Pain Management: Thankfulness

I have learned much since being diagnosed with both mental and physical ailments. I have had some hard, painful lessons, and some inspiring ones. I know I have become stronger, in a way I always wanted to be but couldn't. It's hard to be truly strong when you are out of control of your own life. I honor and respect old me for trying to do it all alone, but that version of me wasn't ready to heal and move on. Riding out a bipolar swing is like trying to ride a stallion horse. It's near to impossible. But I tried, and though I failed many times, I still managed to do better than when I was on the streets or living at home in the "crack house."

But my many experiences, especially this year, have shown me I do have real strength. Not just toughness and pride. I came out of a traumatic spiral and I am still me. In fact, I think I am a better me. I went through hell in that hospital, and for a bit I lashed out because of it. The people who understood just how difficult it was for me to find a new normal, stuck around. Those who didn't...well, they couldn't understand. You have have a full blown psychotic break to understand what I went through earlier this year. I forgive them. And I know I don't need them for the future.

Most of all I forgive myself. How was I expected to be able to handle emotional storms when I just got on medication for a life-long mental illness I didn't know I had? How was I expected to be the Kweeny they loved when they were now different to my eyes? Plus, I was facing my own demons down. Every hospital visit, every therapy session, every time someone told me, "Don't stop taking your pills." On top of all this, I was trying to figure out why I was in so much pain and what was wrong with me. And I was struggling with doctors who didn't believe me, people I had to fight with to get to see a specialist who DID diagnose me. I had lot on my plate. And somehow I came out of it more whole than I have ever been.

I am truly thankful that chronic illness and metal illness forced me to learn to cope better. I don't sweat the small stuff now. If I have a flare up either emotionally or physically, I use my new support network. I talk to my husband. Somehow we are even closer still, because we are aware of each others issues more. He is amazing and cares for me daily. I in turn, do the same. Hell, he's seen me on bad days still attempt to feed him, because it means a lot to me to do so. It's my way of thanking him daily. 

But learning how to self care has been a hard but rewarding experience. I am getting better, everyday with coping. I know pain is a constant in my life, but I try to limit how much power pain has over me. I do whatever I need to so I can find my calm in the storm. I have even started doing things I consider "comforts" more. For example: I have a stack of tea. I love tea, but I never really make it for myself. I just horde it in my cupboard like it will not be replenished otherwise. This is a negative mindset for me. Tea reminds me of my grandfather. We had tea all the time at his house, and I miss him terribly. I think I was hoarding the tea because I thought if it was gone, he would be gone too.

Now I make tea for myself almost daily. Especially teas friends have given me. I smell it, I savor those beautiful moments with my friend and my grandpa, and I honor myself by drinking it.

It's a little thing, but it helps.

I am moving into a new stage in my life. I can feel it. I am super appreciative of the moments I can share with my friends and packmates. Every moment is precious now. Also, I am more mellow than I have ever been, and I am more at peace. There are still things that haunt me, as some shadows linger longer than others, but I am strong enough to say I need help when they appear. I am the warrior of my own heart. Because sometimes, you need to take up the sword and do your own cutting.

Pain Journal: Mental Illness and Chronic Pain

Being Bipolar and suffering from Chronic Pain is like living life on Hard Mode. In video games, I actually tend to avoid Hard Mode, because I get super frustrated. I play my video games much more carefully than I play the game of life.

It's been this way since I was a child. As far back as I can remember, I have time and time again encountered Hard Mode. It reminds me of a piece I wrote for creative writing class in college. We were supposed to write about our earliest memory. A lot of the students in my class wrote lovely things, like the taste of their first ice cream cone, playing with their families, innocent things like that.
Mine was different.

My first memory is of blood in my mouth from my mother punching me in the face.

If I am honest with myself, I have been in pain ever since that day. I just didn't think my body would betray me like my mind clearly did. I had convinced myself I was unstoppable.

I have to take a small but substantial amount of drugs. Every day. No exception. And because of the side effects, I can't do things like drink booze anymore. And I enjoyed drinking. Sure, I wasn't really a big drinker, but I liked having the option. I really, really hate when my options are narrowed and it wasn't done by my choosing. One thing people don't realize about me is how much of a control freak I really am. It became more evident once I went on the lithium and seraquoil. I started to realize how much I need to control the world around me. Even more so now that I have to manage pain. Being a control freak doesn't mean you are good at it though. I do not feel I am good at keeping my cool, or organizing things. I can't remember things I did maybe an hour ago, but I remember what my first taste of blood in my mouth feels like. I remember horrible things. Lots of them. If I tried to write a novel about my life, I don't think I can make myself into a convincing character.

No one would believe the shit I've been though.

The drugs however, have a side effect that isn't written on the label. It's one that is specific to me, because of my mental and physical ailments. Lithium numbs me. Because it soothes my mind and makes it so I am more able to be the control freak I didn't know was in me, I feel my pain from Fibro and Reynauds more clearly. Which means everything hurts more, and I can't react therapeutically to the pain.

Like for example, last night I had a hard talk about my mother and her suicide with my husband. I had a realization that maybe my mother was just done with trying to fight. I've had many theories over the years as to what drove her over the edge. It seems to be fresh in my mind lately because of my stint in the mental hospital. I really felt like dying at one point during my breakdown. I even wrote a note. To the average onlooker, it was a suicide note. To me, it was a good bye note because I thought the pain my body would kill me.

My theory about my mom this time was that she was just finished. She hurt too much. She just wanted to not hurt anymore. I knew she suffered from a chronic affliction, because the autopsy on her body showed growth on her spine. I always thought the quack doctor she went to was filling her head with shit to give her more pills and cut her up. She had scars all over her body from this butcher. I was convinced he was making her "feel" sick.
But she was sick. Badly.

I don't make excuses when I say these things about her. I wont tell you in some romantic way that my mother was suffering so it's okay what she did. I'm not a fool. She was an abusive, conniving bitch and nothing could change that. I know because I have experienced both pain and madness in equal measure, and it pushed me over the edge a few times.

I'm still haunted by my experience in Feb. The smell of hospitals, the constant needles. The bad drug reactions that made me trapped in my body, or completely flip my lid. Watching the clock while I writhed in agony. The stripping me down to a basic, broken thing when they locked me in the drunk tank. Watching my Reynauds flare up and loosing complete sensation in my toes and fingertips. The scalding hot showers that I couldn't control to give me a temperature that wont flare me up. The paper gowns. Cold floors and colder nurses. So many coloring books as my only solace while the other crazy folks scream and thrash themselves against the walls. Writing mean letters to people I thought did me wrong in calk in the small veranda.

I faced my mother's ghost in there in a way I have never done before. There was no pretty ritual to make it easier to swallow, no this wasn't the pretty way of facing demons. I went nuts and there she was, riding my skin. Right beside all my alters. Us and her.

I realized then if I didn't do something, I would never come back as Kweeny. I wasn't going to go down like that. Not for anyone, especially that bitch who birthed me.

So now I do this balancing act, every day, to be sane, whole, and in as little pain as I can possibly find. I take my pills, not because I like them, and not because I am brainwashed to do so by asshole doctors. I -know- I need them. They give me control back. I just loose some sensations in the process. Because nothing comes without a price.

And my ability to cry, wail and scream at the moon is now limited. My libido is gone, making me asexual, which is the weirdest shit to me. But maybe I need other things more right now. Like true intimacy, comfort and support. Maybe having my emotions dialed down is exactly what I need. My limits make other things stronger.

And maybe, this is the way things should be.

Halloween and Horror Keeps Me Whole

This is my month.

I am the Kweenybeast of Halloween. I can feel the change in the wind before stores have Halloween Stuff. When the weather drops, so does my ability to fend of flares, but October is my happy place. So I don't dwell on the flares ups to come. I know they will happen, I know I wont be able to larp come December, and I already had to bow out from a cool Halloween event because of rain and cold.

The cold is my bane, but Halloween is my anti-depressant.

I have had rough moments so far during this month, but it hasn't crippled me mentally. I won't allow it. This is the month I give to my inner child. My feral wolf pup self who I protected from horrible abuse growning up. I locked her away but for her own good. So she would never have to remember the horrors I have seen. So she could stay innocent.

Because showing any weakness where I came from, meant I could be killed for it. Literally. If the vultures smelled blood in the water, even a little, they would take me down. Hell they took advantage of what they could see. Like when I hit puberty and all of my mothers addict friends noticed.

And that was the first time I hated my gender.

Over time though, you realize even that part of your psyche isn't whole. Even she was touched by tragedy, but we made her a promise. We'd never let anyone hurt her again, and we certainty would let her have a second childhood. A way better one, full of monsters and Halloween treats.

So for a month I become childlike. I giggle in haunted cornmazes when monsters jump out at me. I read up on the best fake blood recipes. I watch horror movie after horror movie until I can't keep my eyes open. I drool over Halloween candies and eat Count Chocula, and I buy myself as much awesome horror and Halloween things as I can get my hands on. This is the best time to buy me presents. This is the kind of shit that makes my heart sing. 

I am a monster. But I am a happy one.

Last year I was happy too around this time, but I can feel that it's different with me on the meds. I am not so...manic about it. It's more like an even pace of happiness instead of an up and down swing. Even when I am in a bad flare up, I see a pumpkin or monster and I just feel my mind soothed. This shit really makes me happy. I really just feel the most...complete when I am being a big horror nerd. It's not like I don't do this stuff all year round, but I pace it out more during the rest of the year. This month I drown in it. I devour it. I gorge myself on Halloween and horror shit until I burst. 

 Because it's my happy place. 

So Little Q, Happy Halloween! Thank you for seeing beauty in the darkness. Keep your fuzzy wolfie self shining! 

Rebuilding The Beast

I know I've said it before, but I will say it again, my hubby is a rockstar.

Today was the eclipse and maybe that had something to do with it. Or maybe it was the fact we are both super sore and tired of the current way of things. Literally. My husband has back issues and so do I. Ever since I injured myself, my back has never been the same. And coming out of the hospital and looking at all the debt collectors who want money for those visits, has really crushed me emotionally. I can't live like this. My doctors say I am too fat. I am over 200 pounds and I am a tiny person. I am only 5 foot 3. This is not good for me, and not just because of the Fibro and other Chronic shit. I know some of my weight gain is the drugs they put me on, but not all of it. And I have been eating for comfort a lot. Because it is one of the few vices I gave myself excuses for.

No more.

I told my husband I wanted to hurt less. That I should change my diet like my doctors say. That I need to exercise more, but carefully, so I don't cause more injuries. He agreed, and said he should do it too because he feels like shit as well. He wants to be stronger for LARPING, and so do I. I want to be able to do fights more. I like fighting. I have always been a fighter. I don't feel defeated anymore. I feel angry. And I am going to use that rage to get healthier.

It helps that my hubby wants to do this too though. Having a workout buddy who can bitch you out when you need it and wipe your tears is essential. It's going to suck a lot to start with. We are gonna slowly phase out junk food from our house and replace it with veggies and protein. We have decided a routine we are going to try that will help build strength and muscle, then we will go into endurance. I told him my pace will be slow to start, and I am gonna get mad a lot. Especially at myself when I cant do what I think I should be able to do. I know he will support me and keep me inspired to keep going. He knows me. And I will do the same for him.

I think what made this more real was when I admitted to myself that this is just another part of my life. I won't allow all this chronic illness shit to dictate who I am. I am a fucking bad ass. And I will be a bad ass again. This was a minor setback. My entire life up till now has been a hard fucking road, so it's no different that my damn mid 30's be hard as well. This is just how it is, and like my past, I will overcome again and prove them all fucking wrong.

I am better than chronic illness. I'm a Kweenybeast. And I will go out like a fucking beast.

Pain Journal: Day To Day Sacrifices

Everything takes sacrifice. I have known this my whole life. But with everything that has happened this year, I have also learned sometimes you don't get to choose when you have to sacrifice or not. I don't live in the delusion anymore that fate exists or that I have complete free will. Loosing these comfortable illusions have made me wiser to what really matters.

The day to day choices we make to either improve ourselves or not is what matters. Yes, some days are going to be harder than others. Some days I am going to just feel like shit, emotionally, or physically. Some days I have to struggle to just get out of bed, and that will be my little victory of the day. Sometimes all I can have is words to comfort me, because touching me or anything else of that nature is going to cause more harm then good. Sometimes I go into an event knowing I will hurt later for it. These and many other things, are the little sacrifices I do to continue to exist in this world.

It can be a real challenge. I spent the weekend having a blast with friends, playing monsters, refugees and salvagers in the LARP. I had fun. But on Sunday when I woke up I knew even the little I did costed me, and I was going to pay for it probably all of next week. I am hoping I feel better soon, but I don't count on it. I do what I can to ease my pain until it reaches a point I can do creative work through it. When it's really bad though, all I can do is rest and try to distract my mind from things.

But I knew what I was getting into. I didn't realize how hard NPCing is on me though, because this LARP I went to is different than the others. It's one of my favorites for sure, but I don't know if I can NPC for it anymore. It's so high combat that I couldn't avoid being in combat, even when I was supposed to be a non-com character. It happened twice, and I do enjoy battle, but I can't do as much of it anymore. Constant battle is not good for me. I end up hurting myself later to a high degree. My heart wants to be in combats. I always give my characters the option to fight for that reason. But an NPC is not a character. I have to do what is good for the story, not what is good for my personal ambitions.

I need to be more assertive too with my needs. I know I try to not burden people, I worry way too much about that. I am afraid of pushing people away, which I have done earlier this year. So I struggle with what I need, and what others want from me, and if I can't live up to their expectations I feel shattered. Every time. Sometimes I think I might be assuming they expect things from me, but I can't tell. I am afraid to ask. I am afraid of letting myself down too. My husband says I have a fear of success and that is holding me back. But how can I be successful when I can barely keep up with the world anymore? When my pain holds me back? When I need pills to just be "balanced" so my mania doesn't destroy me?

My heart is heavy, but I am still here. Those of you who love me and worry that you could loose me to the darkness, don't. Your light keeps me from falling back into the pit. Thank you for being there for me. I'm going to find a way to overcome all this, even if I can only do it on a day to day basis.

In time I will wrangle my monsters and turn them into wild dreams. For now, I am going to nurse my broken body and try to not hate myself for not accomplishing anything.

Chronic Werewolf Update

Today was a pretty good day. I was exhausted and sore, but not to a point that it's hard for me to function at all. So I enjoyed it. Not only that, I got to spend time with one of my good friends who is moving to Seattle. Seems like a lot of my true friends keep moving away lately, which is hard but I get it. Change happens. I'm glad that this change is a good one for my friends, because I ultimately want the best for the people I love. I won't lie and say I am not sad to see people go.

We talked about my health a little, and I have had a long hard road. Where I am now is better than where I was in Feb, but it hasn't been easy. I have my medications for my brain and medications for my body, and so many different kinds of medical professionals. All of this has been overwhelming and I have had to learn new coping mechanisms. I have come a long way.

I hate living with constant pain. I hate not completely trusting my mind. I have a list of complaints, but at least things are slowly getting better. They had to get worse before they got better, but in the end things are adjusting. A lot of what I do to cope is adjusting.

My husband and I have been really busy in the last few weeks too, so we are trying to slowly unwind. I don't function on the same energy levels as most people around me, so I need to take down time to recover if I push myself. It's like my energy bar is always at half, while others get a good nights sleep and wake up with a full bar. It sucks, but I learn to adjust to that as well.

At least despite all the pressures lately, things have been good between my hubby and I. I am always thankful for that. I have an amazing relationship and I know it. I am proud of it. We've been through a lot together and have come a long way. A really fucking long way. With border crossings and everything.

Now I think I will rest up and watch some silly shit with my husband. One of my favorite distractions.

Medicated Wolf

These chronic wolf-woman observations are brought to you by the song Comfortably Numb.

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It's getting easier to tolerate all the medications I need to just reach half of normal functioning power. I feel like I am constantly an outdated, broken down, model of a creature called Kweeny. Some wacko that was lovable. A person who used to maintain relationships in a healthy way. Someone people once referred to kindly as Kweenybeast. People respected hir. They knew ze was nuts but for some reason, weren't afraid. They didn't leave. They didn't drop hir like a  hot rock the moment she flipped out. It didn't matter she was insane. She was still welcomed to the group and made to feel a part of it.

I'm on pills to regulate my "imbalances" in the brain. No one knows the terrors I have seen in my life, right up to this year. Being locked against your will, screeching like a banshee to be let out. No one caring that though your mind is shattered, your body is too, and it's flaring up right now due to stress. I really do feel like a ghost these days. A Ghost trying to remember who ze was.

It's hard to sleep still. My body is getting used to the drugs. The same drugs people constantly tell me to NEVER STOP TAKING, as if I do I might revert to my crazier self and do unspeakable things! It's cool, don't worry reader. I won't stop taking them. You don't have to deal with me at full strength anymore. You don't have to deal with me at all if you don't want to.

And unlike before, I won't be broken when you leave.

Thank you meds. Thank you for taking a lot of my fucks away.

Being bipolar is like having waaay to many feelings all at once, all the time. On a high swing, things are fucking amazing! It could be anything from eating cake, to your wedding day. They will be about the same fucking awesomeness, and it will feel really good.

The down swings though...

Let's just say I have stared my death in the face more times than a person should.

Some of my pills I take are for that. For the bipolar/emotional crap.  And I should never stop taking them. EVER, EVER...or else I turn into a werewolf and eat the world.

Some of my drugs are for pain. I take a combo of things for pain, because pain is one of the few constants in my life. I can depend on pain. It won't leave me know matter how much I cry and beg. I am done judging myself for my drugs. I have to take these things and that's that. I want to make things, go places, see the world outside my house. I want my skin to not hurt in sunlight or shade, I want to dance without costing myself spoons for tomorrow. I want to go to a convention and not sleep though half of it because I hurt too much.

Always because I hurt too much.

I know I have to be careful with this path, because my mother was a pill-popper. She smoked things, but mostly she loved pills. She got whatever she wanted from her quack doc. I watched him as a child giving her drugs, handing her packages of pills. It's been hard for me to adjust to this life. This strange sort of half-life I maintain with medication. I'm trying to teach myself to call it that, to not always refer to it as drugs. Not because they aren't drugs, but because I need a better way to look at the situation. So I don't allow people to treat me like her.

If I ask for medication, it's because I fucking need it. I don't do it for a lark or to get high. A lot of the stuff I take I can't get high off of anyhow. I don't do drugs. I medicate. I am trying to be a better me, even if that me has lost her sexdrive and has become numb.

There are always side effects.

Wolf Demons

When she opened her eyes, it was all around her. Clinging to her spirit like quicksand. She felt like everyday she was sinking. Everyday, she was carrying a stone around her neck. Or sometimes it was the shoulders. Or maybe it's actually in her tail bone...

Pain, it was a part of everything now. From the very tips of her toes to the top of her head. It controlled the temperatures in her body, or when she felt pins in her skin, crawling up and down her body like bugs, or how every morning her back ceases and she has to painfully stretch to try and unlock it, pain controlled it all. A pain she was told wasn't real enough to matter. She won't die from this. That would be too easy. No, a creature such as she is made for suffering, not for living. That is the curse of the change.

She no longer had the moon to blame. Because this werewolf was born a wolf, the human part of the wolf came later. She was raised by werewolves. They were just like her, fighting with inner demons that life conjures up. The problem was, they hurt each other, and so they fed their demon-wolf selves. Feeding the dark wolf. Becoming something more.

The struggle inside is excruciating, and manifests itself on the outside.

But I've come to an understanding...

And in that knowledge, there is strength still.  

Today's Answer.

"You have Fibromyalgia."

Such a simple phrase. But somehow hearing a pain management specialist say it makes it more real. Even wrote it on a piece of paper. I showed my husband the moment he came through the door.

It's real. I'm not just a crazy person. I'm crazy and in real pain.

I told the doctor about my pain and he listened. Really listened! About the nights I don't sleep. About how when I am manic I can cause a flare up because I do crazy things and push myself. He did the point test. And he told me what was wrong with me.

He diagnosed me.

There is a part of me that is darkly laughing. Not sure if it's an actual laugh or something twisted. Because I don't WANT this to be real. I am fucking tired of having issues with my body! I am beyond happy, so I know this dark laugh isn't full of joy. Because answers aren't comforting. My emotions are turbulent. Laugh like a madman and howl at the moon.

I think I might break down and cry later on. When no one is around to hear it. Because I can't take people's eyes right now. Don't want to burden my husband with my shitty emotions. Everything hurts right down to the core of me.

To the fucking quick.

My mother's laughter fills my head too. Her evil bitch laugh. Such mockery and vengeance in her laughter. She did curse me. Thinking of her makes me rage. Because sometimes, even when you win, you loose.

I haven't won anything gang. But at least I have an answer.

"Dearly" Departed

I've been a really moody bitch all week, and despite myself, I have set parts of my life on fire and salted the earth. It was an extreme reaction from me, and I realized my bipolar is flaring up right now. Despite the meds. Lots of stressors are pulling at me to help with the flares I am having physically and mentally, and when I saw what tomorrow was going to be, my mood the last few days has made perfect sense.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of my mother's suicide. And I am wondering which part of me is deciding this year it's going to hurt. I mean, I always remember the day they found her, not the day they buried her. I sometimes even get the months mixed up. Some years I pretend nothing happened, others I flip out and lock myself away. I'm so messed up I can't even grieve about my mother like a stable person.

But I do grieve. And I always will.

You never get over a suicide. Especially since she was one of my main abusers growing up. Growing up with her taught me you had to scream to be heard, you had to fight to make the pain stop, and you can't trust anyone. Family is a comforting delusion other people get to have. No one will take care of you but yourself. And if I stayed in her house for too long, I'd become an addict and a monster too.

My mother was 41 when she died. She had enough drugs in her to kill an elephant when they found her dead in her hotel room. She did it in a place I had fond memories of before the incident, Niagara Falls. I used to love watching the rushing water. Forces of nature are amazing to me. I recall Houdini went over the Falls in a barrel once. I try to focus on that now.

I have speculated why she did it several times, but I honestly will never get that answer. It's just another mystery, like so many things in my life, that most people don't have to deal with. And the thing that really makes grief about my mother hard is that there are no real good times to fall back on. I have a memory here or there, but I can tell you they would fit on less than 5 fingers if we counted them. Which is a sad, horrible state of affairs. My mother was not a happy person, was untreated for all sorts of mental disorders, and was usually on more drugs than she needed. I'm sure she was probably trying to self medicate, because there was shit wrong inside her body as well as her mind. When they did the autopsy on her, they found growth on her bones. She used to try to scare me and tell me, "One day Kweeny, your body will betray you too. You'll get sick like I am. And your life will be all pain."

She wasn't right often, but when she was...

When I broke my tailbone it felt like my mother's curse had come full circle. Like I couldn't escape a life of pain and madness. And when I went into the hospital this year, it shattered me. I have had a hard time returning to my core self since. I wake up in drug hazes, I go to sleep in drug hazes. I have cold sweats and nightmares. I wake up in horrible pain that makes me grit my teeth every morning. I am a pariah to some, to others, just a moment in time. I still have bipolar swings, and I am not happy with how I am coping.

So I am not okay this year.

A friend suggested I draw, but my pain about my mom might make that actually physically too much for me to bear. My mother never supported my creative pursuits. I told her I wanted to be in a band, she laughed at me and told me I was too ugly. When I drew things for her, she would only point out their flaws and tell me to quit trying...

Sometimes she literally beat the dreams out of me.

But I am going to try finishing my painting I started the other night. Even if the voices are really loud tonight and my pain is really intense. I will see how far I can get before I just cant do it anymore. The painting is emotionally relevant to what I am dealing with right now.

A Letter to The Mother Who Wasn't

Dear Cathy,

I'm not sure there is a point to writing to the dead, but I am going to do it anyhow. For me. Because I don't live in your shadow anymore. I do this right after taking a handful of medication, PRESCRIBED TO ME BY A DOCTOR, for all the messed up shit my genes carry. I still remember the day you cursed me, and how I shrugged it off as just another asshole thing you said while high...

"One day, you are going to hurt the way I do."

For once, you actually were telling the truth. Like you, I have mental illness. Like you, I have physical ones too. Ones I thought you were lying about, because more then half the time you DID lie about your problems. How many days did you sit my sister and I down on the end of your bed and tell us you were going to die? You had it all figured out too, like death was something you just circled on a questionnaire. Today I choose Death. Check mark. Simple as that.

I know better now. I know the horror and despair of death. I know the helplessness and the fear. I know all the terrible and even beautiful parts of death. I think about death and my relationship with it every time I process bones for art. I think about it every time I walk through a grave yard. I know how close it is. But I also know that choosing death isn't as simple as a check mark.

You just made it sound that way.

My pill jar isn't a 20 sided, spinning container of Russian roulette. It has my day and nighttime pills marked off, and that's it. I could barely handle looking at my pill jar when I first got it, because it reminded me of you. Watching you spin your pill jar until you got the section you wanted, and see you dump a pile of pills into your hand then into your mouth. Dry. Like a fucking pro. You did this several times a day. You were courting death, and it wasn't romantic. There was no beauty in what you did. And it was the same action you pulled when they took you to Niagara Falls. My sister and Grandmother didn't know you were done with life, and sadly, my Grandmother didn't care. You were done. You didn't want to try, didn't want a second chance, and sure as hell didn't want to ever give my sister or I the chance to be your family.

So now I have to carry around the shadows of all that transpired between us. All the things left unsaid. All the bullshit and lies, and all the abuse you refused to knowledge happening under your roof. I went fucking mad recently and no one really blamed me. Anyone close to me knows what I have endured. Knows about the "drug house" and the life you cultivated for my sister and I. How I protected her many times from predators. How I can't even sleep at night like a normal person because people raped and beat me when I was vulnerable at night. The beatings sometimes were from you. You were terrifying when high. You switched personalities, and the one I knew as my mother would be replaced by a vicious beast. The beast wasn't human. It lived on fear. It would punch me in the back, shake me awake and threaten me so I wouldn't want to fall asleep. And if you weren't beating me...I still get upset if someone walks past my bedroom door when I am in bed. I have a roommate who gets up at all hours, and he wakes me up constantly just by walking past my door. I can't seem to shut it off. Every time I freak out a little.

I am 34 years old, and I need pills to sleep. I need anti-psychotics, I need pain medication. I cannot function without these things. Because people touched me. People raped me. People beat the fuck out of me...in YOUR house. A child is supposed to be safe in their house. A child should be able to trust their mother.

I had no mother.

This only touches the surface of what I endured. And you are gone now, so nothing I say here will reach your ears. But I needed to write this. For me. For the child I was. Because little Kweeny was a creative, and beautiful soul. She grew up hard and fast, and never got to play, so damn it, I play now. She had to learn most things on her own. She made mistakes, because she was a tough little shit who didn't trust easily. She still doesn't. But she's better now. She is loved and has a huge pack of friends in her life, and she doesn't need you anymore. She's free now.

She can run with wolves now, not drug addicts.

And she won't check the death box.

~Kweeny Todd

On Swords in the Snow and Writing

I have many friends in Canada I still keep in contact with. Some friendships can survive distance, which I am grateful for. One such friendship is with my Big Sister Marcy. She is one of the few people I call Big Sister, because I tend to be the Older Sister. I'm an old soul, and I am in my mid 30's. So I tend to hang around a lot of young folk who look up to me.

I look up to Marcy though. She's a strong bitch who survived a lot of shit. We both came from hard backgrounds, we both got raised in the same city (and know what The Hammer means), and we even know some of the same folks from that place. But she's survived some really frightening things, like being in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina happened. She's a fucking bad ass, because she managed to live through it and come home to tell the tale.

We have started a new project together that I am stoked about. My first time co-writing with her! It's going to be awesome. I can't say much more as we are still in the brainstorming stage, but it is going to be awesome. I am glad to be doing some creative with my Big Sis!

She showed me some amazing pictures she did sitting in the snow with her blade. She looks like a warrior Queen. A true, fierce powerful force, cutting through the elements. She told me she had a mantra in her head as she did the photos, "Make pain bend." I found this extremely powerful. Make Pain Bend. You can't erase it. You can't go back in time to when it wasn't there. It is here, in the now, and you can live with it. Bend the pain. Not yourself. Yes.

This is the battle one has with Invisible Chronic Illness. The battle of making pain bend. Of being alive with the pain. It is a struggle. Every day the pain takes more and more of your time, your sense of self, your ability to get up and fight. Just bend it. As much as you can.

She told me she thought of me while sitting out in the snow, which was a great honor to me. She knows how hard things have been. That my Raynauds and Fibro are making life suck. I have to take meds just to be somewhat functional right now, and I couldn't sit out in the cold holding a blade which would feel like getting ice-burned if I touched it. The weather would literally suck the heat from my body and I would go into spasms. Her strength was inspiring. She once couldn't climb a wall because her Fibro was so bad, and I recently saw her do this. She climbed a mother fucking wall right to the top, like a true bad ass. This is strength to me. She makes the pain bend. She doesn't let it dictate her life.

Bad Ass!

I wrote to her today, "I keep trying though. I face what I am now with all the invisible BS people can't see. I face my Bipolar, my PTSD...all of it. I need to be on pills to be sane, and pain meds to sometimes just get out of bed. I stare at stacks of med bills, knowing if I was in Canada things would be different. Did I know one day I would move? Yes. When I fell for Bear I knew. I knew I wasn't wealthy enough to support him, and I had no family to turn to for sponsorship. I got chewed out for my choice to leave, without people truly understanding why.

I'd honestly be dead without my husband. When I had my mental breakdown I was a danger to myself. Three times I was wheeled out on a stretcher, for my safety. Bear saved me from myself as much as he could.
I feel a bit emotional seeing you in the snow like that. I think it is pretty bad ass too honestly. Squinting or not, you look fierce. Canadian girls kick ass!"

Battle On...

Thank you to all my Canadian friends who understand and still wish to keep me in your life. I love you all and miss home greatly.

The Ups/Downs of a Chronic Werewolf

My husband shared an interesting observation on what he thinks Bipolar might feel like in a depressive episode.

"Have you ever lost a loved one? You know that deep, devastating soul-crushing pain that comes with that? Imagine you have that for no reason, all the time."

Well fucking said.

We watched a documentary together called, "Up/Down" which is something people who live with Bipolar and people who want to understand the condition should watch. I have been diagnosed with Bipolar 1. I had severe mania, and I was hospitalized three times because I could not stop spiraling when the meds wore off. Drugs induced a very scary episode, but I was Bipolar for years before this. I just was trying to handle it myself, and after my mother killed herself, I don't think I had ever been the same. I think I should have gotten help then, but I refused, because I am a strong willed person. I didn't want to be like my mother. She was mentally ill, and self medicated with many drugs. She got worse and worse, and I had to run away from home for my own safety. Being in her house with her growing up was a horror show. If she wasn't beating the living crap out of me, I was being raped by strangers in her house. She sold drugs on the side, and while she made lots of money, it all went back into her drugs. I grew up surrounded by crazy, I figured I could handle my own shit better than that.

But I couldn't. For years I have been struggling with many ailments. I am in chronic pain, mentally and physically. My years of struggling with conditions I hadn't wanted to deal with has worn on me. People don't realize how hard it is to live with all these things. I was touched while I slept so for years I couldn't sleep with anyone, and that includes myself. When the mania hits I used it to create art and tried desperately to make it worth something.

But I can't do that anymore. I'm as stable as I have ever been in my life. I still get moments, and my chronic pain is still very strong. At least now I don't have too many paranoid moments, I don't live in fear of the world all the time, and I can even sleep most nights. And now I know the difference between having a manic moment and having a flare up from pain. Because in the past, my mania would trigger flare ups of pain that I honestly felt like I was dying it hurt so badly. I was hospitalized once because I wrote a note in fear of dying, and they thought it was a suicide note. But I have been suicidal in the past. Many times.

I think when people hear you have conditions like Bipolar, you find out who your real friends and loved ones are. Sometimes people who said they were pack and will love you forever, leave. They can't handle being around you. Because it is a hard condition to live with, for both the person afflicted and the people in their life. People can walk away from the person in the episode, but the bipolar person CAN'T. We have to endure it, and ride it out. It reveals some scary parts of the person afflicted, and I can't remember things, and what I do remember is horrible and nightmarish. But my Bipolar isn't ME. It is something I endure. Something that is added to the list of issues I have been carrying around my whole life. I do what I can to make my life better. I take responsibility for the actions I commit while having an episode, and I believe I am more than a list of ailments. When I was in therapy my therapist told me he knew I wanted better for myself. He saw it in how I described myself. I would tell people I was an artist, a writer, an aspiring filmmaker. I told people I painted bones and such, and would give them my business card and show them pictures. THEN I talked about my issues. It gave him hope, because he knew I wasn't letting myself be defined by my illnesses. I wasn't ignoring them, because that is not helpful either, but I refuse to be only Chronic Illness.

The Highs and Lows have prices, and I am not willing to pay them anymore.

If you are curious about the documentary that spurred this can be found here. I want people to learn what this condition is really about. There is a lack of understanding and fear of the unknown. I am lucky I have some supportive people, but I still have faced stigma.

On Strength and Bravery

Today is my second to last day of therapy. It felt like any other Monday though, except today we were talking about qualities we and others thought were our positive traits. For me it was my bravery and strength that people mentioned. This isn't the first time I have been told this in my life. It just seemed so weird to hear it from the mouths of people who've only known me for a few weeks, and even one of my therapists. She was going around the room telling people traits she liked in each person, and when she got to me she told me flat out, "You are very brave Kweeny."

Rawr!

What makes someone brave or strong? Because I know what strength isn't. When I was young I thought it was something you wore like armor. You barked louder than the other animals so they would fear you and run off. You let the world beat into you the lesson that showing any weakness was a fault, and no one should smell your fear. Better they smell your rage and ferocity. Better they see the beast before they see the person under the fangs and fur.

 But the thing about werewolves is they haven't always been just slobbering beasts made of hunger and rage. Werewolves and shifters were also warriors depending on the culture you read your legends from. A creature meant to walk between worlds. You cannot always be a wolf. To live in only that form will not only destroy those around you, but it destroys you from the inside out. Humans have vulnerabilities. That is just a fact of life. No matter how angry, hurt or manic you get, under it all is still a quivering mortal. What you leave of your self in tact is up to you. I have conditions that render both my body and mind, and owning all that is no easy feat.

Today was a good day though. I wasn't in as much pain as I have been. And when I was called brave by my therapist, I realized yes, I was. I have been through hell. I should have been another statistic. Another lost soul from the ghetto. The fact I made it this far, is a miracle. I almost didn't make it. Several times over I should have died, or worse. I know where I could have ended up. I saw her get lowered into the ground. I have those same genes in me, and some beasts don't die from one beheading. But I realized that my fight these days is for bringing meaning to my madness and pain. Not for others, but for myself. I have spent too long trying to please others. This quest, is mine.

 I am an artist for a reason, and I am also a warrior. I haven't always fought for the right reasons, and I have spent many a day pulling myself up by my bloody bootstraps and dealing with my shit. And it's okay to have a good day, a day that makes me thankful. A day were I feel brave for smiling. It's okay to know that I am vulnerable and bleeding, even while I smile and laugh. I am brave now not because I have fallen into the abyss, but because I crawled out and I am willing to keep trying. I am making an effort to try a new way of living with my beasts because I want to.

Fighting for yourself is one of the most self loving things you can do.

I will dance with my devils again. We all do at some point or another. But I am stronger. I  have skills now to help me deal with myself and the world. I know who and what I am. I know what I am capable of too.

And in the end, if I have nothing else, my attempt at having more good days is worth living for.

Kweeny's Thoughts on Graduation Day

Not sure how I feel about the concept of Graduating from my therapy program. It was never meant to be a long lasting thing. And I won't lie, some days have been really hard. Talking in a group situation is different than one on one, because people can do all sorts of things. Like interrupt you in the middle of you sharing your "check in". We check in everyday so everyone is updated on how the group feels. Lately, I haven't had much to complain about. Which is good, but makes checking in feel tedious. Because I really don't have anything I would deem worth calling problems. My other group members have problems. Sometimes big ones. And then it comes to me and all I can complain about is medical bills, my sleep issues, and how tired and sore I am.

I am sore everyday. That is how Fibro works. When it is cold, the Raynauds joins in to make things harder. That is my life. On my check in sheet have I taken to writing my pain levels under the mood level, because I find it offensive there isn't an option for that. I am tired of people focusing all their attentions on my brain, and not enough attention to pain management. I talk about my pain as much as anything else, maybe more so. Because it is more constant than my mania. I haven't felt manic since I came out of the hospital.

And I am on a lot of meds. More than I have ever been in my life. I know I could be on more, and I am grateful I don't have to be. I am worried if I tell my psychiatrist next week about my sleep issues he will suggest more medication. I don't want to live in a drug fueled haze my whole life. I know right now I am way better than I was. I am actually functioning like a mostly-sane person. I am calmer, still retaining my personality, funny, and actually considered CHILL by people who only met me after the meds. This makes me laugh every time I hear it. Or when my therapist calls me his "Meditation Queen."

I'm totally zen motherfuckers!

To be honest, half the time I fall asleep. My therapist tells me it's okay, but I do much better when I have slept enough the night before. Sleeping is still not easy, though I do sleep better now than I ever did. I feel kinda weird to even complain about the sleep issues considering how bad things have been. All and all, I'm doing okay at therapy, and soon it will be done. Soon I will have to figure out what I am doing next, and add to my to-do list shopping around for a personal therapist as well as a new GP.

Progress is great, but it is also pretty frightening. Because the unknown can be daunting.

Being Bipolar Is Kinda Like Being A Wolf...

People fear wolves. For decades they have been hunted under the guise of misinformation. People also instantly assume crap about you when you are Bipolar too. I guess I really am the Chronic Werewolf.

Time to get my Wolfie on...

*cracks knuckles and growls*

Out of all the mental illnesses you could get, Bipolar is one of the few that has the most misinformation and causes the most bullshit, condescending responses from people who claim they wanna help. Seriously, no one even hears my other conditions sometimes if they hear the Bipolar one first. It's so bad I have taken to listing it LAST when I tell people about my conditions, so they hear ALL THE OTHER SHIT I live with daily first.

It matters guys. It matters deeply to me.

I have PTSD, Fibromyalgia, Raynauds Syndrome, Chronic Fatigue, DID and yes, Bipolar Disorder.

Did I just get a chronic pain bingo?

My husband's ever-so-thoughtful relative for example, sent him a ton of links about Bipolar and loving a Bipolar person under the guise of "helping." She probably really thought what she was doing was helpful. She probably figured that because she had a grandson who has it, she KNOWS now how bad it is. Because he and I are totally the same people dealing with the same chronic afflictions...

*rubs temples*

You know what helps someone who is suffering from Bipolar? When you don't think reading a few articles will give you an insight into how a person lives with a spouse like us. Or how about treating people who have Bipolar with dignity and respect, instead of assuming a bunch of shit from articles you read! Or how about just realizing I am dealing with MORE than one SUPER SCARY condition, so I am not like every other Bipolar person in the world! Treating me like I am a diseased creature who should be locked up on full moons is actually not that helpful. Though it would make a sexy photo shoot to have me locked up behind bars growling as I rip my shirt off...

Cages only work on a temporary basis anyhow.

Sadly, in real life, that isn't how it works.

So if I can ask one thing from family and friends, it's to not assume anything about my life and afflictions. Come talk to me directly about my chronic shit. I would be more than happy to have a conversation about it, especially if you are actually concerned and want to learn. I am very good a discerning true compassion, from people having agendas. Also, sending links is all well and good, but don't pretend you care when really you are coming from a place of misinformation and fear. I know the difference. I am a Chronic Werewolf, it's true, but I am fucking working hard daily to deal with my shit. I have multiple medical bills to prove it.

And until you are ready to pay one of those bills, you can shut the fuck up about my conditions.

(Unless you are willing to make a sexy werewolf-cage-photo-shoot. Then, I am ready to talk.)

/mic drop

Kweeny's Pain Journal's Greatest Hits: My Body Is A Cage - Peter Gabriel

This song man...this song says more about how I feel than my own words do right now.

*sad sigh*

"My body is a cage...that keeps me from dancing with the one I love...my mind holds he key."

I do miss those I love...I wonder if they miss me too.

I miss places too...like Algonquin Park.

A beautiful spot by the water.

How things look at sunset.

Nature is wonderful. Sometimes the only thing that feels peaceful is to go to the wild places and camp among the trees, water, sky and stars. I used to count the stars while visiting my boyfriend's cottage. I had a lovely boyfriend once who appreciated nature as much as I did. He was kind and took me to places like Algonquin Park. I stood on cliffs and looked down at millions of large trees. I saw rocky inclines and jagged mountain peaks. I saw large bodies of water, and smelled the crisp, clean air.

It was beautiful. And that is peaceful to me.

But I know I cannot live in a world like that, because I wouldn't appreciate the soothing effect it has on me. It would lose something. Plus I need to be a busy person. I need to have 7 or 8 projects going at once. I need to be productive.

I have added a special ritual to my daily practice that I try to keep up with as much as possible. I have a book called the 365 Tao, and what it does, is it gives you a Taoist quote to meditate on. Today's was pretty special, "You may be capable of great things, but life consists of small things."

I do focus sometimes too much on the larger things. But I need to bring myself back down into the small moments too. Like how I feel when I am out in nature. Beauty is everywhere if you know where to look, and I am lucky I am in a State that values nature. There are lots of trees in Oregon, and while my allergies aren't always happy with this fact, my soul sure is.

I'm going to be very mindful today of how I interact with the world. I will be myself in every moment. I will be the person I have worked really hard to be, despite everything. Despite pain and fatigue. Despite a past full of horrors. I know I am a worthwhile person, and it's as much an honor to be in my life as it is for me to be in other people's lives. Loving yourself despite your flaws is important.

Off to therapy. Talk to you later Monster-kids.

More Than Just a Chronic Werewolf

Recently I had some issues with blogger and Facebook that caused me to re-evaluate things. Facebook seems to be doing a power play lately, causing people who own blogspot blogs to lose their links, claiming their blogs are malice and thus block the links from being posted.

Even if the blog ISN'T malice in nature.

I think this is really crappy behavior, and will ultimately cause Facebook's downfall in the future. Remember Myspace? It got too big for it's britches too.

And here's my heart...fresh off the meat hooks...

I brought my Chronic Werewolf Blog back but I want to state something very important before I continue to share such personal aspects of myself with you...

I am grieving pretty badly right now, and I could use real friendship. I have had some friends come to me and offer companionship and they are wonderful. I'm very grateful for their kindness. Reminding me that I am loved despite myself is important right now. Hearing it from people's own lips is potent mojo. I know not everyone can do that, so I do accept personal messages. But just know that if you can be there for me in person, I would prefer that. If you cannot, then please send me messages of encouragement so I know at least you are doing more than observing my life through the lens of this journal.

This blog isn't who I am as a person. And I have Bipolar, but it doesn't make me fragile. Neither do any of my other conditions, like Fibro. I have never been a fragile person, but I have been through some serious fucked up shit in my life. Not just recently. I came from a badly broken home where madness and abuse was a way of life. I left that world promising myself I would rise above that. I just didn't expect my genetics + drugs to = CRAZYTOWN. A lot of what happened recently I don't even remember, and what I do remember doesn't always line up with other people's stories. I know I freaked out badly, and it wasn't something one trip to the ER was gonna cure. I would hope I wouldn't have that held over me now that I am getting help and owning it. I want to believe my friends and loved ones are better people than that. I am still the strong-willed Kweeny Todd you loved before. This blog is me working out thoughts, and sharing it with people who aren't able to talk to me in person. People who may read this because they are going through some hard shit too and they find hope in reading my journey as I progress.

And I am progressing. Because if there is anything I am good at, it's rising from ashes.

I am not my diagnosis's. I am not just a Chronic Werewolf. I am a multi-faceted being who has a big heart and loves with deep passion.

I'm too stubborn to give up.

But I am doing activities in therapy to help me move through my pain. My physical pain has grown since the break down a few weeks ago. Not sure if it's because now I am not in denial about my pain anymore or what. But I am exhausted. And hurt badly.

But like the Mandala...everything is a process. The spiral of my life can work inward as well as outward. I can rise again. And I will...because even in death there is rebirth.

And that is how you own your shit and state what you need. By working through your own internal spiral. Finding the center, and growing outward. Until you are the Queen of your own life.

KICKING ASS, EVEN IF IT'S MY OWN ASS THAT NEEDS KICKING

This post is for all the negative thoughts/people that try to hijack my mind.

You know who you are assholes.

Yes, I am retaining water and it's ballooning me up like a sausage. But I am still awesome. Still beautiful. Still a worthwhile friend and lover. I know it's really hard to see our worth today gang. The Gory Kingdom is a bit of a mess, but it's getting cleaned up slowly. The Primary Shards are getting off their collective asses to help, even while the minor Shards act like douche canoes and try to distract from progress.

Good thing I have amazingly strong drive. Shout out to my inner warrior-bitch-Queen for helping us all stay on track.

Do go on Ty, flattery will get you everywhere.

When you are bipolar, all your emotions are on hyper-drive. You are constantly in mental anguish because you feel so strongly. You can even jump to conclusions quickly if you aren't careful.

It's why I am also on Seraquiol and Lithium. They are drugs that help regulate moods. On my own, I cannot regulate them anymore. Plus, I am on pain management medications, because along with my mental anguish, I live in physical pain too.

My life is exciting!

I'm still going out with my husband today. We are gonna go shopping for costuming bits for our LARPS coming up next week and the week after. I am STOKED to be LARPING again. I need a vacation from my head by having someone else's problems.

And to my inner voices/problems that wish to fuck with my day, I have a little image for you:

PAIN MANAGEMENT AND RAGEMASTE

So despite myself, yesterday and today turned out to be a productive days. I was feeling completely drained, sore and depressed the last couple of days. I didn't want to do anything, let alone leave my house because I hurt and was really tired. I did some amazing art therapy though, and the work we focused on was Pain Management based. It was exactly what I needed oddly enough. I created some helpful pieces...

How I see my healing

What my pain looks like

It's important to be creative even when you feel like complete ass and you think there is no way out of your pit of humiliation and despair. Creating new neuropathways with the power of thought is important. Doing visualizations and art is much more productive than freaking out at the universe for it's unfairness.  I cannot change what happened to me, but I can work on making myself feel better by creating. I also am learning how to meditate, which is a weird experience. I don't sit still when I meditate because of the pain I am in. I have to wrestle my pain down so I can reach a calm within. So for me, meditation is a dance. It is musical trance. I need to move through it to find the calm in the storm.

So I have created my own Kweenyism...

Ragemaste: My divine rage honors and respects the divine rage in you.

Everyone close to me has their feelings about what is happening, and I have my own.  Mine carry a lot of rage, because I believe a lot of what happened last week was unfair, and I know if I was in Canada I would have been treated way better. I wouldn't have been put into ER JAIL for example, which was a hellish experience that even my Therapists agree wasn't handled well. Plus, I didn't really have control over how I acted while Hallucinating, but some people still hold that period of time over me and judge me. In my opinion, they are being unjustly cruel and putting their own projections of what happened onto me that don't reflect actual reality. I have to do a lot of work in therapy to deal with those feelings, because they impact my healing. I love the people who are judging me. If I didn't care for them, their opinions wouldn't matter and I'd be over it by now.

I had a mental breakdown. That is the reality of what happened. I broke down quite severely. And I didn't do it on purpose. It was completely drug induced. I have better ideas of how I would spend a week of time that don't involve being locked up and treated like a monster. And I have holes in my memory from that time period. It's fucking scary to know I have no control over my brain, or that I did stupid shit I am being held accountable for when I have no clue I did any of it.

Thus I created the term Ragemaste. It is a way to own the horrible feelings, and to forgive myself for having them. No one else will or can forgive me. And I won't wait around for people to treat me with dignity or kindness like I deserve, so I let it go and move on. I own my feelings, even the ugly, angry parts as they are the only things I have control over. Also, I own the sorrow that comes after. I feel a lot of grief for what happened. For we all have suffering, and I know I am not the only person who is upset about last week's terrible journey into hell. My husband for example, had to deal with the worst of my mania.

So let us honor our feelings. All of them, and sit in reflective contemplation together.

Ragemaste Monster-Kids. Ragemaste.

Now I go lie down and recover from horrible Fibro and Raynauds flare ups.

Please Allow Me To Introduce Myself...

I'm sure you are curious as to how this multiplicity thing works. How does someone live with multiple voices in their head? It's actually not that complicated. It's like having your own little family inside your head. A family that bickers, that argues, that sometimes is downright assholish to each other. Like real families can be. My headspace has realms stretched across an internal dreamscape, a place I call now The Gory Kingdom. It isn't meant to be a really gory mess inside my head, but I won't lie. It can be a fucking wasteland. Roland from the Dark Tower Series wouldn't even be able to find his tower inside my mind, because I'm not as eloquent as Stephen King.

All things serve the Beam you know.

Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man's soul and faith
And I was 'round when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed his fate...

I have many names, and wear many faces. It's not important that you know them all, but people do get curious and ask. I don't mind sharing anymore. I'm out of the "closet" as it were about my multiplicity. When all my doctors tell me or Lord Bearington that they "know I am a multiple", I really have nothing left to hide anymore. My internal network is real. It's my own private world, made up of multiple characters who are all the main characters of the story. My many names mean something to me, and they each have their own identities, beliefs, and reasons for existing.

The creature known as Kweenybeast or Kweeny Todd isn't a monster for being this way. Nor is ze as complex to understand as some might think. Everyone wears masks. Everyone.  Mine are just more pronounced. I have compartmentalized myself into "sections" so my identity as a whole being is fragmented. I am made of unique individuals, but all those individuals are Kweeny. Sometimes when people find out about my multiples, they act strange. They try to "change their tactic" for dealing with me, which is the worst thing to do. Don't treat me different because you know I have Alters. Feel free to cultivate relationships with as many Alters as you wish, but don't treat me with kid gloves because now you know the weirdness of my brain. I'm still the person you love, or hate, or wish would fucking drop off the face of the earth, or wish you could make love to, or any number of interactions "normal" folks have. Usually people are friends with only one Alter, as not many see the others unless I feel it is safe enough to show you them. Most of my Alters are not human, so they don't think like human beings think. Some are what we call Walk Ins, which is when a spirit or outside force possesses the body and lives inside it for an extended period of time. How I see this, as I am a Walk In writing this, is it is like you are holding a mirror up to the light, and the reflection that bounces off that mirror is the identity of the Walk In. The Walk In sees it's reflection within the Mirror Shard, knowing full well it is both a real person and a construct.

One of my many names is Mirror Shards, because I see my soul (or mind if you are atheist) as a mirror that was broken into pieces. I was abused horribly, and as a defense, I broke my identity up into pieces. I have Shards that are children, Shards that are warriors, Shards that are Tricksters and jerks. I am still trying to find all the missing pieces, to put the mirror back together again. I know it will never be prefect. I know the cracks will remain. But I want to seal them up and try to be whole within my multiplicity. To have a happier life despite my many, many faces. I solve problems with creative solutions. If you'd like me to elaborate more on what it is like to be a multiple, feel free to ask in the comments. I read all my comments, but I can't reply to them all because blogger is a douche to me sometimes.

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed my name, um yeah
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game...

Welcome to the world behind -my- looking glass.

Pain Journal Entry 1010: What True Bravery Is...

I feel progress happened today, not just in therapy, but in my personal life. Because I was allowed to explain why I feel angry to Lord Bearington, and while it was a hard conversation, I finally had my feelings listened to. Truly listened to. Bear can understand why I feel betrayed now, even if my emotions are irrational. He get's why I was hurt he sot comfort while I was locked up in what was the equivalent of a jail cell in the ER.

While in there, I was in terrible agony. And the nurses and orderlies just watched me cycle, over and over. They didn't give me real scrubs to wear, and the floors were ice cold. Imagine for a moment being in chronic pain, and having a mental break down, but you are locked up like a wild animal and told to SLEEP IT OFF.

You'll be fine Vanessa...you just need a NAP. There is nothing really wrong with you.../sarcasm

Could you sleep if you had PTSD and you were locked in a cage? I can't.  I wasn't safe in my mind. And honestly, it wasn't a safe place for someone like me. They didn't even let me have a stuffy to hold. Nothing to comfort me. No friends, no lovers...NO ONE.

Just me and my pain, with no painkillers and no hope.

Having emotions isn't wrong, nor should people be dismissed because they are "all feels". Being bipolar and manic isn't my fault. There is a reason I am in therapy right now. I get angry when I have evidence that people are dismissing my feelings. Because then I feel I am being manipulated.

What happened to me last week was horrible and effected me the worst as I WAS THE ONE WHO LIVED IT. So remember that. Remember to be kind to me while you talk about my "feels." I know I hurt people while under the influence of drugs. BUT I WAS UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF DRUGS. You pointing it out over and over that I hurt you isn't helpful or healing, it's the complete opposite.

And I won't tolerate other peoples projections of me anymore.

I have apologized for my actions. Several times. Look through this journal and you will find them. I would like an apology for being hurt, even unintentionally. Because I have been. And deeply. I feel like I am the only one apologizing right now and I am the only one expected to. And that isn't fair. I never asked to be on drugs that caused me to have a mental breakdown. I never planned this whole crazy escapade. And I won't be a punching bag for other people and their past issues.

I can only handle one person's issues at a time. And I am going to be doing me right now. And talking over text about these things means subtleties are missed. Like voice inflection and body language. And I am easily agitated right now. That should be obvious. I'm not fragile, I am just easily wound up. I have a short fuse for BS. I need to feel like I am being listened to right now, and I can't handle people dumping their projections.

So if you cannot for 5 minutes put yourself in my shoes, then I shouldn't be around you.