Blackouts

As of late, things have been turned upside down. I thought by this point I’d be happy or excited but I’m not. I’m doing my best to not drown in my nebulous “mood disorder” and weight gain.
I recently switched medications and while it keeps me stable, it makes me feel sick and my body doesn’t seem to like it much, either. Nothing alarming but still unpleasant.
I got my second tattoo– that should make me happy, right?
I am finally heading off to a four-year college and all I feel is dread. I’m going to the gym.
My room is clean.

All these things and I still feel like I am falling apart. I feel like a pariah to people I thought were my friends. Sleeping is becoming so hard now because I go through this horrible cycle of panic, but the inner-walls never come down enough for me to cry. There is no relief. There is just me blacking out once the panic reaches its peak. I try lie in bed and meditate but that does nothing, and sometimes I will pace, but it always ends up with me waking up in bed. I usually have one memory before things go black.

I don’t know what to make of it. At least I end up in bed and not on the floor.

Broken

C stands for currently taking.

All daily.

Lexapro 40mg

Klonopin 4mg – C

Abilify 15mg (Devil drug)

Lamictal 300mg

Lithium 1200mg

Synthroid – 50mcg

Cadista 4mg (six a day, descending from six)

Trazodone 200mg – C

Dilco/Misopr 50-0.2mg – C

Pantoprazole 40mg – C

Carafate 5g – C

Tremodol 100mg – C

A lot of drugs in just four years, no? I have been medicated since I was seventeen/eighteen. I can tell you right now that when I went off most my medications for three months a couple of months ago, I felt great. For a time. Then I started noticing old habits creeping back. The good thing was that the worse habits didn’t.
It was nice to test my strength but I wonder how much of that short-lived happiness was my first manic phase? Did I have a manic phase? Or was my “old self” starting to fight the demons?
I have been diagnosed with C-PTSD and a Mood Disorder. A Mood Disorder simply means that I have a bit of everything, so I can’t be classified as just one. It makes it hard to treat because doctors have to tackle multiple symptoms with one or a few drugs that are meant to treat only one type of disorder. Therapy seems like an endless road because the more I think about what’s wrong the larger the cave gets. It doesn’t help that each issue is the kind that most people spend their entire time with a therapist on, whereas I have to bring up more and more issues. What’s worse? Everything is connected, like a spiderweb, and that is a bad thing because connected like a web isn’t like having a root cause.
Can you understand why I dread therapy? Why I dread answering what’s wrong? People hate the honest answer of ‘where do I begin?‘ I want answers just like they do, probably more than they do. I want to know when I was broken. When and what happened that has made it so I need someone to tape me back together regularly?

How I Survived.

Not many of you know that I tried to commit suicide two weeks ago but I didn’t. In the instant I tried to breathe in water, I was reminded of everything I loved, of every person I loved. It was their voices, faces, the memory of their hugs and words encouragement against my depression that really pulled my head above water. They have always been the ones that have kept me going no matter how low on fuel I am.

“You are my best friend.”

“You are amazing. You are incredible. You are worth a bazillion everything.”

“I’ve heard of you and I don’t know who Norman Reedus is so in my imaginary world you’re way more famous than he is.”

“It’ll be okay.”

“You are intelligent and talented and beautiful. In short, you are amazing. Never forget that.”

These people believe I am amazing but the truth is, they are more amazing than I will every be. They have been my wings when I needed them the most. They have never feared my depression, self-hatred, or my lack of belief in their words. However, from this point onward I will believe, like you do, that I am worth bazillion everything, I am amazing, I am intelligent, and that it will be okay and that I am loved.   

Later, I decided I would share my story last November with  My friend, Dese’Rae L. Stage. During this interview for Live Through This, I was having trouble remembering things I wanted to say and she said, “You’ll remember it when we’re done.” She was right, I remembered more what of what I wished I had said. I remembered what I was afraid to say because it might be triggering for some. I remembered the feelings I had the night I tried to kill myself.

I have always thought that depression felt like ice wrapping itself around my shoulders and knife in my chest. Except the  knife would never reach my heart nor would the ice fully cover me even though I wanted them to.
I didn’t want to be alive. I didn’t want to have other people’s thoughts and wishes in my head anymore. I didn’t want to think of the hundreds of ways that I failed. I didn’t want to let people know just how badly my rape had hurt me. I had felt that way for a while but that night was the final straw.
Everything ached and I was having trouble breathing. I was convincing myself out of hurting myself, like I had promised my family. I promised I wouldn’t cut. What I decided to do was far worse: I began to fill my bathtub with only one motive.  I was going to drown myself in the one place I often sought comfort. What was ironic was that as I watch the bathtub fill, I tried talking myself out of doing it but I was failing because of memories. Memories of bad test scores, disappointment from my parents and teachers, my embarrassment, and being raped by someone I thought loved me thus making me unworthy of love of that kind. All of them at once like a very ugly movie. It was enough. I was done. I pulled myself above the water and here I am.

I wish I had remembered to say that.

Time is too Slow

I’m unsure as to how to proceed with this post. Should I talk more about the aftermath of recovering?  Should I talk about how my weight upsets me? Should I talk about how much I want to cut myself lately? Or my decision to not date or have any type of romantic contact?
Why don’t I just talk about all of them? Let’s do that.
First on my mind: Relationship thing. I made this decision yesterday because I have become sick to hurting myself (literally) of getting hurt, violated, looking over for someone “better” or someone who fits a preferred mold. I’m done with trying to guess whether a guy likes me or not– friends or not friends? Am I good enough for you? I am done with guess and getting hurt. I have better, more worthwhile, things to do than wait for someone for me who probably doesn’t exist. I will only accept a miracle man. I man who shows me that he is brave and won’t play games. A man who is honest and strong. That man will have to accept me for who I am and all of my craziness. My emotional roller-coaster-ness.I will change for that man. 

      On top of being shunted aside for more beige-like-personalities, I’m not thin enough. It frustrates me beyond belief that there isn’t one man who genuinely believes I am beautiful but I guess my personality is such an affliction that beauty can’t over power it. Which is impressive because many have admitted that they wanted me just to get laid. 
I want so desperately to be that one woman you see and just say, “wow.” The unattainable beauty that people remember and not another person on the bus, in class, or at a party. I want to be spectacular. Then jaw-dropping when they find out that I am whip-lash smart but I’m not these. To others, I am just some rape victim who wasn’t intelligent to keep herself safe. That is what is making me want to cut. It’s hard to shut out the words because they are my own and proven through experience. I’m not sure how to handle any of this. 

Victim to Survivor

Last Valentine’s Day I was raped by a person I thought loved me. Most rape survivors are stronger than I am and what I mean by that is that they didn’t let it, the trauma or loss, practically consume them. I kind of have. I hear loving words from those around me but I feel as if they are wrong because everyday I paint a smile on my face. I haven’t spoken of the nightmares that are more reliving the memory and every night more and more resurfaces. Every night I have to deal with a new wave of horror, misery and self-hatred because I lost my memory. My brain shut off the second he rolled me over and the image that comes to mind everyday and night is the window that I was facing. The memory of that damn window taunts me in the fact that it is a twisted metaphor for escape.

I do not see myself as strong because I failed to escape. The thing I haven’t told people is that I let the abuse continue. The abuse started on Valentine’s Day but didn’t stop until April.  I remember that. remember being afraid to say no and I let him do what he wanted then after he left I would ask myself what was wrong with me. Where did my strength go? I have buried that because the guilt and pain has been too much

However. a year later, I start the harder process which is believing in myself and believing that I am as strong as other believe. This process I know will be one of the hardest things I will ever do for myself but it is something I need to do. I have let it interfere with potential relationships, with schoolwork and my family life. I am done being a victim. I am ready to be a survivor.

Purple

Tonight, while I waited for my sister to pick me up, I sat on a bench and held a purple buttercup flower. They are among my favorite wild flowers because they are adorable and smell like, well, a Reese’s. I held it because of how delicate it was. The goal was not to crush it.

Looking at how perfect it was, how unblemished and okay. The lesson was to be gentle with things that have what I do not, to not envy or feel rage towards or feel jealousy. The lesson was to show myself that is okay to trust. To some, it may seem odd to see it in a simple flower but hear me out: You can trust that those flowers will be soft, so very easily breakable, purple in color and smell like candy.

You can trust. It is okay to trust. Trusting will not inherently bring you pain. To trust is one of the bravest things you can do and it’s also one of the most forgiving. Being cruel and bitter isn’t bravery at all, no—bravery is being vulnerable. To be vulnerable is to begin healing and understanding that, yes, awful things can happen but not letting the awful things become your identity and eradicate you of kindness and hope.

I didn’t crush the flower. I will not lose hope or who I am.

Root Rot.

B: Tell the story about something interesting (anything!) that happened to you, but tell it in the form of an instruction manual (Step 1, Step 2, Step 3….)
Step 1:
I don’t have an interesting thing I want to focus on. A million things bounce around my head reading those words.
Step 2:
my mind focuses on the one thing I can’t talk about. Focuses on the flashbacks that bubble up like sewage–the memory, the feel, the betrayal. How ripped to shreds I felt afterwards, like my world was impacting on itself and leaving nothing but a shaking and terrified thing in its wake.
I felt like I was nothing. Nothing more than to be hurt and used. Why was a such a fool? Did this really just happen to me?
“No, no, no, no, no… please let this be another nightmare. Oh, please let me wake up. Please let the pain go away. Please, please, let this be a dream–don’t let this be real.” I thought and as the pain got worse, I knew it wasn’t a dream, and I wanted to scream, cry, rage, and run away. I didn’t. I literally just curled up into a ball. I pulled my knees to my chest, my fingers knotted in my hair as if that would make this go away, and I began to shake. My whole body and my head at the same time–no, no, no.
Step 3:
For the next couple of days, I was hollow. I did my best to not let it show. Yet, it felt and still feels as if everyone can see straight through me. I’m becoming invisible, though, to myself. I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel that all I am now is that one horrifying memory. That one day, I’ll scream, be torn apart by its surfacing and yet, I feel like I’m rotting from the inside out.