knew everything in it."

We never did become boyfriend and girlfriend again although we would see each other on and off again until I realized that wouldn't bring us together romantically.

The Chill

I haven't had sex since January 17th when I was with Morpheus. I think about how much this illness has changed me, how much telling his wife has changed me, and how much I'm sheltering myself from the rest of the world.

I don't even remember kissing the District Training Manager or Chase.

I have closed myself off from any kind of romantic attachment. I write my letters to Morpheus saying I'm in "search for closure," but the search seems far from being over. I hate being touched--I shutter to it--there's a chill that comes as a wave over my body.

Out of the Dream WE Wake

I gave up my dreams about us. 

--email called "On Cheating" sent to MOrpheus


I walked out on the life that could have been us, and closed the door.

The Ike

Ike, the Quarter Horse gelding, is now seventeen years old, well past his prime for being a cutter. I've been riding him on a regular basis. He stands 15'1" with sorrel coloring with a long face and big, bright eyes. We don't do anything special, but just trot and lope around in circles in the bottom, round pen. I get tired easily, so we aren't out there for very long. He doesn't mind because he hasn't been a show horse in years--or conditioned for competitive sport in years.

Love mOre Than ONce

Perhaps the problem is we do love more than once--and those loves bump up against each other like atoms in the air, spinning in tragedy.

I Was In Love ONce

I cried writing the last email I sent to Morpheus--the first time I've cried in months.

I tell myself that this is making me closer to healing--closer to closure. Someday, I'll wake up and I won't miss him or love him anymore. I won't have any letters in me to write because I would have said all there is to say. This day will be gentle and sweet, and if you ask me how I am on that day, I'll say, "Great."

Later on, I'll find a nice guy who loves me softly and soothing, and maybe I will find it in my soul to give back to him something I can't even imagine now. He will be patient because it's in his nature. He will wait for my broken heart to come around to him.

Maybe in time, I will learn to say, "No" to the past, and "yes" to renewal.

I won't tell him that I once believed in loves of your life. That you loved only once, and then something inside of yourself could only be given away a single time. A piece of you died that day. You float on light, and die too--for love. I won't tell him these things because he is the reasonable man who is caught up in reasonable things living in a reasonable house with a reasonable job.

"Of course you can love more than once," he would say, sitting at the table, licking the spoon of ice cream. It's diet, frozen yogurt.

He takes the pressure off of mania by watching at late hours, picking you up at the bars--messy hair, messy mood. His patience is then only irritating. You only want to throw up in peace.

I was in love once.

Acceptance

It's called acceptance.

I'm coming to grips to the fact that the man I'm in love with is never leaving his wife.

I can choose to be The Other Woman or I can choose to move on.

STood Up

The Penn Kid stood me up.

Around four pm yesterday, I TXT-ed him, "ARe you cancelling?"

HE said, "Ive been sleeping. I have to work tonight"

I answered back, "Are we going to hang out or no?"

"Nope. I cant."

I was furious. He asked me several times if I wanted to go out with him on Saturday. AT first, I didn't know how to respond, but finally, I went with:

"Notice would have been kind and proper in this case."

I never heard from him again.

Hit Me

LOVE is a punching bag.

We All

"No one really wants to die.

We all talk about it, like we all talk about sex, but few of us actually do it [commit suicide]."

--private journal entry from April 19, 2011

The Penn Kid REturns

"I love you," she says to me earnestly into her phone her words crossing the miles between us.

--Hades

I forgot that it was that time again for scheduled repairs on the nuclear reactors here locally, and that the Penn Kid and his crew would return to perform the maintenance. When the Penn Kid text-messaged me, I was taken by surprise by how long it had been since we last spoke--almost a full year.

WE decided to meet up at my favorite bar--a hotel bar. I was ready first, so I waited for him. I couldn't drink. I order a Grey Goose and orange juice on the rocks and watched it melt while I emailed back and forth with Rosa. I was too drowsy from the pain meds I've been taking because I've gone back to riding, and I'm body sore. I knew that if I drank it, I wouldn't be able to drive.

He finally arrived and we only talked for about an hour because I was too tired to do much of anything. I had to go home anyway and take my meds for the night.

The Penn Kid seemed to understand my lack of energy, and walked me to my car. HE gave me a hug, and said that we would see each other on Saturday.

Heart of Hate

"I’ve never hated other people so much in my entire life, and my earlier years weren’t too kind to me either. Can you hate people for being ignorant themselves? If these people are so smart, they’re pretty fucking dumb about me. Still. Despite having every advantage in the world, having access to almost every thought inside my head because most of which I write down!"

--April 19, 2011 private journal--in the middle of the psychosis

My therapist commented that I had a "fixed delusion" about MOrpheus.

When she said that, I walked out. "I don't have a fucking delusion, I'm in love," was my response.

I plan to never go back to her.

"Lace, I love you...don't do that to yourself." --the MOrpheus auditory hallucination

The voices are back--starting with yesterday, periodically telling me I'm going to die.

I find this to be discouraging considering the aggressive medications I'm on. I'm tired of being ill.

"You are dying, you stupid bitch!" They say.

Morpheus wrote an email saying that he's moving in two weeks.

The next day I wrote to him that I want to see him to say goodbye.

I have not received an answer. IN the email I sent him:

I could say, I wish you happiness--but I selfishly wish you were with me.

Goodbye for now, my friend.

We went through this once before back in 2008. He confessed to me one night that he might move, he had a job interview. We got into a fight over something else. I left the house mad, the next day, I told him I didn't want to see him anymore. TEn days later, I attempted suicide--an attempt so close to death that I felt life leaving me. It was months before I found out that he never left town.

I cannot cry. I feel the pain and sadness deep in me, I feel it come forth, but it never turns to tears.

I've been hearing auditory hallucinations lately. One of which is Morpheus's.

"I'm coming back," he'll say.

More processes of a grieving brain? Or just a biological misfire?

I've fallen into some dark place, and I don't know how to climb out.

Letters pass between us.

There are countless ways to say goodbye, and I can come up with none.

WRite in Chains

I feel like I'm drowning in my own words sometimes. They're up in my throat, strangling me--I choke out a sentence or a phrase.

Death of creativity only paragraphs away--up from my gut.

Free me, o' muse, free me.

NO Good Answer

Now I doubt the wisdom in telling the Wife about the affair because I am wondering about my own motivations. Was I pure in my intentions? Or was I angry?

It's been over a year since I told her, and yet the decision still follows me around. Did I make a decision for two people when I had no place?

IF I was in her position, I would want to know.

I received two stray phone calls, one on FRiday (collect call), and one on Saturday (from a pay phone), both at night, after eight pm. Did I just cause the affair to dive farther underground?

What's perhaps most important: did I do what was best for me?

I have no answer to that.

ABuse? Neglect?

The psychiatrist and the therapist keep searching for a cause of all this--sexual abuse? physical abuse? emotional/psychological abuse?

The psychiatrist keeps bringing up the diagnosis "DiD."

He pressed upon the therapist to go back into my childhood, and find out what happened to me. 9.

The therapist is guessing I am a child of neglect more than anything.

"I asked STanford if they were going to keep the Schizoaffective diagnosis. I was hoping they were going to change to some form of major depressive," my therapist says during our session. "No, they are sticking to it. They think you are going to deal with these voices the rest of your life."

I asked my therapist how ill I was comparatively. She gave me a convoluted answer, one of which I didn't understand.

"Your depression is pretty intractable," she remarks.

There's an unique celebration to Easter every year. Back in 2009, on this day, I quit taking my morphine, and went through withdrawals.

I think about suicide too.

Out of all the ways to leave this god-forsaken planet--paint thinner would not be my choice.

There's a train that runs through the back of the ranch every afternoon. You just have to wait for it.

I imagine a clumsy mix of the pills would probably eventually kill you if there's no medical intervention.

YOu can always jump.

"Any thoughts of harming yourself?" I was asked over and over while at the hospital. I always answered "no" out of fear of being transferred back to H2 ward. Self-destruction is so ingrained in me that I no longer find it threatening. It is.

WE wrestle. WE dance. WE wage war upon ourselves.

"He sounds needy," my grandmother says after I hang up with Travis.

I don't comment.

Travis

During my stay at STanford University HOspital I made a friend who we shall call Travis, who was discharged before me. I found out later that he is chronically suicidal.

He has a form of autism called asperger syndrome. His language is awkward but polite.

ON the third of April, he disclosed to me his plan for suicide, which was to ingest paint thinner on Saturday, so he could "join [his] grandparents and uncle in heaven." Sometimes I would try to talk the person out of suicide on my own, but I do not know him very well or how serious and solid his plans were to die. I didn't bother. I made a threat instead. I told him if he did not go to the ER again (he went a few days before, and they kicked him out without a 5150), I would call 911 on him.

Travis made it easy for me. He went to Stanford ER instead.

Last I heard from him was on Thursday and, he was transferred to another hospital on a hold.

In the hospital, the team and I never discussed why I was there--or the possible causes of my depression--the social aspects or the interpersonal. There was not the time nor the staffing available.

There was the impersonal feel that went with the treatment, akin to hooking my brain up to a car battery, and hoping that it worked.

No one on the team ever heard of Morpheus or of our relationship. They didn't care to know because ECT was the cure-all. I was sold, sucked in on the propaganda.

In the end, it remained a mystery why I was even there. Depression, yes, but we all waited for it to lift.

It didn't.

The REst of Your Life, Part II

"Don't get into a relationship for a while," my psychiatrist says.

That will be easy. I haven't had sex since Jan 17th of 2011. I feel broke up into pieces that will never be whole again. How long can one person mourn?

"You need a good circle of friends," he continues.

Most of my friends live far away. Developing friendships that are distant is how I balance the intimacy and make it comfortable for myself.

The REst of Your Life

"What are you going to do?" My psychiatrist asks.

"With what?" I reply.

"The rest of your life."

"Well, I've applied to [community college], and registration is on May 10th. I'm planning on taking pre-calculus algebra."

He makes a comment about how difficult the class will be.

"I've already taken it," I say. I have no idea what to do with myself. I returned from the hospital with no drive, no motivation, with no particular interest. DEath frightens me, but I entertain suicidal thoughts/ideations. I have no wants, only needs. I'm only taking the class so I can immediately tackle calculus again.

"You don't want the FBI living inside your head."

--a fellow bipolar talks about psychosis in the hospital during a NAMI meeting

I'm trying to forget you.

I was discharged from the hospital yesterday.

I left because there was a problem with setting an IV and with inducing a complete seizure with the bilateral ECT.

The small improvements made was not worth the side effects of going under anaesthesia or the ECT itself.

Home?

In the beginning of ECT, they were doing unilateral treatments, and then they switched to bilateral.

The new doctor (they change at the beginning of every month) told me today that two of the bilateral treatments were unsuccessful (were not complete seizures), and I've had only one bilateral ECT.

I've been in the hospital now for over five weeks. NOthing much has changed for me mood-wise. I feel a little bit better.

I am ready to go home.

I feel I'm over you.

Closure

I've had two bilateral ECT treatments.

I've noticed a few differences, however slight.

I ruminate about MOrpheus less.

I feel as if I have as much closure as I will ever have.

[The attending doctor corrected me, and said that I've only had one bilateral ECT treatment.]

"God, if I have to stay here another week, I'm gonna die," my roommate in the hospital talking and crying to the department head.

I had my sixth ECT treatment on Monday. I'm still not responding.

EVery round seems to get harder and harder with the side effects.

Monday, I spend in bed with a headache and nausea. I didn't eat lunch or dinner.

Friday was my fifth ECT treatment.

I have not responded yet. This is more of a disappointment to me than to the doctors.

I haven't changed my clothes since Tuesday, and am exhausted plus still feeling the effects of battling a migraine. My irritability level has gone up.

The nurses decided to move my belongings today while I was away in group. I come back to find some of them in the hallway. This irked me to no end. People touching my stuff. MOving it around.

I'm on my fourth ECT with no sign of getting better. All I keep wondering is if I made a major mistake allowing them to experiment on me.

My Last Morning in Libya

my last morning in libya, and the sky is so blue i want to cry. i want to break off a piece and stir it in my tea. take it home and put it on my dresser. give it to my father and tell him, "here, some libyan sky. it misses you. it says come home soon."

--A beautiful controversy

Is Blogging Dying?

"Its been wayyy tooo long hasnt it :D, but everything here is so much the same, is js clik n i can scribble n then i js click again n u can read!! cool han :P"

With writing like that, what am I supposed to think? It looks like me, after I haven't slept for two weeks, completely psychotic, talking to all the voices.

Clicking the "Next Blog" button is a disappointing venture. I've browsed over a hundred blogs, and only found two readable.

"Mommy doesn’t know because she likes to sniff lots of sugar."

--On Santa's Lap (With Howie and Healy)

In my nightmares, I see Nora, the hallucination, sitting on the couch, her face partially hidden by her long, blonde hair, leaning towards a laptop--with the coke on the table.

"So, you have been spending a lot of time on the computer," the resident starts.

What are you going to do, spank me?

DAte or Hooker?

"Traditionally, I'd say the fourth date where you are rewarded with sober sex and a $200 credit card balance from treating that special someone to four three course meals at low-scale, nationally chained restaurants. (Outback: No Rules, Just right? Does that mean I don't have to pay?) For that kind of money, you're better off investing in a hooker and the Domino's 5-5-5 deal, each coming with its own special topping. And both are promised to be delivered in 30 minutes or less. Dating? No thanks. I've got low self-esteem, a bottle of vodka, and a phone book. I’m ready for marriage."

--Crossing the Line

"I recently started a Netflix account. Aside from owning a cat or having an account at a child pornography website, nothing quite says 'destined to die alone on the toilet' than renting movies by mail. Not only are you engaging in an activity that you can do sitting alone in your room, you’re also doing it by mail, taking away all interpersonal contact. But, my dick and hand needed some time-off from each other, so this is where we are. Accept it."

--Crossing the Line

"Something in my life needs to change. I have a dead end job, no productive hobbies, and seem to lack any ambition to do anything about it. This must be why people get married and have kids in the first place. They’ve already given up on their own lives so they might as well start over and live vicariously through their children who will inevitably repeat the cycle. Online dating is my first step in giving up on my dreams."

--Crossing the Line

"This online platform lets me be - I get to write my heart out."

--Swati's Diary

"Everything I had to give went to my children, and though I loved them and my husband utterly, the drudgery of the day-to-day made it seem as if not love but coffee, my Toyota and sheer logistics were what propelled me through life."

--A Small Lump Challenges

"All I need now is a stiff drink and some pretzels."

--Heather's Musings on LIfe

There's no amount of phone call's, TXT-message's, email's or FAcebook messaging that can penetrate the loneliness of the ward on the weekends when other patients have visitors.

The hardest part about ECT is setting the IV.

More on Nora, the Hallucination, Part III

"What makes you think you are the one who can be the odds?" Nora, the hallucination, would ask me. "What makes you think you are going to be the one who gets away?"

"Everyone has to believe that about themselves," I would respond.

I would pray for a miracle of God. d. Anything to stop Nora.

More on Nora, the Hallucination, Part II

Nora, the hallucination, had two weakness:

Coke and donuts. a.

The story is she works for the government as a contract killer (I know, that's believable, right?), and uses the cocaine to stay up all night to drive people into madness and self-destruction.

DAD loved to harass her about her bulimia--one spot that she any sensitivity about herself. Whenever he got really pissed off at her, he'd say, "Go eat another donut, Nora."

She purged every morning.

More on Nora, the Hallucination

I didn't know how to tell the staff that my boyfriend's wife was holding me hostage inside my brain.

"You seem kind of distracted," one of the doctors said.

Meal times were the worst. Nora claim she could make me stab myself with a fork or knife ("push" me to do it)--so I weighed that threat with the hunger I was feeling. Needless to say, most days I hardly ate. The staff noticed, and started bringing my meals to me in my room. My weight dropped to being officially underweight. I couldn't face the other patients, who might want to talk to me because all I could hear were the auditory hallucinations--Nora or DAD, who joined up later.

The Nora Delusion and Hallucination

Over time in the hospital at STanford, the Nora delusion and hallucination progressed. The grotesque nature of her threats grew worse and worse.

Finally, she threatened to kill MOrpheus, her own husband because he fell in love with me.

She wouldn't, she said, if I hung myself in the shower. She would spare his life. One for one.

I was fortunate that I noticed Nora changed her mind a lot--her threats becoming thin.

I got as far as the doorway with my towels to make a noose. I stopped myself when I realized maybe she was bluffing about harming her partner--maybe it all wasn't real--maybe I wasn't willing to give my life for his. Doubt in this delusion saved my life.

All about ECT

The ECT is held in "recovery room" which looks more like warehouse building with beds lining the walls.

ONly one side is used for ECT, the rest for recovery from surgery.

I get this eerie sick feeling every time I enter early in the morning when the place and beds are completely empty. I imagine a great infectious catastrophe filling the enormous room with the sick and dying--nurses running around--doctors bumping into each other. TApe. IV. Smocks. Blood. Vomit.

Instead, it is silent, ran a bit like a normal, work, day-to-day office. Everyone knows their assignment.

The most dangerous part about ECT is not the treatment itself, but the anesthesia. When I wake up, I have a nurse watching me until I leave the building. She is dedicated to me, and me only. When I am done, she moves on to another patient.

There is nothing particularly fascinating about the process of ECT. They place monitors on me for blood pressure, heart rate, and EKG. They place another arm cuff to see how much I tense up during the seizure. From there, they put on two "stickers" one on the top of my head and the other on the side of my face to somehow transmit the electricity. Right before I pass out, they make me breathe oxygen through a mask.

I'm told that the whole process takes about 5 minutes. The seizure itself is about 30 seconds depending on the brain.

Despite this, many people are virulently against ECT. I have nothing to say to that except it is perhaps a last stop before suicide.

ECT and All Bullshit

ECT requires long commitment. There are six to twelve intensive treatment (three per week), and then after that, one per week for four weeks.

I'm not allowed to drive for three weeks after my intensive treatment. Or for twenty-four hours after each treatment.

You hope in all of that, there's a miracle. You wake up, and someone re-started the clock back. You find the person you were before the dark came.

Most of me thinks it's all bullshit. The tides of bipolar disorder rules, makes up their own language and bow to nothing. ECT, pills, lights--all of it, and you're just waiting for the tip of the scale. Manic. Depressed. Manic.

Manic.

Rocking gently like a chair in the corner of the living room.

ECT

You know who your friends are by how they react to the initials, "ECT."

"STAy out of the shower room!"

--the auditory hallucination of my mother's voice, August of 2011 while I was at STanford

The CIA Delusion

One of the more common delusions involve the CIA and other government agencies. In fact, this blog started off being a government conspiracy blog.

While I was at STanford in August of 2011, I had series of delusions about the CIA. a.

"E" told me that I could join the CIA if I hung myself in the shower long enough to black out, but not to die.

For those of you who are awake while reading this, that's impossible unless someone cuts you down.

AT the time, I didn't even think of that, but I absolutely refused to join the CIA if it included a little man in my head.

For a long time, I couldn't write about my shame over the "maybe." Who would let a known killer stay out in the public--even if it isn't real?

There were other times when the voices threatened to kill me if I did something, and I did so with gusto--certain that if I died for my writing (often their attacks were surrounding the blog)--at least it meant something to me.

These moral questions plagued me. What would you be willing to die for? Who are the Patrick Henry's?

There is a difference between willing to die, and being willing to kill yourself.

Nora, the Hallucination and the Threat of DEath

Nora, the hallucination, taught me things about myself. At the time I was supposed to be gathering evidence for a report to go to Washington, D.C. to the INspector General (because someone in actuality did hack my computer, and the FBI would not investigate--this was next in command). Nora was very interested in this because (as the delusion went) if this was filed, she would be held for criminal charges. For the first time, she could be caught for killing.

She bargained with me once.

I remember this very clearly.

She said that she would left me live if I promised to never file the report.

Would I?

I said, "Maybe." a. Then, I felt like this hallucination, Nora, had the power of an invisible god--that to create--that to destroy. I felt myself weaken. The threat of death was over me--for writing--for doing other things. Could I let a known killer go--one who would do so again? To escape? "Maybe." I was walking around in a life size nightmare--Nora, the dictator.

She responded, "What did I tell you? Never bargain." aad.

The nurses here at STanford will tell you that there is no way to hang yourself in the shower room at H2.

I will concede to that.

There were other delusions during that stay at STanford in August of 2011.

One of my favorites is thinking that an alien life form is trying to take over my body and mind.

I Think About Crying

I don't cry anymore, I think about crying, what I'd cry over. a.

I'd first cry over Morpheus.

If I had any crying left, I'd cry for my dreams lost.

"And! I ate a McDonald's burger and it's drained me to the max. I feel ashamed, dirty, like I blew a stranger in a public bathroom and liked it."

--in an email from Rosa

The problem was with the voices, I would experience physical symptoms along with delusions--feeling faint, limbs going numb--things convincing me I was dying. What was not real turned into something felt and believable.

What was Nora's problem?

I created all these scenarios, including Nora and the General. I essentially did it to myself.

Nora was an avenue of guilt. I felt guilty about the Wife and the Facebook message, and there was Nora to beat me up about it, and to try to kill me over it.

Nora

OUt of all the voices, Nora was the most vicious, the most clever, and the witty.

Sometimes in between "sessions" (of her coming up with ways to beat me to the point of suicide), we would chat like friends, like how we use to (since Nora is actually a name of one of my friends). It was twisted and perverted. Sometimes I use to think that I could talk her out of killing me.

"So, what do you think?" She would say. "Do you think he loved you the most? And that's why I'm here." She would bait me. "It got a little too personal. He came inside of you."

That was nOra's rule. He broke it.

"I will lie to you. Nothing I tell you will be the truth except you're going to die, Lacey," she said. "Because if I don't get you in this hospital, I will get you at home."

Zyprexa killed Nora, but it took a long time. She came home with me. Every time she appeared, my pulse went up tremendously.

She is the most frightening person I have ever met in my mind--worse than the General, who lasted a long time too.

TAke Me

Most people probably wonder why I would believe Nora--she's just a voice in my head--she doesn't influence any power over my body--or directly over any action I take.

What people fail to realize.

You are just a voice in your head.

Take away the stream of consciousness, and you will feel the cold depth of hell.

I know because I felt the edges, tip-toeing around them with the voices pushing me into the middle.

Nora at one point was so powerful, I literally couldn't hear myself think.

I was dying inside my own brain.

Nora was going to take me, one way or another.

EXTREMELY Suicidal

Back in August 2011, when I was at triage in STanford University Hospital, I wrote down, "EXTREMELY suicidal" for reason I was coming in that day.

I didn't know how to explain to the nurses that there was a female voice in my head trying to kill me.

I went to STanford's H2 because it was the only way I knew how to get admitted into a hospital without displaying any physical symptoms. If Nora could push me to suicide or otherwise harm me (I had bouts of low pressure that she claimed was her killing off parts of my brain function--the effect of being dizzy was scary as hell at the time--), my best chance of survival was in an institution.

"I am not going to go into details at the moment about all my experiences with ECT right now. It is a very controversial thing and I want to make sure that I do it justice and help people truly understand more about it, so I am just going to tell you two things: it is much more humane now, (no more One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest), and, it saved my life. After the first treatment the 'thoughts', that urge to hunt down anything I could to kill myself with, were gone. Gone."

--The Bunny Years, entry: Linea's Treatment

The Past - Delusions and Hallucinations

Being back in the hospital reminds me of all the horrible delusions that were running through my head when I first went into Stanford on August of 2011. One of the worst was "Nora," the anon for the Wife, who was a psychic and a pusher.

Being one of the main voices in my head at the time, loud and clear, I tend to believe most of what she said.

I had no idea what was going on with my psyche, I had never experienced auditory hallucinations before--

She said that her husband had relationships with other women, and then she would kill them after he was done screwing them--by pushing them to suicide.

You know who you are when you are under the threat of death as I thought I was. I could never convince myself that I didn't love MOrpheus even though his wife was a serial killer, and he was an accomplice.

These memories of the delusions and hallucinations are not comforting. Nora would describe in detail how she was going to kill me if she couldn't get me to hang in the shower. "You will hang in that shower, they always do in the end," she would say over and over again. I promised myself one thing. Even if Nora never left, I would never give her the satisfaction of doing it by hanging.

She said she would kill me within four weeks at STanford. That I'd never last. Meanwhile, while I was drowning in voices and chaos, the doctors were starting me with Zyprexa, which perhaps saved my life.

I never hear from Nora anymore. I wonder about the power of auditory hallucinations--who's really in control of the psyche. Nora would say that she could break me down, and that I would snap--done--do her bidding. IN reality, I am all the voices, they are a part of me. A part of me, the largest wanted to live--

Through this time, I dreamed about the bottle of morphine I could grab once I was out of the hospital. I could not live with Nora, although at times I was learning to block her out.

There is a dark and scary place we can all go if we're not careful, where voices like Nora reign.

I went to STanford that August to die. I figured if she had done it before (which according to Nora she had), I had little chance of escaping a voice in my head with mental powers. I had never done much meditation or learning to control my pre-cog's.

We know that voices drive people to suicide. It's very dangerous time in a patient's life.

No special powers were needed. I don't even remember when I started the Zyprexa or even taking it.

I emailed MOrpheus again today to let him know that I am still in the hospital and being treated with ECT.

I expect no response.

"Focus on your breathing."

--the last thing I heard before I passed out from the anesthesia.

It's unusual for people to remember so much around the time of the ECT treatment.

I don't know how I'm supposed to get better when I don't even remember what it was like to be normal.

The catch is they'll stop the ECT treatments when I'm not depressed.

What will that feel like?

How many rounds with ol' Sparky will it take for me to recognize myself in the mirror, and say, "Today is a good day"?

How will I even know how to describe the normal mood to the doctors with the notebooks? I've forgotten. My whole life is about being depressed, down, morose--I'm consumed by it, and left with nothing.

I want to cry for myself, but can't. Years from now, what will I think of myself? Will the ECT have long lasting effects on my memory?

What treatments will be left to try ten years down the road, twenty?

What if there is none?

I was really scared to do ECT.

The night before my first treatment, my stomach was tight, I was nauseous, and I had a horrible headache--as if my body was preparing for what was to come.

"...before you ruin my life..."

--One of the patient's mother said to her son, who is undergoing psychiatric treatment, here at STanford

Update from the Hospital

I had my first ECT treatment today. I woke up from the seizure with virtually no side effects, no headache, no nausea, no memory loss. I was not confused in any way.

I have improved since I've been in the hospital, but the changes have been small. I noticed that I laughed at something or smile more. My energy level is up a bit. I don't fall asleep as early as I had when I first arrived at STanford. I don't think about MOrpheus as much.

When I was initially hospitalized, I was in H2 (the locked ward), but have since been transferred to G2P.

I sent Morpheus an email yesterday, telling him that I am going to be hospitalized for depression on Monday.

[WE last spoke over the phone on February 9, 2012.]

Writing right now is like struggling to breathe.

A Cure For Schizophrenia

"Great. Can I please have a cure schizophrenia & get my house back kit? I'll wait over by the rich people poster while you mix it up."

--Stalled at 12

I am afraid to go under for ECT, I'm afraid of the black out, the memory loss, the unknown that lies on the other side of treatment.

When you're depressed, the ticking of time is painful.

I can hardly bear the passing of my own existence. da.

Depression has taken almost everything away from me, time, life, love, talent, creativity--

I wonder when I'm going to come back, if ever. d.

Somehow I had hoped life was going to be more than this.

Perhaps we all think that at some stage.

I remember I was in group therapy at STanford, and I was bemoaning Clozaril--was it going to work? If it didn't, what was left?

One of the other patients told me he had the same thoughts, but then, he said, "There's ECT, and after ECT, there's other things to try, and so on and so forth."

It's like being caught in a medical wheel, around and around we go.

When do we live?

When do we take out time to live?

"And the air of something knowingly grad school philosophy student superior that is hard to distill into a sentence."

--STalled At 12

"It's not too soon," the psychiatrist said in reference to my pending hospitalization. a.

I had asked him, "Are you sure I'm depressed enough? Shouldn't I be like staying in bed all the time, and stuff?"

I am going into the hospital at STanford on Monday with the possibility that they may treat me with ECT.

"The depression may never go away," said The psychiatrist.

I feel a bit like my whole life was leading up to a point,

ONly the point never existed,

NOw I'm living past point X with no direction, all my hopes of my childhood are gone

A group of gay men at a dinner party are surrounding a heater outside a home, all smoking cigarettes.

ONe of them said, "That house has seen way too many Crisco parties."

I ask, "YOu can use Crisco?"

I spent way too much money yesterday, drinking and eating, trying to forget the voices, the disease and Morpheus.

everything crashing in all at once, waves of madness and grief.

someone's daydream's port in the storm.

I was there, upon-a-time.

Now, on the edge of ocean's horror.

It makes me want to stick a bottle of lithium down my throat.

I'm tired of hearing voices. "Lacey, you're a wimp."

Most of me knows that this is the end for Morpheus and me. a. However, there is the denial.

Denial of reality.

He'll come through--he'll still be there--he'll call. d.

I have mentally prepared myself for the end, but there's no way to do it. I still wish--

I tell myself I don't need him. I have been living a year without him--I can live one year more, and on and on and again. d.

Wishing and needs and wants and love are all different.

Dr. Trout, a REformed Protestant, once talked about staying away from the fire (temptation). You don't dance around it, you stay feet from it. He demonstrated this in class.

I think about that when I think about Morpheus.

You don't talk to the fire or edge as close as you can without being burned. a.

You run with your back turned and your ears covered by your hands.

"Can't do it. Book idea will sell to someone.

I am happier with you. I enjoy being with you.

You are the love of my life. I miss you. I still want you.

You chose your wife, to stay with her.

Okay. Then i respect that. Be well and happy with that decision. I want the best for you.

Love you more than you know."

--email sent to Morpheus on February 14, 2012

In Lorain as elsewhere, explanations for marital decline start with home economics: men are worth less they used to be. Among men with some college but no degrees, earnings have fallen 8 percent in the past 30 years, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, while the earnings of their female counterparts have risen by 8 percent.

“Women used to rely on men, but we don’t need to anymore,” said Teresa Fragoso, 25, a single mother in Lorain. “We support ourselves. We support our kids.”

--For Women Under 30, Most Births...

“Marriage has become a luxury good,” said Frank Furstenberg, a sociologist at the University of Pennsylvania

--For Women Under 30, Most Births...

"I'm the bad guy."

-Morpheus

Male voice whispering in my mind, "I love you." ad

I was out for a hike when I stopped myself and realized, "I'm having racing thoughts" (which is a manic symptom).

"I'm the man in the fish bowl..." MOrpheus said.

"She said I had to give you up or else," Morpheus said over the phone.

NO News is Good News, and Bad News Comes All At Once a

I asked Morpheus out for coffee.

His response next email was, "Cant do it." d

"...Too many issues, and I'm leaving..." d He continued.

AFter reading that, I felt like someone just snapped me in half, all broke in an instance.

Then I hear the voices.

Morpheus in my head, "I'm coming back."

d

I don't want to live to see this love die. I've idealized it for so long, what will I be without it?

Conversations with Morpheus have been going poorly.

Is this the end for us?

I've been struggling not to go deep under the water of the depression.

"Did you ever thinking about leaving for me?"

"NO....hmmm...yes..."

"I love my kids more than anything." Morpheus.

"She's not leaving, and I'm sure as hell not leaving," MOrpheus said.

And then on Valentine's Day of last year, a fight broke out between us,

"I don't care if you hate me for the rest of your life," I said foolishly.

He's still angry with me, but he talks to me, he hangs up on me, and remembers me.

He refuses to admit he once loved me. d

"I don't think you have a dissociative disorder," from my mother, who yesterday was in so much pain she was crying. "Because you are very caring. YOu just don't show your emotions."

Affairs

This day one year ago, I sent the Wife a FAcebook Message telling her that I had relations with her husband, and that he was "her problem now."

I was staying at a Motel 6 at the time, and planning on flying out to Ithaca, NY on Valentine's Day.

My rationale was simple: he would dump me, never speak to me again, for her. d

I was wrong.

I Don't WAnt To KNow

Sure, you can unfollow, unsubscribe, de-link or tune people out. “At least the Internet gives us the option of blocking them, consigning them to oblivion forever,” Andy Borowitz, the humorist, “shared” in an e-mail. “The only equivalent option in the real world is strangulation.”

--I Don't Want to KNow

Yesterday, I walked into town (about eight miles), and I got drunk.

You just can't take it back--love--

You can't say that.

"I thought I better call you before you sent another email to my wife," MOrpheus said.

"You know, you're right...I don't trust you," Morpheus said.

"Do you love me still?" I ask MOrpheus.

"No," he responded. "I never felt in love."

I hung up on him.

He called back once and then the phone went silent.

I purged again today.

They say that cutting releases the same fix.

I beg to differ. I like purging better--no marks, no mess, just brush your teeth, and wipe your face.

Out for a WAlk at Midnight

I want to believe that those restricted number calls at midnight--at one am--are from someone who misses me so much, he has to dial my digits right then just to hear the sound of my voice--I want to believe that those waves, those honks of the horn while I'm out for my walk are the same man, who is out of reach, but is telling me in a small way to hang on until we can be together again.

I want to believe those things.

But truth could be hard and cold and unfeeling and unfriendly.

The truth could be that these are all random occurrences.

Suffering

My therapist keeps recommending to me ECT, to get me out of this black hole they commonly refer to as depression.

I know from experience and from reading that depression goes away on its own--and bipolar depressive episodes tend to be shorter than unipolar depressive episodes.

I just have to suffer through it however long it takes.

That's what I told her.

"Our hysterical patients suffer from reminiscences."

--Freud, 1909

"If it's not a big deal [to you], it's not a big deal," my therapist said about my rape in the May of 2007.

It's unclear if I have PTSD and/or bulimia. I have been diagnosed with both from previous psychiatrists, but it's unsure if the labels will stick.

"You hide your emotions better than 99% of the population."

--my current therapist

Rosa on Eating Disorder

"If you look at bulimia as a secret lover, to me she's an old friend who I mostly avoid but think about often. She's the friend who always walked on the edge, got you in trouble, encouraged you to do shit you knew would get you grounded or arrested, but you followed anyway because when you did, you could forget everything. With this troublemaker you live in the moment. You can admit to feeling weak and scared, but you do something about it that counters the weakness and fear. With this friend, you look into the void, you fill it with everything you can find and then you push the button that makes it all go away. Bulimia is the bad girl friend that makes you feel like you have a say, you have a secret. You have some power. You feel cleaned out and light again. And then you can tell yourself you're better than her when things are safe, easy. You look down on her until you're down low again. And there she is, waiting for you. Flask, joint, fresh pack of smokes. Some pills, a sexy stranger and an open bar. Dangerous, reliable. Always there when you need her. That's me and my ED. "

--Rosa on ED

Shakespeare would say that bulimia and I are star crossed lovers, though.

WE were always meant to be together.

Forever.

Until the cold ground covers me.

Bulimia and I are like two lovers who flirt alot and give head jobs.

We haven't done six hour fuck-a-thon yet.

Out of all of my therapists and psychiatrists, only one ever paid attention to my ED issues, and that psychiatrist is the one I'm currently seeing.

Put the Fork Down

When you're bingeing, there's no one to hold your hand and tell you, you're beautiful.

most importantly,

no one to tell you, you're beautiful and please stop--

hating yourself.

Love instead.

Put the fork down.

I don't purge.

I'm a binger. I can gain more weight faster than a feeder (steer). I've made a science out of doing the dirty deed (carbo load of 2,000 calories or more in a single sitting).

Purging? That's for those real bulimic types who aren't me.

Right?

Purging

With my fingers down my throat, fishing around, leaning against the toilet, purging, I was wondering, "What am I doing?"

Can Follow Satan if They Want To

Starbucks, you see, is under fire for its public support of the same-sex marriage legislation that recently passed the State Senate in Washington, where the company has its headquarters...Steven Andrew, the president of USA Christian Ministries, has called for a national boycott of the coffee chain, saying that while its executives “can follow Satan if they want to,” God-fearing Americans shouldn’t join them on that caffeinated road to hell.

--Java and Justice

I sent Morpheus a second email.

Doing that just makes me a little happier, like sending love up in the air for him to catch.

Where ARt thou?

I wish people were there for me, I wish people knew what to say.

As it happens, most people don't know how to handle it (the psychosis).

HOw do you get a friend to help without being swallowed up into the paranoia?

Now, as I'm just battling depression, I expect my friends to be supportive and comforting--not absent.

STill, people run away from what they don't know, what they don't understand, and what they fear.

I'm a scary creature. I'm a few bad days from downing lithium pills mixed with booze.

Run away from me, please, if it makes you feel better.

The heavy depression has returned.

I'm tired of being hungry all the time.

I'm actually lonely. I haven't felt lonely in a really long time, but one of my friends and I have broke up. I told him I needed more support right now. He is unwilling or can't give it to me. We have been close since 2006, just before my first manic episode. I was snotty to him in the last email, "I'm glad you're concerned about me."

I thought with the symptoms lifting--that I was finally getting through this--I guess not.