Evil Genius' Blurty|
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Evil Genius' Blurty:
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|Saturday, May 27th, 2006|
back and locked away
locked in the psych hospital... making this friends only... because it's probably safer while I'm here...
anyway... I haven't died... I've just dropped off the face of the planet and stopped writing.
|Wednesday, August 31st, 2005|
|She says " Go back... go back to the world."
Things fall back into their normal place. I wake up in my own bed and immediately think of all the things I could eat and puke today.
I sit alone in my house rolling joints and listening to Leonard Cohen. I wish things were different, but I don't know in what way.
I went to the dentist today. The first thing he said was "have you lost a lot of weight?" and I replied "I guess..." he said "It looks like you've lost at least 40 lbs" and I said "yeah, about..." and his hygienist took a deep sharp breath. He said "you were in good shape before" and I said "I am in fine form now" and then tried to drop the subject. Later alone with the hygienist, muted by a dental dam, she told me "it's a thin line... you're such a pretty girl, it would be sad to see you cross it..." and I wanted to protest but I couldn't move my mouth. On my way out my dentist told me to eat a sandwich. I'm not even fucking kidding. I laughed, and then headed to the store to buy bread.
I got too many groceries to carry comfortably. I cursed as I climbed the hill to my house, and propelled myself by chanting "this is all your own goddamn fault you stupid greedy bitch. Having to carry all your waste and excess is fair punishment. These groceries are just a fraction of the weight you lost. step whore. step again..."
I started to eat as soon as I got in the door. Half of my mouth frozen, and my heart-racing, I ripped open the packages and set the oven to 450 degrees.
I sit and binge like every other time. I purge quickly making a huge mess that I don't bother to clean up.
I have so much to clean up.
I want it to be done. I want to be a person with a clean house and organized life already. I want to go to sleep and wake up in a different version of my own life. I don't want to have to do the work to make my own changes.
I am scared of asking myself what I want. I imagine my desires are grandiose and intangible. I don't even want to indulge that sort of daydream.
The only thing I can think of wanting is sickness.
Suddenly, falling apart looks easier than ever. I hang on to the knowledge that I am so close from losing it all. Soon my freedom will be revoked. Just a few more pounds. I'm too close now to give up. I made it to the 3rd row, soon it will be legitimate. I am sure, if I just lose 10 or 15 more pounds I will be satisfied....
I want out. I just have to be sick enough to justify it first. Whatever sick enough is. If I had a heart attack today would that count? Maybe. Maybe not.
I was startled to see a photograph of myself from a Christmas party- it's not a horrible photo- but I certainly look thin and sick. I have swollen glands and puffy eyes, but a big smile on my face that makes up for it all. I am standing with my dad, and we are laughing about something. Like I said... it's not that bad. I was just surprised that I thought I looked thin in it.
I seem to have slightly more perspective the farther away I get. Current Mood: tiredCurrent Music: Bird on a Wire- Leonard Cohen
|Tuesday, August 30th, 2005|
Because I am incredibly spoiled, when my father asked me what I wanted to do this summer, I thought I would see if he would support my doing what I really wanted to do, so I replied "I would like to read some books, finish sanding my hallway, and maybe go to Saskatchewan to visit auntie Penny." He replied with "I have lots of air miles" and I was shocked because he was really hinting that I should get a job.
Of course, not getting a job worked out perfectly because my grandmother died as soon as school was done, and once the grief let up slightly, I found myself plotting my own death while crying and begging to be allowed to live.
My mother booked a ticket. I panicked about the implications of going somewhere for nearly two weeks. Not just somewhere, but to the most beloved place I have ever been- my auntie penny's company. Everyone should be so lucky to have a person like Penny in their lives. She is truly good and kind and so loving. If I tried to describe her I wouldn't do her justice.
I just got on a plane (well, three) and wished for the best. I tried to forget about my incessant obsession about the consequences of not bingeing and purging for however long. I had no appetite though, thank you Effexor. Without the drugs I wouldn't have been able to do it. I would have broken down and eaten everything in the house. I would have walked into the field behind the house, knee deep in hay, and purged my stolen binge. Instead I picked at some things occasionally. I thought about food constantly, but not about wanting it. I shrugged and still don't know what to think of that.
I had a great time. I emerged from my depression. The constant plotting of my suicide stopped. I thanked God, however you spell his name.
Out of anger I have been asking "and what do I get? Why the fuck did I agree to come if all I am allowed to see is the pain, and the easy solutions that are intangible?" And I got my answer. I knew it. I would say it over and over to myself, but this time I got to hear it.
I watched the sunset turn the sky to lava and I remembered my good-fortune and all the gifts I have been given.
My auntie Penny explained a lot about the family. A sad story, I wonder if it's like everyone else's. Tales of abandonment, abuse, anger, incest, potential lost. A story interrupted with laughter, generation after generation sharpening its ironic wit.
I started to feel right at home at my place in line. It made sense I would be who I am.
Penny and I drove from south-western Saskatchewan to just south of Edmonton Alberta and stayed with another aunt of mine. Oh lord. It was fun. I got to see my cousins, one of them is pregnant and just 2 years older than me, the other one is in her late 20's and has a very sweet four year old son, who was thrilled to find out I was his cousin. I saw yet another cousin's daughter who is now 11 and such a little teenager. I was shocked and amused.
After a few days we drove south to Taber and stayed with my uncle (Penny's twin brother) and his family. Other cousins who are 16 and 14 and some of the nicest children ever.
That's more family than I generally see in 5 years.
There has been some recovery from that. More respite at Penny's before we flew home. My brother came though, and is still here (missing his flipping ferry to Galiano this morning! oh well...). Penny and my parents have gone away until Friday. I could use some time alone before my parents and Penny get home and then more family that I don't even know show up. My grandfather's third wife Gertie is coming with a bunch of my mum's step-siblings and maybe one of Gertie's sisters.
Oh and more cousin's and possibly even another aunt might show up.
It's all a little overwhelming. Current Mood: confusedCurrent Music: Seven Shells- Fred Eaglesmith
|Thursday, August 11th, 2005|
Effexor Day Two
First, if you are expecting an email from me (S &K that would be you), I'm working on it ;) I'm just a little bit on the spaced-out side of things.
So, I took my second dose of Effexor last night. I'm not sure if it is contributing to my insomnia or not. I took it around 11 pm and then didn't get to sleep until 2-something. I woke up so many fucking times during the night- my blankets were wrong- my pillows were wrong- my life is fucking wrong. Squeeze eyes together and TRY to sleep. I woke up with no chance of sleeping again at 6:45 and lay curled up in a little ball and starred at the blank mauve-white wall in front of me for half-an-hour.
I went grocery shopping first thing with my father. I wandered down each and every isle picking up items I have no desire to eat. None. I have NO appetite, even less than when I would take massive Dexedrine/dilaudid cocktails.
I binged and purged in the morning yesterday, but it took effort. By last night, I could barely make it through dinner. I ate a bowl of salad and a cob of corn, I barely got down and oyster- I couldn't touch the salmon- I'm sure it was beautiful, but it looked dead and fleshy. I felt badly about not being able to eat. I warned my parents though. My mother even bought me watermelon because I have no appetite, but I still haven't touched it. I think I like watermelon....
I still bought the bloody binge food though, as disgusting as peanut butter seems, I'm sure I'll want it sometime. I feel like I should be bingeing right now because I know somewhere deep inside of me I am fucking starving.
My weight dropped 2 lbs yesterday (and yes, some of that was water) but I can my body burning away in some hyper-metabolic fury. Lovely. Again, I don't know if that's an effect of the Effexor, or if it is just secondary to the anorexia (not nervosa! the real thing), or if this is just the fever I get every time I go crazy.
I am marveling at this lack of appetite though. I didn't realize how it would be possible for me to not want food. I think constantly about food, and my desire to eat. I am constantly planning what I will eat next, in what order, how long it will take, where and when I will be able to purge, how I am going to eat in various futures, and how I have eaten in the past. Things haven't really changed with regard to the constant thinking; only, I have no desire to actually eat anything right now. My stomach is growling and flipping, and my mouth tastes like metal.
I want to cry because I don't know what to do. I have to b/p and then get stuff done today, but starting the binge seems like an insurmountable task.
I'm also scared I won’t be able to purge. In the Effexor thread at TF three people said they physically lost the ability to purge *blinks* excuse me? For one person it was when they went up to a higher dose after about three weeks.
This is reason enough alone not to take Effexor. I can't live in fear that suddenly I won’t be able to purge. It's not just for vanity’s sake either... not being able to purge one of my binges could be deadly. I would panic. I don't know what I would rather do: die from a gastric rupture, or go to the ER to have them pump my stomach.
I don't know WHY Effexor would cause this either. I have to figure that out (I'm pissed I don't have access to academic journals right now between semesters!).
Can you not puke at all? no... vomiting is a side-effect. What if you were poisoned? Say by Ipecac?
I know Ipecac is deadly and blaa blaa blaa... but I wouldn't actually abuse it (I figure I have suffered enough "punishment" by having parts of my body ripped to shreds- I don't really feel the need to vomit the contents of my small intestine because I'm feeling a peeved with myself). I really think that I should get some Ipecac. I don't even know if I can get it though. I may as well paint "Bulimic" on my forehead if I'm asking for Ipecac. There will be no convincing a pharmacist that I was told to get it for my kid. They will give me activated charcoal if I tell them that. Charcoal will make me puke... god, even just thinking about it makes me nearly puke... but it would add more bulk to my stomach and take awhile if I could even bring myself to drink it. I want the syrup. just to be safe.
I don't want to be on the Effexor, but I don't have any other choice. There is an SNRI that I might be able to convince a doctor to give me (because it's not off label for depression, unlike the SNRI in the states). I refuse to take any more SSRI's because something has been wrong with all three I have taken (Prozac made me bad manic and suicidal, and Paxil was like an abusive lover- I spent more time lying in the bathtub turning the water pink on Paxil than I thought was humanly possible without finally running out of blood). I hate Wellbutrin even though everyone else in the world seems to love it, and I don't even care to bother with TCAs at this point, nor any of the other similar drugs. Really, it is time to give Effexor ago. Supposedly it is good for non-responders, which would be my group of people.
But if it doesn't work- it has the worst discontinuation syndrome around! Hurray! I'm so fucking thrilled to hear that, because it's been proven I have absolutely no sensitivity to discontinuation of medication. I reacted to flipping Prozac! Paxil was a nightmare. And now, I'm going to have to get off Effexor eventually. All I can say is I have no choice but to be as responsible as possible with this med. I want it to work. I don't want it to make me even more suicidal than I already am.
I think I'll go try to eat and puke now or I am going to get really fucking sick.
|Tuesday, August 9th, 2005|
|dr take four?
I went back to the dr today. When she came in to the examining room I was already in the midst of a panic attack, and I think I started to cry all most immediately.
I spilled my heart-wrenching depression out onto her desk, because I knew if I tried to cover it up, I would leave wanting nothing more than to hurt myself. I think I may have accurately displayed my anxiety concerning going to Saskatchewan. I whispered "I'm so incredibly afraid" and there was something about the calm mixed with sadness in my whisper that made me shiver and her realize that things were Bad.
Things are really bad, worse than I think I realize. She must have said "I'm really concerned about you" three times.
I'm concerned about me too.
All of this fucking desperation isn't breeding creativity in any other aspect that possible suicide plans.
"You're headed for the hospital" she said.
"yeah, you know... I don't really believe that" I responded
"one would think my body would have reacted by now..."
"You're getting sicker, if you're at this point, it's not that far to go until you need to be hospitalized..."
I didn't really hear it. I still don't.
I'm not sick. I'm not headed for the hospital; I'm just headed for another semester where, with my head barely above water, I shine academically.
We talked about what I was going to do. The possibility of canceling my trip came up. She asked me what I would do if I didn't go away and I said I would just b/p and disconnect further from life. I told her I knew I would go. "what about telling your aunt?" she asked. "It would just be too awkward, even though she already knows... I don't know..."
She was realistic. "You're going to binge and purge while you're there, so plan for it" she told me. I guess I will. There will most likely be a few hours where I am alone on a few days.
Then there is the returning home and the week before school starts. The week here alone. The week that looks prime for executing a successful suicide.
She encouraged me to try to just b/p twice a day during that week. I said that part of me had plans to have an absolute heyday in everyone’s absence. At this point I think the heyday is more likely than the former. The suicide, despite all my trying to fight against temptation, seems most likely of all. No. no. no. I'm NOT going to kill myself. Not now. I'm not rational, therefore, lack the perspective needed to actually make that choice. I keep repeating that.
I count pills and repeat "depression is not the time to make life or death decisions."
I was hoping I would be able to see her that week before school, because I'm going to be an anxious fucking mess possibly in need of a short-term stabilization hospitalization, but she is going to still be on vacation. If things are really bad, I'm going to go and see someone else at the clinic, which is what she encouraged me to do. Things will have to be pretty fucking desperate though.
Instead I'll wait and see her that second Thursday in September, the day after school starts. Essentially a month from now. A month seems like an unbearably long time to go feeling like this. A month.
This last month has poured out slowly like cold molasses. It seems like ages ago now that my grandma died. That was just a month ago. Ages ago becomes four weeks when all the gears grind to a halt and you drift away.
Her concern didn't come without prescriptions to get me through: 15 more clonazepam, and a script for effexor (which I should probably start tonight).
She told me to go home and go to bed because "you're obviously too tired. You're not going to be able to deal with any of this until you get some rest."
I just nodded because going home to bed wasn't my plan.
She's right though, I do need rest, because my insomnia is coupling with my depression to make me a teary emotional mess.
I have more to say, but I'm too tired. Current Mood: drained
|Tuesday, August 2nd, 2005|
|right, so now is later.
About the drs appointment.
They called me and told me to come back in, which was scary. It was just because I needed a Hep B shot though.
So what was the news? First we went over my labs, which were fine. My magnesium is slightly low (but still within normal range), but my potassium was 4.2 and nothing else was alarming. I expected my labs to be A-okay because I'm not really sick. She flipped to my ECG and immediately the words "otherwise normal ECG" jumped out. It seems I have some sort of arrhythmia. My doctor didn't seem too concerned though, but my reaction was basically "oh yeah. I figured" because I can feel my heart rate drop and speed up constantly.
Then she told me she hadn't talked to the ED clinic because I seemed so reluctant the last time, and I said "yeah, I don't want to see anyone there" shutting that door. She looked annoyed. I felt guilty. But really, I see no point in going to talk to someone who thinks they are a specialist in eating disorders. Oh yes, some psychoeducational group for bulimia is really going to help me... because what I'm obviously lacking is an understanding of my illness. Fuck that.
I could see a nutritionist who could ask "so do you think that maybe you could eat and keep down something for breakfast?"
"Would you eat a banana before bed?"
"No. I hate bananas"
"Do you see how your bingeing is related to being malnourished?"
"Yeah, maybe... but mainly it's habit"
"How can we break that habit?"
"By killing me."
I don't want to be in counseling. "So what do you want to work on?"
"Breaking down your philosophical foundations and making you feel ineffective as a therapist. You look like you'll take about 3 sessions."
Wanna talk about my eating disorder?
Oh, okay. That should be enlightening.
And once all the gory details are out there you can nod and say "that must be tough" and I can snort incredulously because it's ridiculously stupid on the suffering scale.
I don't want sympathy, and I certainly don't want help.
I want someone to punch me in the face and knock me to the ground and beat the shit out of me. I think that might be against most codes of ethics in counselling.
She put in a referral to mental health for a shrink. They requested more psychiatric information on me. There wasn't much but they sent some old psych assessment from Kingston to them. What idiots though... I've been hospitalized there and assessed... why not try to find my file from then?
It doesn't matter, she is canceling the referral.
Instead she thinks I should see the shrink associated with school. I don't know though... Now I imagine I won’t see any shrink.
The school psychiatrist seems dangerous. I can imagine suddenly being on a contract for a variety of things that had being kicked out of school as an ultimate consequence. Can they do that? I don't know. I would be pissed off though if they used school leverage. The problem of course is that once you're in their care, you can't just walk away. Suddenly, by refusing to voluntarily do what they are asking, you have given them reason to usurp your rights. You find yourself being held for 72 hours in the middle of mid-terms and your "choice" about leaving school is made for you. I just don't know how likely this is to happen. It really depends on the psychiatrist and, of course, the way I present.
It just seems easier to ignore the whole thing. To throw up my hands and march on down this endless dreary path.
She wanted to take my vitals at least, but I twisted my braid around my index finger and squirmed and said "no...".
She wrote me a script for ranitidine (sp?) which I took from her reluctantly. "Do I have to?" She nodded. I was like "right... my delicate delicate esophagus... how could I forget?" I filled it and have been taking it though. I figured I would do her the favour and comply with at least one request. I hate the idea though. I want my esophagus to finally have too much. Damage is the plan.
She told me to come back one more time before we both go on Vacation. I don't know why though.
I don't need anything. But I will go, and I will request things. I might let her take my blood pressure. Hell, I might even let her to a full physical. It would shut her up. Unless she weighs me and finds out that I'm a few kilos less than what was written on my ECG and takes my blood pressure lying down and then standing.
I'm going to try to get something out of her to deal with my impending trip to see my auntie. I'm thinking a daily dose of benzodiazepines... I would love topamax but I don't think she would want to prescribe it to me and then not be able to follow up with me for 3 weeks... but maybe. Ritalin is probably out as well. Effexor? Phenobarbital?
I won't get through it without drugs.
End babble. Current Mood: crappy
|Friday, July 29th, 2005|
I don't really have time to be writing this. I should be cleaning up, or doing something productive. I will have to report on how my day went later on, and I will just say "fine" and "I didn't really do much" and it is true but pathetic and embarrassing.
I went to the Okanagan with my father earlier this week. We go every year and tour around wineries and swim and camp and visit with family friends who live up there (this year though, they were away on vacation so we didn't get the opportunity to see them). I love the trip, but I dread it every year because it interrupts my eating disorder. In the past 19 months there have only been 7 days where I haven't b/ped at least once but probably more an average of 3 times per day. The majority of those days have taken place on these vacations with my father.
On the way home I hit the buffet on the ferry. For some reason, I don't have a problem purging on the ferry. I think it is because the boat makes so much noise that you can't really hear anything. The bathroom in the buffet is single stalled too. The buffet is fucking expensive though, so I shamelessly ate a lot. It is also normal to be there alone. I swear it is a bulimics dream brought to you by BC Ferries.
There was great dinner gossip as well, because the sailing started with an announcement about why we were sailing late "there was a man-overboard incident on our 3:00 sailing which delayed us for half-an-hour."
I squealed with delight "someone jumped!" and then said "why the fuck would they jump off the 3 pm sailing?"
I have thought about committing suicide on the BC ferries many a time. I have planned in great detail how I would do it. I know that route very well, and have spent a lot of time on that water. I am rather certain I could successfully execute a suicide in the dead of winter with the right tidal conditions in active pass.
I could sink into that water like the ashes of my family members.
I don't think this guy was trying to kill himself though. Go figure... he was just nuts and figured he would go to Mayne Island. He inflated garbage bags as floatation devices and jumped from the 4th deck (upper car deck). They had a rescue boat to him in 5 minutes, but he swam away from it, which I find fucking hilarious and really quite amazing given the water temperature. He got to the beach and sort of crawled and then stood up and then fell down and then got up again and ran into the woods. The RCMP on Mayne ultimately went and got him.
So that was a good ferry ride home.
I'm going to have to write about my drs appointment that happened yesterday later on.
Now I have to go and clean myself and my house up. Current Mood: lethargic
|Friday, July 15th, 2005|
|took me an hour to write this... yea ADD!
Yesterday I went to the doctor. I told her I would come back in to follow up and boy did she have suggestions.
1) A referral to psychiatric services.
2) A referral to the eating disorders clinic.
3) Find me a GP (she's a clinic doctor).
4) Send me on my way with labs and an ECG to complete.
5) Have me come back in a few weeks from now.
I went out and partied after and when I got home it started to settle in: that's a lot of stuff.
I have been avoiding basically all health care for a few years now. At one point I got so frustrated because therapy was going NOWHERE and I was fat so I just stopped seeing everyone and moved up north for the summer and went off my meds.
When I started losing weight again, and my b/ping turned for the worst, I felt really shitty but didn't want anyone to intervene so I stayed away from doctors et al. Eventually, I ate through all my benzodiazepines and reconnected with this clinic doctor who I saw in the past, and now here I am, with a shit load of referrals in the works.
1) Psychiatric services I feel relived about. I need a psychiatrist. GPs generally don't feel comfortable managing and prescribing to me. At this point it seems there isn't going to be any monotherapy to make me function, so I need someone with experience in cocktail mixing.
The unfortunate thing is there are few competent psychiatrists in this city. I don't know why... it seems like a good place to live on that sort of income, and there is a demand for them....
Oh and there is the additional problem that I am sick of being diagnosed. It seems ridiculous how many conflicting diagnoses one person can receive. At the same time I wouldn't mind erasing the BPD diagnosis by having a more up-to-date assessment. I find it hard to believe anyone would uphold that diagnoses seeing as the only criteria I continue to meet is that pesky dissociation bit, and the impulsive (haha) behaviour of binge eating (which is ritualized and predictable- i.e. in no way impulsive).
Mainly I suppose I am terrified of the power psychiatrists wield. Thrice certified, I have an acute awareness that it doesn't take much to have my freedoms revoked because I am crazy and a risk to myself. I would appreciate not finding myself wandering around in the day room of the psychiatric intensive care unit wearing those awfully thin institutional pajamas. I avoid that by avoiding psychiatrists. I suppose I'll just have to be more careful and cooperative.
2) Referral to the eating disorders clinic. Oh I was less enthusiastic about this. I said "I'll really have to think about going back there." She's going to talk to them and see what's going on in terms of programs and try to get some care protocol for me (e.g. what labs she should be ordering). In the past they lacked any directive when it came to treatment. I think I would have initially benefited from 12 weeks of CBT, but instead I spent my first 12 weeks in their care getting lectured about how EDs were bad and how I could *gasp* die. Being suicidal, I just got progressively worse while they set about doing dick all. I need structure, plans, communication, an idea that something more than me fucking about with a therapist for 50 minutes a week is happening. They were all a bunch of flakes with no idea what to do with me. I went into crisis- there was a clear intervention plan then, but there was no plan for after the crisis ended. I stayed in perpetual crisis. I eventually got angry enough with treatment and dropped out. I went back. Back in therapy was worse than the first time in terms of directive. I dropped out again.
The pro's of going back are mostly daft: It is triggering, and I would get to show off how much weight I have lost since I got "good" at eating and puking all day long.
The doctor did also say something quickly that kind of lingered. "You could go to Vancouver for a couple of weeks." Wait-list me for St. Paul's... even more fucking triggering. I imagine, living some distance from Vancouver and having been "unsuccessful" in out-patient treatment, I would be wait-listed for some form of IP. I'm too fat for IP. I'm not sick enough for IP. I don't want to do longer-term IP at all. The idea of months in Quest scares the shit out of me. Short-term stabilization wouldn't be horrible though. It might be helpful.
3) GP. Again scary. I need someone who can handle my subtle mix of psychiatric and physical issues. GP's like healthy patients, not patients who, as far as they are concerned, have made themselves ill and now require enormous resources. This clinic doctor, aware that I am incapable or unwilling to find my own GP is going to baby me through this by trying to hook me up with someone who is slightly aware of my situation and willing to take me on.
4) Labs and ECG. I got them done today before I had time to obsess over the consequences of their results. It's a double-edged sword. If they come back fine it confirms that I am perfectly healthy and all of the referrals are for nothing. I am just exaggerating my situation and causing concern where none is due. If they come back with problems I will be shocked and appalled and feel embarrassed that I can't even manage my electrolytes. For the ECG I had to give the tech my height and weight. I rounded down on my height and up on my weight. I don't know why. I didn't realize she would ask. I didn't want the real numbers getting back to my doctor. I'm scared that I'm shorter and heavier than I think, or than I would be measured in the doctors office. I don't want to represent myself as thinner than I might be.
She tried to get blood from my left arm. I knew it was fruitless, but I like being poked, so I let her try. "Oh, this is too much vacuum for your thin little veins" she said. I suggested my right arm, and was thrilled that at least my veins are thin. She poked me again, and then filled six viles (two of them big ones) full of blood.
I was so embarrassed by my scars, and the fact that under diagnoses on my lab req it said "Bulimia." I thought of her thinking about me stuffing my fat face and then barfing. I thought how she must hate me and think I was disgusting. I was still grateful that my doctor hadn't written "anorexia" because then she would have thought that I wasn't "thin enough" to be anorexic.
5) Follow up. Obviously hasn't happened. I will try to make it in soonish. I imagine if there is any concern with my labs I'll get called in next week. I imagine at the follow up I'll find out more about what is going to happen with me.
Anyway, it is late. And I'm hungry. I have to decide whether or not b/p again or go to sleep. fucking hell. 12:45 am is generally a sign to go to bed... Current Mood: hungry
|Monday, July 11th, 2005|
|I have my little pleasures/this wall being one of these.
So my grandmother died on Friday early in the morning. My uncle was dozing in a chair beside her, and the nurse came in to give her more dilaudid and she wasn't breathing. I was sobbing in my bed at home, and then I drifted off to sleep. It must have been rather peaceful if my uncle didn't wake up.
It has been odd. In so many ways I have been grieving for years, ever since she got sick. There was this rapid decline, and seven years ago, a doctor said it would be a matter of months. It seemed wrong to grieve the death of someone who was still living. She was just down the hill; not dead. She was hardly my grandmother though. Those last seven years were nothing like my first seven with her.
Those last seven years just made me afraid of old-age. I could barely go to see her. I would push back my tears and try my hardest to chat about things with her, wondering if she at least could recognize my voice. I would wonder how much she was aware of- and hope for her sake it was nothing.
It wasn't what any of us would want for ourselves.
There was just no better option for her. Even with full-time homecare support, we couldn't have done a better job of taking care of her.
I was always torn as to whether or not I should go see her more often. What would she have wanted? To not be there at all. For me to be happy.
That one impossible thing everyone wants for me.
I suppose she would have said I did the best that I could.
I don't know. I went weekly for awhile, but then she just got worse, and I was starting to drown on swallowed tears. I got pneumonia and I had to stay away.
I can't believe it has been seven years.
Longer really... It started after she had that fall...
The fall was no ordinary fall. She rode her bicycle off a cliff. She was in her late 70's. That's my grandma.
She was really amazing and active late into her life. She just spent 10 years dying.
I'm having a hard time getting on with things. I have 10 years worth of grief saved up.
I just don't know if I am grieving or depressed. Is this normal sadness or pathological madness?
I lay on my couch all day yesterday. Sleeping. crying. cursing the world. wishing everything would just shut the fuck up.
I finally got up in the evening and acted like I hadn't needed to be prodded, the miserable sobbing mess I was, off of my couch by my mother. I drank 3 gin and tonics and started to feel sober finally.
I continue to binge and purge. I crave nothing, and everything I do eat tastes like cardboard, but I keep shoving it in hoping that if it won't give me satisfaction it might ease my pain. I wish I could stop, but I don't want to.
I feel enormous, out-of-control, and intense: essentially the opposite of what I want to be.
All I have going for me is that I know the direction I'm heading.
In and down.
East for a little while.
Some place where it is flat and warm. Current Mood: gloomyCurrent Music: The Power of Orange Knickers -Tori Amos
|Wednesday, July 6th, 2005|
Sometimes my friends can be total assholes. It's not surprising, because they are my friends, but still.
Yesterday J called, and was like "I'm sorry about your grandma" and then launched into complaining about a cold. I was like "umm... yeah... that sucks." Did he feel like an ass when he got off the phone with me? He should have. He wrote a nice email later, but I'm still fucking pissed off. He (and many others) has this belief that I'm tough and can handle the various shitty things life likes to toss around. There is this disparity between how I feel about things and how I talk about them. It is necessary if I am going to be able to communicate anything so emotionally charged. I pick up on that with other people, but it seems other people can't fucking read me at all. Just because I'm not obviously a basket-case, I must fucking care about your stupid little complaints. I asked about his cold symptoms.
This weekend A called me at one point, and I shit you not, she said "I want to hear about how bad things are for you right now to make myself feel better about my own situation." I was like "that's too bad. what happened to you?" Somehow though, she just sort of amused me. J, just fucking made me feel invisible and angry. At least A had some understanding that things were bad for me.
I didn't think it would be this hard when my grandmother died. I haven't had that many people in my life die- I don't really know what to expect in terms of grief. When my grandfather died I was in Ontario and so incredibly sick and depressed. I was planning on coming home because I couldn't fucking take another day of the apartment with my roommates and no money and just fucking starving and surfing the net ('twas the dawning of pro-ana... not as it is known now). I called my parents and said I needed to come home, and went and to the travel agent and got flight info, and the next day my parents called and said that my grandfather had died. My brother came over that day, like every day, because I took care of the dog while he was at work. I remember telling Mike and then being like "you can use this as an excuse to go home for a little while" and we booked flights strait from Kingston to Victoria for the next day. Our tickets would have been about $1400 but of course, it was a bereavement rate.
My grandpa had cable vision hooked up to the television in this suite. I sat on my couch and watched A&E, when all it played was Law & Order. My whole family on my dad's side came over and we had a party like we do for every event.
I felt little, but not quite nothing. I was sad, but mainly for my dad.
But I was so depressed and on paxil which I took irregularly (real smart) and my emotional state was already bad. I felt happier at home than I did in Kingston even though my grandfather had just died.
This is different though.
It was so sad today when I went and saw her.
Standing in that room with my uncle and dad, on the same ward where we had all been born, asking a nurse what the time-frame on her actually dying was.
A day. Two. Maybe less.
oh. Current Mood: sad
|Saturday, July 2nd, 2005|
I haven't gone to see her yet.
Each time there has been some reason for me to stay. I was asleep, and then I cooked dinner, and then I had to wait for a friend to drop something off, and this time, I have to wait for my uncle, who has gone camping and doesn’t know yet, to call.
This is fucking exhausting.
I haven't bothered to dress. I haven't bothered to flip my calendars to July. I haven't bothered to shower. I have just sat here pissed off by the inadequate distractions. I play with my schedule for the Spring- swap existentialism for the life and times of Socrates. I smoke, make more tea, smoke again.
I want to sleep, but last night I stared through my bug-net out through the sky-light for hours before I finally drifted off. This morning I woke easily but hardly saw a reason for emerging from bed.
I wrote two of my friends emails because they had written me, but I imagine the "my grandmother is really sick and about to die" was a little too depressing for them.
I'm sinking quickly.
They're back. I should go. Current Mood: worriedCurrent Music: angsty emo radio shit
|Friday, July 1st, 2005|
|plug ears and cover eyes.
My grandmother is dying.
She has been for years, but now it's down to the wire.
I got drunk with my parents to avoid the issue tonight. I pushed back tears and swallowed food. I think "well, at least the timing is okay... it could have been last weekend when I still had to study..." and I feel awful because I am callous and uncaring. I'm self-obsessed and hungry.
I want to cry, but I don't see the point. Old people die. That's just what happens. I don't want to have to grieve the death of a loved one- I don't have that type of energy. I am far too sad about this to even begin to cope.
I don't want this to be happening.
I had three semi- stress free days, and I was grateful for them at the time, but now I'm bitter that it didn't last longer.
I wish I could perfect shutting down completely. Instead I keep feeling and I hate it. Current Mood: drunk
|Saturday, June 4th, 2005|
an update, not that anyone reads...
It's been awhile since I updated. A lot has been happening in my life, some of it has been good, and other parts have been basically the same march toward self-destruction.
I feel like fucking things up really good so that I can take a break, and at the same time I really want to pull my shit together, even if it's just a little bit, so that I can have some fun. My fun is generally self-destructive though. I don't know what is good and what's not. I have a really hard time drawing the line. People give me drinks and drugs and I dance and flirt and still manage to get home at night without falling into bed with random people, so I assume things are a-okay.
Then there are days like this where I b/p in an endless marathon, losing track of what I have eaten and how many times I have purged. Tired, alone, and unable to concentrate I couldn't come up with anything better to do.
I take stumble around in a daze. eat puke eat puke eat puke. I take drugs because I am already fucked up. I consume a non-lethal dose of a deadly cocktail. I shut my brain down. It's not strong enough though, I still feel panicked. I don't want to clean up my mess. I want to take the lethal dose of my cocktail and be found here dead in the afternoon tomorrow. Bathroom and kitchens splattered with food and vomit. Nah, I would probably just be comatose. Hell, knowing me, I would just fuck everything over and end up fucked up but not sick enough to not have to take responsibility.
My mother would be pissed off- I am supposed to feed the fish tomorrow.
I have started losing weight again. finally. after months and months of being stuck at a just mildly acceptable weight. I feel better as I start to feel worse. It calms me to know that I can eat away at my body. I can prove that dualism is wrong by finally being nothing more than a mind. soon. just after I get distracted by some more corporal pleasures....
Current Mood: fucked up
|Wednesday, May 4th, 2005|
|I don't like this any more.
I feel uncomfortable here in my insanity.
I can't quite shake the echo that gets louder with time spent in quiet. My mind races from thought to thought and I just observe what is happening. I am so disconnected these days. I think I have actually opened my mouth to say something and then I realize that I haven't said anything at all. I do a lot of talking in my head.
I've been having these little breaks from reality that can be quite refreshing, but I suppose I should find troubling. I have had a break from the relentless depression though, it has been replaced with this rather insane agitated state where I spin around in my chair and come very close to flying off the handle. I have a lot of impulses to do things, but so far I they haven't really manifested into actions. I am rather quiet and still on the outside. Hence the disconnection.
I don't remember what comes after this feeling. Things cycle predictably but I am at a loss for the next state. Current Mood: listless
|Friday, April 22nd, 2005|
|maybe it is you
I am sad.
I feel hollow and empty and driven toward self-destructing to fill the hole.
Things are changing and I find myself nostalgically clinging on to what hasn't left yet. Faced with uncertainty I find myself coiling back to my only certain thing I have. Faced with uncertainty I have the same embarrassing thoughts that have occurred since late-childhood: "I will just lose a lot of weight, and then people will know I am scared and stop propelling me along in life. If I lose weight time will stop. I will just be able to lie here for a little while, relaxed, with my hands cradling my hips".
I sit and fidget. I worry that I will scream "I'm fucking terrified" and I open my mouth, but I say nothing.
I need constant reassurance, but I never seek it. I want to walk my various profs offices and ask, with as much terror as I feel, if they think I will be able to make it or if I am just wasting my time. If I'm never going to make it, then I may as well never leave and I can just stay at my school and take an infinite number 2nd and 3rd classes and get to know everyone *rollseyes* I don't know... that is what I want to some degree. Well, actually, what is true is that I don't want to have to go and start somewhere new. I don't want to have to build new bridges. I don't want to have to convince other people that I am intelligent enough to contribute something intelligent to the world.
I want to have a tantrum like a 3 year old. I want to kick and scream and shout that I don't want to go to UVic. I want to go somewhere smaller. This is ridiculous though, because ultimately I am going to have to go somewhere I have never been to before... probably to some dreary big place in Ontario. And I will go alone then. I'm sure I'll be even more scared then.
As it stands now, if I have to make a change from a comfortable environment, going to some other comfortable university, is not really a horrible disruptive thing. So why do I feel like killing myself?
I don't really have any plans to off myself, but I worry about my ability to act on any of my impulses.
It constantly seems so easy. I step down off the curb. I travel to a city with a subway and walk along the thick yellow line. I drown. I die upon impact. I hang in the woods for weeks before anyone finds me. I successfully stop time.
And now I sit here feeling embarrassed and stupid. I'm confused about my next step and sad about my (near) completion of my last step.
I can't organize my thoughts. Hence the journal entry. I would have written this shit in my paper journal because it is so scattered and stupid, but I was on the computer... so now I am exposing other people to this. I'm such a dork.
I think I'll go workout. Maybe that will sort out some of my frustration at least. Current Mood: nostalgicCurrent Music: Deeper Well- Emmylou Harris
|Friday, April 8th, 2005|
|going under to get through
closer to the underground now.
Breathe in and hold it.
You'll get through;
this earth's crust is liquid.
Slowly, you will be able to swim.
You'll drift out into the pacific and down through the middle of the earth.
Molten lava cool.
I wake up to find that I am still depressed. I am water-logged and have a headache. I roll out of bed and change out of a shirt that is still splattered with last night's binge. No wonder I get crumbs in my bed. I smoke and squint into the sun wishing it wasn't out yet- or that is had gone away already- same thing. I drink thick black coffee that reminds me of dinosaur bones and oil-refinery... "Terra Nova" sounds so green.
I come upstairs because my own room is so smothering. And I sit here and think about how easy it would be to die. I could spend today tidying a few things up and then get to the really important work. But I will go about the rest of my day instead. I just need a little longer to muster that energy.
Why can't I even manage to get in the shower?
Maybe it is because I can never really wash the dirt off. Current Mood: predatoryCurrent Music: Parasol- Tori Amos
|Wednesday, April 6th, 2005|
one step forward
an infinite number of steps back.
It is late and I am cold and shaking. I have the sudden realization that another day has passed and I got very little done in terms of school work.
Things got messier.
That happens nearly every day.
Today I went to a counselor at school, and it only served to make me feel worse about myself. I did remember how awkward counselling makes me feel. That's not very helpful though.
I went because I thought it was a manageable step towards doing anything to help myself out. Now I am overwhelmed by the difficulty that I would/will/might encounter trying to seek help.
I know it was unreasonable, but I was hoping that I would click with someone on the first go, and I didn't really plan for "what happens if I don't want to see this person ever again."
I am too exhausted to explain what is wrong over and over again until I find someone who can help me. This should be a sign to me. It signals how bad things actually are. When talking to someone for 50 minutes about your "issues" leaves you in a catatonic stupor for the rest of the day, you get the point that in order to function you must block said issues.
Well, I guess I'll go back to avoidance and acceptance for a little while longer.
I'm running out of time though.
|Saturday, March 19th, 2005|
|Monday, March 7th, 2005|
What the fuck is going on?
Where am I?
WHAT AM I DOING?
fucking up... that's what.
I can't make it to my classes... hell... I can't even make it into the shower. I just sit here... fucking numb... with a head full or racing thoughts.
The truth is I have successfully shut myself off from every person I ever had a connection with, and now I have achieved the isolation I desired, but it isn't what I wanted. Now I need someone to talk to me because all I can hear is my self screaming away at myself in my head.
All I can do is cry.
It all seems so awful... because it just compounds. I am depressed so I miss class... missing class makes me feel behind... which makes my depression worse... which makes me think I should just kill myself.
I keep thinking "medical leave of absence" but you need a doctor for that... and I don't have a doctor. I dove into the only crack I could find to get myself out of the health care system with its revolving hospitalizations it had in store for me... and right now I fucking regret it.
I want to be able to whimper and gently protests about finding myself sitting on some unit for a week doing crossword puzzles and reading a novel or two... that's all I'm asking... a week... where everyone has to be nice to me because I'm fucking fragile goddamn it.
Ignore my true hatred of hospitals and being stripped of all my autonomy and told that I am insane.
I just want to rest. I am so fucking on guard and stressed out and suicidal and yet desperately clinging to life... I can hardly take it.
I hate being crazy.
I hate being myself.
|Wednesday, January 12th, 2005|
You have to love busy walk-in clinics for doing things like prescribing suicidal girls bottles of codeine.
Last night I had the worst anxiety attack of my entire life. I nearly went to wake up my parents to tell them I was going crazy and they had to HELP ME... instead the only shred of reason I have reminded me of the last emergency chlorpromazine I had in my backpack. Getting it out of my backpack seemed to take forever, and then I was so hot that I took off all my clothes without a second though. I know someone who lost their mind and then couldn't keep their clothes on... I wondered if that was happening to me. I waited for GABA to do its thing and then realized my blood sugar was probably also low so I ate some jam (naked by the light of the fridge). It was awful though. I am so scared it is going to happen again but I won’t have any drugs to calm me down. It was like the worst thunderstorm in my head, and the physical reaction was extreme. I had fought with my mother earlier in the evening; I imagine that's what had me so worked up.
Yes, I had a fight with my mother... that was awful. There is nothing more heartbreaking than having your mother scream "fuck you!" and you. She, of course, threatened to leave *eye roll.* I think the resolution was essentially that I had to take on even more of the house-hold tasks. I'm not claiming I do everything around here, and I realize that I don't contribute any money to the household, but I do a lot, and I try really hard to show that I am grateful for the things people do for me. My father is currently on sabbatical and spends his mornings in bed reading books on 19th century political thought, and if you suggest that he do the dishes while he is at home, he gets very defensive, because his lying in bed reading is work and we just don't understand. My mother has an extremely stressful job and she feels like when she is at home she should be able to relax. Some nights asking her if she wants dinner is too much stress for her to handle. She doesn't want to spend her weekends cleaning up the house though, and I can understand that, but at least she gets weekends.... I get two days off classes that I am supposed to spend studying, and I do all the grocery shopping on the weekend (which takes half a bloody day because my whole family is obsessed with food), make at least one elaborate dinner, and often spend my Friday afternoons doing housework. Supposedly though, that's not enough.
If I wasn't sick, and tired, and depressed, and stressed out, and insane, I'm sure I could handle more...
but seeing as I am all of the above, getting home at 5:30 after being at school and then running errands only to have to go back out and run more errands and then come home, cook dinner, eat, clear the table, and do the dishes while my mother sits at the table and sighs "what am I going to do this evening?" is a little bit of a piss off when all you have a list of things that need to get started on and finished.
Never mind, I am ranting, I'm really not this ungrateful, I'm just worn out. My parent’s expectations only really bother me when I am too sick to meet them.
I'm going to take another tsp of codeine and go to bed. Current Mood: pessimistic