Endings and More Endings

The 9^th is my mother’s birthday, and today I broke up with someone.  These two things have collided in my brain, and now I am completely miserable. I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape the curse of my mother. We all get things from our parents. Like the color of our eyes, or the shape of our chins. But we also get things like Depression, Anxiety, or in my case Bipolar 1 with psychotic tendencies. This is part of the curse I carry, but also there is another element that my mother gave me through environment:

I’m the worst person you could ever fall in love with.

EVER.

It’s not from lack of trying on my part. I really do try. I feel things so fucking deep I almost drown in it. I fall hard and fast. Like a freight train through my heart. I can’t stop it. All I can do is ride it out to the bitter end. Which happens with such frequency I am braced for impact. From the moment the relationship starts a timer ticks in the back of my head. It’s loud and obnoxious, but it knows the score. Doesn’t matter how many times they say they love you. Doesn’t matter how many times you said it back, and meant it. None of it matters in the end. It’s easily swept under the rug and erased as fast as you can hit the Block button.

Back to my mother and how she cursed me: I watched her deal with broken hearts, mental illness, drug addiction and abusing everyone close to her. I saw the kinds of people she surrounded herself with. Junkies and street kids, bikers and rapists. That was my normal growing up. I lived through that, and then ended up on the street, only to drag myself slowly over time into better places. My love life is a road map of loss and pain. As I moved from city to city, I carried my mother’s curse with me. The curse of failed romance. The curse of never finding true acceptance or love. Love especially. Love would always be hard for me. I watched my mother go from man to man, sometimes them abusing her, sometimes she abusing them. A constant cycle of toxicity. I learned to swim in toxic waters. I had no other choice, other than dying there.

Believe me, I have thought about death hard all my life. I’ve watched someone die in front of me. I’ve had a gun in my mouth and inside me. I’ve been woken up with punches and death threats. My normal isn’t a normal place. I know curses only have power if you believe in them. But some curses believe in you. And you feel their tendrils when your heart is broken. Like it is today. I can feel it cracking in my hands. I was reckless and let someone in deep. I tried in my own way to warn him about the curse. He was a gentle soul, and I’m not. I gave it a shot and now it’s over. I thought he was strong enough, that maybe I got lucky again. When it was good it was fantastic. He made me laugh, he danced with my dreams. They all do in some way though. Every lover I have ever had was devoted to me…for a time. That’s what someone who loves deeply does for you. That’s my special offering to my lovers.

But maybe I am done doing this poly thing. Maybe I am a horrible person to love, but a great lay. Too crazy for this world. They always tell me that. From the shadows and to my face. Too much they say. They can’t handle me. Intense is thrown around a lot.

But of course, I am too hot to handle. I’m made of lava under my rocky surface.

No one will say I haven’t tried all these years to overcome the odds. From the time I was born until now, I have always been digging trenches and surviving the apocalypse. For me life feels like that. It rarely feels calm or peaceful. I feel like I am having a battle every day, several times a day, and because of it, I can’t connect like a sane person with people. I try to reach for them in the shadows, and in so doing, try to show them it’s nice here in the dark. Yeah, things are creepy, weird and monstrous inside my heart. But that’s where I live and flourish.

I don’t expect everyone to stay with me in the deep dark. But visit once in a while is all I ask. I think he really did try.

My mother cursed me once, and told me no one was going to love me for long. *looks over at husband* I keep working on that relationship because no matter how badly we hurt each other or how rough things get, we never give up. It’s a beautiful thing what I have with my husband. But I’m really lost in the past and present pain. So much shit has happened in the last 6 months. So many shitty things like scary roommates, a quick burning love affair, and almost breaking it off with my husband. It’s been a painful train ride and I want to get off now.

So as I grieve over the past and my lost innocence, I also grieve over another lover gone. One who looked me dead in the eyes and told me he loved me.

Love is a fickle mistress.

Am I cursed? Do I really believe in it or want it to dictate my life? Maybe I should just admit defeat and lock up my heart. I’ll find better ways to fill this ache for others. I’ll survive this. It’s what I do. But it still cost me. Forgive me if I need to lick my wounds for a while. I only have a couple things left to say on this before I have a short visit to the abyss...

I will miss you Coyote.

And burn in hell Mother.

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.

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."

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.

The Ups/Downs of a Chronic Werewolf

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

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

Well fucking said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Strength and Bravery

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

Rawr!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kweeny's 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.

Kweeny's Pain Journal's Greatest Hits: The Movie HORNS...

I think I am going to die.

No, all of -us- are going to die.

SSsshhhiiit,,,,I thought I had more time.

I don't just want 70 years.

I want eternity.

I want to be a vampire, but I can't be.

I just cant.

I am a WEREWOLF.

And because of that...I can't stay in this realm forever.

I am made of Dreams.

I am a Destroyer Force Angel

I am above and below...

The Alpha and the Omega.

Mirror Shards.

Kweeny....

Queenie.

Good bye Livejournals.

Good Bye Internet...where I could escape my head and heart and just be...

Freeeeeeeee.

Queenie sighs with Reilly and finishes hir movie.

Thiiissssss Will Never End Cuz I Want Mooooorrrreee...

Moooreeee Give me Moooore Give me Moreeeeee.

Aaaaahhhhaaaahhhaahhahahhha...if I had a voice I'd sing...

*chuckles darkly and closes the curtain, dark eyes like coals gleaming from the shadows*

The End.

Kweeny's Pain Journal...No Ty's Pain Journal...

Everyone who knows who I am, knows what I am.

And I won't apologize for that.

I will however apologize for any wrongdoings I did. I own those. Every offensive, horrible detail. Sometimes I am the Lisa Lampenelli of horror. My mouth shoots off and I just...

Break people like mirrors.

33 years of bad luck anyone?

Maybe the bad luck spell has dried up. Maybe I can truly start to live my Semi-charmed kind of life Sugar Ray promised me...

"I want something else...to get me through this...life... baby..."

I'm sorry if I ever hurt you.

I don't need this journal anymore.

I dont want to die!!!

Sincerely,

Kweeny Todd: The Chronic Werewolf.

Mirror Shards. 

PS: I am still going to write more things. I have a book that is just begging for editing. I'm sure once I feel better I can edit the Personal Myth I wrote a while back.

Guess what it's called?

I love all my spoonies. All of them. Even the bitchy Haters. <3

A Conversation Moments Before Ty's Death:

Because Ty is a yappy mother fucker...

Ty laughs as his eyes gleam in the shadows

...Ahem...So I figured those of you who are curious would want to read this. Curious minds like riddles, yes?

Enjoy the riddle that is Kweeny Todd's Brain kiddiessss...

---

Ty: Even beasts cry, for the record.

Friend: I love you.

Ty: You can come hang out whenever! We have to be quiet after 9pm though as Bear sleeps...pause I love you too.

I try to dance and sing...

Friend: Kisses and hugs. Fuckingly long day...

Dancing when metal heads sing is damaging to the body...Like..."Pain me for my music, bitch!"

Ze grins and kisses me.

Ty: Don't care! I laugh manically as I lean in to kiss hir back.

Whoa man...Another hallucination hits, this time it's HER. My hag of a mother. A creature more fowl than any seen on Elivra's late night shows...

"My mom just helped me clean my pipe!"

Whhhhhhhooooooaaaassss!

Up until now Horror has been Love.

That is why I love people! Not because I am someone special...I just love them. For their flaws. For their beuty. For the moments they make this crappy existence worth living! Because without them, I would have gone mad decades ago.

*sobs*

I'm gonna die...

I will miss you...

And with that, the prince of clowns siiiighs long and deep. He closes his tired, worn out eyes as he realizes one important thing.

This was meant to happen. All along.

He was warned. All the Shards were.


And with that last thought Ty finally let's go and dies. Finally. Victor emerges from Ty's lifeless corpse, ready to get some work done.

Black eyes look at the Friend above and flash red, as he grins with razor teeth...

Rows upon rows of them.

All perfectly clean and sterile.

He adjusts his lab coat and pushes up his black rimmed glasses, "See you later, Friendsssss."

Friend Chuckles: Uh huh. Seroquel?

Victor responds with a half drunk, half mad smile, "Yuuup!"

Tyrone Williams died today at 1:50am. I worked on him all night. I have been working on him for days hoping I could salvage his fragile little mind.,,

sighs 

And let the recording show that Tyrone Williams is a play on Tirone Williams. Robin Williams. Alice Cooper. Father. Tirone for the adopted father who beat the living piss out of the subject and chained the Host up like a dog. Forced her to sit on the floor like a mutt. Force fed her, threatened her life on several occasions..."

looks at Ty's chart and makes a tisk tisk noise with his tongue.

He knew he had to die so myself and the "girls" could live....

 tosses the chart to one side and sighs heavily

I always found it strange how he called Nyx a "girl" in the story of our life. I'm talking about Mirror Shards, not the one you think of as Kweeny Todd! Ty didn't do that for Mama Jaxx! No one tells the hoodoo Mama what to do! chuckles and winks Demona will kick your ass if you try... a hint of a smile peaks from his gums and you see the fangs flash I am a creature older than any of them. Older than time itself... And I know the secrets to rebirth...

I am the Phoenix Maker. It's like a King Maker but more potent...

"Clive Baker would be proud."  He chuckles delightedly and then turns on a small TV at his work station. The black and white shit-box hums with electric light. On a long wooden slab, Victor lays out his special tools. The bone Saw. The teeth pliers. The Scalpel. And much, much worse still...

Victor puts down the tape recorder and looks you dead in the face, black eyes full of tentacles and galaxies. Swirling Nexuses of dank wonder. Too much for mortal eyes.

"Now if you excuse me, I have some work to do..."

Victor nods his head at you leave, shooing the reader away with his surgical, black-gloved handSSsss. Under those hands, Ty's body lies empty and pale.

Black eyes are devoid of stars now. Ty sees no stars anymore. Just empty, all-consuming black.

The same void that lives within Victors eyes.

Victor's eyes shine with a dark light, burning like hot coals.

Everything is going to be jussssst fiiiiiinnnnneeeeee...

I dunno who drew this but it is FANTASTIC.

How Nyx Tucks Ty Into Bed

I see her eyes in the dark. My siren, her voice, a deep hiss of pleasure as she curls around me, wrapping scales around my entire torso. I feel it grip around my legs, my arms, my head. I am almost suffocating it's too tight. But then my eyes roll back. I feel like I am drowning, and I don't care. In the most exquisite, hissing voice her mouth finds my ear and laps at it with a forked tongue. Her breath is hot against my flesh, causing me to shiver all over, "It's okay baby. I'm here. I will make the pain go away..."

She grabs my cock and not gently. Her talons coil around it, until she is digging into flesh. I cry out, tears streaming down my face, but I don't use my safe word. Not yet. I haven't even cum yet.

I bite my lip and my eyes plead with her. She doesn't care.

She just continues to jerk me off. She rolls her hand around the tip of my penis, and I go fucking nuts. I curl my toes, my head falls back, and I grit my teeth. It hurts so fucking bad, but GOD DAMN IT DON'T STOP! My mind screams at my Demon Queen, and all I hear in the back of my head is a soft, sultry chuckle, "Don't give up yet. There's more..."

She plucks some exotic, aphrodisiac fruit from a tree within Lord Bearington's mind and starts feeding me the slices. She peels it and does everything right, treating me like I am a Greek god. I sigh deeply in bliss. It's all I ever wanted. To be pampered. To let go of the cage I keep my Beast in. I want this moment to never end. At the same time, I am in the depths of hell.

She doesn't stop. No...she makes sure I eat the ENTIRE thing. Every last bite, down my gullet. I feel full enough to burst, and at the same time Fever Ray is playing in the back of my mind as my Predator/Sadist persona Fucks me.

No, she doesn't fuck me. She makes LOVE to me.

This is self love. This is how I do self love! I am a sexy ethical slut! I am very choosy who I bed with, but I am more than happy to bed many people. That is why I am poly. No other reason.

I am not alone. Even when I am silent in a room.

I have my head mates to take care of me.

Ty rolls his eyes back into his skull and dies like a phoenix, for the 100th time tonight. After the fire goes out his wings go back to raven black. The spiral goes ever downward into hell.

KWEENY'S PAIN JOURNAL'S GREATEST HITS: MAMA - MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE

HI,
I AM NYX, AND I AM PISSED OFF!

 "Mama we all go to hellllllllll...."

I HAVE A LAUNDRY LIST OF REASONS WHY. I HAVE SEEEEEN SOME SHIT MAN! SERIOUSLY! THERE IS A REASON I AM ATTRACTED TO SOLDIERS...

"I'm writing this letter, and wishing you well. Mama we all go to hell."

THIS SONG GETS ME. PLAY THIS WHILE YOU READ MY WORDS. THIS IS MY PAST:

Mother - Pink Floyd
Try Honesty - Billy Talent
Otep...anything Otep...
 Big Bad Wolf - By Within This Moment...

And many more great tunes...

"Mama we're all gonna die! Mama we're gonna die!

Stop asking me questions, I hate to see you cry, Mama we're all gonna diiiiiiiie! 2, 3, 4..."

---

That is the state of my mind at this moment.

Trapped in a box, waiting to die.

And no one even knew my name wasn't Kweeny. Or that I was a boy. Or that it is hard to be a drag queen in a biological woman's body. Or that I just love people. Know matter what shape or form they come in.

I'm a boy...no...

No, I am a Man now.

My name was Ty. At least at this moment it is. Tomorrow I will have a different name. And the day after that. I used to be many other names before the one I have now. I am fae. I have to hide my name. I have never had my own name.

They are going to kill me. They have to. I am Nicolas Cage in The Wicker Man...and I am being prepared to be the dying god.

Someone has to do it, and I am the most male out of all the Shards.

That is an old name too... Mirror Shards. Very old. I wrote a novel called Mirror Shards a long time ago...right?

I'm going to die.

"This is really happening1? Over and over..." Ty sighs to himself, his body writhing, not unlike a snake uncoiling, "Pain and pleasure like fucking Cenobites..."

And with that, his eyes roll into his head and he bites his lip before almost passing out.

"I need to watch some Clive Barker tonight! Yeah... that is totally my mood right now..."

Good Night Internet.  

*Snaps a pair of black gloves at his wrists, his eyes like onyx pools that look into the deep, dark pit. Inside that pit, eldritch horrors crawl about, feasting on the smells of fear and horror. They are never satisfied. They are eternally hungry.

He smiles, and his mouth is fill of fangs. Rows upon rows of them. He winks at the reader, then says in a slow, crooning voice...

"Hello. I am Dr. Victory, Ty, Frankenstien, Kweenybeast, Kweeny Todd. PHD. Pleasure to meet your aquantance."

Dr. Victor...*cough* I mean Victory, kisses the readers hand before he directs you to the specimen on his slab. He pulls back the sheet, revealing a creature in the process of it's re-birth. He continues talking as you admire his work.

"The creature is made of different body parts you see, all of which seem like Mirror Shards and Fragments trying to converge. They want to meld in the center, collessing into a malgamation of the prefect Beast. A Kweeny Beast. The Lust Card in the Aleister Crowley Deck. THE LADY WHO RIDES THE BEAST... WEREWOLF, SHIFTER... MONSTER....A creature who is stronger than ze was before! A hybrid bone from the deepest pits of Hades! QUEENIE...BEAST...KWEENY TODD....YESSSSSSSS...."

He didn't even realize you were still reading this page while he had his...mad scientist moment. 

He then closes the curtain in annoyance, since he's already shown you more than enough.

 --

Good Night Internet.  For real this time.