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.

Pain Journal's Greatest Hits: I'm Not Okay - My Chemical Romance

I'm Okay.

Don't mind the bags under my eyes. Or how hollow they look when you look deep enough. Or the fact that my eyes are half glazed from medications, and half empty from pain. The pain is really bad, but it could be worse. I've been down this road before. What's hurting me this moment is my mental state, not my pain levels. I'm trying every trick I know to keep myself as present as I can be. Because everything inside me wants out today. It doesn't help today is the inauguration of Trump. I'm not someone who can pretend this guy doesn't look like a train wreck straight to hell. My friends are all scared and horrified. Except for the odd ones who support him, and confuse me to no end. How can anyone support someone who has no real respect for human life? He's an abuser. Classic behavior. I have spent my whole life trying to get away from his kind, and instead I find myself being in a country ruled by one.

But I'm Okay right?

Yeah I got nothing to worry about. Just struggling to have my dreams in a world set on crushing them before they even start. I'm crying a lot this week. For frustration, for mourning, for even having normal reactions to too much stress. I can barely survive day to day, and I'm living in a really shitty situation right now I can't fix easily because guess what: EVERYTHING COSTS MONEY. All hail the almighty Trump Dollar. I'm just over reacting...

I'm totally Okay.

I just had to take extra seroquel last night because of how manic depressive I am right now. I started hearing voices again. That's a scary place to be. So I did what you do when a flare up of your bipolar happens and it scares you: You take more drugs. Then those drugs numb you down to the core and you sleep all the time...

I think I'm Okay...

But I also think about horrible things that haunt me like ghosts. I think too much right now. On all levels. I have a laundry list of things to do and it feels like more things get tacked on then taken off. I am fighting off another nervous breakdown, because now would be a really bad time to be hospitalized again. I'm slowly trying to dig my way out of this mess I am in, but I'm not even at half battery. I'm not even sure I still have a battery to charge.

I'm not Okay.

And that's just fine. I'll take it day by day until I really am Okay again. Today is just not that day.

Kweeny's Pain Journal's Greatest Hits: Veteran of a Thousand Psychic Wars

Life doesn't pick favorites, even if it looks that way. Some people are extremely lucky. They know how to do crazy matrix moves through life, dodging bullets and carving out their life path with ease. It may not be that easy, but it sure looks like it from where I stand, looking up from the abyss. I envy those people. It's hard not to when your path is etched in pain and horror. It's hard to see the beauty of those few precious moments in your own life where things aren't that bad. Because there are so few of them, a battle weary warrior like myself can't keep a hold on those moments as easily as some. It's was trained into me at a young age that life will always be unfair, and not just unfair. Utterly and completely cruel. Because even those few moments of joy will be turned into a whirlwind of pain if I start overthinking everything, or I start listening to the voices that remind me of what a failure I am at living and thriving in life.

Some things just never leave you no matter how many times you rise from the ashes. Some scars come with you through each transformation.

Because the human body remembers all your suffering.

You're seeing now a veteran of a thousand psychic wars,
My energy is spent at last, and my armor is destroyed,
I have used up all my weapons, and I'm helpless and bereaved.
Wounds are all I'm made of!
Did I hear you say that this is victory?

I feel like the worst person to be in love with. Trying to find some living soil to plant seeds in is hard when your heart is a wasteland. I've messed up every relationship I have ever had, at one point or another. Not because I wanted to drive them away, but because I was scared. Scared that someone could love me the way I have always wanted in my secret heart. I wasn't picky the first time I prayed to God, asking for someone to love me. I was a good Catholic girl then. I had a prayer shrine and I talked to the Virgin Mary.  Still talk to her, but she wears different faces for me now. Being Pagan helped me open myself spiritually. But I just wanted to know real, loyal, passionate love. With anyone at all. I just wanted to know what devotion felt like. What compassion and inspiration would do to a soul as wounded as mine. My first reaction to pain and fear is to burn it all to the ground and salt the earth. I don't like this compulsion in me. Once upon a time I believed this was a good way to protect yourself from harm. It's not. It just denies you any chance of making love work for you.

Sometimes things change though. People grow tired of certain behaviors and so do you. Sometimes people die. Or you have to deal with toxic people because you got no where else to go. Or marriages fail. Or you just can't open up like you used to and it gets thrown in your face.

I am a veteran of a thousand psychic wars. My brain is full of trauma and weirdness. I will never be normal. Never be a nice girl you an take home to mom and dad. I have wounds that bleed on the regular. Reminding me I haven't left the war, because it lives deep inside me. Boneyards full of the dead and forgotten. I am not a nice girl. I'm not even a girl at all really.

I'm going through some hard shit that has driven me out of my home. Though in all honestly, that place isn't a home. I wish it was more of a rest stop, but certain factors make that difficult. I won't allow toxic people to force their way into my life. I've had more than my share of assholes in my life, and some of them I was born to. So I don't want to play out an old song and dance from my youth, but with different faces. I don't deserve to be treated badly. I don't treat myself as well as I should, but I know when someone is treating me wrong. Disrespecting my life and choices, and telling me how to handle my life. Unless you live in my skin, you don't get to do that. I won't allow it. Especially if your shit doesn't smell like roses.

Back into the fray. Because that is just where my luck takes me.

Make pain bend.

My heart Is A Wasteland

Today has been a horrible day after a fantastic weekend. I let my reckless desires come out and I danced among them. I fell smitten for another beautiful boy who is equally as queer as I am. I showed him my feral, chained beasties and he wanted more. He pampered me, gave me gifts, sang to me. He made me believe I could do this again. Do the poly thing and open my steel doors of my inner world. Open so completely, all the bats fly out and the demons escape from hell.

Because my heart is a wasteland. And my body is the cracked, desecrated earth my dreams lay barren on. I am a thing stitched together with madness and horror. Nothing grows in my fields.

Sometimes I hate myself so completely it takes all my scraps of willpower to not fucking blow it all up.

My heart is a wasteland from all the nukes I drop on it.

It's been a while since I wrote. And for good reason. I'm struggling to not go hollow inside. I want to succumb to my artwork, to be possessed by inspiration and creativity. I want the muses to take me and ride my skin like a battle horse.

But there is always a cost. The closer I am to magic, the more insane I become. Hanging on to reality is already a Herculean feat. And this month is like a play-by-play in my head of Kweeny's Horror Stories: The Christmas Special!

A lot of terrible shit is bubbling up from the rivers of poison in my wasteland. Flashbacks, fibro flares, nightmares, no sleep, nerve pain, panic attacks...you name it. I'm a fucked up Kweenybeast right now. I'm fragmenting too. Dissociation is a bitch. Been reaching out to trusted folks for anchors in the storm. I feel like I cant stuff it all back in once I open the puzzle box. The demons inside wait for me to drop my guard before they tear my world apart.

I dont think I could date anyone who cant ride some storms with me and hold my hand while we crash against the rocks. I need my lovers to be just as fierce as me, so when I test them unfairly for the ghosts who tried to destroy me, they dont run for the hills. So when I finally drop my armor because I cant be the strong one all the time, they dont trash my bleeding heart with carelessness.

I'm fighting the urge to nuke this new, budding relationship I've started. And it was me who asked him. Though he might have been thinking the same thing towards me. But my mental illness won't let me trust even that.

Fuck you my graceless heart.

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.

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.

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.

Medicated Wolf

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

---

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.

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.

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.

Kweeny's Pain Journal's Greatest Hits: Hotel California - Eagles

You know what really sucks?

When simple, everyday tasks are now suddenly huge ordeals you have to get through to say you survived the day. When you need a ton of pills to just begin to function like everyone else.

Things like bathing yourself. In the hospital, bathing was hard. Showering was hard. My first visit had a really nice set up with a tub and shower. The shower stall had a seat you could sit in, and there was a dial to control the temperature at your leisure. To me, that place was the Ritz hotel. They treated me like a fucking Queen up in there, and all my needs were met with kindness as well as teaching me to take care of my damn self. And that is the key for me really. I need to know I am capable of teaching myself coping mechanisms so I can brave the shitstorm that is my body's chemical and neurological imbalances. For my sanity alone, I need to know I can be taught to do simple tasks like bathing without supervision. Sure, for a while I might need help. But eventually I wanna be able to do things on my own despite pain.

Of course I couldn't stay in the "Ritz hotel" forever. Eventually I was locked up in a terrible cell in the ER and then finally in the nut house. I call the nut house visit Hotel California.

It's not really a lovely place. It was a hard place. But it is teaching me to cope better because it is harder and gives more freedom.

Things like showering were ordeals in Hotel California, but at least I had the option of a shower without supervision. The ER cell didn't really even have that. I was lucky I could use the bathroom. At one point I pissed on the floor because they didn't let me out of the white room in time to pee.

That's a humiliating moment for sure.

The ER cell might as well have been completely padded. It was a living hell. The floor was too cold and flared my Raynauds. I had one small padded mat I could lie on, shivering and spasming in a almost constant cycle of pain. No one cared when I screamed, thrashed and cried. No one came to my rescue. I called for all the names of all my packmates at least once, and people like Mephista and Lord Bearington I called out for several times.. No one came. I was alone with my demons.

I was completely isolated with my fear and horrible agony. I thought I was dying.

When I committed myself in Hotel California, I apparently greeted the paramedics naked at my front door. Then when they crossed the threshold, I showed them a note I wrote to my loved ones which I believed detailed my pain cycle and how it was driving me mad.

Everyone else thought I was going to kill myself because I kept saying "I don't want to die" and I kept talking as though I was dying. Because I thought the pain was killing me. I really, honestly thought I was dying.

It had nothing to do with being suicidal.

But in all honesty, to me, I was trying to say I was afraid I really was dying. It was all fear. That's how bad the pain can get. Especially when you have chronic pain on top of dystonia and hallucinations, which I was still suffering from even after I was rehabilitated from the Ritz Hotel of hospitals. I has having a terrible reaction to some of the meds they were putting me on, and having an allergic reaction too. I even OD'ed on my birth control. Who knew you could do that and take too many hormones?

I am not used to kindness, so I don't trust it. Especially when they shove needles into me and other nasty shit.

Hotel California had all the basic needs. We had food, but it was all weird, bland shit. I ate more cookies than I probably should have, because they were one of the few things on my tray that tasted all right. I had to ask for showers, just like in the Ritz hotel (because I cant be trusted to do it alone you see) but this time the showers were evil and I was unable to adjust the temperature. I burned myself more times than I can count, and I had to keep hitting two buttons to get a proper flow of water. You can imagine the damage it did to my body I am sure. I actually caused my toes to go from swollen red to chalk white, which is a bad sign of a nasty flare.

I broke out in a full body rash due to some kind of soap they used on the scrubs, and only after I showed several nurses my fucked up, flaring body did people realize how much pain I was in. My Fibro and Raynauds are real. They live together in a terrible dance that I am constantly trying to learn the moves of so I can remain sane through the pain. And let's not get into my back right now...

So what made me think about all this horrible shit? The fact I just tried to bathe myself like an adult and failed just now. Because my hot water tank was used up and all the fucking hot water is gone. Now I can't bathe. I can't stand for too long in the shower. I just wanted a abson salt bubble bathe to soak my sore legs and back.

But no. Nothing can be fucking simple. Not even a damn bath.

This is my reality. And I wish I could get a fucking break, especially from my loved ones, who have no idea how hard life is for me now. That even simple little tasks like eating, bathing and sleeping are terribly hard. Which is why I am angry and snap sometimes. Why I don't like compromising myself for people's selfishness. And they don't know they are being selfish when they act certain ways. Because they are "sane." They don't have to own every terrible, horrible moment of their lives like they are trying to conquer a mountain. And their pain is way easier to comprehend and comfort than mine is. No one knows how to comfort me, no matter how many times I ask for help or hugs. Every time I open my eyes I am fighting, so I can come off very aggressive at times. Sometimes even passive aggressive unintentionally. I go to bed fighting. I sometimes snap and "bite" with words because damn it, I am in pain and just want a fucking cookie, orgasm and a hug. But that isn't how this pain shit works.

Healing from this won't be easy. Even the orgasms aren't easy. Nothing in my life is easy.

But I don't need brutality right now. My world IS a brutal mess. I just don't know how to ask or deal with showing my bleeding belly to people who I think should be able to see it by now. I mean, I thought I had told people honestly who I was. But maybe I don't know who I am anymore thanks to all this shit. And being small, frightened and exposed is the most terrifying thing imaginable right now.

Because if I show you my belly, I am afraid I will give up fighting.

I can't stop sharking.

But they can't see my pain otherwise. It's not their reality. Their reality is different. Some are freaking out because I talk openly about this shit and it hurts them to read it. They don't realize why I do. That I feel fucking alone with it all...

And it hurts me to LIVE it.

I am a bad ass for trying to bathe. For trying to show up in the game of life. For going to 6 hours of intensive treatment and therapy, like I will be doing today, and for not hiding in my sorrow completely alone yesterday on my mother's birthday. I even got cake with a friend, because damn it, I am a battle Queen and I deserve a fucking treat for dealing with this chronic-shit. With swollen legs and a bad back. With Fibro flares, Raynauds, Bipolar and PTSD so bad I wanna wall up inside my house and never see the light of day again. For coming out of the closet as a Multiple being. For trying to go out in the nice weather and hoping it doesn't make my conditons worse...

Everyday is a struggle now. It shouldn't have to be, but it is. And THAT is my reality. The terrible, brutal truth of it all.

Yeah, yesterday was hard for me. So has been the last 33 years.

And I am not feeling well. Not at all.

I keep getting told I should listen to other people's BRUTAL TRUTHS, but mine are too hard to bear. Wish I could tune my life out. But I don't get that luxury. And it hurts when they abandon me to the pain. It hurts because I'd never do that to them.

EVER.

Sure, I can be an asshole. A right bastard even. But when someone is in pain, I am the first one who will lift you up when you come to me. That's all I was trying to ask for. Because I am fucking terrified too. And I am the one living it.

This is my horrible shitshow of a life. And I need brave mother fuckers to deal with me.

Kweeny's Pain Journal Greatest Hits - 7 Nation Army by The White Stripes

Starting this journal was actually beneficial to my health and I didn't even know it.

It works as place for me to talk to my selves more than talking to an audience, but I do appreciate a great deal that many folks are reading this as I go along on my healing journey. I have another more personal journal I am using for my art therapy classes. It was given to me while I was hospitalized, and it's a lovely leather-bound sketch book. Lots of room for rantings and drawings. For pretty much anything I want to create, even the ugly thoughts I feel are valid and need a voice.

Of course, I have no privacy right now, except for in my leather-bound journal. And I'm not exactly pleased with this you might say. But I know it is necessary for healing.

Not everyone who reads this journal will understand why it's important to me. Why I need to publicly share my journey and thoughts. I have been journaling all my life. Blogs are important and can change the world.

And I am tired of suffering in silence.

I am learning tools to deal with suffering better. To not become washed up in a sea of my own sorrow. A sorrow so deep, most will never understand because they are gifted with better lifestyles and home lives then I had or have. I have plenty of friends who tell me I am an inspiration, because I share my harrowing journey online and don't hide the ugly parts. And I still won't hide them, even while I go to group therapy and art therapy classes. Sometimes I am filled with bitterness because certain people treat me poorly after all the love and time I invested in them. They have abandoned me to my darkness, and insult me by avoiding me like I have a plague. They treat me like I am a walking Holocaust. It's offensive that I have been labelled as such, and that people think it's okay to keep calling me names in that vein. Like I am carrying the Helix virus and being near me will infect you and make you crazy or sick too.

 It's not funny anymore, because I really do FEEL like that is how the world sees me.

I am labelled with multiple things: PTSD, Bipolar, Hyper Vigilance, DID, Fibro, Raynauds...The list goes on.

I am a person with deep and real feelings who is suffering chronic pain and mental illness. And leaving me to suffer alone isn't fair or helpful to my sanity. It HURTS me to be treated with kid gloves. To have my independence stripped and judged by the able-bodied.

Stop treating people who have conditions you can't see like they are diseased. Stop treating them like they need to be handled like we are fragile.

I'm not. I am forged from stronger stuff than that. Being vulnerable isn't a crime. Treating people poorly who are living different hells than you IS. And I am tired of the injustice of it all.

We the suffering need true COMPASSION to get through the dark times. Not to be isolated and abandoned. And if you can't offer that, you are the one who is in need of help, not them.

Because trust me, I am getting ALL the help I could ever want and need. I have my next two weeks booked solid with therapy. I'm not broken. I have faced my demons down and I know their faces and I will continue to do so. For me and my wellness.

And today especially, I need to face down my ghosts. And my ghosts are not simple or easy to digest. I have a 7 nation army at my back to help ghost buster the unwanted spirits.

Happy Birthday Mom. You can stay in hell.

Learning To Self Censor and Cope...

One achingly painful step at a time.

I wrote this first in my beautiful new personal pain journal, and while I am sharing this, I don't share EVERY thought I have anymore. For a while there I was scattered to the wind. I am coming back to center.

And here are some reflections:

In trying to express myself, I scared people I love. They became terrified and couldn't cope with me either, which is fair as I am having a difficult time coping too. They became terrified for my well being, and their actions sometimes made things worse for me instead of better. This is not a judgement, it's my reality. As Megan Fox said, " We were so worried for you we crushed the Kweeny-fly like a bug with a fly swatter. We didn't mean to. We didn't know how to help you. The internet is limited in how one can express themselves, and things get mis-interpreted. It cannot convey the subtleties of emotions like face to face interactions can."

She's right. I was trying so hard to just be heard, to express things that are very difficult for me to come to terms with, and all that turmoil inside me, shattered me. I haven't been shattered like this in a VERY long time. I am feeling on multiple levels, can it can lead to misunderstandings and assumptions from both myself and my monster-kids. I have my fair share of asshole assumptions that drove me to do things I normally wouldn't do. And I am a bitch sometimes, especially to myself. Most of all to myself.

But when people try too hard to help me, it feels like being smothered. I need people to ASK me if I want company, ASK me if I need help, so I can look inside and ask MYSELF those same questions. I need my anatomy. I am independent and fierce, even when I am feeling broken and useless. The voices that make me feel useless, tell me no one listens or cares. They are projections, and only the people I love can quelch those feelings by ASKING me questions. That is how you can help. The rest is up to me.

Don't coddle me. Don't force me to do things against my will. Don't DECIDE for me what is best for me.

Just inspire me to be a better me.

Ask me what I need, not what you THINK I need. I will answer with my truth.

I love all my friends, lovers and supporters. I love my Husband and Girlfriend. They are good to me, and they don't have to agree with how I cope or what I say. It's my truth, not yours. I am coping as best I can. I am emphatic and feel WAAAY too strongly for my small body. My feet currently are swollen, my back in agony and my mind is barely keeping it together. I hurt EVERYWHERE. In my body, my mind and my spirit. Years of pain all rushing to the surface because I was trying to hard to tough for too long.

Cornering a wolf is always a bad idea, and though the wolf is responsible for biting people, it cannot tell if someone is pushing it against the wall out of friendship or fear. A wolf will distrust if you won't allow it to run. I need to walk into the night angry sometimes. I need to howl my sorrow at the moon. I need to sometimes shed my skin like a snake and accidentally forget I am in a human body, while the paramedics don't understand that my answering the door naked isn't a bad thing. *facepalms at that* I sometimes don't understand social "niceties" because where I come from, those rules and guidelines didn't exist or where deterrents to my progress.

If you can't hear my growling as you approach me, then you need to listen harder. I will bite less if you do. Especially if you prove to me it's safe to come out of my wolfie den and let you hold and pet me.

Because parts of me don't think I deserve even that small comfort.

Don't smother my fire. Please. I need it to be who I am. I need it to love you back.

Also for the record: I am at a point I am really grateful for the therapy I am going to be doing soon. Art and journaling therapy mixed with talking and exercise are what I need right now. I was using the elliptical daily for 2-3 days straight when pacing around my "cage" wasn't enough. I could only do maybe 5 mins at most at a time, but it was AWESOME. I felt ALIVE again. Like even though I have physical limitations from things like Raynauds and Fibro, I could still be strong. I could overcome this shit.

I fear the Lithium, I won't lie. I don't want it to smother my voice. I think medicinal pot mixed with my other drugs would help me, and so does my doctors. They are suggesting I get a green card and I have this awesome referral for something like water therapy...? It is exercise in water so it's low impact and helps strengthen my sore body. It sounds fucking cool! And I love art therapy and have been doing that anyhow, so this shit is exciting...

My first family I made inside my head. Mirror Shards. They are all mine, even the asshole parts. I own them. I am them. They make up Kweeny Todd, or as people affectionately call me Kweenybeast. I don't want to do anything that takes them away. They taught me to love outside myself, and I realize now I am blessed with love in abundance.

I just don't know how to show you all just how much you mean to me without wounding my stupid little pride.

Feels man. They fucking are exhausting and suck sometimes.

But I love all of you who read this journal. Who've stuck by me so far. Who hope I can rise above this like a phoenix from the ashes.

Thank you for believing in me when I cannot believe in myself.

If you need an apology for whatever jerkface thing I did while manic and out of my gourd, here it is: I am sorry. But I am not going to apologize for being me though. It was never my intention to scare you. When I said I thought I was going to die, I really honestly thought I was DYING. The pain was that bad. It drove me mad.

And I am still living in the aftermath of the nuke blast.

I am scared too. Fucking terrified. I want to let it all go.

I just need time.

(Song of the Moment: Lithium by Evanescence.)

PS: One of my therapists looks like Nathan Fillion. I fucking LOVE him. :D

Kweeny's Greatest Hits: HYDRA [full album] By Otep Shamaya

"Rising like a Hydra...FROM THE ABYSSSSSS...."

A part of me wants to delete this journal. When I look back at my mad ramblings I feel a sense of shame. I shouldn't, I mean, it was my experiences, and all of them were real. Even the ugly parts.

I know the health care professionals gave me the wrong drugs, and I OD'ed accidentally on some of my medication. I was so doped up at one point (at my doctor's requests) that I took extra of my meds. Like a day or two's worth of extra meds. My husband knows better than I what really happened there, as everything has been falling away into an acute feeling of torture that the meds were inflicting upon me.  I still am not sure I want to forgive him for his part he played in this horrible ordeal, and I know he's done certain...things behind my back while I was wailing in agony. What ever happened to loving with an open hand?

I think I have the right to be mad at people mistreating me even if they think they are helping. My husband at least tried to do it out of love. Can't say that about everyone who treated my afflictions. I am aware of more things than people realize. I know my mental stability was shaky. I know I am being treated like a guinea pig by some doctors. I know a lot more about what is happening inside my body than anyone else at this point, and if people won't listen to me, then I will find a second opinion.

I am done with being life's pincushion.

But my empathy makes it so I can help people, but it also fucks me over. Having FEELS sucks. I was a calming presence to many of the patients in the last ward I was sectioned off in just a few hours ago, and that is part of what kept me sane. I was in almost complete isolation from the outside world. Days stretched into what felt like weeks, and sometimes, even months. My time sense is fried. I just broke out of "jail" yesterday afternoon.  It was hard for people to visit me, let alone find your way around the facility. But I still made friends. Like you do when you are Kweeny Todd.

But look at this face...I wasn't coping well at all.

And as Anne Lamott says, "If people wanted you to talk kindly of them, they should have behaved better."

Also, you can be killed with kindness.

I'm not even sure how to begin this entry. How do I explain all the things that happened? I was put into three different areas of the medical facility I was kept at, and only two were in the same hospital. The way they have all these sections set up are ridiculous. They should have them all labelled the same damn hospital, but they don't. And I was placed in an ER at one point that was a completely different hospital from the one I originally was involuntarily admitted to under my husbands "gentle" suggestion.

And yes, I am pissed at him. Even if he feels what he did was justified.

Because half the shit that happened wouldn't even have existed had he not smothered the living fuck out of me. I'm not made of glass. I don't care if I am hurting or not. Wailing at the walls. Clawing at the gauze...

"Oh she's so coy..."

He treated me like a cripple, and that is ultimately why I am pissed off. Taking my anatomy away is bullshit. I felt like I was being treated like a weak, helpless woman. Not the fucking battle fury I am. I am the Queen of Blades, and to treat me anything less than that is treason to my internal Crimson Court. I have been through some shit, it's true. I needed to be in the hospital, which is why I eventually called the nice paramedics to take me to the hospital myself. I realized I had been so fucking triggered by someone who swore, FUCKING SWORE, to be my battle buddy and stand by my side, that I could no longer function like the Kweenybeast I am.

Hell, I have been non-functioning since I began fighting for my health.

I am a health advocate now. If it's in my power, I wont let anyone be forced to endure the bullshit I was put under. Because within a week or so I went from being in a very nice 4 star hotel version of hospitalization, where the sign read "Rehab" but it meant all forms of rehabilitation. Including helping chronic pain patients cope with their lot in life. But I was also tossed into a cold, white-walled cell with only a small pad on the floor to lie on. No blankets. no real clothing. I was forced to wear these fishnet undies while I was bleeding from my period. A period that was triggered by the excessive birth control I accidentally took too much of on top of my other drugs...

I wailed. I cried. I laughed in manic glee, and I clawed at the walls. I had flashbacks in one constant loop put on repeat, over and over, as my back spasmed uncontrollably and my Raynauds flared throughout my body. I was so fucking cold, my toes went white. White isn't a good color. Nor is purple, which is what my fingertips did. I am covered in bruises from too many pulls of my blood, too many times I writhed like a serpent in agony. Too much of everything.

Three different sections I was placed in. One was a lovely rehab center, where they treated me like person even though werewolves really hate cages. I was mischievous there, and allowed to be so. I was pampered and treated like I was actually struggling with chronic illness, not JUST having fucked up allergic reactions to drugs and accidentally taking way too many things. They didn't let me hurt myself any further, but they let me keep my sense of self.

Not like in the ER, where they literally broke my mind.

The third place was a middle of the road kind of deal. It wasn't the Hilton of the mentally deranged, but it was sure as fuck better than the ER. I'm now on an Outpatient basis and I have a million things they want me to do that a wolf with swollen ankles has to find a way to get to. I got appointments all next week, two with very little breaks on between on Monday...I hope I can get a ride from someone as I don't own car and rehab doesn't care about your wheels situation.

*sighs* Let's talk more about the ER and why it was traumatic.

The time I was admitted to the ER and then thrown away into the "padded cell" was the worst. And that was one out of the three times I was forced in by my husband. This was the ongoing problem of why all this turned out so poorly. I think like a She Wolf. I am not a cripple, even if my ankles are swollen from meds, or even when I am rambling like a loony. Treating me like I am incapable of making choices for myself is going to make things worse. People who don't have chronic pain need to LISTEN to the person who is SUFFERING with it before making judgments on their behalf. Because I am almost ready to divorce my husband for what he's done. Being married to me is a PRIVILEGE, and me allowing you to have a say in my health and healing is a GIFT. it's not a RIGHT you get to throw around just because you are biologically male and happen to be married to a female.

I didn't choose to be female. And I didn't choose to be in pain.

Everyone wants me to just forgive him for what he's done. They remind me he loves me and sometimes, I agree. Sometimes I can see what he was TRYING to do. But I know what REALLY happened, and he has no clue the hell he inflicted upon someone as bad off as I was.

And it's not over.

I have an invisible collar around my neck now. I have to jump through some hoops before I am left alone to fend for myself. I have more doctors than I can count and more coming. I have amazingly great therapy options coming next week, where I can journal and art and learn to cope with Chronic Pain. I have help from the hospital to get my GP to X ray my back and send me to Neurologist. Because I didn't fall in bad ass combat as I had first thought. My fall was in the bathtub, not at a LARP, and my mind was so ashamed of having an "Old Lady" spill that I re-wrote history in my brain to protect myself.

*sigh*

I wont say all of my experiences were hellish, or even that the people who monitored me in the ER were all bad. They had a job to do. Sometimes my cell had no toilet and I pissed on the floor. Other times my toilet was made of cold steel, and my scrubs gave me a rash. My scrubs went from soft cotton with light colors, to a deep dank blue green like the sea. Sometimes I wasn't even lucky enough to have real scrubs. Sometimes I wore the equivalent of a blue sack.

Sometimes I saw myself in a asylum of old, with padded walls stained in tears, dirt and blood. Sometimes I was so loopey, I spoke in tongues. Like the weirdo I am, I wore black contacts at one point and could not get them out of my eyes. Sometimes I slept on beds that adjusted themselves all night, and other times I slept on a brick and was expected to sleep all night long with my back flaring like roses opening their blossoming petals of pain all through out my body...

I can feel my wings now. And they hurt like hell.

I can feel every one of my Selves now. I know there are more than 4 now. They all cycled through me, over and over...as my soul burned. It felt like violation. Not a vacation at all, but an Involuntary stay at Hotel California.,,

And I survived it all.

When I finally broke down, people stopped hurting me. But I had to literally shatter in the ER before they let me out. Before I got to go home to my husband's accusatory gaze and his fists clenched ready for another verbal battle.

If he had treated me like I was capable, I would have never gotten so bad. I would have left the first visit in Hotel California with the tools I needed to heal. I would have had an easier time getting to this place, were people take my chronic pain seriously. I did need to be locked up the first time. I wasn't doing great at all. I was spasming almost on a constant basis, and I was mentally unfit. I needed to be in the right environment to help me cope with my pain, without the whole "killing me with kindness"bullshit. Showing love and support is one thing, smothering is another.

I didn't need the last two times in the hospital.

If you've every seen a dog or wolf cornered, you'll understand the error he committed. I may have a thorn in my paw, but I won't listen to someone who calls themselves my pack to DEMAND I do as they say. He may be the tired, worn out king of the mountain, but I am the one who is the mad Queen drowning in agony. This is MY pain. And I would kindly like to be allowed to OWN it on my terms.

For the curious: My current list of conditions are as follows:

I have Bipolor, Chronic PTSD, High Anxiety, hyper vigilance, PCOS, Fibro, Raynauds, and I am a multiple. My doctor may or may not believe I have any of these things, because in my fibro fog I has unable to grasp reality firmly in my grip. Taking me to rehab the first time was a great idea, so my husband gets credit for that much. I am in terrible agony as I write this. ACUTE agony you might say. I also have a back injury no one has info on just yet. The same one from almost a year ago. My back pain is spreading all over my body. These are some of my little labels they used in the hospital to define my pain.

But it isn't WHO I am. Nor does it describe the depth of my agony.


I AM Kweeny Todd. AKA: Queenie T. That hasn't changed.

But now if you excuse me, I need to deal with some pain in my back that is stabbing me with a million razor blades, and my hands are stiffing up. Because I am just peachy keen right now. I'm SUPER, thanks for asking!

Stay spooky Monster-Kids.