"You have Fibromyalgia."
Such a simple phrase. But somehow hearing a pain management specialist say it makes it more real. Even wrote it on a piece of paper. I showed my husband the moment he came through the door.
It's real. I'm not just a crazy person. I'm crazy and in real pain.
I told the doctor about my pain and he listened. Really listened! About the nights I don't sleep. About how when I am manic I can cause a flare up because I do crazy things and push myself. He did the point test. And he told me what was wrong with me.
He diagnosed me.
There is a part of me that is darkly laughing. Not sure if it's an actual laugh or something twisted. Because I don't WANT this to be real. I am fucking tired of having issues with my body! I am beyond happy, so I know this dark laugh isn't full of joy. Because answers aren't comforting. My emotions are turbulent. Laugh like a madman and howl at the moon.
I think I might break down and cry later on. When no one is around to hear it. Because I can't take people's eyes right now. Don't want to burden my husband with my shitty emotions. Everything hurts right down to the core of me.
To the fucking quick.
My mother's laughter fills my head too. Her evil bitch laugh. Such mockery and vengeance in her laughter. She did curse me. Thinking of her makes me rage. Because sometimes, even when you win, you loose.
I haven't won anything gang. But at least I have an answer.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
"Dearly" Departed
I've been a really moody bitch all week, and despite myself, I have set parts of my life on fire and salted the earth. It was an extreme reaction from me, and I realized my bipolar is flaring up right now. Despite the meds. Lots of stressors are pulling at me to help with the flares I am having physically and mentally, and when I saw what tomorrow was going to be, my mood the last few days has made perfect sense.
Tomorrow is the anniversary of my mother's suicide. And I am wondering which part of me is deciding this year it's going to hurt. I mean, I always remember the day they found her, not the day they buried her. I sometimes even get the months mixed up. Some years I pretend nothing happened, others I flip out and lock myself away. I'm so messed up I can't even grieve about my mother like a stable person.
But I do grieve. And I always will.
You never get over a suicide. Especially since she was one of my main abusers growing up. Growing up with her taught me you had to scream to be heard, you had to fight to make the pain stop, and you can't trust anyone. Family is a comforting delusion other people get to have. No one will take care of you but yourself. And if I stayed in her house for too long, I'd become an addict and a monster too.
My mother was 41 when she died. She had enough drugs in her to kill an elephant when they found her dead in her hotel room. She did it in a place I had fond memories of before the incident, Niagara Falls. I used to love watching the rushing water. Forces of nature are amazing to me. I recall Houdini went over the Falls in a barrel once. I try to focus on that now.
I have speculated why she did it several times, but I honestly will never get that answer. It's just another mystery, like so many things in my life, that most people don't have to deal with. And the thing that really makes grief about my mother hard is that there are no real good times to fall back on. I have a memory here or there, but I can tell you they would fit on less than 5 fingers if we counted them. Which is a sad, horrible state of affairs. My mother was not a happy person, was untreated for all sorts of mental disorders, and was usually on more drugs than she needed. I'm sure she was probably trying to self medicate, because there was shit wrong inside her body as well as her mind. When they did the autopsy on her, they found growth on her bones. She used to try to scare me and tell me, "One day Kweeny, your body will betray you too. You'll get sick like I am. And your life will be all pain."
She wasn't right often, but when she was...
When I broke my tailbone it felt like my mother's curse had come full circle. Like I couldn't escape a life of pain and madness. And when I went into the hospital this year, it shattered me. I have had a hard time returning to my core self since. I wake up in drug hazes, I go to sleep in drug hazes. I have cold sweats and nightmares. I wake up in horrible pain that makes me grit my teeth every morning. I am a pariah to some, to others, just a moment in time. I still have bipolar swings, and I am not happy with how I am coping.
So I am not okay this year.
A friend suggested I draw, but my pain about my mom might make that actually physically too much for me to bear. My mother never supported my creative pursuits. I told her I wanted to be in a band, she laughed at me and told me I was too ugly. When I drew things for her, she would only point out their flaws and tell me to quit trying...
Sometimes she literally beat the dreams out of me.
But I am going to try finishing my painting I started the other night. Even if the voices are really loud tonight and my pain is really intense. I will see how far I can get before I just cant do it anymore. The painting is emotionally relevant to what I am dealing with right now.
Monday, May 18, 2015
A Letter to The Mother Who Wasn't
Dear Cathy,
I'm not sure there is a point to writing to the dead, but I am going to do it anyhow. For me. Because I don't live in your shadow anymore. I do this right after taking a handful of medication, PRESCRIBED TO ME BY A DOCTOR, for all the messed up shit my genes carry. I still remember the day you cursed me, and how I shrugged it off as just another asshole thing you said while high...
"One day, you are going to hurt the way I do."
For once, you actually were telling the truth. Like you, I have mental illness. Like you, I have physical ones too. Ones I thought you were lying about, because more then half the time you DID lie about your problems. How many days did you sit my sister and I down on the end of your bed and tell us you were going to die? You had it all figured out too, like death was something you just circled on a questionnaire. Today I choose Death. Check mark. Simple as that.
I know better now. I know the horror and despair of death. I know the helplessness and the fear. I know all the terrible and even beautiful parts of death. I think about death and my relationship with it every time I process bones for art. I think about it every time I walk through a grave yard. I know how close it is. But I also know that choosing death isn't as simple as a check mark.
You just made it sound that way.
My pill jar isn't a 20 sided, spinning container of Russian roulette. It has my day and nighttime pills marked off, and that's it. I could barely handle looking at my pill jar when I first got it, because it reminded me of you. Watching you spin your pill jar until you got the section you wanted, and see you dump a pile of pills into your hand then into your mouth. Dry. Like a fucking pro. You did this several times a day. You were courting death, and it wasn't romantic. There was no beauty in what you did. And it was the same action you pulled when they took you to Niagara Falls. My sister and Grandmother didn't know you were done with life, and sadly, my Grandmother didn't care. You were done. You didn't want to try, didn't want a second chance, and sure as hell didn't want to ever give my sister or I the chance to be your family.
So now I have to carry around the shadows of all that transpired between us. All the things left unsaid. All the bullshit and lies, and all the abuse you refused to knowledge happening under your roof. I went fucking mad recently and no one really blamed me. Anyone close to me knows what I have endured. Knows about the "drug house" and the life you cultivated for my sister and I. How I protected her many times from predators. How I can't even sleep at night like a normal person because people raped and beat me when I was vulnerable at night. The beatings sometimes were from you. You were terrifying when high. You switched personalities, and the one I knew as my mother would be replaced by a vicious beast. The beast wasn't human. It lived on fear. It would punch me in the back, shake me awake and threaten me so I wouldn't want to fall asleep. And if you weren't beating me...I still get upset if someone walks past my bedroom door when I am in bed. I have a roommate who gets up at all hours, and he wakes me up constantly just by walking past my door. I can't seem to shut it off. Every time I freak out a little.
I am 34 years old, and I need pills to sleep. I need anti-psychotics, I need pain medication. I cannot function without these things. Because people touched me. People raped me. People beat the fuck out of me...in YOUR house. A child is supposed to be safe in their house. A child should be able to trust their mother.
I had no mother.
This only touches the surface of what I endured. And you are gone now, so nothing I say here will reach your ears. But I needed to write this. For me. For the child I was. Because little Kweeny was a creative, and beautiful soul. She grew up hard and fast, and never got to play, so damn it, I play now. She had to learn most things on her own. She made mistakes, because she was a tough little shit who didn't trust easily. She still doesn't. But she's better now. She is loved and has a huge pack of friends in her life, and she doesn't need you anymore. She's free now.
She can run with wolves now, not drug addicts.
And she won't check the death box.
~Kweeny Todd
I'm not sure there is a point to writing to the dead, but I am going to do it anyhow. For me. Because I don't live in your shadow anymore. I do this right after taking a handful of medication, PRESCRIBED TO ME BY A DOCTOR, for all the messed up shit my genes carry. I still remember the day you cursed me, and how I shrugged it off as just another asshole thing you said while high...
"One day, you are going to hurt the way I do."
For once, you actually were telling the truth. Like you, I have mental illness. Like you, I have physical ones too. Ones I thought you were lying about, because more then half the time you DID lie about your problems. How many days did you sit my sister and I down on the end of your bed and tell us you were going to die? You had it all figured out too, like death was something you just circled on a questionnaire. Today I choose Death. Check mark. Simple as that.
I know better now. I know the horror and despair of death. I know the helplessness and the fear. I know all the terrible and even beautiful parts of death. I think about death and my relationship with it every time I process bones for art. I think about it every time I walk through a grave yard. I know how close it is. But I also know that choosing death isn't as simple as a check mark.
You just made it sound that way.
My pill jar isn't a 20 sided, spinning container of Russian roulette. It has my day and nighttime pills marked off, and that's it. I could barely handle looking at my pill jar when I first got it, because it reminded me of you. Watching you spin your pill jar until you got the section you wanted, and see you dump a pile of pills into your hand then into your mouth. Dry. Like a fucking pro. You did this several times a day. You were courting death, and it wasn't romantic. There was no beauty in what you did. And it was the same action you pulled when they took you to Niagara Falls. My sister and Grandmother didn't know you were done with life, and sadly, my Grandmother didn't care. You were done. You didn't want to try, didn't want a second chance, and sure as hell didn't want to ever give my sister or I the chance to be your family.
So now I have to carry around the shadows of all that transpired between us. All the things left unsaid. All the bullshit and lies, and all the abuse you refused to knowledge happening under your roof. I went fucking mad recently and no one really blamed me. Anyone close to me knows what I have endured. Knows about the "drug house" and the life you cultivated for my sister and I. How I protected her many times from predators. How I can't even sleep at night like a normal person because people raped and beat me when I was vulnerable at night. The beatings sometimes were from you. You were terrifying when high. You switched personalities, and the one I knew as my mother would be replaced by a vicious beast. The beast wasn't human. It lived on fear. It would punch me in the back, shake me awake and threaten me so I wouldn't want to fall asleep. And if you weren't beating me...I still get upset if someone walks past my bedroom door when I am in bed. I have a roommate who gets up at all hours, and he wakes me up constantly just by walking past my door. I can't seem to shut it off. Every time I freak out a little.
I am 34 years old, and I need pills to sleep. I need anti-psychotics, I need pain medication. I cannot function without these things. Because people touched me. People raped me. People beat the fuck out of me...in YOUR house. A child is supposed to be safe in their house. A child should be able to trust their mother.
I had no mother.
This only touches the surface of what I endured. And you are gone now, so nothing I say here will reach your ears. But I needed to write this. For me. For the child I was. Because little Kweeny was a creative, and beautiful soul. She grew up hard and fast, and never got to play, so damn it, I play now. She had to learn most things on her own. She made mistakes, because she was a tough little shit who didn't trust easily. She still doesn't. But she's better now. She is loved and has a huge pack of friends in her life, and she doesn't need you anymore. She's free now.
She can run with wolves now, not drug addicts.
And she won't check the death box.
~Kweeny Todd
Sunday, May 17, 2015
On Swords in the Snow and Writing
I have many friends in Canada I still keep in contact with. Some friendships can survive distance, which I am grateful for. One such friendship is with my Big Sister Marcy. She is one of the few people I call Big Sister, because I tend to be the Older Sister. I'm an old soul, and I am in my mid 30's. So I tend to hang around a lot of young folk who look up to me.
I look up to Marcy though. She's a strong bitch who survived a lot of shit. We both came from hard backgrounds, we both got raised in the same city (and know what The Hammer means), and we even know some of the same folks from that place. But she's survived some really frightening things, like being in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina happened. She's a fucking bad ass, because she managed to live through it and come home to tell the tale.
We have started a new project together that I am stoked about. My first time co-writing with her! It's going to be awesome. I can't say much more as we are still in the brainstorming stage, but it is going to be awesome. I am glad to be doing some creative with my Big Sis!
She showed me some amazing pictures she did sitting in the snow with her blade. She looks like a warrior Queen. A true, fierce powerful force, cutting through the elements. She told me she had a mantra in her head as she did the photos, "Make pain bend." I found this extremely powerful. Make Pain Bend. You can't erase it. You can't go back in time to when it wasn't there. It is here, in the now, and you can live with it. Bend the pain. Not yourself. Yes.
This is the battle one has with Invisible Chronic Illness. The battle of making pain bend. Of being alive with the pain. It is a struggle. Every day the pain takes more and more of your time, your sense of self, your ability to get up and fight. Just bend it. As much as you can.
She told me she thought of me while sitting out in the snow, which was a great honor to me. She knows how hard things have been. That my Raynauds and Fibro are making life suck. I have to take meds just to be somewhat functional right now, and I couldn't sit out in the cold holding a blade which would feel like getting ice-burned if I touched it. The weather would literally suck the heat from my body and I would go into spasms. Her strength was inspiring. She once couldn't climb a wall because her Fibro was so bad, and I recently saw her do this. She climbed a mother fucking wall right to the top, like a true bad ass. This is strength to me. She makes the pain bend. She doesn't let it dictate her life.
I wrote to her today, "I keep trying though. I face what I am now with all the invisible BS people can't see. I face my Bipolar, my PTSD...all of it. I need to be on pills to be sane, and pain meds to sometimes just get out of bed. I stare at stacks of med bills, knowing if I was in Canada things would be different. Did I know one day I would move? Yes. When I fell for Bear I knew. I knew I wasn't wealthy enough to support him, and I had no family to turn to for sponsorship. I got chewed out for my choice to leave, without people truly understanding why.
I'd honestly be dead without my husband. When I had my mental breakdown I was a danger to myself. Three times I was wheeled out on a stretcher, for my safety. Bear saved me from myself as much as he could.
I feel a bit emotional seeing you in the snow like that. I think it is pretty bad ass too honestly. Squinting or not, you look fierce. Canadian girls kick ass!"
Battle On...
Thank you to all my Canadian friends who understand and still wish to keep me in your life. I love you all and miss home greatly.
I look up to Marcy though. She's a strong bitch who survived a lot of shit. We both came from hard backgrounds, we both got raised in the same city (and know what The Hammer means), and we even know some of the same folks from that place. But she's survived some really frightening things, like being in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina happened. She's a fucking bad ass, because she managed to live through it and come home to tell the tale.
We have started a new project together that I am stoked about. My first time co-writing with her! It's going to be awesome. I can't say much more as we are still in the brainstorming stage, but it is going to be awesome. I am glad to be doing some creative with my Big Sis!
This is the battle one has with Invisible Chronic Illness. The battle of making pain bend. Of being alive with the pain. It is a struggle. Every day the pain takes more and more of your time, your sense of self, your ability to get up and fight. Just bend it. As much as you can.
 |
| Bad Ass! |
I'd honestly be dead without my husband. When I had my mental breakdown I was a danger to myself. Three times I was wheeled out on a stretcher, for my safety. Bear saved me from myself as much as he could.
I feel a bit emotional seeing you in the snow like that. I think it is pretty bad ass too honestly. Squinting or not, you look fierce. Canadian girls kick ass!"
Battle On...
Thank you to all my Canadian friends who understand and still wish to keep me in your life. I love you all and miss home greatly.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
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.
"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.
Monday, April 20, 2015
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."
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.
 |
| Rawr! |
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.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Kweeny's Thoughts on Graduation Day
Not sure how I feel about the concept of Graduating from my therapy program. It was never meant to be a long lasting thing. And I won't lie, some days have been really hard. Talking in a group situation is different than one on one, because people can do all sorts of things. Like interrupt you in the middle of you sharing your "check in". We check in everyday so everyone is updated on how the group feels. Lately, I haven't had much to complain about. Which is good, but makes checking in feel tedious. Because I really don't have anything I would deem worth calling problems. My other group members have problems. Sometimes big ones. And then it comes to me and all I can complain about is medical bills, my sleep issues, and how tired and sore I am.
I am sore everyday. That is how Fibro works. When it is cold, the Raynauds joins in to make things harder. That is my life. On my check in sheet have I taken to writing my pain levels under the mood level, because I find it offensive there isn't an option for that. I am tired of people focusing all their attentions on my brain, and not enough attention to pain management. I talk about my pain as much as anything else, maybe more so. Because it is more constant than my mania. I haven't felt manic since I came out of the hospital.
And I am on a lot of meds. More than I have ever been in my life. I know I could be on more, and I am grateful I don't have to be. I am worried if I tell my psychiatrist next week about my sleep issues he will suggest more medication. I don't want to live in a drug fueled haze my whole life. I know right now I am way better than I was. I am actually functioning like a mostly-sane person. I am calmer, still retaining my personality, funny, and actually considered CHILL by people who only met me after the meds. This makes me laugh every time I hear it. Or when my therapist calls me his "Meditation Queen."
To be honest, half the time I fall asleep. My therapist tells me it's okay, but I do much better when I have slept enough the night before. Sleeping is still not easy, though I do sleep better now than I ever did. I feel kinda weird to even complain about the sleep issues considering how bad things have been. All and all, I'm doing okay at therapy, and soon it will be done. Soon I will have to figure out what I am doing next, and add to my to-do list shopping around for a personal therapist as well as a new GP.
Progress is great, but it is also pretty frightening. Because the unknown can be daunting.
I am sore everyday. That is how Fibro works. When it is cold, the Raynauds joins in to make things harder. That is my life. On my check in sheet have I taken to writing my pain levels under the mood level, because I find it offensive there isn't an option for that. I am tired of people focusing all their attentions on my brain, and not enough attention to pain management. I talk about my pain as much as anything else, maybe more so. Because it is more constant than my mania. I haven't felt manic since I came out of the hospital.
And I am on a lot of meds. More than I have ever been in my life. I know I could be on more, and I am grateful I don't have to be. I am worried if I tell my psychiatrist next week about my sleep issues he will suggest more medication. I don't want to live in a drug fueled haze my whole life. I know right now I am way better than I was. I am actually functioning like a mostly-sane person. I am calmer, still retaining my personality, funny, and actually considered CHILL by people who only met me after the meds. This makes me laugh every time I hear it. Or when my therapist calls me his "Meditation Queen."
I'm totally zen motherfuckers!
To be honest, half the time I fall asleep. My therapist tells me it's okay, but I do much better when I have slept enough the night before. Sleeping is still not easy, though I do sleep better now than I ever did. I feel kinda weird to even complain about the sleep issues considering how bad things have been. All and all, I'm doing okay at therapy, and soon it will be done. Soon I will have to figure out what I am doing next, and add to my to-do list shopping around for a personal therapist as well as a new GP.
Progress is great, but it is also pretty frightening. Because the unknown can be daunting.
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