Out

He stood at the end of the couch refusing to go to sleep. With his dark hair lounging in front of his eyes, he insisted on more XBOX time before bed. Since he always wears red and blue, I wondered where he got those khaki shorts but knew now was not the time to ask.

I kindly informed him that now is time for sleep and time for XBOX is tomorrow. This sent him into a screaming tantrum and he headed for the XBOX to destroy it but an arm came and held him back as he cried and yelled for what seemed forever.

Finally, I could not bear it anymore and gave him thirty minutes. This is what he chose to play:


"I'm the man in the box
Buried in my shit
Won't you come and save me, save me

I'm the dog who gets beat
Shove my nose in shit
Won't you come and save me, save me

Feed my eyes, can you sew them shut?
Jesus Christ, deny your maker
He who tries, will be wasted
Feed my eyes now you've sewn them shut "*





*Man In The Box, Alice In Chains

A System of Glands

I cannot count how many months it has been that doctors have argued over my thyroid and what to do with it. One says it's fine the other says it is low ... or maybe high ... I can't keep track anymore. The truth is that no one really knows how our endocrine system works.

To give you a little history of testing thyroid levels, a few years back the American Association of Clinical Endocrinologists (AACE) decided to change the acceptable range of thyroid levels from [ .05 - .5 ] to [ .03 to .3. ].

This more narrow range seemed to cause allot of problems since the number of people with thyroid problems had possibly as much as doubled. What to do with all of these people with thyroid problems? Causing a division within the medical community, the end result was to change the range back the original and tell everyone they are fine.

So, here I am stuck with a thyroid level of 3.4. That seems fairly reasonable to me but, given my other symptoms, it is substantial enough that no one can agree as to what to do about it. From the literature, it appears that a small number doctors suggest treating the patient if the symptoms are there and not treating the patient if the symptoms are not there. This makes sense to me but it is apparently not logical enough for any doctor to work with another.

Again, with my doctorate from Google, I am forced to diagnose and make my own treatment plan. In fact I am so tired of dealing with it that I am posting this as-is and forget the rest.

None Were Ever There

A heart, so full of longing, bleeds
A heart, with no one to turn to, needs


Big eyes, desperate to seek, turn to look
Big eyes, set upon me, forlorn and forsook


Battered soul, ripped and shredded, left to rot
Battered soul, threads of loss, weakened and shot


My dejected hand, weathered and gaunt, reaches in
My dejected hand, barren, finds nothing left but skin.

The Last $50

Not being able to spend it, in the past I would have given the bill to my then-husband and he would use it for whatever was needed. It felt better that way. My parents periodically sent money and I felt, since I was estranged, that I had no right to it. Also, I just didn't want to deal with it. However, now the husband is gone and so is the mother yet there was another $50 bill in a Christmas card that was in the bewitched box of belongings that had been sent to me.


My mind being elsewhere, I haven't give much thought to it. Most certainly, this is not going to salvage the savings I will soon be eating up during my unemployment yet today my mind wanders back to it. What would she want me to have -- within $50? Should I give it thought this time or should I just keep it as is? I mean, for once, what would a typical mother want her daughter to have? There are many practical things that I don't purchase for myself; like, I realized that I don't have a measuring cup or measuring spoons or a sieve or a table centerpiece for my kitchen. Would those be a normal things for a parent to buy? Would she have wanted that? These are thoughts that go through my head today.


Sometimes, I am halted from my activities by a pervasive thought that "my mom's body is dead." The thought comes randomly, always uses the same words, and brings about very little emotion. But, it keeps nagging at me. I've had very little grief about the death at all and wonder if there are brewing emotions underneath waiting to boil over. Having missed the funeral, some say I will need to go to the grave site to get closure. I have not believed that to be the case but it is possible that this is where I'm headed with these dead-body thoughts. I guess only time will tell with this one. For now, I'll just leave the $50 in the card.

Desperate plans make sense in a low life

One Who Doesn't Care Is One Who Shouldn't Be

Today a nurse at my doctor's office became irritated with me while I was requesting lab results. They've been patient with me over the past couple of years but I supposed it is aggravating with me continually asking all the questions I ask. I keep pursuing a firm resolution. I prefer not to spend the rest of my life either suffering or just biding my time.

"Yes, we understand the impact of the beta-blocker is having on your life but it is the best we can do at this time, " they tell me. "Of course, " I understand and thank them for their patience. Nevertheless, in the long pill box below are the homeopathics I take for the immune problem that today's nurse does not believe in. Then, in the next shot are the rest of my pharmaceuticals. Seems perfectly logical that I overdose on them.

Dirt

"I have never felt such frustration
Or lack of self control
I want you to kill me
And dig me under ...

... I want you to scrape me from the walls
And go crazy like you've made me

... You use your talent to dig me under
And cover me with dirt

One who doesn't care is one who shouldn't be
I've tried to hide myself from what is wrong for me " *

*Dirt, Alice In Chains

Witchery?

There may as well be a box of bones in my living room. I am so nervous having it in there. Yesterday, I received a box of funeral paraphernalia from my sister. After I opened it, all I could do was sit on the floor and let strange moaning sounds come from my throat. I have not been able to look through the box or really investigate it.

I'm not sure why it was so important that she send it ASAP but she had been after me to either go get it last weekend or she would mail it. Given that she rarely speaks to me, I find this urgency questionable. I do not understand the importance. As far as I can tell, there is an announcement, a couple of photos, some flower-type arrangement memorabilia from the funeral.

However, in addition, I saw my high-school varsity jacket and a witch's hat. Yes, a black pointed witch's hat. This was so disturbing to me that I emailed her immediately and she responded that the father put it in there because it was one of the many things the mother had been keeping and they are working on clearing out her belongings.

Could it be from my 'Phantom of the Opera' makeshift costume from high school? Could it be some passive-aggressive message telling me I am a witch for not going to the funeral? Could it be a hidden threat from the father? Or, could it just be nothing? The next to the last possibility disturbs me most but I can only act as if it is the last option. After alll, assuming something is not going to help any future relationship that might be salvaged.

In any event, my stomach hasn't stopped hurting. This seems to have stirred something disturbing in me that I can't quite put my finger on. I've already been worried that whatever feels broken inside will never mend and I won't be able to work or live life as normally as I did before the melting.

Foggy Cracks

Since I am an unemployed person who needs structure, I came up with a set of activities that I needed to get done today. However, it took me three hours to get dressed and out the door. Then, when I arrived at my destination, I realized I had forgotten my wallet so that I had to go back home anyway.


It was easier going to day treatment because not much was expected of me. I could be unkempt, disoriented, unsocial, and none of it mattered so much. Now I need to make sure that my zipper is zipped, that my teeth are brushed, that I speak in whole sentences, and that I generally know my current location and intended destination.


Normally clouded in a fog, I suspect the medications are contributing to my increased fogginess and disorientation. However, I can't complain about them because they are supposedly keeping me from doing something dangerous or impulsive. I'm not sure what role depression plays in this either. I've had a few moments when I thought that life was ok but then there was a little pecking on my shoulder reminding me that everything has fallen apart and it is up to me to figure out a way to clean it up even though I don't want to.

December Melting -- Day 40: Nothing Left

1.11.10

Her: "You're insurance doesn't want to pay anymore so you're outta here today."

Me: "Huh?"

Her: "Here is a list of resources that might help you and I need you to sign off on your treatment plan."

Me: "Treatment?" (Disability has not been applied for ... I have no job ... I am severely depressed with little money ... having lived 'facilitated' for forty days now ... :: I go home take the pills they gave me, fall asleep in the floor, and drool all over myself :: )

Treatment. I should have tried putting an extra hole in my head instead.

December Melting -- Day 38: No Comfort Here

01.09.10

I'm waiting for the Ambien to kick in. I don't take it so much since it causes me to lose time if taken more than a few nights but at this point I can't see why it matters.

With the constant movement of my legs or fingers, I can't be still for very long. On Monday, I'll be entering the third week of IOP (intensive outpatient treatment). People usually get 6-10 days of IOP but I am still stuck there. There's not much more they can do there for me so I'm sure we're all ready for me to move but even I'll admit that I fear what will happen when it is done. Like today, without the structure of the groups -- I'm a writhing mess. God, how did I end up here?

Who gave them the right to bring me back? If it is against the law to take a life then they should not be allowed to bring one back either. They should have let me go. I hate them all with their stupid pills. All they have to offer me are pills and babysitting? What about my career and what I worked for, can they get back the mind that managed that too? I don't think so.

This mind can't read ONE page of text. This mind cannot lie in bed for more than ten minutes. This mind can't tolerate most anything. This mind is lost. They should all pay for bringing me back.

Where is the person who gave me comfort? Gone.

Where is the person who was supposed to give me comfort? Dead in the ground and more helpful even at that.

Where is the person who is supposed to be able to give me comfort BY NOW? Never existed. Body is here, mind is not.

This is my most bitter point. I've had no comfort or relief from this for almost forty days. None. No glue. No anything. Just pills. If what you people do is so good then why am I here after two decades of your handiwork and what the f*ck were you thinking to make me breathe again?

December Melting -- Day 14: Raging

12.16.09

Today was my first day in "intensive outpatient treatment." Being as all they seem to talk about are vague generalities, I do not understand the "intensive" portion of the treatment.

My guess is that this is baby-sitting for me. Since I have no job and no therapist here, they are concerned with me suddenly having no structure to my day. This is a valid concern. I do not do well without structure for any extended amount of time so I will continue to attend.

However, for the time being the mood swings continue to cycle rapidly. How many god-damn months has it been that I can get to sleep without what now seems to be some portion of a panic attack. Is it really so complicated to fix?

I try to do my venting in other constructive ways -- like drumming or video games or writing or getting on the treadmill. Nothing works. I lie down for a minute and boom, I'm pulled up as if I am attached to some masochist's string.

I don't know if I can go through with it again. I can NEVER EVER live my life again the way I was living before the suicide attempt. I do swear, here on this blog in front of all, that if I slip into that cycle again then there will be no option of outpatient treatment or any other kind because I will buy the gun myself and take care of it the best way I know how because at least I, for better or worse, have an answer.

December Melting -- Day 13: Cycling

12.15.09

Her funeral was today. Yesterday there was to be a simple graveside service but the family went against her wishes and had a full funeral. As my sister mentioned in her phone call, over 200 people allegedly attended.

I, of course, did not attend. Instead, I remain in this locked hospital unit rapidly cycling through past and present rage, grief, and panic. I go in the Quiet Room, I come out of the Quiet Room, repeat. I'm obedient about it so that I do not cause a scene but it is a struggle. I want to cause a scene. I want to yell and scream and break things. I want to bash my head against the wall until it is a pulp and every chair should be flying through the air.

I suppose I am raw and overly-sensitive because it does not take much for the nurses to send me flailing back into crazy-world. Why do I have to stand and wait an hour to get my drugs? If they want me to take drugs then give me the God-damn drugs and do it RIGHT NOW! Often they forget my blood-pressure medicine and I have to remind them to check it. The doctor said to check it BEFORE giving me the pills.

They've been giving me the thrush-causing inhaler as well. I refused it for the first week but; given that I'd already chosen to prefer death, finally give in and huff it. I've been taking the blood-pressure pills too, even if I am already dizzy and hypotensive. Doesn't really matter at this point.

I'm sure my name is rued throughout my entire home county since the majority of the citizens attended the funeral and I did not. Me being seen as the heartless means that she wins again and I lose.

I'm glad she is gone; a horrible thing to say I know, but I am relieved. Had I mentioned that already? She was so miserable that it hurt to see her and she made everyone around her just as miserable. It is good that she is out of her suffering and good that we might be able to heal and move on. Makes me angry, then ashamed, then angry again, then panic ensues into agitation so that they give me a pill to briefly stop a cycle.

I am probably making no sense. Past and present tense are no different at this point.