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.