brightrosefox: (Default)
Holy random acts of kindness, Batman.
After getting my flu vaccine, I went to look at the cane rack, because they have this beautiful blue and silver one that looks like dragon scales, and I have been waiting for discounts and coupons so I could get it. The price is under twenty dollars, but still.
A middle-aged man who looked so much like Idris Elba that I did a second take, also reached for the blue silver cane. Our eyes met, I smiled briefly. He said, "You know, I bet this would make an awesome magic staff for cosplay."
I grinned and said, "Good plan! I should at least join a game just so I can brag. Or just be my paganish elf self and cosplay every day." Which was blurted out because my filter is so thin.
The Idris Elba lookalike chuckled. "I adore that idea. I just pray to all mighty Atheismo that we aren't going too deep. Like that Tom Hanks movie."
My jaw dropped. "Duuude," I said. "Futurama reference plus obscure D&D rip-off movie nee book reference? Cripple high five!"
We high fived and missed on purpose, stumbling. "Mild cerebral palsy, spastic hemiplegia" I said. "Mild cerebral palsy, diplegia mixed," he said. "And knee arthritis."
"And sciatica," we said in union, surprising ourselves.
"Fibromyalgia and epilepsy and autism too," I added.
He said, "My twin nieces are autistics! Their world is so awesome. I think they prefer me to my brother when they're in meltdowns, they talk about what's going on in detail."
"Awesome!" I said.
At this point, we had been staring at the canes and I had been avoiding too much eye contact. I was about to ask the Idris Elba lookalike about advocacy. Then I saw a gleam in his eye and sensed a topic shift. "Hey, listen," he said. "I'm a proponent of the pay it forward thing. I know we're strangers, but I do know enough about you that you really want the dragon scale cane."
I tilted my head. "Yeeeaah?"
"So, okay." He pulled some pieces of paper from his pocket. "I've got a buy one get one half off for this brand of canes. I will buy you your cane. What do you think?"
I blinked a few times. I looked at him. He wasn't hitting on me. He wasn't being creepy. He was just a fellow cripple offering help.
"Okay," I said, "thank you! That's really kind."
"Hey, the community needs all the assistance we can get from each other. Cripples helping cripples, you know?"
I smiled. "Totally."
As we walked to a register, he said, "I want you to know that I had no intention of hitting on you. I see your rings, and for all I know they could mean something else. But while I think you're a gorgeous-looking person, I have no plans on being a That Guy. I punch Those Guys on a regular basis."
"Huh?"
"Physical trainer. Not so much punch as pinch in sensitive areas. Men can be scum."
I giggled. "Hashtag Not All Men!"
He laughed. "Anyway, let me pay for everything." He nodded at my basket, which had a few comfort items. I immediately said he shouldn't, since he was getting me the cane.
He then put my basket on the conveyor belt, looked at me until I noticed that his eyes had gold rings, and said, "Then pay it forward. Help another cripple." The corner of his mouth turned up. "Even if it's just donating to help someone get better access."
I nodded. I was going to cry any minute. He paid for everything, put his things in two totes and put my things in two more totes. He saved me almost forty dollars.
He said, "I would offer you a ride, but my friend's picking me up so we can go back to Philly. It's been a great road trip so far."
I nodded. "It's cool. I'm going to take the bus home anyway." I was feeling giddy. "Well, obviously we had this encounter for a reason. So. It was lovely meeting you, clone of Idris Elba."
He threw back his head and laughed. "I get that a lot. Same to you, clone of Mia Sara. Anyway, I'm Laurence."
"Joanna."
We fist-bumped and he helped adjust my cane for my height. We walked outside together, and he stood at the curb to wait for his friend while I walked across the parking lot. I turned and waved. He waved back and kept looking at me. I realized it was to make sure I was safe.
I got to the sidewalk crosswalk and peered back. I saw him get into a green SUV. I realized I would probably never see him again.
I am definitely going to Pay It Forward.

***

Also! Links! For future reference!
http://www.neurodiversity.com/main.html
http://cerebralpalsy.org/about-cerebral-palsy/associative-conditions/
http://www.disabilityscoop.com/2013/10/03/autism-common-cerebral-palsy/18775/

***

Also!
PMS is vicious. Although with oral contraceptives, it's technically withdrawal bleeding rather than menstruation. Besides, I haven't truly bled in over a year. Being on the highest dose of birth control for over fourteen years will do that to some women.
PMS is vicious. A veliciraptor chewing through my pelvis. There's a photo out there of a plastic female human skeleton, with a toy raptor stuck head-first through the pelvic bone.
And the bloating and bizarre fluctuations on the bathroom scale.
Having slid back to psychiatric anorexia after failing to control neurochemical anorexia, I know damn well I should not stand on that scale especially during this time. I know damn well that numbers don't mean as much as how my clothing fits. But paranoia bred from life-long anxiety over disordered eating patterns is paranoia. And then there was the entire food=growth=death connection when I was little. And then there was being under a hundred pounds until my mid-twenties. And then there was the anorexia voices insisting that I needed to get back to that, being under five feet tall. I was never overweight. I used to weigh something around the high "set point" - but I have no idea where I've constructed this memory of being convinced to lose twenty pounds. Unfortunately, my illness has burrowed deep enough into my subconscious that my thoughts have turned to the classic hallmarks of anorexia: "I absolutely must be below X number or I will never feel right". The unwillingness to stop. The belief that everything is wrong. I know where I am. I know what's happening. I've been able to compartmentalize and separate enough so that I smack myself when those thoughts occur, so that I at least eat an apple or two, or cheese, yogurt, celery, even cheesecake or dark chocolate. My friends are with me.
Sag Harbor will happen next week, with Thanksgiving. Part of me is in a total blind mute panic. That part doesn't want to eat anything. That part wants to Be Good, Be Perfect. It doesn't matter that I'm over thirty, says the panic. It only matters that I am extremely small and I must keep being extremely small.
To bring everything around again: PMS is not helping. PMS is several numbers upward on the scale because of fluid retention, bloating... losing that fight to not overeat. PMS is barely fitting into the purple dyed jeans yesterday and having them slightly loose today. It isn't helping anything.

But I look at that blue and silver dragon scale cane, bought for me by a total stranger with the same disability as me, and I think the best way I can Pay It Forward is to make sure someone I care for stays as mentally healthy as possible...
brightrosefox: (Default)
My modified Disablility Compensated Qi Gong exercises always help, mentally and spiritually and psychologically and physiologically. Like yoga, except Fake Yoga Cripple Style that is not actually yoga. (FYCS. FIX. Ha ha ha...) (Or hey, Fake Yoga Cripple Style Modified Exercise. FYCSME = FIX ME. Ha ha. Wow. Dude.)

But it isn't helping today. I'm too Hollow, which is my term for deep major depression. I'm too Postictal, after that unexpectedly awful seizure yesterday and its aftershock which were tiny seizures for hours. Emotional responses are foreign and results of emotion are mere symptoms, like crying and laughing. I will meditate again, do more qigong work, and breathe and much as possible.
FYI. I am having an episode of pure major Depression plus major Anxiety. This is accompanied by mild memory loss of the past two days. Everything is foggy. I know I should be upset about something, but I cannot feel upset. What is upset, anyway? I think I hurt myself emotionally yesterday. I wish I remembered what it was. I believe it started out with false happiness. Remember that weird assumption of some sort of hypomania? I think I was outside of my rational mind.

Back to special exercises.
People keep suggesting and recommending breathing exercises. I know all of that. I know people just want to share their personal remedies. I love it. Please don't think I am rejecting you. I love hearing your stories. Even the stories about yoga. I wish I could explain why just seeing or hearing the word yoga evokes a sad, upset reaction. It isn't that I am unable to do yoga. It is just that yoga extremists do not listen nor care about my need for compensation. My body was born crooked. I cannot form a proper straight line even if I held on to something. No amount of cajoling, insisting, or pushing different forms will change that. Please don't do that. Please just accept that I have to perform qi gong differently, and that qi gong included poses that are similar to yoga, and that yoga is not the greatest panacea of healing holistic practices. This is part of why I don't want to visit California, which makes absolutely no sense and makes me look prejudiced.

So. Please, please do talk about how much yoga is healing you, because that is beautiful and I am genuinely, honestly joyfully happy. But if you wish to suggest a yoga pose that can be modified for someone with a shaky, spastic, crippled body, please suggest an alternate form. That is all I ask. There is no such thing as a real panacea, even in the botanical world, even in the plant and herb world, and certainly not in the exercise world. It is entirely possible that I will find a set of yoga exercises that will really, truly help me, and I will join the ranks of yoga enthusiasts. Anything is possible. Nothing is off limits. Except evangelism. If I wanted something pushed down my throat, I will drink water mixed with special fruit and plant powders, like sea buckthorn and moringa.
This is coming from my years as a holistic enthusiast and pusher. I was bad. I was essentially an asshole. And then I learned that it was just wrong. I never want to do that again. Just because something works perfectly for me does not mean it will work at all for someone else.

Any form of good physical-spiritual combination exercise, be it yoga, qigong, taichi, strength training, cardio, dead lift weight, isometrics, plyometrics, dance, hardcore dance, etc, is wonderful and beautiful and strengthening, and will help everyone in some personal powerful way. That is the point of exercise.
I love you all. If you really want to help me, don't push me. Just guide me.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I am starting to officially read "World War Z" by Max Brooks. I don't know if I can. I'm not joking. I may need Klonopin. I'll have to skim and speed-read.
I know people don't really understand super irrational phobias like this. I know fear is a basic and intangible biological, evolutionary reaction, that it can keep you moving, that it can help survival. But irrational fears are... I mean... you know. They hurt. They damage. They are inexplicable. No amount of "Oh, get over it" can soothe irrational fear.
But I'm only at Tel Aviv and I'm shaking. I know how the book progresses, I know what happens, I know about Yonkers... through wikis and reviews and recaps and summaries. But I don't know if I can sit down and actually read the whole thing as it is.
My mind is so odd in that way.
I suppose this is a high praise and testament to Max Brooks's talent. But this is one of my absolute violent fears printed on paper and bound between covers. If I can make it to the end of the book - fuck, if I can make it through Yonkers - maybe I will be okay.
I just need to remember that any nightmares about living corpses stalking me are just dreams. To quote a beloved and wise friend: "being afraid of anything is bullshit... fear cannot hurt or touch you - put it in a box and stuff it the fuck under the bed." It is a powerful kind of truth.
It doesn't work in some situations. However, in my own case, it is the truth. To "be afraid" is to react. Everyone has a fear, multiple fears. But not everyone is afraid. Fear serves a very important purpose in evolution and biology. But fear is not the creature coming to hurt you. Fear is the response. Not necessarily bullshit. But not always needed, either. Fear can be worked with. Fear can be stared down. Fear can be danced with. Fear can be used. Fear can be weaponized. Fear can be altered and manipulated. Fear can be conquered.
Unfortunately, when I am smack in the middle of fear, I forget that.
I have been afraid of stories before. My imagination is active beyond reason. One of my recurring nightmares features a rotting, moving, gasping human corpse crawling onto my bed, reaching out, and stroking my face. This is why the television series "The Walking Dead" is essentially the stuff of my nightmares, and if I stumble across a GIF or macro of one of its zombies, I freeze in terror before scrolling past or closing the window; the fact that it is only makeup and corn syrup and costuming means nothing at all.
Therefore, BREATHING.
brightrosefox: (Default)
You know, sometimes you write something so bizarre and wild that you need to copy-paste it just to see how people would react...

"...it was like OH NO THE BIKER VELOCIRAPTORS OF THE APOCALYPSE WILL BE UPON ME IN THREE WEEKS AND THE WORLD WILL END UNLESS I FINISH THIS MANUSCRIPT IN THREE WEEKS AND I SEE PEOPLE COVERED IN FISH COMING FOR ME AND I'M SCARED.
But I feel better. It might just be the Klonopin, but I feel better."
And later, "PEOPLE COVERED IN FISH? WHY NOT ZOIDBERG?"

Long story. Long story short, I have a debut book that needs finishing and then editing. Also, I am on painkillers, muscle relaxers, anxiety relievers, and supplements, and also possibly too many cat kisses. I think those in particular can lead to strange behavior.
Good night.
brightrosefox: (Default)
Damn it, I really must learn to stop being afraid for no real reason, to not be afraid in general just because some tiny things may or may not be upsetting in the future.

I think I hate the future. I think I hate not knowing the future. I think I hate that the future can never be known, because the future is always changing, never set in stone, always moving too fluidly to grasp completely.

I have to concentrate on now, and myself, before I suffer more panic attacks and more seizures and drive myself completely insane.
Time for bed now, since I am finally tired.

Also, physical therapy was wonderful, if only temporarily wonderful.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I have learned this: I am good at pretending to be "normal" while my inner self cries out in fear and terror and anxiety and self-loathing, curling up against the rockiness of my scarred brain, shivering with open wounds from various hard scoldings that take the psychic form of beatings. I admit, I am a child in so many ways. I still do not know how to handle a hard cold world.
I am in support groups, and various therapies, and I am seeing various doctors, and I am taking various medicines that are working... and yet people still scream and scold me about mental illness symptoms that I really am still struggling to keep under control. I keep saying "This won't go away overnight. I'm not going to get better in just a few months. This might take years."
I am finally happy to know that people accept this. But I am now afraid to answer emails and phone calls from those who would only want to scold me. And if I do answer, my brain shuts down its emotional bits, turning numb and detached and analytic. That is not a way to live.
I am a warrior. I am a dragon. This is my fight. I will battle the parts of me that insist on carrying out symptoms of mental illness, but the only people who can help me are me myself, my doctors, my specialists, and my therapists. The only people who I want to support me are my closest treasured loved ones who actually understand what it all means to be swept away and nearly drowned by mental disorders that keep trying to destroy us...

Postscript: I suppose this would fall under that category of "stop medicalizing yourself, you hypochondriac cripple, grow a backbone and get better already." Sometimes I repeat that to myself; oddly enough, it is like a calming mantra.

Whatever

Nov. 3rd, 2012 05:43 pm
brightrosefox: (Default)
Well, I was recently accused of medicalizing myself. You know, putting every behavior and personal decision on my disabilities. And all I could do was shut my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose, and say, "Sure. Okay." Because oh gods, I was not having that argument again. Sure. Fine. I medicalize myself. There. Are we done?
I don't think they understand, care, or want to understand or care that these are things I deal with every day, all the time, without end, out in the open. I can ignore it. I often do ignore it. Hey, I don't need my cane today, I feel great! Hey, I don't need my painkillers or muscle relaxanats today, I feel great! You know, until I stop feeling great. Until I am in so much pain that I am hobbling and sobbing.
But the main issue here is "Every time we talk and I mention X behavior of yours, you tell me it's because of your mental illness or this disability or that disability. Stop doing that."
Okay. Fine. You know what? I will. Fuck this. Fuck it. I'm happy to stop talking to them about it. I'll just say, "Yeah, this is all me, I'm fucked up." I won't even mention OCD, or ADD, or seizures with post-ictal state, or major depression, or severe anxiety. Or any of it. Because it isn't worth my anxiety, my emotional freakouts.
I've explained about my advocating, and I was told, "You are not helping anyone. No one cares. Why don't you find a shelter or clinic to talk to?" And I shut my mouth, because I don't work like that. And people over the internet are still people. People who need help. People who listen to me. People who have told me how much I have helped them just by talking to them and being there for them. And the reply is, "How do you know these people are real?" And I say, "How do we know anyone is real? How do they know I am real? Do I care? People exist all over the place. And just because so many of my friends don't live anywhere near me, it doesn't mean that they are fake or I am fake or..." And the person just says, "Yeah, good point."
Oh gods, fuck it. I'm making myself upset again. I just... fuck, now I feel so useless. What is my worth now if I'm being told that nothing I do is useful or helpful or worthwhile?
Small disclosure: This is someone I met in DC many years ago and kept in contact with after they moved away. This person is older; a fairly anti-technology person who doesn't care for social networks and the like, who mainly uses the internet for research and to email people. This is a friend whom I talk on the phone with often. This is someone I love dearly and wish to keep in my life. But if this person keeps telling me that my online interactions are not as helpful, useful, or worthwhile as I believe, I'm going to tell them that we cannot discuss this anymore. We can discuss anything else, anything at all, except this.
Yep. Crying now. I didn't want this. Oh well.
Oh, I will get past it. I always do. I know this person never means to hurt me and truly doesn't want to hurt me. But we live such different lives. There will never be that true connection. My world is mostly online because I don't like talking to groups. I freeze up. My throat closes in that anxiety way. And of course, there are so many ways to get over stage fright... but I'll do that when it comes to that.
It's okay. I will take care of this. I just need to teach myself to grow a stronger and sturdier backbone.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I don't think I want to leave my house without psychic witchcraft protection all week, because within the next few days there will be scary things everywhere, and I don't give a fuck how plastic and fake they are, I still hate them. And I will bring a pillow to press against my face and I will threaten to beat anyone with my best cane if they try to get in my face with scary costumes.

*loves Samhain, hates Halloween*
*is so close to the realm of the dead anyway that there is absolutely no need to dress up and pretend anything because the veil is close enough to touch*

I don't know if anyone wants elaboration on that.

I will say that I nearly died several times during and after birth: my three months premature birth happened at two minutes to midnight under a waxing gibbous moon and an evening star. My personal magic is more orderly than chaotic. That is, it is a gentle and static magic rather than a wild and intense magic. Both are needed, both must be braided tightly as a unit, but I can only work with one at a time, or there is pain.
http://www.kakophone.com/kakorama/EN/astrology-horoscope.php/1979/4/6

I may discuss more if there is interest.
After my post seizure post-ictal state soothes, and after I rest, and after I sleep.

Any discussion of blood, gore, zombies, decomposing corpses, hideous death, and living dead will be met with silence, side eye, eye-rolling, and growling. (Vampires are okay, as long as they appear human.)

The harvest is coming. Time to drink cider!
http://www.thewhitegoddess.co.uk/the_wheel_of_the_year/samhain.asp

I was recently given a private reserve skin cream on Etsy that the
owner, a fellow witch, picked out the name "Moonlight Witch" from my
list of possible names. It smells and feels amazing and makes me feel...
well, at home! Plus, I feel more comfortable and charged up when I do
pagan rituals under moonlight.

Moonlight Witch Gypsy Body Creme reserved for Joanna:
Cocoa Butter, Shea Butter, Olive Oil, Grapeseed Oil infused with powerful extracts of Blue Lotus Absolute, Dragon's Blood Resin, Amber Resin, Coffee Extract, Coffee Grounds, Coconut Flakes, Frankincense, Myrrh.
"She walks the path where moonlight shines, for it is there her strength she always finds."
brightrosefox: (Default)
Well, fuck.
Sorry to post these here, guys. But I am having one of those weird creepy mental moments, this time regarding body dysmorphic disorder. Logically and rationally, I know I am not full of bad excess fatness and ugliness and stupidness. Logically and rationally, I know I am a pretty girl and a beautiful woman and I am wonderful and amazing in many ways. But you know mental interestingness. It is always interesting. In that way that makes you want to beat it with a sledgehammer.
No teasing, please. No mocking, no creative harmless insults, no poor humor. Not even out of love. Not right now. Maybe later when I am feeling better; we shall laugh and share whiskey and watch science fiction and cartoons.
But you know what? I know I am not alone. I know I have comfort out there. I know things will be all right. I know people understand so deeply that it goes beyond the soul. You know who you are, and I love you. <3
brightrosefox: (Default)
Dear Bullshit: Please don't start happening around me until this depression has lifted at least a little. I will do my part by refusing to engage in arguments disguised as discussions, whether on Facebook, forums and communities for varied disabilities, or blogs.
I am not well at all. My husband will be home soon, we will run errands tomorrow, and I will try to put myself on autopilot with the toughest strongest masks I have, because in my emotional brain I just want to curl up, read books and blogs I like, eat only if I feel very hungry, and not talk to anyone unless I think there is something worth talking about.
I know that everyone I love on Facebook and Livejournal will rise up and stand with me and give me strength, hope, love courage, and light. I am so very deeply grateful and just the thought moves me to tears. But I have no idea what my depression trigger was or is, and I don't want that unknown trigger to strike again and knock me down even deeper. I am responsible for myself and always will be, but it is always beautiful to know I have friends at my side, at my back, and standing in front with open arms.
You'll do that, right? You'll love me? Even if I am a fucked-up, mentally screwed, clumsy idiot who can't even work around Sensory Processing Disorder to figure out why the entire world feels like one massive tactile and visual scream inside my head?
brightrosefox: (Default)
This sums up too many things for me. It shatters and heals my heart.
Thank you, Shinga.
http://shinga.deviantart.com/art/Into-Dust-326278238

The body sings in harmony with the brain since the beginning. And when the connections are shattered and the harmony is broken, the only thing left to do is write a new song, even if it takes until the end.

*I cannot sing. I cannot dance. But I can write. I can speak. I can dream. And I can fight.*


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJ4RMyI90_o

I don't want to describe the pain today. I don't want to describe the seizures this morning. I cannot stop thinking about the dreams when I slept, the insomnia until four in the morning, the anxiety attack upon waking, the desperation to feel happy, the lack of appetite, the desire to feel comfort.

The best things about today:
All three cats surrounding me on the bed.
All three cats following me down to the living room, with Luna trilling, mewling, chirping, barking, begging for hugs.
Still being able to smile and be amused by Futurama and My Little Pony Friendship, which I think have been saving parts of my sanity.
My amazing husband calling from Las Vegas to tell me that he will be home a day early - tomorrow morning, in fact.

And so, I drink my superfruit smoothie, swallow my medications, perform my meditative magics, and try to mend my cracked rhythm for another day.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I think All The Things just piled on and I'd shoved them aside to deal with them later, and now it's later, and last night I broke down in front of Adam, like to the point of being unable to speak because the crying was so severe, and I called myself a monster, that I shouldn't exist, that I shouldn't be here like this, that I was lazy and no good and unmotivated and scared of myself and uncaring and insecure, and I wanted my masks and my costumes and my pretend face, my cosmetics and makeups and lotions and creams, all the topical things that made my outside skin prettier than my inside, and I wanted to keep saying I was fine and I could get up and keep going, and all sorts of things even though I wanted to fade away...
And he took my hands and he talked to me. He talked to me with tears running down his face and he told me I was kind and gentle and friendly and sweet and wonderful and brilliant and that I really just needed to be more determined, and I could do anything, anything, and yes I would never be cured, but I could make the symptoms less terrible. Like those tales of Sleeping Beauty where the final fairy shifts the death curse into a century-long sleep curse. No cure, just less awfulness. Oh, the tears. He shares my chronic pain, spending hours and hours awake with no food just to get the job done, his back and legs exploding in pain and he just keeps going, and I want to just keep going but I'm not him, I have a different body, and I just want to BE.
We cried and held each other and he told me how very special I am. He told me I was the most special person he had ever known. I felt his love as a tangible thing, something wrapping around me and weaving through me, and I knew deep deep down that he would do anything for me, anything at all, and it made me cry even harder, because there is that part of me that is monstrous and hates myself and doesn't think I deserve it. It's a quiet part, though. It's a very quiet part.
There are so many things I am going to do, you know. There are so many things I am scared of. There are so many ways I want to do everything. There are so many ways I hurt and hurt and I'm so tired of people telling me that it's not so bad.

Today, I tore a muscle in my lower back. Everything makes me scream. I'm trying to find the proper ethernet cable so I can fix our Netflix problem, but it's taking time and concentration, and I may just take a codeine just to get the pain out of the way.
I'm so fucking tired. I don't even want to take a walk. The simple task of sorting through wires is agonizing and my hands are shaking and on fire.

But in the end, I do love myself. I promise. Pinky swear.

/pity rant over
brightrosefox: (Default)
I think All The Things just piled on and I'd shoved them aside to deal with them later, and now it's later, and last night I broke down in front of Adam, like to the point of being unable to speak because the crying was so severe, and I called myself a monster, that I shouldn't exist, that I shouldn't be here like this, that I was lazy and no good and unmotivated and scared of myself and uncaring and insecure, and I wanted my masks and my costumes and my pretend face, my cosmetics and makeups and lotions and creams, all the topical things that made my outside skin prettier than my inside, and I wanted to keep saying I was fine and I could get up and keep going, and all sorts of things even though I wanted to fade away...
And he took my hands and he talked to me. He talked to me with tears running down his face and he told me I was kind and gentle and friendly and sweet and wonderful and brilliant and that I really just needed to be more determined, and I could do anything, anything, and yes I would never be cured, but I could make the symptoms less terrible. Like those tales of Sleeping Beauty where the final fairy shifts the death curse into a century-long sleep curse. No cure, just less awfulness. Oh, the tears. He shares my chronic pain, spending hours and hours awake with no food just to get the job done, his back and legs exploding in pain and he just keeps going, and I want to just keep going but I'm not him, I have a different body, and I just want to BE.
We cried and held each other and he told me how very special I am. He told me I was the most special person he had ever known. I felt his love as a tangible thing, something wrapping around me and weaving through me, and I knew deep deep down that he would do anything for me, anything at all, and it made me cry even harder, because there is that part of me that is monstrous and hates myself and doesn't think I deserve it. It's a quiet part, though. It's a very quiet part.
There are so many things I am going to do, you know. There are so many things I am scared of. There are so many ways I want to do everything. There are so many ways I hurt and hurt and I'm so tired of people telling me that it's not so bad.

Today, I tore a muscle in my lower back. Everything makes me scream. I'm trying to find the proper ethernet cable so I can fix our Netflix problem, but it's taking time and concentration, and I may just take a codeine just to get the pain out of the way.
I'm so fucking tired. I don't even want to take a walk. The simple task of sorting through wires is agonizing and my hands are shaking and on fire.

But in the end, I do love myself. I promise. Pinky swear.

/pity rant over
brightrosefox: (Default)
I think All The Things just piled on and I'd shoved them aside to deal with them later, and now it's later, and last night I broke down in front of Adam, like to the point of being unable to speak because the crying was so severe, and I called myself a monster, that I shouldn't exist, that I shouldn't be here like this, that I was lazy and no good and unmotivated and scared of myself and uncaring and insecure, and I wanted my masks and my costumes and my pretend face, my cosmetics and makeups and lotions and creams, all the topical things that made my outside skin prettier than my inside, and I wanted to keep saying I was fine and I could get up and keep going, and all sorts of things even though I wanted to fade away...
And he took my hands and he talked to me. He talked to me with tears running down his face and he told me I was kind and gentle and friendly and sweet and wonderful and brilliant and that I really just needed to be more determined, and I could do anything, anything, and yes I would never be cured, but I could make the symptoms less terrible. Like those tales of Sleeping Beauty where the final fairy shifts the death curse into a century-long sleep curse. No cure, just less awfulness. Oh, the tears. He shares my chronic pain, spending hours and hours awake with no food just to get the job done, his back and legs exploding in pain and he just keeps going, and I want to just keep going but I'm not him, I have a different body, and I just want to BE.
We cried and held each other and he told me how very special I am. He told me I was the most special person he had ever known. I felt his love as a tangible thing, something wrapping around me and weaving through me, and I knew deep deep down that he would do anything for me, anything at all, and it made me cry even harder, because there is that part of me that is monstrous and hates myself and doesn't think I deserve it. It's a quiet part, though. It's a very quiet part.
There are so many things I am going to do, you know. There are so many things I am scared of. There are so many ways I want to do everything. There are so many ways I hurt and hurt and I'm so tired of people telling me that it's not so bad.

Today, I tore a muscle in my lower back. Everything makes me scream. I'm trying to find the proper ethernet cable so I can fix our Netflix problem, but it's taking time and concentration, and I may just take a codeine just to get the pain out of the way.
I'm so fucking tired. I don't even want to take a walk. The simple task of sorting through wires is agonizing and my hands are shaking and on fire.

But in the end, I do love myself. I promise. Pinky swear.

/pity rant over
brightrosefox: (Default)
I think All The Things just piled on and I'd shoved them aside to deal with them later, and now it's later, and last night I broke down in front of Adam, like to the point of being unable to speak because the crying was so severe, and I called myself a monster, that I shouldn't exist, that I shouldn't be here like this, that I was lazy and no good and unmotivated and scared of myself and uncaring and insecure, and I wanted my masks and my costumes and my pretend face, my cosmetics and makeups and lotions and creams, all the topical things that made my outside skin prettier than my inside, and I wanted to keep saying I was fine and I could get up and keep going, and all sorts of things even though I wanted to fade away...
And he took my hands and he talked to me. He talked to me with tears running down his face and he told me I was kind and gentle and friendly and sweet and wonderful and brilliant and that I really just needed to be more determined, and I could do anything, anything, and yes I would never be cured, but I could make the symptoms less terrible. Like those tales of Sleeping Beauty where the final fairy shifts the death curse into a century-long sleep curse. No cure, just less awfulness. Oh, the tears. He shares my chronic pain, spending hours and hours awake with no food just to get the job done, his back and legs exploding in pain and he just keeps going, and I want to just keep going but I'm not him, I have a different body, and I just want to BE.
We cried and held each other and he told me how very special I am. He told me I was the most special person he had ever known. I felt his love as a tangible thing, something wrapping around me and weaving through me, and I knew deep deep down that he would do anything for me, anything at all, and it made me cry even harder, because there is that part of me that is monstrous and hates myself and doesn't think I deserve it. It's a quiet part, though. It's a very quiet part.
There are so many things I am going to do, you know. There are so many things I am scared of. There are so many ways I want to do everything. There are so many ways I hurt and hurt and I'm so tired of people telling me that it's not so bad.

Today, I tore a muscle in my lower back. Everything makes me scream. I'm trying to find the proper ethernet cable so I can fix our Netflix problem, but it's taking time and concentration, and I may just take a codeine just to get the pain out of the way.
I'm so fucking tired. I don't even want to take a walk. The simple task of sorting through wires is agonizing and my hands are shaking and on fire.

But in the end, I do love myself. I promise. Pinky swear.

/pity rant over

Calm

Feb. 12th, 2008 09:01 pm
brightrosefox: (Default)
I have eaten my peanut butter and jelly sandwich on whole wheat, and I drank my milk. I washed the dishes. I'm still shaky, but it has lessened. It is just me and the cats, for a bit, until Adam comes home. I desperately hope that the icy rain has stopped, that the roads have been salted and cared for. I worry for him and all the drivers out there. He is very skilled at driving in scary weather. I know he and Ghost will be okay.
I'm randomly flipping TV channels. I'll be taking a hot shower soon. My thoughts are still strange and somewhat scattered. I can only do what I have to do, standard routine.

Calm

Feb. 12th, 2008 09:01 pm
brightrosefox: (Default)
I have eaten my peanut butter and jelly sandwich on whole wheat, and I drank my milk. I washed the dishes. I'm still shaky, but it has lessened. It is just me and the cats, for a bit, until Adam comes home. I desperately hope that the icy rain has stopped, that the roads have been salted and cared for. I worry for him and all the drivers out there. He is very skilled at driving in scary weather. I know he and Ghost will be okay.
I'm randomly flipping TV channels. I'll be taking a hot shower soon. My thoughts are still strange and somewhat scattered. I can only do what I have to do, standard routine.

Calm

Feb. 12th, 2008 09:01 pm
brightrosefox: (Default)
I have eaten my peanut butter and jelly sandwich on whole wheat, and I drank my milk. I washed the dishes. I'm still shaky, but it has lessened. It is just me and the cats, for a bit, until Adam comes home. I desperately hope that the icy rain has stopped, that the roads have been salted and cared for. I worry for him and all the drivers out there. He is very skilled at driving in scary weather. I know he and Ghost will be okay.
I'm randomly flipping TV channels. I'll be taking a hot shower soon. My thoughts are still strange and somewhat scattered. I can only do what I have to do, standard routine.

Ice

Feb. 12th, 2008 07:03 pm
brightrosefox: (Default)
I am still trying to find words. I need to get this out.
I have a pathological fear of ice. Ice on streets, sidewalks, anywhere I could slip and fall. Ice sends me into panic attacks.
When I got to the Shady Grove metro station, where I would ride the bus home, the icy rain was still falling. Everything was covered in sheets of ice. Warnings blared over the metro intercom system. People were actually taking them seriously.
The bus dropped me off across the street, and one of my neighbors got off with me. He took my hand and helped me off the curb, and we carefully walked across the street, which did not have a crosswalk, or a traffic light, or a stop sign, just a curving yellow line in the middle of the road where pedestrians could safely wait to finish crossing.
From, there, my panic began to very slowly mount. I began to walk very slowly, a mix of crab-scuttling, baby steps, and a crouching march. The only safe places to walk were the dirt, the grass. Gradually I made it to the curb that led to the parking lot, where the townhouse mailboxes were. I had to get to my mailbox. I knew it was bursting with mail, because I'd forgotten to get the mail yesterday, and we get a lot of junk mail.
I stepped off the curb and felt the ice beneath my boots. The panic rose. And thus began a slow, shaking journey. I will not embellish nor exaggerate my perceptions or emotions here. Laugh if you must, shake your head and say, silly girl, it's just ice, who cares if you fall, just pick yourself up. Say that when you have several chronic illnesses that cause intense pain, soreness, and fatigue, when you know that even a slip and fall might lead to a hospital trip. Say that when you have a mind-numbingly severe terror associated with ice on the streets that you cannot just make gone. For some people, walking across icy streets is nothing scary. That's fine. For me, like many others, it is intense and horrifying.
I managed, somehow, to make it to my mailbox, clinging desperately to cars layered in ice, feeling my breath drag through my lungs. My gloves were sticky with ice, my fingers completely numb and nearly bloodless. I jabbed my key into the lock of my small box, grabbed the bunches of mail and stuffed everything into the plastic shopping bag that held my still closed mini umbrella. And then I began the desperate journey to the other side of the parking lot, to the sidewalk, to the grass, that would lead to my house.
There was nothing to grab. There was nothing to hold onto, besides ice-covered cars. There was nobody there. There was only me.
I made it to the strip of grass and dirt and slowly crept across it. I then had to step off that curb and get across the asphalt with nothing to lean against, nothing but the street. And the panic flooded me. I burst into tears. I bent over, gasping raggedly, clutching my purse and that bulging plastic shopping bag. I crouched there in the grass and the shadows, whimpering. I cried shakily for a while, hysterically, in huge gulps, pleading with unseen deities to help me, to help me get through this, pleading with myself. I forced myself to calm down, because there was no one else. There was only me. If I didn't get myself across that parking lot, I'd be out there for hours, in the cold and rain and ice.
Baby steps. Crouching down so low that I must have looked very strange. Yes, I could have just let myself go, slide, slip, fall. But no, I would not. I was too overcome with sheer terror. And I would make it to that sidewalk. No falls, no bruises, no pain. I would prove it.
And then I stepped onto an island of grass and dirt. I let out a shuddering, breathy sob. I kept going. The beige sidewalk was not as bad, but still dangerous. I kept to the side, in the grass, baby marching steps, clinging to fences of neighbor's houses. I got to my fence. I made it to my front door. I opened the door. I got inside my house.
I stood there in shock for a moment. I walked into the living room. I said hello to Jupiter, who meowed. I put my things on the couch and unzipped my coat. I noticed two open Budweiser beer cans on the table, and I made myself get irritated at the person or people who left them there. Because irritation was better than fear and panic. I took the beers, which still had beer in them, to the sink, then the trash. I told myself that the next time I spoke to my roommate and his friend who'd slept in the living room last night, I would politely but firmly remind them that in grown-up houses, we empty out and throw our beer cans and beer bottles in the trash when we are finished with them, that this is not a frat house. I held onto that irritation, because I needed something to keep that panic at bay. I was still shaking.
I went upstairs with my purse and coat and put those on my bed. I went into the side room to check on Penelope. Someone had moved her food and water bowls, and both were empty. I gritted my teeth, moved the bowls back into place, and filled them. I played with her for a bit. I got a plastic bag and scooped out her litter box. I took the bag downstairs and scooped out the two litter boxes in the doorless closet by the stairs. I tied off the bag and threw it in the trash. I washed my hands. I found the other two cats and picked them up one by one and held them. I came back to the living room and sat down at my laptop and turned my laptop on, and logged into LiveJournal, and began writing this.
In a few minutes, I will go into the kitchen and wash the dishes. I will make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I will eat my sandwich. I will wish I had Entenmann's mini chocolate donuts and cheesy garlic bread or French bread pizza. And I will eventually stop shaking.

I understand that some of you may want to offer me tips and advice, but I am okay, and right now I just want to congratulate myself on not having a complete screaming nervous breakdown in the middle of a frozen parking lot. I know I need to face my fears and remain calm and all that, and I did face such fear -- I got myself home. That is what matters.

I have mentioned that I hate winter, yes? Yes, I believe I have.

Fin.

Ice

Feb. 12th, 2008 07:03 pm
brightrosefox: (Default)
I am still trying to find words. I need to get this out.
I have a pathological fear of ice. Ice on streets, sidewalks, anywhere I could slip and fall. Ice sends me into panic attacks.
When I got to the Shady Grove metro station, where I would ride the bus home, the icy rain was still falling. Everything was covered in sheets of ice. Warnings blared over the metro intercom system. People were actually taking them seriously.
The bus dropped me off across the street, and one of my neighbors got off with me. He took my hand and helped me off the curb, and we carefully walked across the street, which did not have a crosswalk, or a traffic light, or a stop sign, just a curving yellow line in the middle of the road where pedestrians could safely wait to finish crossing.
From, there, my panic began to very slowly mount. I began to walk very slowly, a mix of crab-scuttling, baby steps, and a crouching march. The only safe places to walk were the dirt, the grass. Gradually I made it to the curb that led to the parking lot, where the townhouse mailboxes were. I had to get to my mailbox. I knew it was bursting with mail, because I'd forgotten to get the mail yesterday, and we get a lot of junk mail.
I stepped off the curb and felt the ice beneath my boots. The panic rose. And thus began a slow, shaking journey. I will not embellish nor exaggerate my perceptions or emotions here. Laugh if you must, shake your head and say, silly girl, it's just ice, who cares if you fall, just pick yourself up. Say that when you have several chronic illnesses that cause intense pain, soreness, and fatigue, when you know that even a slip and fall might lead to a hospital trip. Say that when you have a mind-numbingly severe terror associated with ice on the streets that you cannot just make gone. For some people, walking across icy streets is nothing scary. That's fine. For me, like many others, it is intense and horrifying.
I managed, somehow, to make it to my mailbox, clinging desperately to cars layered in ice, feeling my breath drag through my lungs. My gloves were sticky with ice, my fingers completely numb and nearly bloodless. I jabbed my key into the lock of my small box, grabbed the bunches of mail and stuffed everything into the plastic shopping bag that held my still closed mini umbrella. And then I began the desperate journey to the other side of the parking lot, to the sidewalk, to the grass, that would lead to my house.
There was nothing to grab. There was nothing to hold onto, besides ice-covered cars. There was nobody there. There was only me.
I made it to the strip of grass and dirt and slowly crept across it. I then had to step off that curb and get across the asphalt with nothing to lean against, nothing but the street. And the panic flooded me. I burst into tears. I bent over, gasping raggedly, clutching my purse and that bulging plastic shopping bag. I crouched there in the grass and the shadows, whimpering. I cried shakily for a while, hysterically, in huge gulps, pleading with unseen deities to help me, to help me get through this, pleading with myself. I forced myself to calm down, because there was no one else. There was only me. If I didn't get myself across that parking lot, I'd be out there for hours, in the cold and rain and ice.
Baby steps. Crouching down so low that I must have looked very strange. Yes, I could have just let myself go, slide, slip, fall. But no, I would not. I was too overcome with sheer terror. And I would make it to that sidewalk. No falls, no bruises, no pain. I would prove it.
And then I stepped onto an island of grass and dirt. I let out a shuddering, breathy sob. I kept going. The beige sidewalk was not as bad, but still dangerous. I kept to the side, in the grass, baby marching steps, clinging to fences of neighbor's houses. I got to my fence. I made it to my front door. I opened the door. I got inside my house.
I stood there in shock for a moment. I walked into the living room. I said hello to Jupiter, who meowed. I put my things on the couch and unzipped my coat. I noticed two open Budweiser beer cans on the table, and I made myself get irritated at the person or people who left them there. Because irritation was better than fear and panic. I took the beers, which still had beer in them, to the sink, then the trash. I told myself that the next time I spoke to my roommate and his friend who'd slept in the living room last night, I would politely but firmly remind them that in grown-up houses, we empty out and throw our beer cans and beer bottles in the trash when we are finished with them, that this is not a frat house. I held onto that irritation, because I needed something to keep that panic at bay. I was still shaking.
I went upstairs with my purse and coat and put those on my bed. I went into the side room to check on Penelope. Someone had moved her food and water bowls, and both were empty. I gritted my teeth, moved the bowls back into place, and filled them. I played with her for a bit. I got a plastic bag and scooped out her litter box. I took the bag downstairs and scooped out the two litter boxes in the doorless closet by the stairs. I tied off the bag and threw it in the trash. I washed my hands. I found the other two cats and picked them up one by one and held them. I came back to the living room and sat down at my laptop and turned my laptop on, and logged into LiveJournal, and began writing this.
In a few minutes, I will go into the kitchen and wash the dishes. I will make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I will eat my sandwich. I will wish I had Entenmann's mini chocolate donuts and cheesy garlic bread or French bread pizza. And I will eventually stop shaking.

I understand that some of you may want to offer me tips and advice, but I am okay, and right now I just want to congratulate myself on not having a complete screaming nervous breakdown in the middle of a frozen parking lot. I know I need to face my fears and remain calm and all that, and I did face such fear -- I got myself home. That is what matters.

I have mentioned that I hate winter, yes? Yes, I believe I have.

Fin.

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