Pain Journal: New Psyche Doctor!

I got a new Psychiatrist today, and I can safely say all my worries about another new doc were for not. He was awesome and a great listener. He was better to me than my last one. He actually asked me questions like “How did you get your PTSD at night?” and “Why hasn’t your doctor tried these things with you?” and “You’ve only been seeing people for help after you had your break a few years ago? REALLY? You’ve been trying to do it mostly on your own?”

I had to give him a reader’s digest version of my life up until now. How living with a drug addict and seeing so many doctors chop my mother up from the inside out just made me afriad to try. The most I did was go to therapy. I have carried on and not killed myaelf because of really awesome friends and lovers in my past. Some I hurt too much by being Bipolar Q. That version of me is a hilarious asshole, but still an asshole. I had to summarize decades of horrible crap into an hour and even then, I think he was impressed. He said I had good self awareness, and that I don’t have to do things the hard way. He is adjusting my meds, doing the blood work needed, and gave me more Seroquel and a new drug, Gabapentin.  I have tried Gabapentin before, I now it helps. It is good for both pain and calming of anxiety. SCORE!  Seems I am on a winning streak with doctors. I am still leery, But the way this new doctor listened to me and cares about my being stable and productive. He knows the dangers being on drugs for mental illness can cause. The side effects and the madness.  He is going to teach me to use the meds I have to help me through the bad times. Because when the Bipolar gets bad, I struggle still through it. The Depression makes me suicidal, and the Mania makes me do crazy shit. Reckless, stupid shit. “When it’s bad, take extra Lithium and Seroquel. And don’t forget the Gabapentin. It’s okay to do this because I give you permission. Just do this when you are having a rough time. Otherwise take your meds as you normally do. And if you like how the gabapentin works with your other meds, take it at night for your sleep issues.”

He’s so…practical about it. I need that, because I respond well to practical. Give me a road map and I will work with it. I might find a new path on my own, but I will let you know if I do. He gets that I know my body and mind better than he does. But he sees my pension for making things hard. I thought I wasn’t being that bad, but I have been corrected. So I have new meds, new adjustments. Hopefully I don’t become a zombie, but I don’t think I will. I do everything I can to balance my medications and my creativity. I wont let anything kill me and make me a drugged slave. Drugs for me are to make my life easier and stable, not repressing myself to stave off madness.

I want to be a good example people can turn to when they face the choice to take any medication to give themselves a better quality of life. I need meds to function. I am literally a danger to myself and others if I am not medicated. When my brain broke last, it broke in a way it can’t come back from. Like an overheating computer. It’s hard to recall things when you are constantly having blue screens and corrupted data. I have bad genes, but it’s just another fucking stupid thing I gotta work with.

I’ve been climbing walls my whole life. I know who and what I am, good and bad. I know I don’t have an easy lot in life, but I also don’t need to punish myself for having a chemical imbalance. I look forward to a day when I can say I am in remission completely. It might not happen, but I can still strive for it.

 I don’t want to get my hopes up about anything right now, so I tip-toe into the deep end and see if I can swim.

A Day in the Life of a KweenyBeast

I wish I could tell you that when I wake up in the morning, it's like I am a warrior of old, strapping on my armor and picking up my heavy sword. That sounds much more like how I see my inner warrior getting up. But that's not how I do it.

I get up and gasp in pain. Instantly as I reach consciousness, I also feel horrible back pain. Sometimes I wake up in sweat, even on cold days. But right now, the weather is tremendously searing-ass hot out, and I am melting down to my bones. So I wake up sweaty, and I shrug. The pain is what I am now worried about, and I drag my sad ass to the washroom. I take some pain meds, then my psyche meds, then my supplements. I grab my cremes and start smearing them all over my back. Slowly the pain bows down for a while. I sigh and brush my teeth, one hand holding my body up on the sink.

Once I have fully medicated myself I eat and then do yoga. I do 20 mins or so and try to do as many poses as my body will allow. Sometimes, like today, I feel numb inside. I do things, but I am not feeling it. I can't handle the heat. It feels like it's burning my skin off and I am not even outside. Sweat is still dripping off me in rivers. I try going down for a nap to see if it helps. It doesn't. I wake up feeling nauseous. I put my clothes back on but they hurt my skin. Everything hurts my skin, even air. I'm trying to keep up my liquids because I need more than most people. I decided having a bath would cool me down. For a bit it helps. My skin no longer burns me. I even added some bubbles because I could. It's kinda lovely here until my neck screams at me. Party pooper.

I try doing art today. Or do some house work like cleaning the kitchen. I loose myself in art enough I ignore the horrible pain in my back returning. By the time I notice it, it's really bad, and broke through my creative flow. Now I am upset. That touched me past the numb place. I'm crying softly but I don't know why. No one is in the house right now but the cat. And she has heard me cry before. But I swallow it half way down. I just don't want to fall apart right now. It's not as bad as I am making it out to be...

But it is bad. Really bad. My muscles spasm. My heart aches. Nerve pain shoots through my body.  I want to be successful. I want to be functional. I don't want to fall apart like my mother did. I won't give up...

I fall to my knees, like a wounded warrior. Blood pools at my knees and I see a broken sword in my hands. I am tired from the fighting. The constant fighting. When do wounded warriors get to rest?

But I know the answer to that.

And so I get up, clumsy, and smile for my loved ones who come home from work. Tonight I get to cook dinner. The pain in my every-place makes this feel like cooking in hell. Even things I enjoy doing, are hard. But I will do them despite my body's protests because they are mine, not the illnesses. I eat dinner, I tuck my loving husband in. And then I am alone with my pain. Again.

I sometimes like it though, but not always. I spend a lot of time alone. I work better alone too.

But I only work at night when I didn't work in the daytime. I rest now. I sit and watch a show or a movie and I rest. If I cant sleep due to pain, I make my space as comfy as possible. Because I had a hard day. And I am learning that I need this to be sane. To get through the hard times.

And I rest until I get sleepy. Then I drag myself to bed, take my night meds, and go to sleep. And I hurt. But exhaustion has the upper hand tonight. With her dark tendrils, she holds me and I pass the fuck out.

My wounds bleed out through the night through my armor. Because I don't have the energy to properly take it off. It feels like the weight of the world. My world. My weight.

This is how I endure a bad flare up day. It's not really exciting. Just a day mostly wasted to thrashing with my Chronic Illnesses. The days I can get shit done, pain be damned, are magical. I cope the ways that work best for me, and sometimes, just enduring the pain is all you can do. It too shall pass, but sometimes the wait takes forever.

A Day in the Life of a KweenyBeast

I wish I could tell you that when I wake up in the morning, it's like I am a warrior of old, strapping on my armor and picking up my heavy sword. That sounds much more like how I see my inner warrior getting up. But that's not how I do it.

I get up and gasp in pain. Instantly as I reach consciousness, I also feel horrible back pain. Sometimes I wake up in sweat, even on cold days. But right now, the weather is tremendously searing-ass hot out, and I am melting down to my bones. So I wake up sweaty, and I shrug. The pain is what I am now worried about, and I drag my sad ass to the washroom. I take some pain meds, then my psyche meds, then my supplements. I grab my cremes and start smearing them all over my back. Slowly the pain bows down for a while. I sigh and brush my teeth, one hand holding my body up on the sink.

Once I have fully medicated myself I eat and then do yoga. Sometimes, like today, I feel numb inside. I do things, but I am not feeling it. I can't handle the heat. It feels like it's burning my skin off and I am not even outside. Sweat is still dripping off me in rivers. I try going down for a nap to see if it helps. It doesn't. I wake up feeling nauseous. I put my clothes back on but they hurt my skin. Everything hurts my skin, even air. I'm trying to keep up my liquids because I need more than most people. I decided having a bath would cool me down. For a bit it helps. My skin no longer burns me. I even added some bubbles because I could. It's kinda lovely here until my neck screams at me. Party pooper.

I try doing art today. I loose myself enough I ignore the horrible pain in my back returning. By the time I notice it, it's really bad, and broke through my creative flow. Now I am upset That touched me past the numb place. I'm crying softly but I don't know why. No one is in the house right now but the cat. And she has heard me cry before. But I swallow it half way down. I just don't want to fall apart right now. It's not as bad as I am making it out to be...

But it is bad. Really bad. My muscles spasm. My heart aches. I want to be successful. I don't want to fall apart like my mother did. I won't give up...

I fall to my knees, like a wounded warrior. Blood pools at my knees and I see a broken sword in my hands. I am tired from the fighting. The constant fighting. When do wounded warriors get to rest?

But I know the answer to that.

And so I get up, clumsy, and smile for my loved ones who come home from work. I eat dinner, I tuck my husband in. And then I am alone. Again.

I sometimes like it though, but not always. I spend a lot of time alone. I work better alone too.

But I only work at night when I didn't work in the daytime. I rest now. I sit and watch a show or a movie and I rest. If I cant sleep due to pain, I make my space as comfy as possible. Because I had a hard day. And I am learning that I need this to be sane. To get through the hard times.

And I rest until I get sleepy. Then I drag myself to bed, take my night meds, and go to sleep. And I hurt. But exhaustion has the upper hand tonight. With her dark tendrils, she holds me and I pass the fuck out.

My wounds bleed out through the night through my armor. Because I don't have the energy to properly take it off. It feels like the weight of the world. My world. My weight.

This is how I endure a bad flare up day. It's not really exciting. Just a day mostly wasted to thrashing with my Chronic Illnesses. The days I can get shit done, pain be damned, are magical. I cope the ways that work best for me, and sometimes, just enduring the pain is all you can do. It too shall pass. Sadly, pain should pass faster than it fucking does!

Pain Journal: Calloused Heart

I'm sitting here listening to one of my favorite spoken word poets, Shane Koyzan. Every time I hear his poem To This Day, I cry.

Except today.

I'm numb to the very core of my being. It's how I can cope with the whirlwind of emotional and physical crap I am dealing with right now. I was dumb yesterday, having had a wonderful visit with a friend then trying to nap to get some spoons back. I ended up with less spoons than I started with, which was a bummer. So I totally forgot until I had to go take my dose for the evening, that I needed to get my refill on my drugs.

It happens to everyone once in a while. But when it happens to me, I get super fucked up.

My hands are trembling so bad, I feel like I am coming off of crack. This is the price I pay, among other symptoms. My life is full of warning labels and chemicals. Sometimes, they make me feel empty. I feel like that now. I had some mania this morning. I woke up earlier than normal and had a had time getting to sleep. I spent most of the day doing chores to burn off the mania, which was causing flares throughout my body because everything is connected. It really is true that if your mind isn't stable, your body wont be either. Especially if like me, you are super sensitive.

I hate that I need chemicals to function. I hate that I sometimes live in fear of the day my drugs run out. I hate that I can't just fucking be a functional human being. I had to go through a lot of mental bullshit to get to a point where I am now. I used to fear drugs of any kind. Even Tylenol was scary to me, until I started hurting in ways that make you loose all sense of dignity and pride. I do what I have to now to stay stable. My personal war keeps me fighting for my health and sanity.

But when I am numb like this, I force myself to say something, anything, and be heard. Because I need to be. I need to know I am not alone. That this shit happens to other Chronic Illness Warriors too. The loneliness gets to be too heavy. Sometimes the horrible shifting between beast and beauty leaves me with nothing left to give. I lie in the wasteland of my suppressed tears and wish something would give enough that I could feel a release of the pain. Just a little. I will take any little bit of peace right now.

Today I feel a callous on my heart. And I don't have the tools to deal with it. So I will ride it out to the bitter end, where I will probably be on my yoga mat weeping. Maybe tomorrow.

Tonight, I endure.

Can You Really Forget The Past?

I did something really weird today. It took until now for me to get reminded what today was. I was going along having a pretty good day. I hung out with one of my best buds, I laughed over stupid memes and bad jokes with folks. I got to have a great dinner with great people. I even had some awesome animal moments with the Katface and my snakes.

I was feeling a little anxious, but I couldn't put my finger on why. Everything seemed pretty great...

Then Facebook Memories reminded me of this post: http://chronicwerewolf.blogspot.com/2015/06/dearly-departed.html

It's the anniversary of my mother's suicide....shit.

I actually forgot for a moment there. I lived my damn life and had a good time. I have been a bit numb lately, but that wasn't connected to anything. Just something that happens after a manic spiral, and I get really tired easily. Been sleeping a lot, though not restfully. It feels like chasing a dragon I can never catch...

But that is just a day in the life for me. My feelings are not connected to my mother.

And I refuse to feel bad about it.

So I forgot. I don't have to honor her. She wasn't an honorable person, and she never added anything good to this world. She doesn't NEED to be remembered all the time. I don't have to torture myself with horrible memories of how she failed me as a mother. I'm owning my shit,  the same shit she threw in my face like refuse. I am loved, in ways she couldn't even fathom. I am strong, and I use the darkness she and many others beat into my soul as healing and hope for others. I don't give up. I have suicidal thoughts, even recently, and I wrestled those demon voices down. I will not be devoured by my internal hydra. I will keep cutting the heads off until there are no more voices left to destroy me.

I am glad I was distracted enough by love so I didn't dwell on hate. I'll do something special for myself later to remind myself I am worth it. I won't let the darkness take me down. Not today. Especially not today.

Stay in the ground where you belong bitch.

I'm over you.

Pain Journal: When The Worlds of Pain and Pleasure Collide

My week has pretty much started on Friday. I had a convention this weekend, and while it was a blast, it was taxing on me. I am exhausted, and my week isn't over yet.

That's one of the worst things about chronic illness. For me at the moment, I am always in a lot of terrible, mind-numbing pain. I sometimes go to these events and have periods where I am just wandering the halls in fugue states because I am so drained and sore I can't think. It's like shell shock. All the pain over rides everything and you go into a haze. The world is blurry and unreal, and the pain screams like demons. It sucks, but it is the reality of my life. I don't let it ruin my fun, but it does hold me back, if I am honest with myself.

So I finally bit the silver bullet yesterday and went to the doctor. I just wanted a refill on my medication, but I got so much more. After trekking my sore ass on the bus all weekend, I dreaded doing it again, and again this week. After I finish writing this, I am going to Portland for a Horror Film Festival. Pretty stoked for that! But getting there and back is going to cost more spoons that I don't have. I have already dipped into the extra supply. After this event, I am fucking spent.

But back to my doctor visit. So I had to wait for like 2 hours before I was seen, because I walked in thinking the place I was in was a walk in clinic. I was wrong. But now I have a PCP in Seattle so that's good. I also didn't expect for the nurse practitioner to be so thorough. She not only gave  me new meds, she didn't make me fight for my Tramadol or Flexeril, and revealed to me something slightly scary...

One of the meds I was on had side effects so bad the nurse demanded I stop taking it.

Now I know when a doctor reacts like that, it's bad. They wont tell you how bad it is so as not to scare you, but if they outright say, "Please stop taking these!" You listen. I had been taking this medication for over a month now. And yes, it has scary side effects. But I tolerated them, hoping it would help me or get better. I trusted my old pain doctor. I thought he knew my health well enough by now to know what's good for me.

This is why I don't fucking trust health care professionals.

So after that lovely revelation, I was sent to get blood work done, and she gave me a referral for PT. Which is awesome! This nurse was fucking on the ball. And never once made me feel like a drug-seeking weirdo. She even complimented me on my attitude. I am fiercely positive, but even I have bad days. I think when I told her I didn't want opids that made her happy. But it's true. I don't want them. I just want to get to a truly functioning state. I am tried of living my life on the red flashing bar.

This image works for more than just RA

So I am glad to start making more progress in my health. It's been really rough lately. Not sleeping enough, waking up and going to sleep in horrible pain. The list goes on. But I have shit to do. Awesome shit. Like going to horror cons and festivals. I am honored and blessed to be a part of so many awesome, creative things, but at the same time I always have a small part of me dread doing them because of the cost to my health. It's all so mentally and physically taxing all the time. And having a week of constant shit to do isn't good for me. I have to pace myself better.

Except I really cant.

Because when I do, I can't do all the things I want to do. I just cant.

And by the end of it, I am feeling like this:

And that fucking sucks. I love going to conventions. I love film festivals. I love all the wonderful, weird ass shit the horror world brings. That is my home. Those are my people. I love them all, even if each interaction takes another bit of my energy bar away.

So while I sometimes wonder what the fuck I think I am doing when I feel so shitty and horrible, I do have some great adventures. And because of that, I am still living life, despite half of it being ruled by pain.

Fuck you pain. I hugged Tony Todd, got choked out by Kane Hodder, hung out with the Living Dead crew, and watched an Alien and Predator rip each other's clothes off on stage. With face hugger pasties even!

My life is a magical fuck fest of weird.

Self Care and Constant Fighting

"I dont need you to save me..."

This has been one of my mantras for as long as I can remember. I am an independent creature, sometimes rather fiercely. I used it as one of my many coping mechanisms against a world that let me down all the time. My mother let me down, my sister, her lovers who pretended to be dads, teachers, mentors, etc. Etc...

People have let me down a lot.

But not everyone. I have had a few, very special people enter my life and stay there. No matter how far away I moved, or what crazy thing I did. They loved me, despite myself. But they weren't trying to save me. They weren't trying to cure me or manipulate me or any other bullshit of that variety. They came and stayed, even when I proudly and defiantly tell them I don't need them.

Because I don't need them. I want them in my life.

And I need myself more than anyone else.

"I'm a survivor. I am a fighter..."

Which is true. I wear my scars like medals of honor. I have seen and done shit they write battle sonnets about. I have seen the SHIT. And I live to tell the tale.

And that's what I plan to do. Tell my tales. No matter who is listening. I am more selfish about that now, and that's on purpose. I have to be a little selfish and accept that I am being so. Because otherwise I might bottle it up inside me and let it fester.

Sometimes you gotta purge. It's natural and okay. Sometimes, you have to release all those ghosts. They haunt you, and the longer you leave them, the louder they wail. Mine go from wailing into screaming real easy. So I gotta purge the darkness, so I am not consumed by it.

I don't play in the sun much, so I gotta be careful not to bake in the light.

Right now I am reflecting on what self care means, and how to reconcile it with my ideas of "warriors". To be a warrior is to be authentic in every aspect of your life. From the charming, comfy parts, to the twisted, horrific parts. Everything makes up the warrior, and the warrior makes up everything. Because my brain is a little abnormal, I dissociate and compartmentalize a lot of shit. It's how I survived.

I'm slowly getting good at teaching my inner warrior to do self care. It's not easy, because of how my warrior was shaped. That part of me was taught to be mercenary. It was taught to be nasty, ruthless, and stone cold. Hot tempered, undisciplined, and outright vicious, this is how I survived a lifetime of abuse. There is a lot of toxic masculinity in my warrior. Ideas like, "Only Bitches cry." "Fuck your excuses fat ass get up!" "It doesn't hurt that much." "You really wanna lie under blankets all day? Pussy."

Yeah, I nicknamed her the Sargent for a reason.

"I will fall, and rise above. Cuz in your hate, I find love..."

I'm slowly working to show her more positive role models. Things like warrior Queens, the power of yoga, swimming, and enjoying femininity while still being strong. It's not her fault she is like this. Someday, I might get into why, but I can't right now. Those stories are hard stories for even me to tell.

Teaching myself to learn self care, has been a challenge. But I am determined to learn it. Any time I am determined about something, it means I am serious. I am stubborn once I make up my mind to do something. I will always find a way to get it done.

And hanging around such awesome folks lately has taught me I am not doing a good job taking care of the Kweenybeast. And I should probably work on that. Monday's experience has taught me much.

So this is the general skinny of what happened Monday: I finally got to hang out with some awesome folks. I love these people. They are hilarious, kind and fun. The moment Bear and I showed up it felt like coming home, while still feeling a little weird. Just that surreal feel I get when things seem way too awesome to be real. I have built my own castle in the land of Weird, so I can handle weird. I can't handle so well feelings of Unreality. So I was a little disoriented, and then my body flared up. Oh yeah. Full on flare. It was already doing that to me for two days before this visit. I was just having a bad pain time. But I decided my loneliness was greater than my fibro, and went out anyway.

When the fibro flare it, I instantly regretted my choice. I thought, "Fuck me! Now what the fuck am I gonna do? I am so useless..." and as I am thinking this, my dear Little Sis took me by the hand and said, "Okay, we are going over here now. There's a big fluffy couch, and you can put your music on and rest."

Because of how she did it, I responded well. There was kindness in her voice, and no challenge. She didn't trigger my wounded pride, and just took me to where I could have privacy. I'm not used to someone understanding what I need, even before I figure it out. She just knew. Of course, she has fibro too, so that helps. When I am around friends who have chronic illness, they treat me better than I treat myself. All night, people took care of me. Once everyone at the party knew what was happening, I could let go. My inner warrior gets really protective when I flare. And she is a really intense presence. She will step in front without a blink if I need it.

But I am a proud creature. I don't like being vulnerable at any point in time. But I let it all go when I realized I was safe. That this was a safe place, and these were safe people. Not only that, they CARED I was in pain. They offered me blankets when I was cold, water when I was thirsty. When I started to get lonely downstairs I came and sat in the kitchen, and they put pillows under me and fed me.

They fucking spoiled me.

And that's the thing I am processing right now. Was that really them spoiling me? Or maybe I deserve this kind of treatment? Maybe I need a reminder I don't have to solider on all the time. Sometimes I loose myself in being strong. I'm afraid if I let go, I will fall apart like a house of cards. That people will see right through me to how horrible I really am. Sometimes I fear if I show weakness, I will be exploited again. I lost my last friend group over a year ago, and they never treated me like this. I had to prove myself with them. Constantly proving I was strong enough, stable enough, funny enough, creepy enough. It was tiring. And the moment I needed them they scattered like roaches.

But not these people. They were kind to me. They made me question how I self care. Because maybe I need a reminder that I can make my moments magical. That my needs are important. I don't have to prove myself. All my weirdness, all my mental and physical limitations...

I am enough.

Mother's Day Thoughts

Mother's day is coming up. Suffice it to say, I hate fucking family holidays. Mother's Day, Father's Day, Christmas, the list goes on. Halloween is one of the few holidays I do celebrate because no one, I mean no one, took it away from me. My mom used it as an excuse to kick us kids out so she could get high. Sometimes she even got into it and made us costumes. Those were rare, but beautiful times. The few moments I was allowed to be the child I was.

Mother's day is usually the worst for me. That and her death and birthdays. This year, I let her birthday just drift past me. By the time I remembered it, the day had passed. I had better things to do then think about someone who barely cared if I lived or died.

Mother's day is harder because people point it out. They post pictures of their mothers, they share happy stories about how wonderful it was to be raised by a woman who loved them. They are truly blessed. I have no such stories. I have pictures, but I don't want to look at them. They don't reflect the reality of what living with my mother was truly like. No one could possibly understand how good she was at lying. The pictures don't capture the pain and loneliness of living with an addict and abuser.

She was a narcissist, a drug addict, and a monster. She couldn't tell the truth to save her life. The part of her that still survived and saw what she had become is probably the same part that killed her. She had so much self loathing, she could fill an ocean with her tears. She was still human under the monster, and I sometimes wonder if that was the part that ended it all.

I'm not going to dwell too much on her on Mother's day. Not anymore. I am my own mother. Always have been. I comforted myself when things were hard. I cradled my inner child as she wept for her mother, wrapping her in the safety of my embrace. I raised myself, and my little sister. I signed my own permission forms, forging my mother's signature. Which isn't easy when your mother is an artist who writes in calligraphy. I stopped expecting her at my performances. I was in the choir and in musicals and I kept doing them for me. Not for her or anyone else. I don't need an applause to do something.

I am getting a tattoo on Sunday. From my sister of the heart. I told her I wanted a monster kid tattoo. Something that reflected what that means to me. I think it's the perfect thing to have tattooed on Mother's Day.

I am the mother of monsters. So Happy Mother's day self. Hope you have a great day Big Mama.

"Not only did I survive, I learned to Blossom."

No Tears Please...That's A Waste Of Good Suffering

I believed these words all my life. Before I ever saw Hellraiser or read Hellbound Heart. It's probably why when I read Clive Barker's book, I felt it resonated with me.

But this isn't about that. This is about Tears. Those wet, droplets of humanity that roll down our faces. Everybody cries. But not everyone cries with respect for their tears.

I have spent the last few days crying off and on. From soft, quiet tears that roll down burning cheeks to heavy, deep sobs that wrack my entire being in their power. Tears that have been plugged up for weeks, maybe even months. Tears I should let out more often.

I've had a lot of good reasons to cry. Around this time last year I was put in the hospital 3 times because my mental state was "unstable." I went through a lot, and I am working through the pain. And there is a lot of pain. Pinhead wouldn't be able to even touch the levels of pain I have endured, and I would laugh at his efforts of trying to break me.

But I was raised to fear my tears. To hate them. To feel shame when they rolled down my cheeks. Sometimes I even felt betrayed by them. A sure sign of my weakness. Of my face slipping. Of my composure breaking. It was part of my abuse. And because of that, I hated them with every fiber of my being.

When I grew up, my tears were used as a weapon. From my early years where my mother used them to beat me more, "Stop your crying or I will give you a reason to cry!" My rapists used them to dehumanize me and fetishise what they did. They'd laugh at my pain and get off on it, until I stopped crying and made them face my rage. As they held me down or forced me to do things, I'd glare at them with such venom, Jennifer from I Spit On Your Grave would fear me. Later in life when my lovers would tell me I was being "Too emotional"whenever it suited them to bail out of dealing with me, I would blame myself. Because crying always made things worse. It didn't matter the reason for crying. Tears have always been used against me.

So I tend to cry alone. I can fully feel them that way. And you really, truly need to cry sometimes. Even if you feel weak for doing it after.

I didn't cry until years later when my mother died. Not healthy, grieving tears. Sometimes angry tears slide down my face but they aren't the tears one needs to move through grief. They are a good opener, because my rage for many years was my shield against the shitty crap life threw at me. but angry tears feel like a betrayal. Any time I cry in public, I feel rage. These days, it's just shame, but I still get angry for feeling that shame. Because no one should feel bad for crying.

Crying is normal. Crying means you care. It's okay to care. 

In a world where we are told conflicting things like, "I am cold and rational, therefore I am better than you...", having FEELS is a joke. Feelings are boiled down to a meme and a punch line, because no one wants to deal with them. Even people who feel too much like me. And being bipolar, I feel too much. I am on drugs to regulate my feelings, because my emotions aren't normal. I have a chemical imbalance that sometimes people use to explain me away. I can flip from complete cold asshole to raging crazy person depending on if I am manic or not. But I don't let the drugs mute me. I take what I need to stabilize, and no more. So I can have some rationality back. But I am careful to not let others tell me how to feel ether. Even my doctors. And I refuse to have my feelings belittled anymore. Boiled down to sayings like, "What are you, on your rag?"

Even if I am, I have the right to cry. My periods fucking suck thanks to PCOS. There is a reason I call it my "monstrous moontime." Everyone feels, even those who claim they are above it all.

Everyone feels. We all have chemicals in our brains that cause us to feel. Ignoring this fact does a disservice to yourself.

When you've suffered as much loss and heartache as I have, you have to fight to reclaim the parts of you they took. The parts you tossed out of yourself. Sometimes you have to reclaim those parts over and over until it sticks. The ugly tears. The raging wailing. The punching of pillows. The feelings of being small and helpless. You learn to allow yourself to feel fully. The deep pains as well as the surface stuff. You learn to forgive yourself for mistreating your tears. You learn to stop being "macho" to hide your sensitive, hellbound heart.

It's not a waste of good suffering. Tears make suffering more meaningful.

Grieving, Cancer and Geek Father Figures

"When one has not had a good father, one must create one." - Nietzsche

I came from a broken home. And when I say it was broken, I mean the universe took the biggest hammer it could find and slammed it, over and over, into my life. The hammer hasn't really let up either, I just learned to endure it better. I'm sure Thor is getting tired of his hammer going missing.

So for me growing up, I had to make my own heroes. While girls around me drooled over the newest boy band, I was listening to Alice Cooper, Rob Zombie, and David Bowie. I was reading books and comics by Neil Gaiman, Clive Barker and  Stephen King. I was finding people in the entertainment industry to look up to. They would likely never meet me, but that wasn't the point. When you hear a song that sounds like a familiar place in time, it can change your life. One song, could bring a whole world of magic into your life. That's what good music does. And good is what you make of it, not what other people tell you is good.

When someone I looked up to, even in the smallest way dies, it hurts. It hurts really deep. Today they announced Allen Rickman's death. Another one bites the dust thanks to Cancer. I am getting really tired of the sound of that word. Cancer sounds like a worse curse word than Fuck at this point. I've lost so many to cancer myself, and have friends struggling with it. Watching them fight is hard, and it makes me feel so many tumultuous things. It's a terrible illness. Just chews people up and spits them all over the cosmos. The bright ones still shine long after they are gone, reminding us that we choose how to go out when the curtain calls. Bowie worked right up until the end. That was not a man planning death. That was a man squeezing the last drops out of life.

I've lost people in my own life to Cancer, and know plenty more who are fighting it. Seeing so many of our heroes in the music, film, and the horror industry die is just hard to carry. I've gone numb today because of it. But the numbness made it so I could write this post right now. I haven't been able to write anything coherent in a while.

My father left me before I was born, and from then on I had a string of men come and go. My mother's luck with men seemed rather shitty. If they weren't abusive fucks to her, they were to me. One guy even adopted me when I was 6, only to drop me like a hot rock when my sister was born. So I didn't really have a father. I looked out into the world and people like Robin Williams filled the void. Never completely, but enough that I could endure my life and not completely hate men. I grew being beaten, humiliated, degraded and raped by men. So to me, my heroes were the closest feeling to family I have ever known. And I know how sad that sounds.

Some people have what they call "Geek Husbands". People they admire and have a little lusting for.  I will admit if a man is attractive to me, but I tend towards being attracted to women. That's just how I work. I think I have more Geek Wives than husbands. But I have a pantheon of Geek fathers/uncles. Men who showed me how to embrace my gender fluidity. People like Bowie who taught me through song to "Embrace the Strange." I needed that guidance. I sure as hell wasn't going to get it from the men that lived in my mothers drug house.

When there was nothing else, I looked to the stars. I didn't need a mortal, flawed father. Not as a child. Something otherworldly was needed. To teach me to embrace my strangeness. Growing up, I cared about my Geek Father's more as people than just ideas. They fleshed out and felt like old friends I had never met. They were good to me when the world was not. I'm sure living as a star isn't easy. Especially when you are dying or mentally ill. So seeing my heroes struggle like I do, actually made me connect all the more to them. Robin Williams for a long time was my biggest hero because of his living with bipolar. But when he died, it devastated me. I am still not over it. When they locked me up last year in the mental hospital, I had pictures of Robin Williams in my sketch book my husband brought for me. I had ripped them from a magazine and tucked them among the pages of my book.

You never know who is going to shape your life. And you never know how long they will be with you. Gods die. We dont want them to and we sure as hell can't believe it when it happens, but they do. They die and turn to stardust, leaving their legacy behind.

If I can leave behind even a fraction of that kind of talent and gift to the people I care about, then I've lived a good life. And I look forward to the day I can hang with my Geek Fathers again.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.