which made me want to yell out even louder.
which made me want to yell out even louder.
Been having a hard time accepting my mental health diagnosis. I know it lives inside me and will follow me the rest of my life, but coming to terms with that hasn’t been easy for me. Chemical imbalances. Manic episodes. Depressive episodes. Food problems. Me problems. Simple problems. Problems I don’t quite understand. Problems I understand but cannot yet stomach. Having a mental health diagnosis and going into the psych ward when you’re diagnosis takes over are categorized differently by our society. Most people say they support people with mental health diagnosis until they come in contact with the negative aspects of it. Soon they tell you “why don’t you try to get out of bed” or my personal favorite “maybe if you become less self absorbed you can see that you don’t have it so bad”. Humans don’t like feeling uncomfortable, and when mental health issues begin to act up, they can no longer be supportive of it, because they do not truly understand it. Feeling at peace today after regaining some control, my sadness is still there, but it’s much more manageable. Going into the psychiatric hospital for 5 long days gave me some perspective and humbled me. I cannot call the experience pleasant or unpleasant, but I know that it is what I needed. Being kind to myself is a struggle, but fuck I’m trying. I am still me and I am still here.
I’m not saying I wanted to die. I’m not saying I wanted to live. I was feeling so low coming home to no one after an amazing trip. I bought a bag of dope, cooked a shot, nothing out of the ordinary. I felt empty but I couldn’t stop crying. I cooked up a second shot, this one was significantly larger and more potent than my usual dosage. I managed to quiet down my sobbing and tied up my left arm and hit a vein. I’m not saying I wanted to die. I’m not saying I wanted to live. I felt indifferent about my existence, but mostly I wanted to escape for a few hours. I got up from my bed and tried to reach the rubbing alcohol sitting on my desk to clean my syringe. A habit of mine. I’m anal about clean needles cause my father is HIV positive. I know it seems like a silly thing to do for someone who feels indifferent about living, I have many rituals, and most of those don’t make sense. I don’t think they have to.
I was so high I didn’t make it to my bed, I sat on the floor of my bedroom and became mesmerized with the floral patterns on my walls. They weren’t there before and they certainty were not moving. Maybe it was the dope. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. “Easy, Lucky, Free.”
I woke up the next morning with my ears ringing and an uncomfortable numbness especially present in my hands and feet. I could hardly hear. I was terrified because I didn’t know what was happening to me. Lucas called and I yelled at him through the receiver. He arrived at my home twenty minutes later. He explained I had a mild overdose and that I should have my hearing back soon. He made me tea and gave me water. He fed me. Sunday morning, when my hearing finally came back, I didn’t feel so indifferent about my mortality. There are far too many people to meet and places to see. Being me isn’t easy, but I would never want to be anyone else.
I found this in a journal that I kept last summer and spring, along with a detailed food log and a copy of my calendar, showing both miles ran every day and foods consumed with amount and category (starch, protein, complex/simple carb).
No wonder I passed out while running in the middle of summer. I am posting this because my eating disorder is active again, and even though I am going to therapy once a week, I can’t stop obsessing.
Dealing with repressed memories of trauma has me going back to unhealthy coping mechanisms. I self harmed for the first time in several years, and I’m shooting up again. I’m ashamed to wear short sleeves and skirts because there are deep cuts on my wrists and track marks on my arms, there are bruises and cuts on my legs.
This isn’t a cry for help. I am doing everything I can to get better. I go therapy for all of mental health issues, I am religiously taking my 225mg dose of Effexor err day.
The art is going well and I’ve been watching amazing films. Going to Mexico in a couple of weeks, maybe the sunshine will save me. Or I’ll drown myself in a pool of tequila or a salty ocean. Doesn’t that sound lovely? It will be nice to forget who I have to be in real life for ten days.
Background noise buried inside.
I awake from a daydream, rhythmically tapping my foot.
Exposure therapy, I’ve read about it, sounds unpleasant.
I don’t quite like the sound of it.
But I am tired of the nightmares.
Fragments of tender legs, gray school uniform with knee high white socks.
You know? The ones with the white bow in the front.
The hand of a child does not belong in familial crevices of pale flesh
they lay, tucked away out of reach for a reason. I thought…
It burns, it hurts, but I like the ache.
Drenched in sweat, strands of hair sticking to the back of my neck.
The faint taste of his favorite whiskey floods my taste buds.
And my very first secret was born that night.
The smell of shame lingers, something I learned before I mastered
the art of conversation.
The mind remembers smells before words.
And it still hurts, but I like the ache, I like the ache and it isn’t my fault.