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.
No comments:
Post a Comment