#I mean my dad also has some knee issues that mean walking on uneven ground is really hard for him

[tj-crochets]

I don't use a rollator (I might end up needing one in the future, my grandfather used one and I have the same osteoarthritis he did and I've used a cane off and on since I was 12, anyway, not relevant, I know a little about them as a result), I did some research and there are a number of 'all-terrain' models, that seem to mostly be normal ones, but with thick, solid wheels (not inflatable), and I also found this model: The All Terrain Walk'n'Chair which can even be used for off-trail hiking.

Oooh, that looks interesting!! Thank you!!! It looks like there might be a trade-off between "easy to fold down and fit in a car trunk" and "good for offroad use" so I'm going to have to give it some thought and also probably talk to my dad and see, as the person who'd most likely be pushing the wheelchair if I needed to use it in wheelchair mode, which qualities would make it easiest for him

[schizophelia]

October 3rd, 2019: Psychiatrist and Therapist: Journal

Today I met with my psychiatrist and my therapist. Here are some notes on my appointments.

My psychiatrist and I talked about some paperwork. I said that in order to get the bursary, I needed to have more paperwork filled out. But no one told me because my application for financial assistance listed me as having a temporary disability. So I didn’t know I had to get new documentation. So my doctor filled it out during our session. She wrote that I had a permanent disability. She said that a temporary disability didn’t really fit as I’ve been having these symptoms for several years. She said that even though it’s listed as permanent, doesn’t mean that I won’t improve. She just said that it’s something that is long term and since I’ve already had the symptoms for a long time, she thinks that it’s more a long-term thing. 

I said that my previous doctor listed it as temporary because he said my diagnosis was depression. And I told him I wasn’t depressed and he constantly insisted that I was. I told my current psychiatrist what my previous had said and I said I wasn’t depressed and that I knew when I was depressed. She said “I definitely don’t think you are depressed just by looking at you today.” I said I didn’t have any of the classic signs of depression and she agreed.

On the paperwork, she marked off that my disability has many impacts on me. Whereas my previous doctor checked off two things, my current doctor checked off nearly everything. The impacts she checked off included: attention and concentration, memory, information processing (verbal and written), stress management, organization and time management, and social interactions. So that’s a lot. But I feel validated because my previous doctor didn’t even ask me about the stuff I struggled with and so he just checked off less. I didn’t tell my new psychiatrist what to put. She filled it out without my input. So she knows how I am affected and I feel like she understands the impacts things have.

I talked to my doctor a lot about the issues with the house and landlord. I said that I would file a lawsuit if the landlord didn’t do the things she needed. But she seems a little more receptive now (my landlord seems more receptive). I said to my doctor that I don’t want to be that person to file a lawsuit, but that if she’s putting our lives in danger, it needs to be done. We need to make sure that our living environment is safe and up-to-code because we’re paying to live here. She should be taking care of the issues to help keep us safe. So that was the focus of our appointment.

I did briefly talk about the voices and stuff. I said they are still there, but they’re better manageable. So I think medication is at an okay level for management of stuff. We didn’t adjust medication so it’s good. I said that I did get confused a few times. Like hearing people talking to me when people said they didn’t. Also seeing things that confused me because I didn’t know what was real and asked a friend to confirm and stuff.

So that was my psychiatrist appointment.

My therapy appointment was a unique experience. At least this time.

So we talked about the house issues again and he asked if the stress of that was making any change in the voices. I said that the voices are still there, but they’re not as invasive and distracting as they have been in the recent past. So he said that the one thing that changed since the last time we met was me interacting with the housemates. I said that we are getting along, but that we don’t talk much to the Asian girl (not racist, just don’t know where she’s from. But she speaks a foreign language). So we don’t talk to her much. But the other girls and I were thinking about finding another place to stay next year. 

So my therapist and I talked about the work we talked about last time. So we talked the method for creating memory hooks, but also acknowledging the voices and then picturing them on a leaf on water and floating away. I said I tried the memory trick, but it didn’t work well for the textbook I tried it on. So he said maybe I would have to change it a bit. I said I didn’t try the leaf thing long after because I forgot about the technique. 

He said that he thought the house issues were worrying me and taking up too much space in my mind. So he said every time I think of it, write it down and mark off how many times I think of it. He said that I should give myself a schedule to think about it. He said that he thinks I’m thinking too much about it. I said that I just want the things looked after in the house. I don’t want to come home after a class and find the house burned to the ground. I said I don’t think I’m being unreasonable in wanting things done. If it impacts our safety, I want it fixed. So anyway, that’s what we’re trying to do. Just give me a certain amount to think about it.

Because there’s so many students getting counselling support now, he said that the wait time is between 3-4 weeks for the next appointments. It’s a little long to wait, but luckily I see my psychiatrist weekly so I have her. But yeah, 3 weeks for therapy waiting is quite a long time. 

I’m going home this weekend so I’m excited and glad to see my dogs tomorrow. I haven’t been home in 2 weeks so I’m glad to just be home and be there with family and to sleep in my own bed. 

Tomorrow I have to go to the post office to pick up a package. I hope it’s not raining. It’s been raining 3 days in a row. I know the rain is nice, but it’s not ideal for walking to the bus. My bus stops don’t have shelters so when it rains, you get soaked. My bus platforms at school are among the farthest from the school so the walk is longer. Plus the campus grounds are uneven so there are tons of puddles. Just not fun. I hope tomorrow isn’t rainy. I like the sound of rain for sleeping, but being outside in it sucks. 

My joints are hurting again. I need to do physiotherapy again. I thought I would be fine because my knee pain was gone mostly, but then it came back. I thought that the condition was temporary (patellofemoral pain syndrome). I thought that after doing physiotherapy I wouldn’t have to do it again. But I think it’s something I will have to continue doing regardless. I’m also having issues with my hands. So I was thinking about looking into physiotherapy for that. Because I do have a prescription for it. I just didn’t think I would need it. But now I’m thinking that I do. 

Anyway. That’s it. I meet with my SAS advisor next week and my psychiatrist next week as well.

Oh, it was my dad’s birthday today. So I texted him this morning. I don’t know if we’re celebrating or not tomorrow.

Meds:

Fetzima 120mg

Seroquel 100mg

Seroquel XR 500mg

 250mg morning, 250mg night

[builder051]

Sorry, if I may, I had perhaps a thought/question/suggestion for daredevil? I haven’t seen the third season yet, but so far I perceive him to be someone deeply self-destructive but utterly unaware of that fact. If this rings true at all, I imagine that the realization would hit him hard, particularly since he’s Catholic. If this were ever something you’d be interested in writing, I’d be interested in reading it, but please don’t feel obligated. I hope that things are going well for you!

No need to apologize for talking to me.  As long as you’re not spewing hate, the askbox is open, and you’re not directly contradicting something I recently stated as a preference, I’m not going to explode at you.  

I’m in the process of watching season 3 now.  I’m really loving it.  The whole thing with messing with Matt’s public image to getto him, I relate so hard.

This is an awesome prompt; thank you so much for sending it. I know you probably wanted something set in the present, but the way this started coming to me really had to be set at Columbia.  I imagine Matthaving a lifelong struggle with self-harm, and Daredevil-ing is like a copingmechanism.  I wanted to explore it before he went that route.

That said, this story contains self harm, but it’s vague. It treats the essence of the issue, not the details.

_____

The chicken or the egg.  

It’s not a bad metaphor.  It does a decent job of summing up the thought circles that are impossible to understand, but insist on baffling Matt anyway.  Normally he’s perceptive enough to suss out the nexus of his issues, and if they’re worthy enough, address them at the source.

Not today, though.  His head’s cloudy and throbbing. He doesn’t think it hurt so much when he first lay down on his narrow dorm bed, but time has given up on being linear.  Matt’s no longer sure if it was the depression or the malaise that hit first.  The chicken or the egg.

Matt’s thoughts aren’t linear either.  Foggy insists on vegetarian fried rice when they go out for Chinese.  “Because it’s weird, Matt.  You can’t have the grown-up and the baby in the same dish,” he’d explained.  “Isn’t there something about that in the Bible?”

Goats, Matt had told him.  It’s about goats.  But Christ declared all foods clean, and that’s why his followers don’t keepkosher.  But Foggy grew up in a deli, so of course he’d see it from the other side.  Funny how the realization only hits him now, when the thought of food makes his mouth water in a way that’s distinctly unpleasant.  And lack of sustenance probably has something to do with the nauseous ache crashing around the inside of his head.

Matt lets out a dejected sigh and shifts onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.  He knows his glasses sit safely on his desk, but he still feels the shadowy indents of the nose pads.  It’s like rubbing his face in powdered glass.  He wishes twin extra-long sheets came in a higher thread count.

Matt’s eyes start to water.  Tears of pain pool beneath his eyelids and run out of the corners.  The pillowcase soaks up the droplets and spreads them, creating wet spots that press against his brows and cling to his cheeks.

The dampness is cold, but Matt’s wires are crossed, and it may as well be burning.  He smells the salt, the stress in his sweat, the sulfates in the laundry soap.  His brain throws in the memory of burned rubber and sunbaked asphalt, and before he can stop himself, he’s on his back, kicking off the covers and floundering.  

He can’t take this pain.  He can’t find his dad.  He can’t see.

But it’s coming through all wrong.  He went blind first. Then Jack died.  Right?  And the migraines came later, at the orphanage.  Along with the nightmares.

And that’s what this is, isn’t it?  Scratchy bedding, a roommate who only pretends to like him.  But Sister Maggie likes him. She comes when he calls out to her.  And when he calls out to his dad.  And even when his brain goes primal and fuzzy and he yells for the mother he’s never even known.

Matt‘s throat is working, his vocal cords pulsing like plucked guitar strings.  But he can’t hear the notes.  He’s too disconnected, his mouth and ears too far apart.  Matt rolls onto his side, dragging his knees to his chest and clamping his arms around them, squeezing himself into aball.  He wraps his palm around the opposite wrist for good measure,sliding the chain on a door that’s already bolted.

But someone’s rattling the knob.  Matt hears metal on metal, the scrape of a key.  There’s a creak, then a slam, then, “Whoops.”

A couple shuffling footsteps.  “Oh, hey, Matt.”

Matt flinches at the sudden influx of sound.  He couldn’t hear himself groaning a moment ago, but Foggy may as well be speaking through a bullhorn.  The jump in logic makes Matt’s temples throb sickeningly. But if Foggy’s here, then Matt’s definitely now.  Pinpointing the x,y, and z of location on coordinate plane grounds him in the fourth dimension too, even though his math classes haven’t taught him how to do that yet.

A bitter taste pools under his tongue.  Matt swallows to slow his racing heartbeat.  He takes a breath.

It’s 2009.

He gets a whiff of candy corn coming off Foggy.  It’s October.

The streetlamp hums outside the window.  Matt can smell beer, too.  And Vaseline.  A hint of latex.  It’s the middle of the night.  He’s definitely in college.

“You ok, buddy?”  Foggy flips on the overhead light. The fluorescent bulbs sizzle to life, and Matt’s stomach flips, bubbling like a cauldron of vomitous witch’s brew.

“Fine,” Matt croaks.  He lifts his head an inch from his still-wet pillow and loosens his tightly wound posture.  His hackles are still up, but Foggy’s buzzed and blissful.  He doesn’t need to worry.

“You sure?  You were in bed when I left,” Foggy says. “And that was, like… early.”

“Hm.”  Matt’s hand is wet, too.  He wipes it on hissheets.

“Party’s still going on, if you wanna drop in.  I’ll go with you.  It’s…”  Foggy laughs.  “It’s a good party.”

“Nah.”  Matt’s senses are going off again.  He smells metal.  But that could just be the nausea crystalizing in his sinuses.

“You really should.  If you’re just sad, you should get up. Do something.”  Foggy’s uneven footsteps approach Matt’s bed. “Come on.”

“Not sad.” Matt means to add some more detail, like the building migraine, the rising urge to throw up.  He means to add the just, theway Foggy did.  He doesn’t mean to lie.

“Yeah, right.”  Foggy grabs Matt’s wrist.

“No, Fog—”  Matt isn’t expecting to be pulled out of bed. And he isn’t expecting searing pain to lance up his arm.

“You’re not— Jesus, Matt!”  The exclamation comes across suddenly as Foggy’s fingers find the half-moon scratches on Matt’s forearm. Surprise ups the spit and anxious vibration in his tone.

For a second, Matt’s lost again.  But then the blocks stack up.  The memories, the hurt, the cycles of illness he has trouble labeling as physical or mental.  It’s happened before.  It makes a sick sort of sense, made sicker by the fact that Matt knows he deserves it.

“You’re not Jesus.”  It’s clear it’s not what Foggy meant to say, but his friend runs with it anyway.

Matt makes a cynical noise.  His mouth is too dry and wooly for him to force out more than one syllable.  If Foggy’s contradicting something, it didn’t come from Matt’s lips.  Even if his head hurts enough to make that kind of gibberish a real possibility.

“You don’t have to suffer.  And, god, I can’t believe you did this to yourself.”  Foggy doesn’t want to touch the wounds anymore. He’s sticky with Matt’s blood.  Matt can hear him bouncing the pad of his index finger against his thumb, repeatedly breaking the seal as the viscous fluid starts to dry.

Matt’s going to tell him he didn’t mean to, but Foggy makes to walk away.   Matt decides it’s not worth opening his mouth.  He turns inward again and tries to talk himself through relaxing the tension in hisneck.  

He doesn’t expect Foggy to swoop back in and pull him out of bed by the shoulders.  “No, no, Fog,” Matt protests, attempting to push him away while also being conscious of the facts that blood is running freely down his arm, and he’s perilously close to vomiting.  “I—my head—”

“Cut it out, Matt.  You’re depressed.  You’re bleeding!”

It’s the middle of the night.  Foggy can’t be dragging him to the campus health clinic.  Matt’s clearly in no shape for a party. He gets a mental image of himself sitting on the bathroom counter, slumped against the mirror, explaining in broken sentences how this is not an intentional act of self-flagellation while Foggy applies Neosporin and Band-Aids.

But they’re not going to make it that far.  They’re not going to make it out of the room.  Matt gags and claps his hand over his mouth.

“Shit.”  This time, Foggy interprets correctly.  He shoves Matt into his desk chair and thrusts the trash can into his lap.

Matt coughs harshly.  He heaves up a dribble of bile, then waits for the room to stop spinning.  He’s definitely dehydrated. Some simple carbs would probably do him good too, but Matt’s not ready to brave anything that will require chewing.  Or anything with a flavor.

“Sorry.”  Matt scrapes his tongue with his teeth and wills them to stop chattering.

“You didn’t have a headache when I left,” Foggy says, a little defensively.

It’s probably true.  Matt doesn’t remember the details well enough to refute it.  “I do now,” he murmurs.

Foggy sighs.  “Yeah.  You do now.”  The mini-fridge opens and closes.  He cranks the top off a bottle of water and nudges it against Matt’s hand.  “Here.  Rinse.  I’ll get you back to bed.  And put something on those scratches, if you want.”

He thinks about it as he swishes the water and spits it into the trash.  The wounds themselves don’t hurt.  But the drying blood itches.

“Or I could go, if you’d rather…” Foggy waffles.

Matt’s taking too long.  Foggy doesn’t want to leave him alone, but he’s going to come out and say it.

Matt hates that he does this to himself.  He hates even more that he’s ruining his friend’s night.  But, truth be told, he doesn’twant to be alone either.

“Sure,” Matt finally says. “You can stay.”  It’s too demanding.  He quickly revises. “I mean…you should.  I want you to stay.”