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."
"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."
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!


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)
Since I am still in shock, I feel like I'm moving through the Kubler-Ross stages of grief completely out of order. I've accepted that Rose is dead and I am deeply depressed. While I held her waiting for Adam, I knew she was dying and I was already angry and bargaining. When the vet said she was critical, I accepted and realized she was probably going to die. When she coded and they couldn't revive her, I accepted and understood, then went right on to bargaining again, blaming myself and how I just kept waiting. It became anger, wondering how the fuck a five-year old cat with a clean bill of health could suddenly present with congestive heart failure and die so quickly. I became angry that we hadn't figured it might be genetic. I became depressed that I couldn't have known. I still blamed myself for not finding a way to take her to the clinic sooner.
When we held her body, I went through acceptance and depression again, followed by deep gratefulness that at least she waited until Adam came home, that Adam got to hold her, that she knew how much we loved her. Depression again. Acceptance.
No denial. Slight isolation.
I updated Facebook right there in the clinic's comfort room, since in this age of instant communication it was much faster than a sobbing phone chain. We finished holding Rose and signed the private cremation form. We walked to the car. My best friend Beca called and all I could hear was her screams, and I cried. She and her husband James came over with food: Whole rotisserie chickens that I ripped into because I hadn't eaten all day. Alcohol because it helped dull the pain. Being a doctor, she commanded that I keep taking Klonopin, as well as baclofen, two to three times a day just to keep my mind and body from shattering.
I realized how desperately I needed them there, and she knew it, and late that night she brought me to bed, fed me my drugs, and climbed into bed with me. Adam was downstairs on the couch with James.
I clung to my plushie ginger tabby Haiku all night. Beca and James left early this morning, and Adam came up to sleep with me. I woke up and instinctively reached behind my head to the soft pillow where Rose would be sprawled out, and I made a soft whimper of intense pain, because she wasn't there.
And Jupiter has been meowing, softly. Meowing and meowing. I don't know how much he understands yet. Luna has been so quiet, but always there, always ready for a hug. It's only been a day. I've only shed a few tears. The real grieving hasn't begun.
People are gently discussing taking me across the street to the new shelter on Solstice or after Christmas, to let me adopt a cat. Others have suggested waiting a few months. I cannot wait. Because I don't believe in waiting for too long. My heart cannot take it. I cannot spent months mourning and empty when a pet dies, otherwise I may lose my mind. See... After Tuesday died in November 2006, I spent four agonizing months with a growing, burning, echoing hole inside me, until I begged Adam to take me to the old shelter on Rothgeb just to look, just to see... and that was where Luna stole my heart and filled my soul. And one year later, my other best friend Charlotte begged us to come see her former coworker's new litter of five female gingers, and Adam picked up one, looked into those wide bright sunny eyes, and announced she was coming home. And Rose took our hearts and ran.
I never expected the baby of the family to be the first to die.
I think we will always be a three-cat house now.
I want and do not want isolation. I don't want platitudes. I am completely fine with "I'm so sorry for your loss" - as "sorry" is shorthand for "sorrowful" and it helps me to know that others feel the loss and mourn with me. But I am depressed. And I don't know what to say.
We have been getting so many phone calls and messages.
She was only five years old. I guess it was genetic. She was so young.

Now, her soul resides in the gold-cream clay sculpture Adam had made in her likeness months ago. Adam absorbed her energy, stored it, released it, and made sure she would stay with us.

The house of Rose's soul.
Oh sweet Bast, please love Rose and care for her. Give her sweet cuddles and nuzzles and kisses. And give her as many treats as she wants.
With Adam Paul´╗┐, the sculptor.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I'm too much in shock and too tired, so I am copying from Facebook.

Yesterday Part 1.
I don't think I'm having a nightmare. But if I am, I just want to do something to make Rose stop panting rapidly and lethargically with wide pupils and mild legarthy. It is four in the morning. I have no car. I could call a taxi service to take us to the Nebel Street emergency clinic but I can't think straight. Maybe she is having a cat anxiety attack. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's nothing. I will stay awake for her. I will offer her treats. I will remain calm because Klonopin is in me and I cannot panic. She is letting me cuddle her. Maybe it's nothing. I need it to be nothing. It's four in the morning and I can't drive and I can't find a carrier and vets don't make house calls. I need this to be nothing. Bast, please let Rose be fine. I will stay awake.

Yesterday Part 2.
Okay. Rose is okay. I mean... well, she did turn down Greenies, which never happens, which means she may not be hungry or is just very tired. When I pressed my ear to her side, I didn't hear anything unusual, just breathing and purring. But she also turned down water and food, which makes me concerned. Her nose is dark... is that a thing? I mean, it's not that 'normal' bright pink flush. She is also acting physically weak - when I picked her up she went limp, and when I put her on the dresser with the food and water bowls she looked almost depressed. She then jumped off and lay on the floor and mewed. I think it's allergies or maybe the start of a cold. She is absolutely lethargic. There isn't much I can do right now - I don't want to rush her to a vet right now just out of worry. She's breathing fine. Adam won't be home until tomorrow, though.

Today Part 1.
As soon as Adam gets home we are rushing Rose to the VCA emergency clinic on Perry Parkway. FYI. Her breathing troubles are much worse.

Today Part 2.
Rose Sunshine Paul.
Time of death: 2:20 PM December 14 2013. VCA Veterinary Referral Associates.
My cat died of heart failure caused by liquid around the heart and lungs.

Today Part 3.
Rose Sunshine Paul.
April 2008 to December 2013. Confirmed cause of death: fluid around the heart and lungs. Heart attack and shock.

At the Gaithersburg VCA Veterinary Referral Associates, the closest pet emergency hospital, the one we have been going to for years since its Darnestown location... they called in every single doctor and nurse into the ICU since Rose was already severely critical. They did everything possible to stabilize her even through the Code Blue. A dozen veterinary specialists for one little cat. They spent 15 minutes on resuscitation. Dr. Marc led us to the comfort room and said there was nothing else to ben done. Let me stress that every single doctor was in that room working to save our cat.
We opted for a private cremation. Just like Tuesday and Ralph and Puff, with polished wood boxes and name plates and clay discs with paw prints. These people were wonderful.
Rose died knowing she was dearly loved. She knew how intensely we cherished her. She loved us with every part of her soul. We were tribe.

Adam and I held her in the towels and hugged her body, and Adam absorbed her soul. At home, he transferred Rose to the sculpture he had made, with gold and cream paint. Rose as a soul will always be with us.

Read more... )
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)
My cats.
My wonderful, amazing, hilarious, magical cats.
No matter what the worst of humanity does, my cats are there to love me. When the best of humanity rises up to help the wounded and devastated, my cats are there to love me.

Animals are awesome.

I said a lot of things on Facebook.
I no longer want to burn humanity to the ground. Nor do I want to find some gateway to another dimension. We humans really are more loving than we are cruel.
Things will be all right.
We shall continue.

I am calm now.
I am listening to soothing music. I am watching amusing comedy. I have been medicated because Fucking Ow My Everything.

The world will be here no matter what. And I will love and be loved. That works.
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...

But I feel better. It might just be the Klonopin, but I feel better."

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)
I hate making cryptic posts.
But I must, because Something is starting to happen, and a Thing is unfolding, and there are Tasks I must accomplish...
And I am so scared I cannot stop shaking. I am writing for my life. I have to finish it. What if it's not worthy? They say it is. This is the Big Leagues. This is SO Fucking Huge. I cannot even.
I can't think.
I can only write.
Oh my gods.
I have to write.
And take more Klonopin and Passionflower.
I might lose my mind.

I'm so sorry. I can't say anything else. Maybe in private.
I've never been this excited, overjoyed, overwhelmed, and terrified all at once.
I'll manage. I'll get through.
Just breathe.
Just breathe.

brightrosefox: (Default)
It starts with Saturday, Imbolc 2013.
See, on Facebook, I ran into the girlfriend of a guy I had been friends with for years but had never honestly had one on one time with. Which is the story of my life, actually: Having all these friends and these acquaintances, and having memories of only parties, large gatherings, where if I wanted to talk with someone alone I had to almost push my way through and schedule a place.
Ben had always been The Dude. He abides. He has always abided. He is friends with so many people. It is understandable. His girlfriend, Jess... I didn't know her. We seemed to have many things in common. After months and months, I finally reached out to message her. And we began talking. And something started happening.
I said, "We really really need to get together. Just us. No parties, no house gatherings. Adam may or may not be home. But no matter what, I want you meet you, in my house." And she agreed, and we made arrangements for Imbolc weekend. Adam was indeed going to be home, so he and I set up for brunch and awaited the arrival of Ben and Jess.
They arrived, and I hugged Jess like an old, lost friend, and looking at her there was this instant knowing, this instant understanding and energy of "Yes, I know you. It has been so many lifetimes. I missed you." I hugged Ben the same way, but with a little less intensity, as I already knew him.
After a magnificent brunch, I gave Jess a tour of the upstairs and showed her my gemstones, and we talked about our spiritualities, our energies... how I am a beacon and she is a generator. And yes, the energy that came from her made my head buzz pleasantly. I realized that several items I'd been keeping hidden had been meant for her, and she was extremely grateful. I had randomly thrown wood brushes, lip balms, skin creams, gemstones, and makeup into a black canvas shoulder bag; I gave her all of it. It turned out that it was all exactly what she needed, even the bag. It had all been intuition and connection. I had known her already. And we talked about knowing people, about how she and Ben had known immediately that they were for each other. We talked about energy, about metaphysics and quantum physics. We talked about getting together again, since they live very close to our neighborhood.
When they left, and the energy was still rushing around the house and my head, I sat and considered. I believe I tend to be a little forceful and intense when establishing a friendship with a person I deeply like. I wanted badly to grab Jess' hands and tell her how deeply I knew her, how intensely we connected. But she knew. It was in her face. She always made eye contact when we talked and she always smiled at me. She glowed.
Later, I messaged her, asking if I did okay, if I wasn't too extreme, if I didn't put my feet in my mouth too much. No, she said, she and Ben had genuinely and honestly had fun and wanted to see me again. And that relaxed me more than I could have realized.

Making friends is so, so, so difficult, because I need to communicate on specific levels before I can actually approach them. Fascinatingly enough, Facebook and Livejournal are among the best things that have happened to me regarding this kind of communication. I need to type out words, ritualistically, deliberately, allowed to pause and stumble and correct. I need to assure myself that there can be a connection when we meet. My family cannot understand, and I know why, and I get that. But I am unable to simply walk up to someone and start a comfortable conversation without feeling an absolute terror of possible rejection so deep that I can hardly speak.

I love fiercely, I love deeply, I love powerfully, I love in ways that seem insistent. I need friends who can do that with me. And yet I will always, always wonder if I am making mistakes, if I am coming off as "too crazy, too weird, too dumb, too whiny, too clingy, too repulsive." I have learned that in the past, people have questioned my relationship with my husband, wondering how he could "put up" with me, if I was truly the right partner for him, if he could even handle me on a constant, consistent basis. I have taught myself to let those comments go, because nobody has any say about my relationship but my partner and myself. However, it really is fascinating and very interesting that people who should know me would assume that I am not good enough to be loved by someone who has so many different ways of living than I do.

Loving me is a hard thing, a wild thing, a weird thing, a deliberate thing, a test of strength and resolve. I am intense and extreme and stubborn and wistful and insane and I am too much inside my own head and quite often not fully aware of my environment. To love me is to live a journey through many worlds. I just want friends who can do that for me. I don't even care if they would badmouth me. These days I have stopped caring about many things.

The heart-breaking problem with online friendships is that meeting in person is usually improbable, or highly difficult. But if I were able, if I had all the money and opportunity, I would find a way too meet all the friends I have made online who I knew could love me the way I needed.

Right now, all I know is that I must see Jess, and Ben, soon. Maybe it will help bring me out of this quantum shell I have constructed around my heart.


Nov. 12th, 2012 08:02 pm
brightrosefox: (Default)
Adam just came home from work. We're having stir-fry, with string beans, mushrooms, and bacon. I certainly feel good about that. Next step: Learn to stir fry on my own.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be afraid. Not if it's only been a few days. My appetite has been odd lately. It doesn't mean anything threatening. I will fall back naturally. I will push myself up. I will be all right.

I'm so sorry. I am thinking of something cheerful and fantastic to post now; it breaks my heart when I vent things like this. But this is my journal; I must document.


Nov. 12th, 2012 07:22 pm
brightrosefox: (Default)
Oh, I don't want this to be bad. Please, Higher Brain, don't let this be bad.
All day yesterday I had trouble eating, and by the time I went to sleep my stomach was sending "starving" signals to my brain. I was in pain, dehydrated, desperate. I got up and had a few sips of liquid kefir to calm my stomach. When I woke up this morning, I was horrified to realize that for the first time in seven years, I felt anorexic. I managed to eat just enough to keep myself well, and now I need dinner and can't even think. Eggs, most likely. Gods, this is not good. I don't want to feel this way. I need to make it stop. I don't want this.

Apologies if I have triggered anyone, but... I don't know how to finish that; my brain just blanked out. I do need food. Right now. I don't want to worry myself. Not yet. But I need to have an eating schedule. I need to eat...
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.


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 see color everywhere. I taste color everywhere. I hear, sense, feel, and connect with color. I cannot imagine a world, any world, without color, even in my dreams, even without my eyes. I speak in color. Everything I touch makes me explode in color.

People ask me why I can't use my mild psychic skills to 'heal' myself. I still have trouble explaining exactly why that is not possible. I can only pull, manifest, and manipulate elemental colors and cosmic colors so much.
I do not expect people to know what I mean. My perceptions are my own. However, I know many people who understand what I mean.

"It's something about the color..."
It's always something about the color.

Often, I dream in octarine, the color of magic. Everything is magic, and everything is color, and color shows me the depths of the universe that I cannot fully reach, not until I join that cosmic wave, full of indescribable colors that define what it means to exist.

This is why religion will never work for me. Not enough color. Not enough expansion. Too much external force. I need more color. I need more inside. I need my whole brain, which cannot happen unless the dead white matter and the damaged neurons somehow move again.

I am my own connection to whatever forces move existence. I am responsible for my own existence. My Higher Brain, my Subconscious, my Quantum Psychic Brain, and my Self are working together to create the most intense positive energy I have ever realized.

My transformation will come only from within myself. I am waiting. I am moving in directions that feel so right to me, no matter what external forces claim. I am opening myself to every past hurt, every negative feeling, and shifting them into the light. It it is a constant cycle, and it hurts so much that sometimes I cannot handle it. Meditative techniques are like lifelines.

The important thing is that I keep going. I keep growing. That is what matters. I am following the colors. I am the colors. I am made of light.
brightrosefox: (Default)
I am writing this revealing post because my Psychic Quantum Consciousness smacked me with Get Well (apply directly to the forehead) and I am finally feeling human. Ish?

My nap refreshed me slightly. So did pain drugs and herbs.
Then I decided to paint my nails twice over: first with Sally Hansen Nailgrowth Polish in Divine Wine and then with Revlon Top Speed Polish in Dress Code.
The Nailgrowth formula will help my nails grow stronger (biotin, peptides, chondroitin, keratin, silk powder). The Top Speed formula will help my nails stay healthy (minerals, gemstone powders, vitamins, silk powder, keratin).
My nails are shimmery metallic dark violet, with shimmery golden dark red bleeding through beneath. I was surprised by the beauty of Dress Code, which is much more purple than Decadent (indigo violet) and more shimmery. Revlon is really good with nail colors. The fascinating thing is how the dark red and dark violet shades are merging as the polishes finish drying. (I am also pretty sure "Dress Code" may also be named "Violet" as the Revlon site does not have a polish color called Dress Code in the Top Speed line, but the shade Violet looks exactly like Dress Code.)
I had also applied makeup this afternoon, since brightening concealer used as foundation and dark red lipgloss made me look a little less ill and exhausted. I felt like an alien, but a pretty alien.

Beautiful colors do help take my mind of how terrible I am feeling.
Eventually I will stop feeling terrible and start feeling, um, in less pain? and now I am finally, finally starting to climb out of this bizarre depressive episode that has been like a rabbit hole lined with steel thorns.
Combined with one of the most severe fibromyalgia attacks in recent months or even years plus attacks from the various sydromes associated with spastic ataxic cerebral palsy, the depression shattered me for quite a while. I am deeply grateful that it began lifting just as I desperately wanted to lie on my psychic battlefield in a deep pool of my own psychic blood, too tired and too drained to keep fighting, willing to let my pain monsters grab me and take me like a trophy to wherever they live when not hunting. I didn't feel alarmed enough to call my doctors, I just felt desperate to sleep for a day straight until I felt human again. I honestly don't know what it's like to feel so darkly depressed, but I would probably admit I was getting fairly close.

All I can say is that I really am feeling better, covered in sunlight and moonlight with healing powers, since I am a witch and a pagan after all. And I can thank every friend I have for helping me, whether they knew it or not. And I can also thank my Higher Brain and my Subconscious combined, which I like to call the Psychic Quantum Consciousness, because quantum brains are cool.

See this entry for various explanations and stuff:
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)
Well, shit.
I feel another depression episode starting to happen.
Hate this. Hate hate hate.
Then again, I am a week away from my menses. But I can't blame that entirely.
Stupid self. Stupid body. Stupid brain. Fuck you, every part of me.
I want to cry. But the Soma and Flexeril has made me too relaxed. Pain is eased, anxiety is eased.
But you know when you can feel that heavy darkness creeping in, jaws open, talons clicking, eyes glowing. I don't want to eat. I don't want anything. Thinking of sleep makes me shiver, but I don't want to be awake,
I have an appointment with my pain specialist tomorrow, or rather one of the main nurses, and I will mention this.
Loved ones keep asking about the novel and the short stories. When will I finish writing anything? Will I submit anything else that might not get rejected? I cannot think about that without crying. I wrote pages and pages of something, and it might be a story, it might be a chapter. I will edit it later this week.
My cats adore me. My husband adores me. He will be home from out of state jobs tomorrow, or the day after, or who knows. It's always a surprise. It's hours and it's money. Bills will be paid. We miss each other, but we've been doing this for over twelve years, it's routine.
I need to meditate. My head feels so dark. Time for Klonopin and deep breathing exercises.
Fibromyalgia and spastic hypertonia are ruining me. I feel punched and stabbed in the gut by fire and stone and electricity. I can't cry.
I will hug my cats and my pillow pets, and I will brush my hair until my scalp releases endorphins, and I will read books, and I know I am loved.
My muscles are so stiff and sore and it is so hard to speak with the mild dysphasia, so I write and write.
I know this will fade soon, this will end. I will make it better. I need to care about things, I need to want to do things. I need to remember I am a beautiful soul. I am writing this now, so I can look back and remember, before a seizure strikes and I think I am falling all the way down, dirt in my mouth and glass in my skin. I will medicate. I will meditate. I will supplement. I will do everything I can. My brain will gradually soothe itself. I will help it. I have to. Poor sick brain, poor demolished neurons, poor damaged body, and it could be worse, and it could be so much worse, and I know that forever. So I push on and on, and I do everything I can to love, love, love.
Just love.

I am sorry about this. I swear I will blog about happy shiny things as soon as I can.
brightrosefox: (Default)
*teeth grind*
I try to be okay. I always try.
This time I just cannot make the thoughts leave. I've mentally tried screaming, pleading, cajoling, forcing, threatening, crying. They don't fucking care. They get louder and louder and they laugh and troll and tell me what a terrible human I am and how nothing I do will ever matter because in the end I will always screw things up, even though I have an actual excuse that includes various disabilities. The depression doesn't care. The depression insists that everything is my fault and always will be, and smacks me in the face with the trolling insistence that nobody loves me for who I am, only for what I can give them.
Internet trolls have absolutely nothing on clinical major depression.

I hate it.

Fuck depression.

I will now do everything I possibly can to fight, fight hard, but I am weak and losing spears and I just want to sleep for days and not care. But I have animals to care for and promises to keep and a life to live and loves to love. So fuck you, depression trolls. You cannot take me. Get the fuck out.

Joanna The Sicilian Greek Russian Romanian Hungarian Warrior Princess commands it.

I hope it works. Please let it work. Dear Cosmic Interdimensional Entities in this Universe and other Universes, if you can hear me, give me some sort of strength, because I am thisclose to falling down.

Thank you, New Model Army. Thank you, Justin Sullivan. (The Charge (Vagabonds) (Wonderful Way To Go) (Rivers plus Orange Tree Roads) (Ballad Of Bodmin Pil)


brightrosefox: (Default)

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