Kweeny's Pain Journal's Greastest Hits: Hurt - Falls Apart

Today has been a really hard day, and it's not even over yet. I still have appointments to go to until 5pm tonight.  just want to curl up in a ball and disappear.

I saw my GP today. My doctor says I am doing so much better than the last time she saw me. And yet I feel completely like shit. I'm tired, sore, and feel defeated spiritually. I'm trying really hard to not let all of the last few weeks get to me, and to celebrate my little victories. But I feel so alone with all this. So completely, utterly alone.

My doctor was happy to be told about all the drugs I am on, and she seemed to even have some sympathy for me when I told her how terrified I am that I may need these drugs for the rest of my life. She actually agreed for once with me, and the irony isn't lost on me. I've bitterly laughed at the darkness for that cruel joke. The one time I want her to tell me this is all temporary and I will be right as rain in no time she cannot do it. She agrees I have Fibro now, and when I showed her the pain spots on my back she just nodded and said, "Yup that's Fibromyalgia all right. Yup, you got Raynauds. Yup, you have mental issues. Sorry kid."

No wonder I feel defeated today. At least I got a referral to a specialist. It will take me a few months and a ton of paperwork to see her, but there is progress.

I also realized how badly I have been fighting people. Wanting nothing but to hug them but I can't because I am so spiky right now. My spikes have retreated when I realized that they don't just hurt me, they hurt EVERYONE. Anyone who gets too close to me could get their face bitten off by the mad She-wolf. And my poor dying god aspect is getting the worst treatment of anyone. Because he cannot hide from the She-wolf like other people can. My inner pack I call Mirror Shards has no choice to but to deal with the demons as they lash out cruelly. My sacred Animus is being murdered and raped over and over because the Mad Wolf cannot forgive the transgressions of males in her past.

Maybe she will stop hurting him now that she realizes what she is doing is wrong.

Maybe.

Always waiting for answers...

I got a referral to a specialist. But it will take months to get in, and I will have a ton of paperwork to do to see her. In the meantime I have therapy. Lots and lots of therapy, and I have a psychiatrist I will be seeing on Friday. He will adjust my lithium levels then and do a follow up to see if I am coping okay.

I'm coping. Not sure I am okay though. Not sure I will ever be okay.  I'm hoping people can still love me like this. Because I cannot go back to who I used to be. I am hoping I can rise above all this, but I need to keep fighting in order to do so. I need to be a "shark" and circle my goals like prey.it's the only way I won't be sucked deep into the pit of despair and self hatred.

And I hope people will want to be around me again soon. Especially my girlfriend. I miss her. I pushed her hard away from me out of fear. I did it because I thought I was dying.

And a part of me is. And I'm scared. I can no longer have illusions about my abilities. I have to pace myself now, so I don't get upset and lash out. So I can still cultivate my rose garden of lovers and precious folks. I'm an asshole sometimes, but I hope I can be forgiven for that considering all the bullshit I am being forced to endure lately.

"I cracked my head and broke my heart..."

Until next time journal. It's time for Therapy.

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.

Kweeny's Tribute to Hir Loves

Mother of Serpents

It's my dead mother's birthday today. This and her death anniversary are hard days for me. I have an appointment with one of my many doctors later, and it's going to be hard to get out of bed. Not just because of pain, but because I don't want to face tomorrow and my mother's ghost. The mess my life has become in the last while is a hard pill to swallow, harder than the many different medications I have to take now. But I know I am loved. Deeply loved by my Monster-kids. I know I have a support network in the wings waiting for me to tell them what I need. I just don't want to abuse that kindness, or be a burden on anyone. I am humiliated enough when I look at my swollen legs or when my back spasms uncontrollably. But I am making a choice, like I do every morning and every night. Today I want to think about my lovers and how blessed I am. Not everyone has such love in their lives while they suffer from chronic pain and bipolar disorder. It takes a lot of courage to love someone who is as complex and fucked up with disorders like I am.

I am choosing to focus on my beautiful poly(amorous) family. Especially two very special bitches I have been the most difficult with when I lost my marbles.

NOM NOM NOM!

This is my husband Lord Bearington. I grew up not believing I was ever going to be loved, let alone married. I didn't believe I could hold down a long term relationship, and for a while I broke many hearts as I learned what love was. His lordship is more than my husband. He's my battle buddy and BFF. Even when I scare the fucking crap out of him (and scare myself shitless) he is still devoted to me.

Don't ask me what we are doing. You had to be there. 

And then there is this mad creature Mephista. This demonic-fox-bitch tugs at my heart strings whether she is near or far away. Even from India I couldn't escape my feelings for her. She inspires me with her zest for life and her authenticity challenges me to be a better version of myself. She is an independent monster-kid like myself, and we pretty much can wear each other's clothes. We are dark sisters as well as lovers, and like his Lordship, she is a warrior.

She loves me, even when I piss her off. Even when we disagree.

I feel truly grateful for their presences in my life. Even when they are hurting me with their fierce truths. Especially when they have to leave me in a padded cell so I can get the help I need to overcome this chronic shit. It wasn't good for me to be there. It made some of my chronic issues more intense, but I needed help. I tried doing the self care the easy way, but as is typical of my Kweenybeast nature, I couldn't just leave my wounds alone.

At least in the end doctors believe my pain is real.

*pets Bear*

I had a legit psychotic break. It was spurred on by medication and pain, both of which spiraled out of control. I had dystonia, hallucinations and allergic reactions, all within the same span of time. Plus, I overdosed on my hormones (birth control) which made me a fucking nutbar. I got myself into some trouble because reality wasn't the same for me that everyone else was experiencing. While I accept my part in things and try to accept who I am becoming, I didn't have much control over my mental state. It put me in the hospital 3 times. My stubbornness didn't help and I didn't want anyone telling me what to do.

Werewolf has gotta werewolf.

So for those of you who stuck by me as I fell apart and put myself back together, thank you. Your concern wasn't ignored. Nor is it being ignored now. But I am who I am, and I can't be constantly on a leash, nor can I hand hold anyone back who has issues with chronic illness and madness. I get by one day at a time now. One moment at a time.  And I think I am doing a great job coping considering.

I love you all for being in my life. Thank you for loving me back.

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.

Kweeny's Greatest Hits: Ghost of You - My Chemical Romance

I wish I could succinctly describe the pain I am in.

I wish I could reach inside the people I love, and just make it all stop. Just for one night. Just long enough that you can look into my eyes and realize I am stronger than anything life can throw at me.

ANYTHING.

I was born a warrior. I will die one.

I bought an army jacket today. Not just for LARPing and goofing off in.

Because I fight a battle every time I open my eyes.

Every time.

So remember that when dealing with me. Remember I am struggling for life. Wanting desperately to live, in the middle of a fucking war for my sanity.

I never get to forget, even while the rest of the world turns.

Good Night Monster-Kids.