#years of way too high a dose of antidepressants has fucked up my brain so bad

[pc-98s]

honestly at this point i think i’m just trying to relearn how to enjoy things

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

Haven't heard from you in a while, hope you're doing well! <3

Hey, nonnie - I'm doing alright. Personal ramble below the cut. Skip if you're just here for fanfic reading and don't care about my silly little melodrama.

Not going to go into too much detail, but I've been really feeling the depression lately. For context, I have clinical depression and take a really high dose of antidepressants, which fuck with other aspects of my life (i.e. weight and lack of sleep). Medical consensus is that I'll need medication for the rest of my life as my brain does not perform the appropriate mood-regulating functions (I'm not super sure what the specifics of this are). I've struggled with low feeling, demotivation, SI/SH etc. for nearly nine years now. I've slipped into a bit of an episode lately - not necessarily related to being online but Tumblr is a part of it - but I'm trying to work my way out of it by picking up some new-old hobbies, such as crochet, and doing things that I like and that don't stress me. I'm safe and don't have the opportunity to action any of my feelings, so please don't worry about me!

Unfortunately, Tumblr has been a source of stress for me since I've come on here. I've made some downright terrible choices in friends, in behaviour, in the amount of energy I commit to this space, and the only one who can really break this cycle is me. This site hosts a really wide range of personalities, and I just... feel like I've encountered some of the absolute worst among all of that, and it's done me absolutely no favours when it comes to making good choices. We all say that as adults, we should know better, but there's no sudden switch that flips, you know? We spend our whole lives making mistakes and learning from them. Adulthood isn't the abrupt entry into moral infallibility, and that's been something I've had to address and work through when it comes to my own failings.

To be perfectly honest, Tumblr isn't a supportive place. Or the people aren't. I don't really know which. To clarify, I do generally speak of the community of artists and writers in this, not the people here who just want to enjoy art or read someone's fanfic. I suppose there's a certain level of - I don't know - self-centredness? - when it comes to creating an online presence and sharing one's own creations on the internet. That mentality, I think, bleeds over into feelings of entitlement in creative communities. Entitlement to other people's time, to people's attention, to people's promotion, and when one doesn't get that, the problems start: (best to worst =) transactional interaction, badmouthing, hate anons, public bashing, and the list goes on. I've definitely been someone who has been upset by people's lack of interaction. I've responded with "oh, I'm not reblogging until they reblog mine" more than once. We all know that I've been involved with badmouthing and publicly bashing others. I continue to be very ashamed of this, and I am honest with myself about what I've done and how I got there in my journey working through my problems and making meaningful change in my life.

Anyway, point is - I'm trying to divorce myself from the entitlement, and I think to do that I need to divorce myself from the notion that we exist as a community. I've put far too much effort into that idea, and it's gotten me absolutely nowhere. There are more people who dislike me than not. Most just straight-up ignore me. I deserve it, sure, but (or maybe and) I have no intention of continuing to engage in a space that either doesn't exist or where I'm not wanted. I've felt anxious and upset at the mere thought of going on Tumblr the past few months. It hasn't been bringing me joy anymore, and that was the whole point of it. There's so much bad blood associated with being on here, but I love writing. I love this show. I can't give up something that makes me so happy in every respect other than this one site.

So I've taken some time off, reassessed the way I'm intending to use this space, and I've essentially decided that I started it for me so I'm going to do it for me. I'm going to interact with who I want and post what I want and damn absolutely everyone who tries to police me (of which there has been A LOT - apparently I have a "responsibility" to support others which I now know is actually code for "I'm jealous that you're getting any kind of attention online, so instead of addressing my issue with this, I'm going to vaguepost about/anon/DM you to try and guilt you into giving my work attention so that maybe it'll transfer to me").

For the casual peruser, no change at all. But I'm done giving my effort to the idea of 'community'. It doesn't exist, or I don't belong. I am going to do what makes me happy now, and only what makes me happy. That's the whole point. I'm sick of focusing on negatives. I'm sick of posting about them, to be honest. I think this mindset will do me good.

If you've gotten this far, I hope that it's okay that I've decided this. I'm feeling positive about it!

[studywgabi]

Wayyy More than you Wanted to Know About Me

I would've happily drank vodka out of a bellybutton and done cocaine off a tit, but no one asked me. Instead, I spent Saturday nights watching reruns of "Keeping up Appearances" with my grandmother (in case you don't know, chronicles the zany misadventures of a middle-aged British lady and her attempts to make herself seem well-off, hilarity ensues). Always time well spent (love you, Granny!), though I wish I'd had some other experiences as well.

I am a perfect stereotype: the repressed schoolmarm. And after a week of school and work and work and school, is it too much to ask to have my brains fucked out? Preferably, by the love of my life and father of my children?

Yeah, it hurts. I'm not going to pretend it doesn't, I'm not going to pretend I'm above it all or that I think it's too disgusting or primitive for someone soooo sophisticated like me. I'm not going to diminish how important touch is, how it's as necessary for survival as water, food, and shelter. I'm not going to pretend having a spa day and getting a massage could replace being touched by someone I love. It matters, and it hurts. Not just in a superficial high school politics social competition way, or an internally mysogynistic need for validation way, or a boredom way, or even a physically unsatisfied way (though that is no insignificant pain), and certainly not in an entitled school shooter way. It hurts that no one has ever wanted me to love him and express that love to him physically. It hurts that no one has ever loved me or even tolerated me enough to see me as a sexual being. It hurts that no one has ever thought of me as an acceptable partner for the most basic part of being human. It hurts that I am constantly surrounded by people in the stage of life when sex drive is highest, and that it hasn't worked out for me now, and that my prospects are only worse from here on out. It hurts that this is me at my youngest, and, as such, most sexually desirable, and that it will only be harder (or flaccider, rather) from here on out (sorry, I had to).

Puberty and the time when these types of feelings started to develop for me was the same time I started taking various medications. I tried Prozac, Lexapro, Zoloft, went off them and went back on, Spironolactone and birth control for PCOS, Concerta and Adderall for ADHD. Antidepressants didn't make me any happier, estrogen didn't make me any less ugly, and stimulants didn't help me focus. But they all did have an effect on my libido, both in and of themselves and also as a result of all the changes- increases and decreases in dose, taking multiple meds at the same time and by themselves, starting and stopping them, and trying them again, throughout my adolescence. Antidepressants suppressed my libido and my ability to climax, and stimulants started out making me a menace to society, 17 and boy-crazy and just wired all the time, then eventually made me lose all interest and finally plateaued back around where I am naturally. At the beginning, it was such a relief. Desire is a burden. I hope these feelings calm down for me as I get older, though the peak seems still quite some time away. So far, each year has only gotten worse, especially 17.

I'm still a physical person. I'm 18 now, and I feel ready in a vague sort of way. I don't feel ready to have sex right now, but I feel ready to meet someone and fall in love and eventually feel ready then.

I'm demisexual. It took me a long time to figure out. I'm also self-diagnosed with vaginismus. The barrier to diagnosis for me is one of the symptoms. I always ask for a lady doctor, for my pediatrician, dermatologist, psychiatrist, etc., but I've had difficult experiences with healthcare professionals all the same. I could never, ever have any kind of examination. I wouldn't want anyone to see me there or give me any kind of test. I'll never be able to do a pap smear or anything else, either, especially if it involves a speculum. I can use tampons now, but it took several years and it still hurts. Just last month, I was able to use a cup for the first time, though putting it in and taking it out is awful. I use lotion and warm water and I've tried standing all sorts of ways but it's not enough.

I want to be with someone who can satisfy me, who knows how to handle me. Someone who can match me. Someone who wants me as bad as I want him. Someone who can wait, for a long time, and then stop waiting, and then go back to it. Someone who can take nonlinear progress and setbacks and mistakes and awkwardness and vulnerability. I want to be enough for someone.

[copperbadge]

Hi Sam! If you're comfortable, I would definitely be interested in hearing about your upcoming experience with Adderall as an adult taking it for the first time. I'm 30 and will be inquiring about an ADHD diagnosis later this month, but Adderall scares me a little (probably unfounded, I've just never taken any kind of psych med or non-allergy daily med, and if I forget my allergy meds I just get a nasty headache and nothing more) and everyone I asked about their experience is under 25 and has been taking it for many years. I'm really interested to see how you feel while taking it, if you're willing to share 💙

I've had quite a few requests like this so I'm definitely going to keep talking about it when there's anything to talk about, under the Sam Has ADHD tag. :)

FWIW, this is my first experience with a drug like this, which affects brain chemistry -- the only other comparable experience I’ve had is weed, and I’ve never been an especially heavy user of that either. Never took antidepressants, mood stabilizers, sedatives, anything like that, so I’m in much the same position you are, although I have taken daily medication for other health issues before. 

10mg of Adderall, which is a pretty low dose, clearly had an effect, which is good; the recommendation was twice daily, five or six hours apart depending on how I feel, on an empty stomach, so I took it at 5am before breakfast and again at noon before lunch. I had...a real weird evening, because while I wasn't doing a ton more than usual I did end up somehow staying up until around 10pm, which for me is very late, without really noticing. So today I thought I'd try just a single dose that would see me through the majority of the workday, and took 10mg at 6:30am after having eaten breakfast at 4am.

It kicked in yesterday right at the half-hour mark after taking, but this morning after half an hour I thought perhaps not taking it on a totally empty stomach had fucked with my ability to absorb the dose.

But then around 7:15 I cleaned out my front hall closet.

That wasn't something I'd been planning on and did give me a very "opening sequence of The Salton Sea" moment (the movie opens, after a brief history of meth, in a party house where among other things two women on speed are frantically organizing a sock drawer). Still, it did need doing, and now there's space to install some boxes to keep my winter sweaters. Which means my reward this evening is a trip to Container Store. And also a puzzle I get to do which I found while cleaning out the closet.

I am clearly going to have to learn to aim my new ability to focus, since unless I make a deliberate decision I just appear to pick Something To Do and do it, but that's a calibration issue and I’m pretty sure I can master it as long as I remember it exists.

The sensation is a little odd because after about an hour I can definitely tell my brain is working differently. It's kind of like being high, there's that same sense of calm, but my thoughts feel clear instead of clouded the way THC affects them. And things just get easier, like I'll think "Oh, I need to throw out that empty shampoo bottle" and instead of pretending I'll remember to do it after the shower, I just reach into the shower and pick it up and throw it out. I have done so many dishes in the last 24 hours, you guys. And right on the dot, at five and a half hours after taking it, I could feel my brain whirr to a stop. 

Anyway it is rather validating to be reacting to a drug in the way I'm meant to, because I did get the distinct impression from the evaluation clinic that they felt my ADHD was too mild to require treatment. I don't actually feel high, or manic, or even really very different. I just do more stuff. Like someone tightened two or three screws in my brain and the gears no longer misalign as often. At least for five hours or so. :D

[xxisxxisxxis]

Gateway Drug | Part Sixty-Four

***IMPORTANT: This was too long to put into one post apparently, so this is part 1 of this chapter, and the link for part 2 will be at the end of the chapter. Thank you and have good night/day***

Words: 5.8k

Warning(s): explicit language, violence, sexual situations

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“Damnit, bp is 183/111.” A nurse says after they get me on a gurney and she takes my blood pressure, twice. “Mrs. Sixx is your head or chest hurting, vision blurring?” She asks me and I nod my head, my eyes closed, still struggling to breathe, my skin beginning to get sticky with sweat. 

“My head.” I tell her.

“Okay, I need you to keep your eyes open for me just for a little bit, so you can tell me if things start looking fuzzy, alright?”

I nod and she smiles reassuringly at me.

“Just stay as calm as possible and we’ll get your blood pressure under control.” She states, beforing looking at the nurse walking on the other side of the gurney. “I need an IV of Beta-blockers.” She tells her, and in what feels like seconds, she's scrubbing at the crook of my elbow with an alcohol pad, before I’m feeling the pinch of a needle sliding into my skin.

“Where’s Duff? The guy I came in here with?” I ask, trying to calm myself down, but I don’t think it’s working.

“He’s filling out some paperwork for you while the desk contacts your emergency contact to let them know the situation and then he will be right here with you as soon as we get you stable.” She informs me and I feel panic in my chest, as I try to sit up, only for them to gently push me back down. “Vivian, you are in a hypertensive crisis. You need to lay still and avoid getting yourself worked up even more.”

“My emergency contact is my husband and he is the last motherfucker I want to know about this!” I argue in between breaths. “Now tell the bitch at the front desk to leave him out of it or I will stroke out just to fucking spite you because I’ve got nothing to lose at this point!”

I sound pathetic, struggling to breathe, gasping out the words in the best scream I can muster, and she raises her brows at me.

They tried to stop Nikki from being contacted, but he was...well, they left a message to the machine at our house, which he ended up checking from his hotel room later that day.

They get my blood pressure down within a few minutes and keep me under watch for several hours, before my doctor finally decides it’s time to tell me what the hell happened, although with how many times I’ve heard the word “hypertension”, I’m assuming it’s not good.

“You had a transient ischemic attack, which, when you take the complicated sounding name away, is basically a ministroke.” He explains, and my eyes widen. “It’s not as major as a stroke, especially since this was caught before it could develop into something worse, but your brain was still not receiving the amount of oxygen needed in your blood because it’s pressure was way too high, but good news for you is that your brain isn’t showing signs of damage that can affect your mind like a stroke would. That being said, this does increase your risk of having a major stroke down the line. No one in your family has a history of stroke or high blood pressure, which typically suggests, more times than not, it is either something you took--medication, alcohol, drugs, etc. or it’s your environment. Is there anything you took, or drank, prior to experiencing your symptoms?”

“I took Nyquil...four doses worth in less than six hours.” I tell him and Duff looks at me, confused. “I couldn’t sleep.” I add.

“N-Nyquil?” Duff asks me, quietly, as if in disbelief. “You had a ministroke...because of an over the counter cold medicine?”

The doctor flips through my chart before pursing his lips.

“Are you still taking Nardil on a daily basis?” He asks me and I nod.

“Yes.”

“Okay, that’s where things went south.” He confirms. “There is a warning on the back of Nyquil syrup, stating that the way MAO Inhibitors, which is a class of antidepressant that phenelzine--Nardil--falls under, interact with the dextromethorphan HBr and the doxylamine succinate in Nyquil, has a high chance of causing hypertension--very high blood pressure-- which can really hurt the brain and the heart, and since you took eight tablespoons of it, it really is miraculous that you didn’t have a major stroke before you even got in the car to come here.” He adds and I feel shitty for being a complete dumbass. “I will give you a sheet of over the counter medicines to avoid before we get you checked out here in a couple hours.” He assures me before heading to the door of the tiny room.

“Thank you.” Duff says as he leaves, and he turns to look at me, trying to hide a smile. “Nyquil.” He states, raising his brows. “You can’t take Nyquil. Without--”

“--Shut up.” I state, trying not to start laughing because I could’ve really been in trouble.

“Oh, c’mon, Viv, you had me freaking out worried something horrible was wrong--which it was, really--but Nyquil?”

“I have seen idiots mix drugs with all types of mess and their bodies not even acknowledge it, but I take Nyquil…” I trail off, not being able to stop laughing. “...and it’s too much for me? Hell, at this point if I have one taste of a hard drug I’m just gonna croak over immediately.”

The two of us keep laughing for a couple minutes, until I’m sore in the stomach, and my watering eyes from laughter, are watering because the reality of everything that has happened to me in the past four three days, hits me.

Duff just sits on the tiny bed next to me, holding at my hand, wiping at my tears, giving me a big, encouraging smile.

“I love you.” I tell him and he nods, kissing my cheek.

“I love you, too.” He tells me. “This will blow over before you know it, Viv.”

Once I get checked out and we head back to Duff’s place, I quickly realize something I haven’t even thought about.

“Your album is coming out.” I say, looking at him and he glances at me, chuckling.

“Yeah.” He confirms. “In like, two days.”

“Holy shit.” I mumble. “I gotta take you guys out to dinner or something.” I rub my tired eyes and he shakes his head.

“No, no, it’s fine, Viv.”

“No, it’s not. This is a good time for you guys and I just came home all gloom and doom and shit all over it. I need to do something for you guys.” I explain.

“You’re not ‘gloom and doom’, you’re hurting. Which is normal for what you’ve been through, and being that we helped hide it from you, you don’t need to be worried about inconveniencing us. At all.” He argues.

“It’ll help me get my mind off of things.” I suggest.

“You don’t really need to get your mind off of it. You need to be processing everything and figuring out where you wanna go from here.” He politely tells me.

“I can’t go anywhere from here, Duff. Not until the tour’s over.” I laugh humorlessly and he furrows his brows.

“What?”

"Doc doesn't want us to split until the tour's over. Not that it should even matter. People don't give a damn about our marriage as much as Doc is convinced they are. It's not like the second fans hear we're filing for divorce they're gonna go on a strike over it." I roll my eyes. 

"They won't care." Duff tells me.

"Exactly." 

"...Do you want a divorce?" He asks next and I lick my lips. 

"I don't know." I admit, tears coming to my eyes at the thought of it.

“Does he?”

“Duff, I don’t know, alright? We’ll just figure it out when the tour ends.”

“Vivian, that’s nearly a year from now.” He states.

“Well, then, I don’t fucking know! Okay?! I don’t fucking know!”

“I’m trying to get you to think about what you want to do because you’ll just end up putting it off and ignoring it like you do with all of your problems you’ve got with him.” He explains, keeping himself calm.

“I’ll deal with it later.”

“Viv--”

“--Duff. Please.” I give up, and he lets out a breath.

“I’m dropping it.” He mumbles.

After a few more minutes, he’s glancing at me again.

“We’re having a listening party for the album tomorrow night, by the way.” He tells me. “We’d really like for you to come, if you’re up for it.” He adds and a small smile comes to my lips.

“Yeah.” I nod.

“Yeah?” He asks, mimicking my smile.

“Yeah.”

The next day, I decide to go home and visit with Karen, trying to convince myself not to completely wreck the place the second I walk in.

She’s sitting on the couch with the TV playing in the background.

When I walk in, she looks up at me and gives me a soft smile.

“Hey.” She tells me, nervously, and I roll my jaw and look around.

I never noticed how many fucking pictures Nikki and I have up together from our wedding.

“Doc told me to keep an eye out for you, I was kinda worried when you didn’t come home.” She adds.

“I was staying with Duff.” I tell her, and she still tries to keep her smile on her face.

“Oh, um, you’ve got some mail, and Doc called and wanted you to call him back, and I’m sorry I wasn’t here when the hospital called. I just checked the messages late last night but Doc said Nikki had already heard the one the receptionist in the ER left.” She tells me and I let out a sigh.

“Great, something else to hear Doc bitch me out about.” I grumble, stepping to the phone in the kitchen, seeing the mail on the counter next to it.

I see she scribbled down the hotel phone number that they’re at now, and Doc’s hotel room number, on a paper pad and I punch the number in and request it to be put through to Doc.

Before I can get a breath out, I’m hearing all of it.

“Are you fucking out of your mind, Vivian? ‘Bless their hearts’?! I told you repeatedly what to tell the press and you don’t listen to a word of it?! And then you go home and end up in the fucking emergeny room?! What, did ya try to kill yourself or something, what the hell happened?!”

I raise my brows and blink a few times.

“I wasn’t paying attention to the warning label of some Nyquil and I took some to sleep, and it didn’t react well with my antidepressant. I’m alive, I’m fine, I wasn’t trying to kill myself, and would you rather me have said, ‘Vanity and Nikki fucked me over and everyone who was supposed to have my back, let them’?”

I hear his heavy breath exhaling on the other end of the line.

“Alright, Viv, alright. Just don’t say anything else to the press, please. The journalist at Rolling Stone is gonna be here in a couple of days, just please, please, please, be on your best behaviour. I’ve already talked to Nikki and he’s agreed to play nice, please, do so too.” He begs.

I didn’t want to “play nice” but I decided to so I wouldn’t make things harder for everybody, including myself, but just being blatantly hateful.

“Fine, Doc.” I agree and he sighs out in relief.

“Thank you, Viv.” He tells me and I roll my eyes.

“Yep.” I reply before hanging the phone up.

When I pick up the pile of mail, an envelope falls to the floor and I reach down to pick it up, seeing it’s addressed to me, from Playboy Enterprises.

I furrow my brows and open the envelope, grabbing at the paper inside and unfolding it before I read it.

“Dude.” I say to myself, furrowing my brows.

Someone had seen me half naked, demonstrating my flexibility, in the “Girls, Girls, Girls” video and a cover shoot for Playboy and a 12 page pictorial was on the table for $40,000, if I was up for it. Of course any other time I wouldn’t have thought twice...but this time, it was being considered.

“Forty-thousand?” Sharise asks me on the other end of the line later that day.

“Forty freaking thousand.” I reply.

“Who the hell wants to see you naked so bad?” 

“I don’t know  but I’m not mad at it.” I reply.

“Are you gonna do it?”

“I don’t know. Should I?”

“You just found out Nikki’s been cheating on you with one of your friends, Viv, I think you should take some time to think about it in case you make the decision to do it and then realize you shouldn’t have agreed to it, ya know?”

“I don’t have any money of my own, Sharise. If he leaves me, he’s not gonna leave me anything. I’m gonna be out of luck. I could use the money.” I explain. “And they didn’t say whether I had to be nude or not so I’ll look into the details and just go from there.”

“You are the absolute last person I would ever expect to take up an offer from Playboy.”

“Desperate times.” I shrug.

“More like, ‘what can I do to piss Nikki off’, times.” She points out.

“Vanity’s posed in Playboy before. Maybe he would've liked me enough not to cheat on me if I would've been more like her to begin with.” I sarcastically say, but there is a smile part of me that really feels that way. 

"Don't compare yourself to her, Viv." She argues politely. 

"I'm not." I lie, setting the letter from Playboy down. 

I hear Skylar screaming and crying in the background and Sharise sighs out. 

"I gotta go, Viv, I'll call you back later. Skylar just fell." She tells me.

"Alright, I'll come visit you guys before I leave." I assure her.

"Okay. We love you and we'll see you then." 

"I love you, too, tell Sky I love her." 

"I will."

"Bye."

"Bye." 

I hang up and let out a soft breath, glancing at the number on the letter once again, rubbing my lips together before deciding to start getting ready to meet the guys for their album listening party before it drops.

For the first time in a few days, I look at myself in the mirror, taken back by how shitty I look.

The dark circles under my eyes are more prominent than usual, my eyes themselves look nearly dead, my hair is kinda nappy since I haven't brushed it in a couple days, and my mouth feels gross because I haven't bothered to brush my teeth.

I get in the shower, hoping it'll make me feel better.

The only thing it does is make me want to call Duff and tell him I can't make it tonight, but like I always do, I persist and finish getting ready, nearly fooling myself when I look in the mirror and make myself smile. 

My doorbell is ringing within the next thirty minutes, and I'm spritzing on perfume as I hear Karen open the door to let the guys in. 

I'm pulling my heels on, stepping into the living room.

"Hey." I greet Duff and Steven, and Steven's immediately hugging onto me. 

"I'm sorry." He says, apologizing for the part he played in Nikki's bullshit. 

I hug him back, not able to help but smile at how tightly he's hugging me. 

"It's okay, Stevie." I tell him, genuinely. 

He kisses my cheek and gives me one last tight squeeze before letting me go. 

"Are we ready?" Duff asks me and I nod.

"Alright, we'll have her back home at a reasonable time." Steven tells Karen, and she chuckles.

"Stay out of trouble." She tells us as we head to the door. 

"We will." I assure her as we head out the door to get in Duff's car. 

All of their friends are there, everyone of them giving them wide smiles and big hugs as I hold onto Duff's hand as we weave through the crowd to the bar.

“Hi.” Slash says to me, sunglasses on, hat low, and I raise my brows at him.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep.” He replies, sipping from the Jack bottle in his hand, pulling out a cigarette.

“Can I have one?” Duff asks him.

“Yeah, if you’ve got a light.” Slash replies with a little grin and Duff pulls the lighter from his pocket and lights Slash’s cigarette before his own.

“You want a drink?” He asks me next and I look up at him.

“Water.” I tell him with a nod, suddenly feeling an arm slip over my shoulders.

It’s Izzy, and he looks like he’s been on cloud 9 for a little bit now, a loose smile on his lips as cigarette smoke flows from his mouth with his exhaled breath.

“Hey, you.” He tells me, and I lick my lips.

“Hey, asshole.” I shrug his arm off, remembering him yelling at me the other night.

“Ouch, am I on your shit list, too, now?” He asks me and I glance at him, making his smile widen, his eyes crinkling slightly. “I forget you’re sensitive, Viv.” He adds.

“Maybe me shoving my foot up your ass will remind you.” I state, Duff turning to hand me my water.

Izzy looks down at the clear liquid and frowns slightly.

“That’s why you’re sad.” He motions to it. “You need the strong stuff.”

I know what he means, but I try to play it off by saying, “what, sparkling water?”

“Izzy, man, she doesn’t drink.” Duff cuts in, lightly, but I know he’s being serious. 

“Just making a suggestion.” Izzy shrugs, his eyes on a pretty blonde that passes. “I’ll be right back.”

He follows after her and I roll my eyes, taking a sip of water, as “Welcome to the Jungle” starts playing over the speakers.

Everyone starts cheering, all the guys stop what they’re doing, all of them sharing the same, proud smiles.

Once I’m done with my water, Duff, Slash, Izzy, Steven and Axl are all together, trying to gauge everyone’s reactions to their album so far.

Everyone seems to really like it.

“I’m gonna get another water.” I tell Duff, and he nods. “Do you need a refill?” I ask him, motioning to his cocktail.

“No, thanks though.” He tells me and I head to the bar, Izzy’s suggestion echoing in my mind as my eyes fall on the array of liquor bottles on display on the back wall shelf behind the bar.

My mind drifts to what would happen if I were to have a cocktail.

I step to the bar and order the last alcoholic drink I had, although accidental at the time.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m throwing back my shot of Tequila, nearly choking at the burn of it before feeling warmth radiate throughout my chest as it goes down.

Next thing I know, I’m seven shots in starting to feel less tense...even less tense when I try to walk and nearly faceplant, laughing instead of feeling embarrassed before walking as best as I can to the guys.

“Where’s your water?” Duff asks me, and I look at my hands, furrowing my brows.

“I don’t know.” I reply, honestly, and his brows raise and his eyes widen when he gets a whiff of my breath.

“Oh, shit, Viv, you smell like--”

“--Tequila!” I finish saying it in the way it’s said in “Tequila” by The Champs.

He’s stunned for a moment, and I’m trying to keep from looking him up and down.

“H-How much did you drink?” He asks me politely and I squint my eyes as I try to remember.

“I lost count after four.” I admit.

“Viv, I don’t think you’re supposed to be drinking with your medication.” He tells me.

“Doesn’t matter when the shit isn’t making me feel better anyway.” I reply without a thought, my speech starting to slur, my gaze focusing the best it can on the bottle in Slash's hand.

It reminds me of Nikki.

"I want Nikki." I say next and Duff can probably sense a storm coming, turning around and seeing the guys aren't paying attention. 

"Hey, she's not feeling too good so I'm gonna take her home." He tells them. "I'll be back." He assures them. 

"Alright, dude." Steven replies and Duff sits his drink down. 

"Let's get outta here." He tells me, grabbing at my hand and leading me to his car, causing me to be sidetracked by the payphone. 

"Gimme some change." I tell him.

"Viv, c'mon, you need to go home." He tries to guide me away but I refuse. 

"I miss Nikki. I wanna talk to him."

"He's probably asleep right now, Viv. You can call him tomorrow." He suggests.

"He won't talk to me anyway. He hates me." I reply, stumbling to the passenger side of the car and he helps me stay balanced, opening the door for me and helping me get in before he shuts the door and walks around to the passenger seat. 

It's a quiet drive home.

I miss Nikki.

He punches in the code of our gate and pulls into the driveway, helping me out.

I take my heels off and toss them down on the concrete, causing him to reach down and grab them for me as I clumsily make my way to the door. 

"Here, here, I got it." He assures me when I try to open the door, singling out our house key from his car keys. 

"I'm sorry for ruining your night." I tell him. "It was suppose to be a fun night--"

"--It was fun, Viv." He promises. "I'm going back anyway when I make sure you're settled here." He adds, opening the door. "I'll let Karen know what's up and--"

"Karen's out tonight, Duff." I cut him short, remembering that she told me earlier today about going out for one of her girl friends' birthdays, not able to keep my eyes off of him. 

"Oh." He says. "Well, I can stay here until she comes back." He tells me. "I'll go ahead and get you some water." He heads to the kitchen, and a sick plan twists itself into my skull. 

When he comes back with my water and hands it to me, I just sit it on the coffee table in the living room before turning to look at him. 

"You need to drink that, Viv." He politely says, but I just step closer to him, and apparently he can tell what I'm thinking based off my expression because he's gently grasping my hand in his when I reach out to pull him closer to me. "We can't, Vivian."

"Why not? Because of Nikki? As if he gives a shit."

"But I do. I give a shit. And you're drunk. And you're heartbroken. And I'm not adding to the damage before you even process what's already been done." He states. 

"You've wanted to fuck me for how long and here's your shot, and you're turning me down to spare my feelings?" I scoff out. "Where the fuck is Vince Neil when you need him?" I say to myself outloud, irritated with Duff, about to push past him to go to my room. 

"Somewhere in the midwest, believing Nikki is still right for screwing Vanity." He argues, frustrated that I'm not understanding that he's trying to do the right thing. 

I stop for a second, and turn to look at him, again. 

"Vivian, I want to, but I can't--"

"--You didn't tell me about Nikki and Vanity, either." I remind him harshly. "So, when you think about it, you owe me, Duff." I hiss.

"I was protecting y--"

"--If you were protecting me, you would have told me!" I outburst, tears in my eyes. "You wouldn't have put me in a position that allowed me to be humiliated like that! Nobody would have if they were really looking out for me!" 

He's got tears in his eyes now, and he exhales. 

"I'm not gonna stay here and let you badger me for doing what I thought was the best thing to do." He says, walking to the door. 

"Yeah, just leave me like Nikki! Just go get shitfaced and pout and end the night on top of another girl because that's how everybody else solves their fucking issues!" 

He snaps around, causing me to bump into him from where I'm following at his heels.

"I'm not Nikki." He says through his teeth.

"You didn't tell me." I repeat weakly. "Nobody told me."

His frustration dissipates, and he takes a couple of steps to me, before leaning down, suddenly taking my lips with his. 

The numbing effect of being kissed and held is potent, and a sick part of my mind pictures I'm with Nikki, and not Duff. 

I try to keep my eyes closed the best I can to keep the illusion alive, even when clothes start being torn off, even when my legs are wrapped around his bare hips, my naked back against the wall and his tongue and mine dancing as adrenaline and ecstasy course through me. 

With each thrust, I'm growing more sober, more conscious to the fact this isn't Nikki.

He stops abruptly, pulling away from me, furrowing his brows. 

"Viv?"

"Yeah?" I ask, still not opening my eyes. 

"Look at me." He says softly and I gently shake my head. "Viv--"

"--Just keep going." I tell him, my voice cracking, as a lump forms in my throat. 

"Are you crying?" He asks next, and I finally look at him. 

He looks horrified and guilty, as if he's screaming at himself internally for being shitty.

He's not shitty. I am.

"I'm sorry." I say next.

"Jesus Christ." He lets out, a single tear falls past his lashes and he's pulling out of me and putting me back on my feet as fast as he can.

"Duff." 

He ignores me, pulling his clothes on.

"Duff, please." I grab at his arm and he shakes me off, putting his boots back on, sniffling, wiping his eye quickly, picking up his jacket and getting his car keys. "Duff, I'm sorry--"

"--I'm not Nikki." Is the last thing he says before slamming my front door shut. 

"Vivian?" I'm snapping out of my daydream, seeing Steven furrowing his brows, the loud verse of "Mr. Brownstone" blaring in my ears from the club speakers.

"Yeah?" I reply to him. 

"I was coming to get a refill, Duff wanted me to come check on you." He tells me and I look down at the empty water glass in my hand. 

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine." I assure him with a smile. 

"Okay, just making sure." 

.

.

.

-> Gateway Drug | Part Sixty-Four (pt. 2)

[heysawbones]

Congratulations, Me; You’re Slow

Surprise, me! You’re literally slow. As in, your processing speed - the rate at which your brain takes in stimuli and makes sense of it - is below average. Quantitatively. The average is 100. Yours is 94. 

Three years ago, I was given a cognitive battery. I’ve had an unusually high number of these in my life. Most people will never have even one. I’ve had four; one to assess for the Gifted and Talented program in kindergarten, one to reassess for the same when I changed school districts, one to assess for ADHD, and yet another, the latest, to assess for the same, as the prior records were lost. ADHD runs in my family, but I seem to have been one of those kids who compensated really, really well. Was I organized? Not even a little. Lose things? Constantly. I procrastinated like a motherfucker, too, but it was usually easy to make up the work in class before it was due. I would drive hard to complete the GT project-based assignments at the last minute, and always did fine. Better than fine, even. Sure, I used to obsessively braid yarn or draw in class, but nobody had any reason to suspect I would have issues with things like maintaining attention or executive function later on. If they did, I never heard about it. Even today, it’s not obvious; people associate a certain flightiness with ADHD and that isn’t me. People associate a lot of things with ADHD that aren’t me. This has been so much of an issue, in fact, that despite meeting diagnostic criteria over and over, as admitted by clinicians, people have been hesitant to give me the diagnosis. The argument deployed tends to be: you have all the symptoms, but you also have chronic depression, which has the same symptoms, so we’ll just go with that one. The underlying rationale, the unspoken answer to “why can’t it be both? they often co-occur” seems to be: you are too articulate and self-aware to have ADHD. It boils down to you’re too smart to be slow. 

This is unfair to me, and demonstrably untrue, besides. I recognized this long ago. I am the one who has to figure out some way to compensate for the symptoms. Yes, the symptoms of depression and ADHD overlap (especially if you are depressed for a long time), but the treatment of those symptoms is not the same. I have been in treatment for depression for over ten years. Am I better than I was? Unquestionably so. 

Do I function at a level sustainable for an adult not on disability? Can I get places on time? Can I catch a plane without showing up 14 hours early, lest I show up 14 hours late, or at the wrong airport entirely, instead? Do I remember things people told me yesterday? Can I go to Target without the possibility of getting caught up in a weird cognitive trap where I want bananas, but am too guilty to buy them unless I do the rest of my grocery shopping, which I don’t have the mental energy for? Do I remember enough of my meds when I go on trips? Can I stop persistently putting things in places that make no sense, and then having no idea that I’ve done it 15 seconds later? Can I manage an adult’s schedule? Can I remember to pay bills on time? Can I remember what I’ve spent money on in the last week? Can I remember what I ate this morning? Can I hold down a job that is, honestly, below my abilities in many ways?

The answer is, of course, sometimes yes. Distressingly frequently, it is no. Where travel is concerned, it is always no, and somehow, I have managed to show up at the wrong airport entirely more than once. 

Yes, I recognize that these are problems all people have, to some degree, at some time in their lives. If people are willing to act on the belief that I am too smart to be slow, why is it that when I account for my concerns and attempt to articulate the impact they have on my life, I am suddenly not self-aware anymore, and am only overreacting to what obviously MUST be the same degree of these problems that other reasonable adults experience? Why am I credible in other areas, but not this one? If I am so smart, why is it assumed that I’ve failed to account for my own emotional bias when gauging the difficulty I am experiencing? Why is it more satisfying to assume that I am not trying hard enough, then it is to accept that a smart, self-aware person may, in fact, have some kind of Brain Problem that, really, there is no logical contraindication to, and much evidence, for? When I do the responsible thing and insistently pursue all reasonable options to address my mental and neurological health, with the goal of being a functional contributor to society, why is this so persistently reduced to a fetish specifically for an ADHD diagnosis? I’m smart when it’s convenient for others, but not when it comes to the ability to draw cause and effect relationships from my own behavior, and make comparisons between those and the behavior of others? If I got treatment that worked, I wouldn’t care what the diagnosis was. Come the fuck on. I’m tired of this.

-----

Anyway. I sat down with the results of that three-year-old cognitive battery. I’ve read the summary before; it’s peppered with lines like

“There is also considerable other evidence in this testing consistent with a diagnosis of ADHD”

“In my experience, some individuals who are very bright are able to compensate for some of their disability”

“this distribution of index scores is very typical of individuals with ADHD”

“Many of the behaviors she describes are certainly typical of individuals who suffer from ADHD. Unfortunately, the coexisting history of chronic major depression and PTSD make that differential diagnosis based on history alone difficult” 

When I first read that last year, I was shocked because the therapist who requested the cognitive battery, only expressed surprise that I was “very smart” and said that my “scores were fine.” When I later confronted him after having read the summary myself, he merely admitted that some of my scores were “lower than others”. He never entertained the possibility that I had ADHD, which in an of itself, wouldn’t have been a problem if he’d been willing to just try the treatments for it, since clearly the two industrial-strength doses of antidepressants I was already on, were not cutting it. Alas, he was not, and it wasn’t until after he retired that the issue was addressed again.

Surprisingly, I was not the person who addressed it. When my therapist-MD retired, I needed at least a primary care provider to manage my medications. Since the appointment was for psych med management, I had to fill out a bunch of related intake forms - you likely know the kind. While looking them over, my new doctor peered up at me and asked, “Has anybody ever suggested that you might have ADHD?” I was taken aback by the question and wasn’t sure where to start. Them? Asking me? if I have ADHD? She asked me? 

I told her that I’d had two full cognitive batteries done, and that both of them concluded roughly the same thing: yes, all the symptoms are there, no, we do not know if it’s ADHD because there’s too much background noise from other psych issues. Without skipping a beat, she said the most amazing thing to me: 

Well, whatever it is, you have the symptoms, so let’s treat them.

God. Why didn’t someone say that years ago? Diagnoses are human constructs; we use them to group symptoms that tend to occur together, when they’re thought to have the same causes. Depression and ADHD have many (but not all) of the same symptoms, but the overlap doesn’t qualify as a diagnosis because the causes are assumed to be different. I think we often forget that diagnoses are containers for commonalities that we use to make talking about medicine easier, not necessarily biological phenomena unto themselves. If you remember that they are containers - a sort of conceptual shorthand - then it follows that if one treatment for a set of symptoms isn’t solving the problem, you ought to try a different treatment often used for the same symptoms, even if the minutiae of diagnosis means you aren’t sure you can apply the diagnosis typically associated with that second treatment*.

I am now on Vyvanse. Does it magically solve my problems? No. Does it help? Yes. I am in a much better position to actually address the bad habits and coping mechanisms someone like me builds up over the years. The notable insomnia should wear off over time, and besides, as a person with an existing sleep disorder, having fucked up sleep isn’t new. It’s a price I’m willing to pay.

-----

Anyway. So I sat down with the results of that three-year-old cognitive battery, because I had to dig them up for my new therapist. Instead of reading the summary, I dug into the raw numbers: the related tests are the Weschler Adult Intelligence Scale IV (WAIS-IV), and the Weschler Memory Scale III (WMS-III). I couldn’t find sufficient guidance on interpreting the WMS-III, so I’ll stick with the WAIS-IV scores:

At first inspection, these scores do look “fine”. Anything within 10 points of 100 in either direction qualifies as “average”, even if 100 is “the average”. But on further reading, both in the summary and out: 

-Examination of these results reveals considerable significant variability between various functional capacities, with VCI of 141 a full 3 standard deviations above PSI of 94.** Problems with both working memory and processing speed impacted her overall IQ considerably, bringing her Full Scale IQ down to 120 (from 133). 

-A significant difference among subtest scores can suggest a problem in the particular skill being tested; this might underlie a learning disability. A significant difference among standard Index Scores might also indicate a learning disability, ADHD

-when I see a difference in IQ scores such that the verbal and nonverbal scores are far superior to the processing speed score, I try to discern what could be causing the discrepancy.

-LD diagnoses are also reliant on score discrepancies. On the WAIS, a gifted individual with ADHD may look like this.

Verbal comprehension - 132

Perceptual Reasoning - 129

Processing Speed - 97

Working memory - 101

Absolute scores aren’t the only diagnostic tool. Relative scores are also important. For example, average scores across the board wouldn’t be indicative of a working memory or processing speed issue, whereas great discrepancies between those parameters and others, is - even if the working memory and processing speed scores themselves are the same in both examples. What I’m saying is, it’s right there. It’s in the numbers. There’s no wiggle room. My old therapist saw these numbers, and not only did he choose not to act on the information, he pointedly refused to do so. If he hadn’t retired, I’d look into suing for malpractice. It’s in the god damn numbers, my dude. I don’t care what you want to call it, the deficit is right. there.

What did I ever do to him? Did he just... not believe ADHD is real? More to the point, did he think I somehow, without knowing the ins and outs of the WAIS-IV, faked the deficits or something? Really, guy, what the hell?

-----

Do I feel bad about being slow? Honestly, no. I might have if I found this out 10 years ago, or in circumstances wherein that reality didn’t perfectly explain aspects of my experience that other people have been prone to downplay, or dismiss entirely. Instead, it’s the closest I can get to scientific verification that I’m not just losing my shit over nothing over here; that something has, in fact, gone awry, and may always have been awry. I couldn’t compensate forever (though the ways I’ve done it are many, and in retrospect, interesting) and now I’m on the other end of it, trying to rebuild. I am, as I like to say, building an exoskeleton - something that will hold me up when my brain insists on faceplanting. I’m just grateful there’s someone out there who isn’t too caught up in the semantic navel-gazing of diagnosis, to help.

*There are obvious exceptions here, such as when the two diagnoses have causes whose treatment is contraindicated in the other diagnosis. This is not the case with depression and ADHD.

** You see that Percentile Rank of 34? That means I performed better than 34 percent of people my age, at least according to the test sample. That’s. Not great.

[tara-l-blackmore]

Words

I've struggled with putting this anywhere. I started writing it in emails, on Twitter, on DeviantArt, even on Dreamwidth. I've stopped each time. I'm pretty sure this won't even go up, but let's see.

I'm having a lot of trouble dealing with people, right now. I'm lonely, and miserable, and yearning for friendship, but I cannot handle it. I cannot handle dealing with people, no matter how close I am to them. This includes – yes – people I consider to be family. This includes by family, even. I have lost contact with dozens of people that I’ve sworn never to lose contact with – or they have chosen to lose contact with me – and it's starting to… affect me.

All I’ve been able to do is write. I can't talk. Or if I do try to talk, I fuck it up. I have no been open with how I’ve been feeling, what I’ve been going through, and why I've avoided people I don't want to avoid. I don't want to talk about myself, so when I talk to people, once they ask about me, I end the convo or change the subject. I can't take it. I don't want to fucking talk about it.

But here we are. You're reading this, clearly, because you want to know what's wrong with me, for whatever fucking reason. Fine you want to know? Read on. If you don't? Stop reading and please stop asking me. I want to make this clear that I’ve kept this shit to myself because nobody cares about problems like I have. I think. If you're reading this, you're not nobody. Whatever, anyway.

My pain started getting worse two years ago, so I had my gallbladder removed. That was the biggest mistake of my life. I should not have done it. Because now, I’m worse off.

Since 2017, my health has been progressing into worse and worse problems, to the point that medications no longer work on me, save high doses of morphine. I'm not allowed to be on morphine, anymore, save dire emergencies in the ER (it's the only thing that stops the flare up). During these pain flare-ups, I want to die. I can't deal. I can't even think. All I can do is lie on the couch and cry, zoning out on YouTube. It's especially gotten worse since I quit smoking, but not enough to start, again.

The night I missed my niece being born, I broke. I lost it. I lost my patience with this illness of mine. I ended up missing one of the most important moments of her life, spending it in a hospital two hours away, being ignored and mistreated and mocked – and then ignored. It severed something mentally.

Since then, I haven't been okay.

I've ruined my own birthday, twice; the day of was spent sobbing over vaccinations. The day of the party was spent in misery, because the party had nothing to do with me – I was being used as a ruse to make it about Ellie – and when I left, the party went on without me – what I thought was the entire idea, that I'd been used for these reasons. And to be honest, I still don't know what happened after I left, because no one told me. No one thought to. No one cared enough to, it felt to me.

I started drifting more and more away, only now by people I speak to online, either through chat or phone calls. I stopped being able to deal with talking to people one-on-one, because emails gave me time to think about what I had to say, instead of speaking on the fly and hurting people. Only it still didn't work.

My depression was also getting worse. I needed more and more attention, more reassurance, in a world that is more and more making me feel adrift and left behind. When I was able to catch up, I merely discovered how much I kept missing, how happy people are without me around their ankle. I realised how many people I’ve been holding back for years, and it almost killed me.

I tried to explain it to those people I ignored, tried to explain that I’m broken, I’ll never be what they deserve or need, and that they need to walk lest I keep fucking them up further. I tried, but whatever I said was overlooked because I was a good person before now. I keep trying to explain that I’m not a good person, anymore, because the pain is making me insane, and I don't know how to deal with people, anymore, but… nobody's listening to me…

So this is my last try. This is what I should have said when any of you started to be my friends. Look at the people who've already walked, and you'll notice that I’m the common bad variable, and nothing else. I know that many of you want me to hang around because of what I was once like. And honestly, I miss what I was like back then, too.

But then, June 2017. It was the start of the end. The injections. The dozens and dozens of ER tests and humiliation and abuse. The money and ignorance of the hospital staffs (when told what to do to help and how fast it would help me if they just did it). People online, people offline, seeing me disabled and seeing a brat.

Over the past four years, I’ve been a part of the Undertale fandom, a game that saved my life and a fandom that kept me living, and I met so many of you, cared about so many of you – but somehow shoved you all away. The more you cared, the more I ran away.

Why? Because I deserve to be alone.

I've said this, many times, in different ways, but I’m told I’m wrong, when I’m right, and it hurts. So I stopped talking. I made it obvious that I’m not worth your time.

Because I didn't want to explain what was going on.

My medications aren't working, anymore, so they keep switching them. Now, they're switching my antidepressant, and it's… bad. It's very bad. I have to taper off my current med, then start from scratch with the new one, and the decrease is making my depression stronger. I haven't been able to speak on the phone or even go out (save mandatory doctor visits), and I keep taking everything personally and crying over everything. Three times, I’ve convinced myself that Terry is going to divorce me. It's bad.

Because of it, I don't know what's up or down, what's true or false, and no matter how much I trust someone, I still feel like all I am is someone to be pitied, and I would rather never be pitied, but either loved for who I am, or hated for that same reason.

And that's because I hate myself for feeling this way. I have been secluding myself to both punish myself and prove to you all how unreliable and gross I am.

A lot of you are younger than me, and have enough to deal with. I'm also aware that a lot of you are young enough to make your own decisions, especially when it comes to people. But what I’m doing is inappropriate. The things I complain and beg advice for are not appropriate. I treat you like shrinks, forgetting your age and your own lives and problems and issues.

It makes me sick, my selfishness. And I can't fucking deal with it.

So I’ve been staying away, save angry tweets and angrier YouTube comments. The rare times I reach out usually end worse off than when I did before I reached out, so I have learned not to.

And finally, for the very last time, I must say this: I know I am immature, I am stunted, I am behind the times, and I cannot fix it. I try to, by using all of you like the scumbag I am, and not bothering to listen to you or help you. I cry my problems, then run away the second you need me.

I'm so tired of it. I can't do this to people, anymore. I've been trying to gradually disappear, save stuff that keep me sane (fanfic and comics), and while many of you keep me sane, I’m tired of using you that way, too.

I know this is me mind-reading, as many of you will say. But, I’m sorry, this isn't that at all. This is me paying attention to what is being said and shown to me, and now, I get it.

Please, please, please stop insisting this isn't so. The fact that every time I mention it, it's left ignored, and often shamefully so, and that angers me. I pour my heart out, explain, answer the questions I’m being asked but it's ignored, only so that I can be asked for help that I just finished screaming myself raw that I can't help anyone the way I am, anymore.

My brain refuses to listen to kindness, anymore. It refuses to accept that anyone wants to bother with me, because on one hand, I’ve been given shameful proof that I’m absolutely right in my sad assessment. But on the other, I’m aware that a few of you are sincere, and do mean what you said.

But I can't tell the difference. I need help. I need real help, a kind that I need before I can even dream of being a good friend or a kind person to any of you. I can be nice, be complimentary, be honest in my affection and happy feelings for you, and all is sincere. But I have deep difficulty believing the same from you, to me, because of my pain and my depression. I know many of you with depression understand.

But why don't you give up on me…? Why can't you see that I’m right, that I don't blame you for giving up on me, because all I’ve been is a disgusting person, even at my most well-meaning.

I don't even know why I’m bothering posting this, here. I don't know why I’m posting it. I just think it's time to put words to feelings I couldn't put words to, before now.

I'm not trying to be friendless. But I’m trying to be worthy of friends. So far, I cannot see myself there, yet. So many of you have a real life to live, true futures within your grasps; what the hell are you doing still talking to some middle-aged pathetic loser and wasting your time on the internet that way? There are better places to visit on the internet than any place to do with me, personally.

I get wanting to want to read my bullshit stuff. I'm flattered. But no, you don't need to be my friends, no matter how pathetic or lonely I am. That's my problem, not yours. You are all young, and happy, and have your own hurdles to overcome. I write that stuff to provide an escape for you and for me. That's all that you need to know about me, really.

I'm not saying that you cannot be my friend anymore. I'm not saying you're not allowed to speak to me. I am saying that it might take me time to answer, or to do what you asked of me, etc. I am saying that thanks to my increasing mental illness, I am no longer a good person to be around, at least until the problem is rectified.

I actually don't know what I’m saying, honestly. I don't want to be alone, but I’m tired of bothering people who do. I don't like spending my days alone, but I don't want to harass people with better things to do. I'm tired of being what no one wants and tired of being unwanted once people discover the real me.

I'm a garbage person. I hate myself.

And you deserve not to have that in your life.

That's all.

I'm sorry.

[naeshitsherlock]

I would put this under a read more under the cut or whatever but I’m on mobile and I don’t think I can so basically I just need to dump this here to put it in my diary tag for future reference and posterity etc

So I’ve been back to watching crazy ex gf on Netflix after a long break (watching too much at once makes my own personality go a little crazy so I gotta be careful) and it helped me realise the context of my brain a little better. Unfortunately I can’t find the exact scene on YouTube so I gotta send the script quote instead which has less impact

...so I can’t even find the quote so maybe I paraphrased it in my dream idk. But anyway, not the point. So Rebecca has an emotional collapse and just... gives up. Like wholly and completely. Overdosed on antianxiety pills and gets sent to hospital for a psych evaluation bc clearly she’s not right

And this new doctor comes along and tells her he’s talked to her therapist and checked out her symptoms and thinks he’s maybe got a real accurate diagnosis for her

And it suddenly fills her with so much hope, and she sings this incredible song that might stay in my heart forever

https://youtu.be/nK2DlLmVc20

“Fake it til you make it” is my absolute motto I live by bc I always felt like I don’t feel like other people do. If I get caught up in the moment of something then I can have fun, sure, but generally? Day to day? I mostly just exist inside my own violet thoughts

Everything is just a hazy dark purple

So she sings this song about finally, _*finally*_ having hope that somebody can tell her why she feels how she feels and that there’s a way to cure it

And she’s looking at people who have mental illnesses and says ‘perfect they’re not but at least they know who they are’ (I’ll come back to this part later for another reason)

And that hit me like a ton of bricks

So I’ve been on antidepressants now for three years, but over those years I’ve tested a whole bunch and different concentrations (wait, doses? Science brain takes over sometimes) and even though the one I’m on now makes me feel... I guess stable, I still don’t feel... good

And every time I see my doctor she asks if it could be better

And it’s so hard to remember what I was like _before_ I started taking meds, but then I saw this episode and it just smacked me up the head

Like if you go from having long hair to bald, it’s an easy comparison, yeah? But what if you just chop centimetres at a time until there’s nothing left

It’s so hard to compare between what it was and what it now is

Just sort of realising that knowing what your problem is is a huge weight off your shoulders and I realised how different I am now from me back then

And then I was watching this and Rebecca was like ‘it’s too much effort to do things or see people or go outside or even just exist’ in the most heartbreaking voice, like completely not a deadpan joke, just absolutely broken down and reduced to basal nothingness, and I got like a sudden timetravel moment back to those feelings

When I was in high school I couldn’t hang out with my friends bc of anxiety. My mum forced me into the car to drop me off once and she had to drive me home after I couldn’t stop sobbing in front of my friends for 10 minutes telling them that I really wanted to hang out with them but I felt physically atrocious and was about to throw up my entire gastroinstestinal system

Realistically, one of my biggest issues is that I haven’t even been diagnosed with depression. I’m taking antidepressants but my doctor has never outright stated that I have depression

And even though I’m rational and I know the symptoms add up, there’s still this really quiet voice in the smallest corner of my brain rejecting it

Even back last year when I was in a flat by myself and not working bc I couldn’t find a job, I had... at least two absolutely gut wrenching breakdowns

I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe, like a goddamn baby who can’t use their words to convey their feelings

And it sucked even more bc I CAN use words and I SHOULD be able to convey my feelings, and I just can’t

I cried for almost two hours

It was an awful wail/shriek and once I stopped hyperventillating it would start again

I’ve had anxiety literally as long as I can remember. I was never able to hang out with friends or go to a bathroom without my mum in a restaurant or even just go to a shop and buy something at the checkout until I started uni, and even then it was such a struggle getting through that

I still have that anxiety but now I’m able to boss it around better, but even then I shit myself when I have to go to a shop alone or just... have a professional opinion? Because I feel like an absolute fake

My entire being is just consumed by ennui (the most accurate definition being ‘a crippling listlessness’)

Even going to the doctor, I know it helps, but every month I get anxiety over making the appt, getting the train, seeing the receptionist, talking to the doctor, filling the prescription, making a future appt for the next month, getting the train back, and getting back to my flat

And the whole thing takes ~2h a month but it absolutely destroys me bc it’s not... I guess it’s not enough

I’ve never been seriously suicidal and I hope I never will be, but at the same time one of the reasons is... you have to have an actual desire to kill yourself

I don’t know the last desire I ever had

When I was in high school and my sister almost died in hospital from anorexia I had a complete break, bc my parents just went distant and I probably saw my mother... less than an hour a day. While I was 16. Once I woke her up to tell her I was going to school and instead of saying morning she said ‘I think your sister is going to die’

8am that happened at

I had to then deal with the anxiety of ‘how do I deal with going from being the older sister to the only sister’

If I could pinpoint a moment where I broke? That would be it

...getting back to your original point about how nice it would be to _live_?

I’ve never lived

Not once in my life

That’s why i was trying so hard with online dating even though I hate it so much, because I just want to figure out who the fuck I am and maybe that’ll help me live

It’s similar to the depression - I’ve never had the label so I don’t feel comfortable knowing what’s wrong

I can’t say ‘oh I have the flu, that’s why I feel shitty so it’s ok’

I’m never ok with feeling shitty just _because_, there’s almost always a reason

‘Perfect they’re not but at least they know who they are’ is the one thing keeping me going, that maybe if I work out who/what I am then I’ll start enjoying my existence

I have no major problems, nothing financial or emotional or physical, I’m privileged and surrounded by a support system I guess but I’ve still always felt an extreme detatchmebt

Recently I’ve found myself being super bitter and jealous towards things like the LGBT community bc it’s people celebrating their identity, and I feel like I don’t have one

And yeah ok I can tell myself things like ‘it’s fine to not have a plan’, ‘it’s ok to not know who you are you just need to find yourself’, ‘it’s alright not to get married and be in a committed relationship’, but there’s always part of me that can’t accept those things

[dotoftheriver]

on brain fog

one of the symptoms of my autoimmune disease is that i have had painful, debilitating brain fog for about nine years. (I think there needs to be another word for it because brain fog sounds like I’ve just been spaced out. it’s more like... someone replaced my brain with cotton or cement. there are no thoughts whatsoever. my mind is an empty haze and if I try to “push through it” as I’ve been told countless times in my life, I get this intense, absolutely debilitating pain that makes my eyes water. the consequence of this is that obviously i just stop thinking too much, because it causes pain and i never i never get to a point past the pain where i can suddenly magically be creative again or something.) throughout my life i’ve been told time and time again that it must be caused by my ‘depression’ (I’m putting depression in quotation because it was a misdiagnosis, not because i don’t believe in it or something), and i just need to try harder. and that is just so so so wrong and fuck anyone who ever said that to me, including all the medical professionals who blatantly ignored my symptoms. 

over the past year i’ve come to learn that brain fog caused by hashimoto's is actually BRAIN INFLAMMATION. my brain has been SWOLLEN for NINE YEARS. Now that the fog is lifting I remember the beginning point. i remember suddenly not being able to come up with any thoughts and struggling to finish my homework, read, hold a conversation, etc. I remember crying about it and being told i just had writers block and i needed to just keep trying. I remember knowing it wasn’t normal and being told it was my mental health, and essentially my fault because i didn’t want to keep going on antidepressants (which make me so numb when i’m on them i can’t laugh or cry. on top of which they don’t fix the brain fog or pain or mood. forgive me for thinking they aren’t a good idea for me. (I’m not against them in general, i think they can be life changing for a lot of people, but they were being forced on me for symptoms that weren’t caused by mental health issues)) 

eventually all of this pain and this haze i was living in became normal for me. i was so fogged i couldn’t remember there ever being a before. and i’ve just been struggling through it this whole time, disappointed that i can’t be more creative or smart or hold a conversation like a normal person. i went to school for writing and i couldn’t even write! i didn’t realize how bad it was or how much it was hurting me until over the summer, when it got so bad that my head was in constant, debilitating pain. it felt like my brain was pushing against my skull, and it literally took me ten minutes one day to figure out what my name was. i literally couldn’t form a thought at all. my family doctor literally shrugged and told me to take an antidepressant. but my actually competent doctor looked at my thyroid levels and my TSH was 24 (the highest healthy number is i think 5. the higher your TSH, the lower the functioning of your thyroid is. my therapist also has hashimoto's and when i told her my TSH was 24 she literally didn’t believe me. that number is insane. my doctor didn’t know how i was standing up.) my doctor immediately increased my thyroid medication and within 3 days the pain was gone and i was back to my normal level of brain fog. 

but since then we increased my medication again, and i swear to god. that is the first time in YEARS the fog went away. i still have foggy days, but suddenly i just have creative ideas??? I have opinions about things? I have thoughts about my own life and illness and situation. I have STORY IDEAS AGAIN. I literally gave up trying to write because i just couldn’t do it before. But I can think now, which is just fucking wild to me. 

all of this is a very long way of me saying that my last blood test showed that my some of  my thyroid levels were too high, so a couple weeks ago I had to decrease my medication. and i was so so so so so scared because what if my brain fog came back, and i was never able to fix it??? it’s fucking scary to think about being trapped by my own brain like that again. but my doctor was convinced that my levels were too high because my body is starting to learn how to make hormones on it’s own, and she was confident the brain fog wouldn’t come back. We agreed that i would try it out and if it did come back we would come up with another solution. 

And... it hasn’t come back????? I’ve been on this lower dose for a least 2 weeks and i feel fine??? (actually i might be sleeping too much but I’m not sure if that’s the meds change just my horrendous sleep schedule.) But I still feel creative!!!!! I can think!!!!!! And I know this is true because I’ve tried to write about how brain fog affects me while still dealing with it and i could barely get three sentences out. BUT LOOK AT HOW MUCH I JUST WROTE!!!! that’s amazing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

I just wanted to let you know how amazing that is!!!!!!!!

[emily-echolls]

A Breaking Point

Summary: The universe finally makes an attempt to get Emily off her bullshit via an emergency room trip. Words: 3,616 Trigger Warnings: Blood, suicidal thoughts, drug use, Emily’s usual fucked up mind state tbqh

 She’d been walking to her Advanced Psychology class, wondering why she was bothering, wishing the abdomen pain she’d been doing her level best to ignore would just go away, cursing Ethan Anderson to hell and back for not giving her the painkillers she’d been self medicating with. Then-

Dizziness and the ground rushing towards her. The distant implication of pain.

Oh my god-!

Someone call Professor Echolls-

No, 911! Call 911! She’s bleeding everywhere-

Pressure on the side of her face and something hot trickling down her neck. A flash of scattered images. Flashing red and blue lights. Words spoke in a familiar, official tone that made something inside her go cold with remembering-

Adult female collapsed on the scene, unresponsive. Head wound from the fall, possible concussion and- Jesus Christ she’s burning up. Does anyone know who she is? Emily? Emily can you hear me? ...Get the gurney ready.

It was too much like the last time. But she hadn’t done anything wrong.

1, 2, 3- Multiple hands lifting her and setting her gently down again. Holy hell she’s light- what’s she weigh- 90 pounds? Someone lifting the hem of her sweatshirt and letting out a low whistle. -give up the damn ghost. You can see her ribs.

Rocking, hairpin turns, impersonal hands on her wrist, forehead, neck. The cool voices of people who had seen far too many emergencies to show any kind of panic. She could tell they were speaking to her, but she couldn’t focus on their words. She caught snatches of words and phrases; Staunch the bleeding- her blood pressure is dangerously low already- get an IV started immediately-

The same sick, nauseated feeling she'd been having all week, a stinging pain on her temple, and wetness coating her face and neck. She didn't know where she was, but it felt as if her body did. It was screaming in a desperate sort of panic and telling her what it knew of what came next; the pain of having her stomach pumped, her father’s hand clutching hers as he slept, thin sheets on hard mattresses, the silent sobs wracking her pained body as she stared into the wonderfully brilliant sunset outside her hospital room. The horrified realization she was still alive despite how desperately she didn’t want to be.

“No!” Gasping in panic, she threw open her heavy eyelids and wrenched away from the faceless people around her, fighting to sit up despite the hands that pushed her back down. She didn’t need to be here- she hadn’t done it. Her broken down, fucked up brain had been a thorny, twisted mess of self harm urges and impulsive thoughts, but she hadn’t done any of it. The goddamn acrobatics she’d been doing to avoid hurting herself had been more exhausting than anything. She’d spent more time in public  than she had in the past year and a half- she’d gone to Julian Lowell’s frat house in the middle of the night, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t fucking fair.

“I didn’t do anything!” She snarled, lashing out towards the next EMT that tried to touch her and nearly toppling off the gurney she’d been placed on.

She was kitten weak. She realized it as she fearful blows she attempted to land on the paramedic glanced off all but harmlessly. Whatever was wrong with her, it was sapping every spare bit of strength she had. With a muttered curse as Emily attempted to do some damage with her nails at least, her wrists were seized with little effort in strong glove covered hands and slipped into sheepskin lined restraints. It was if her actions had no effect at all. They didn’t care if the body was willing to be treated or not- they were going to heal it one way or another. Whether she liked it or not, she was going to the hospital, and that meant they were going to call her sister- if no one had already.

Making a noise of wordless despair, she fell back against the gurney, the waiting blackness swallowing her again before she could do anything else.

“I didn’t do anything…”

“This is Emilia Echolls. Admitted two days ago after she collapsed; she required ten sutures to her right temple, done with no issues. No concussion. Medical history revealed she was diagnosed a year ago with Lupus which has thus far gone untreated. Restrained due to violence displayed towards first responders and a history of depression and suicidal tendencies. Blood analysis found multiple unprescribed painkillers along with high doses of her normal antidepressants- we’re pretty sure she was self medicating. Came in with an acute kidney infection that looks as if it’s gone septic. We’ve been administering nutrients intravenously, along with several different medications to keep her fever down. She’s been mostly unconscious since she was brought in two days ago. This is her sister Elisha Macdonald- her emergency contact and power of attorney. We-”

“I didn’t...”

Funny, Emily hadn’t made the conscious decision to speak.

A moment of tense silence, a hand tightening in her own, then Elisha’s weary voice;

“She’s said a few things since I got here but she’s still- I’m sorry doctors, but do you have any idea when she’s going to wake up? I just got back from my honeymoon and I’m wondering if I need to call the rest of our family to come down in case anything happens.”

“We’re just keeping her sedated for now. We weren’t optimistic initially, but she seems to be responding well to this round of antibiotics, and we’ve narrowed down the source of infection. I think she’s got a long road ahead of her as far as recovery goes, and she really has got to start getting treated for her illness, but I don’t think she’s in any sort of immediate danger at this point. If they’re able though, she should be waking up in the next day or so- I’m sure she’d love to see them.”

Elisha’s laugh was a sad, weary thing. “No, she wouldn’t. But thank you.”

.

When she had woken up after her suicide attempt, she’d been in agony- the sun had been setting and she’d been surrounded by her sleeping family. This time she was so drugged she could barely lift her hand, but she was blessedly pain free. Outside her small window was full dark, and it was only Elisha watching her warily as she blinked her way to consciousness. At least the gritty eyes and acute misery were the same.

“Emily?”

Emily glanced at her sister, her mind slowly churning its way to awareness and understanding. As soon as she did, and the neutral walls, beeping monitors, and sterile surroundings pieced itself together in her brain, her breathing hitched. She struggled to recall why she was here, vaguely remembered her fall and the ambulance ride. Panic made her breathing hitch slightly and she looked away.

“Why the fuck am I here?” she croaked without preamble, attempting to lift her hand to rip the nasal cannula out of her nose only to be stopped short by the restraints still on her wrist. “And what the fuck is this shit?”

Elisha reached out, no doubt intending to lay a soothing hand on her somewhere, and Emily cringed as far back into the bed as she could. People didn’t touch her- a byproduct of a fearsome reputation and the alienation of people she loved. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done more than brush by her on the street. Laying in a hospital bed having PTSD flashbacks of suicide watch- she didn’t know how she’d react to being touched but was sure it’d be negative. Elisha’s hand fell back against her lap with a soft thump that seemed aggressively loud in the silence that descended on them.

“Get these fucking things off me.”

Elisha’s face hardened and she sat back in her chair, shaking her head and directing her gaze away from Emily. She looked like shit- puffy faced and rumpled. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a messy bun that looked as if it had been slept in, and the bags under her eyes spoke to worrying instead of sleeping. ��After a few moments she turned back to her sister with an expression that Emily had long ago learned meant Elisha was absolutely furious. “No.”

“Oh fuck you Lisha,” Emily snarled, tugging futilely against the soft cuffs on her wrists and ankles in something akin to panic. Even that small effort made her head spin and the not quite dissipated pain in her torso flair. “I shouldn’t even be here. I didn’t do anything.”

“Didn’t do-?! Oh!” Elisha stood up, going towards the door to her room and shutting it carefully before marching back over to her sister’s bed. “No Emilia- you didn’t do anything.When you were admitted you were dehydrated and malnourished- so you weren’t eating or drinking enough water, from the bags under your eyes I’d guess you haven’t been sleeping either- you weren’t getting treatment for Lupus. So you’re right. You haven’t done anything. Not one damn thing to take care of yourself- you might not have ‘done anything’ actively, but you’ve been passively killing yourself for an entire goddamn year Emily.”

Sighing in something that was close to defeat, Elisha sat back down in her chair and looked at her, at once searching and fed up. “When were you going to tell us? Or were you ever going to?”

Emily felt as if she were frozen, rooted to her hospital bed. The monitor next her beating in warning as her heart raced. Lupus. It was ice down her spine. Logically she had known what Elisha being there when she woke up had to mean. Still there was no more effective way her sister could have found to shatter her entire world than speaking that word.

Because this was everything she had been avoiding. If Elisha knew everyone knew. If she knew then it was a matter of time before her mother started calling her every week with magazine articles like ‘all natural remedies and diets to help autoimmune diseases’ and ‘five ways to fight depression’, Elizabeth would start looking at her like she had at the festival constantly- like she felt guilty for not understanding her fucked up life. They would forbid her from living on her own, before long the word would get out and there would be the acquaintances she barely knew offering her condolences, what she passed for ‘friends’ treating her like she was made of glass. Dozens of doctor’s appointments, her therapist and the questions Emily had no answers for, and everyone hovering too close while Emily sucked up their time and energy and resented them for their care- because she was fucking broken and couldn’t even love her family right. Exactly like before.

“Emily? Emily calm down, it’s alright.” Elisha’s face swam in front of her face as she leaned over, putting a warm hand on either side of Emily’s face in a would-be soothing way. Emily could remember her doing the same thing when she was little and wordlessly crying over some small childhood drama, her small fingers wiping away her tears. It was kind and familiar and she just couldn’t take that right now. She jerked as far away from her as she could in her limited bindings, a ragged breath tearing it’s way past her lips. The panic that had started when she woke up was starting to take over her rationality.

“Have you told anyone else yet?” She demanded, subconsciously yanking against the restraints again as she tried to make her breathing even out. Every part of her brain was screaming at her to do whatever possible to get away from this conversation- and she was conveniently all but chained to her hospital bed. It was some fucked up kind of fate.

“Not yet.” Elisha said hesitantly, still looking as if she wanted nothing more than to calm her somehow- like her hands were itching to touch her. It was enough to make Emily want to scream. Take these off and get the fuck out. Stop looking at me, stop touching me, stop caring. Finally ive up on me so I can die in peace and not feel so goddamn guilty about it. Please, please, please.

The ragged breath that Emily let out was something closer to a sob. “Then don’t. Please. Just don’t. I don’t want anyone else to know. I’ll do whatever you want Lish, please. I don’t- fuck. I don’t want to live under a goddamn microscope again okay? I didn’t do anything to warrant that- I haven’t done anything to myself. I haven’t been going to my therapy appointments or anything I know but- I’ll start going again. I promise. Just please. I’m literally begging you Lish. Don’t tell anyone else. I can’t do that again Lish, I can’t.”

It wasn’t fair to put on her, and Emily knew it. It was the same kind of selfish shit she’d been pulling her entire life, she just didn’t seem to be able to stop. She was a plague. A goddamn black hole that ruined everything it touched and sucked the life out of everyone who got to close to her bullshit, and no one understood why she pushed them away. She wanted to cling to people just as badly as any other lonely person- but seeing the effect she had on people was worse than dying alone. People hating her for being an asshole was easier to deal with than them resenting her for showing her underbelly and clinging to them.

“Emily…” Elisha’s voice was heartbreakingly tender. It made Emily’s skin crawl. Like she’d flayed herself open and been thanked for her effort. “Emily I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that.”

Emily knew.

That didn’t make it any better.

“Then leave.” she hissed viciously, bunching her hands in the thin bedding that covered her legs.

 Closing her eyes against the stinging threat of tears, she turned away from Elisha as much as she could in the confines of her restraints, ignoring all Elisha’s attempts at conversation until she heard the sound of her sister, crying as she left the room.

Maybe the agony was the same as the first time after all.

Emily’s sleep was abruptly ended by the sound of sensible heels clicking across the room, and the smell of sunflowers and marigolds.

Oh no, no please. I can’t do this. Not after last night. Please.

“Hello, darling.” A slight dip in the bed as a generous frame sat itself by her feet, ignoring the chair waiting at her bedside. The machine that monitored her pulse beeped in warning once again as her heart attempted to pound itself out of her rib cage. She’d thought seeing Elisha was hard, but this? This was so much worse.

“Your sister called me. It’s been a long time. I’ve missed you- I’ve been worried about you.” A hand came out to rest on her knee and Emily jerked away with a bitten off curse, her breath coming out ragged as a gasp.

“Join the fucking club.” She snapped viciously, giving the restraints a hard tug that she’d learned by now was completely useless. She’d attempted to get several different nurses to remove the damn things after Elisha left, but none would. Her sister had convinced them she was a danger to herself.

The morning light was blinding as she opened her eyes, Dr. Dubois’s plump frame and dark hair surrounded by a halo of light that made her look serene and ethereal. It was a stark contrast to the wretched fight or flight reflex that was singing through Emily’s veins. If she could have chewed her own arm off to get out of that room, she would have.

“Oh, I’ve been in that club.” The doctor’s voice was mild, but there was something behind that. Some gentle emotion Emily had no right to. “I’ve been in that club since you were seven years old Emily, one measly year of you avoiding me doesn’t change that. I’ve almost said to hell with confidentiality and called your parents so many times... I- well. When Elisha called me I was happy to hear you were only in the hospital. I’m so sorry to hear about your health, darling.”

Swallowing thickly, Emily looked at the woman who had been until last year one of her sole confidants. She looked different- her hair was shorter, a little grayer, and her eyes were bright with emotion. Without her permission, the tears that she had been biting back and forcing down for the last few months came rushing down her face, undeterrable. “I- I didn’t do it, you know. I didn’t do this to myself.”

The older woman’s face was a gentle as Elisha’s had been as she sighed. “I know darling, I know. But just because you haven’t been self harming doesn’t mean you haven’t been hurting yourself in other ways. You’re a smart woman Emily. I know you know you’re not well right now, you’re just like a cat that hides when it’s hurt and then hisses when someone who wants to help gets too close. It makes things harder on you.”

Dr. Dubois seized a tissue off the end table next to the bed and reached out slowly, giving Emily the option to tell her to stop before dabbing at the tears that Emily couldn’t wipe away, restraind as she was. She was grateful for the help, even if being touched killed her in a way she couldn’t quite explain. “Do you remember what you said to me? The first session we ever had? You said ‘I want to be happy’.”

It was stupid. A stupid innocent, naive thing Emily had said when she was too young and green to know that depression wasn’t the flu- and that taking a pill didn’t make it go away. But she could remember being so small, sitting on a leather couch she had practically grown up on, arms crossed and terrified that this woman and her parents were going to throw her out like a defective toy. She’d gone from fearing that to wishing they had- and she couldn’t remember when she’d started hating herself so goddamn much or if she’d just come out of the womb wishing she’d never taken her first breath.

A small sob broke past Emily’s mouth without her permission, then another, and before long her shoulders were shaking with the force of them. She’d cried plenty since her diagnosis, but she’d never actually grieved. Somehow she’d convinced herself that she’d accepted her fate, but it wasn’t true- she’d just pretended and faked it to herself so it was alright that she wasn’t trying to fight for her own life- so she didn’t have to share it with anyone. Then she’d pushed and shoved everyone away so they hated her, so she didn’t have to feel guilty that she was letting Lupus kill her without a fuss- because there was no one to leave behind. It wasn’t being suicidal if it was just the way things were- or so she’d managed to believe.

“I told you that was the first step, but I was simplifying things. Sometimes it’s hard to even want to be happy, when happiness seems too hard and succumbing to misery so easy.” Dr. Dubois continued. “Sometimes the first step is just admit you need help, and then let people help you.”

Now she was crying harder than she had in months; furious, boiling hot tears spilling down her cheeks faster than Dr. Dubois could wipe them away. Her breath was uneven and her shoulders were shaking with the force of the cries that forced their way past her clenched teeth. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she’d fought her entire goddamn life just to want to live, it wasn’t fair that she probably would never get to use her degree to help other kids like her, it wasn’t fair she was laying in a hospital bed right now, it wasn’t fair that she was sick, it wasn’t fucking fair she was probably going to die young.

Dr. Dubois scooted up the bed until she could pull her up from her reclined position and let her rest her head against her shoulder, crooning softly as she wrapped her arms around Emily’s bony frame. “There you are, let it out.”

They stayed in that position for some immeasurable amount of time, while Emily cried herself dry and wailed apologies, and half formed explanations of her actions, and cursed the universe that had made her sick in both body and mind but refused to just kill her properly. Dr. Dubois for her part listened quietly, humming soothingly as she rubbed Emily’s back. After a while, she pulled back, stuffy nosed and puffy eyed, and somehow feeling more tired than she’d felt in the entire year of having Lupus.

“I don’t know how much harder things can get before I can’t deal with it anymore.” She sniffed wearily. It was too exhausting now to pretend to be okay.

“I know darling, I know. All we can do is take things one day at a time.”

Over the course of the next few hours, Dr. Dubois called Elisha back in the room, the three of them discussing treatments and medicine changes. Inpatient care was discussed and quickly decided against- so long as Emily and Elisha found somewhere for her to stay that wasn’t by herself and resumed her therapy appointments. (”And this time if you miss more that one a month, I’m calling Elisha and consequences be damned.” Dr. Dubois had warned her grimly.) The therapist spoke with some doctor or another, throwing around words like Lexapro, Zoloft, and Luvox, then left with a quick goodbye and a desire to see her soon.

Emily was left in an awkward silence with Elisha hovering awkwardly near the door. The energy in the room was exhausted, bitter, and more than a little hostile- from both sides. Elisha was still calling her family any minute now. Emily was still furious about it. Between them were words Emily couldn’t take back, Elisha’s misplaced guilt over the state of her little sister’s mind, and permeating everything that coincidental phone call almost six years ago in May that had accidentally saved Emily’s life- the one that neither would apologize for.

After what might have been thirty seconds and might have been fifteen minutes Emily sighed, scooting to the side and patting the mattress next to her. She supposed after a year of hiding away, it was her turn to reach out. “Come here and tell me about your honeymoon. Is Dennis Macdonald just as big of a fucking idiot in Europe as he is in America?”

It wasn’t enough, that was for goddamn sure. The damage Emily had done wasn’t one that could be healed by any number of gestures. Maybe it couldn’t be healed at all. But it was more of an effort than she had made in a year, and for the moment Elisha seemed willing to pretend with her that things might be alright. She perched herself carefully on the edge of Emily’s bed, and Emily extended her hand, letting her seize it between her own. “You leave my sweet husband alone, you. It was amazing.”

For now, it was enough.

[jessi-31days-blog]

Day 3, Tuesday, October 3rd

I wake up at 9:30 am, attack my phone alarm with a vigorous "fuck that" and set it again for 10:30 am. My alarm goes off at 10:30 am, and I officially wake up.

I fell asleep around 1:00 am last night, and I mentioned yesterday how I love my 9 hours. I'll try to go to bed earlier tonight. I had a dream that someone was trying to force me to drink blood, so if any of you super cool dream interpreters can guess what that means, let me know.

Yoga class - "Pranayama Yoga To Move Energy" - 12:34:

SIKE!

 Apparently while doyogawithme.com has lots of free classes, but a few videos are subscription only. So when I click on the link to this video and see "subscription only" I simultaneously roll my eyes and harshly exhale out of both nostrils at this minor inconvenience. Ah, yes, minor inconveniences; the bane of any millennial's existence. The same video is provided for tomorrow, so I will have to find yet another replacement for it for day 4. Okay, now for real this time...

Yoga class - "3 Yoga Breathing Exercises for Anxiety" by Caren Baginski on YouTube - 7 mins:

If you try this video, you'll noticed I picked a pretty easy video for today. It was very helpful, especially the switching nostrils one (forgot what that one was called). I'll need to remember these when I have anxiety.

Guided Meditation - "Transform Yourself" - 15 mins:

Okay guys, I have a confession to make on this one. My brain could not shut off and I was too restless, so I only made it through 8 minutes of this guided meditation. I tried to follow the imagery of imagining light flowing through my body, and I did my best but it didn't help much. One thing the speaker said that I will mention is that you choose how you think and feel about yourself, your life, and your surrounding. And while people with mental illness such as myself can often think the opposite, that you can't control how you feel or think, in many ways you actually can. More often than not it's within the means of actually forcing yourself to replace the negative intrusive thoughts with positive or realistic thoughts than actually making yourself feel something, but if and when you continue to make yourself think healthily, you'll start to feel better emotionally. This is easier said than done, but it is true.

Read a Proverb - Proverbs 3:

This is a pretty famous chapter of Proverbs for Christians and Catholics of the world. In it are these verses, 5 & 6: "Trust in the LORD with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all you do, and he will show you which path to take." I first read these verses in early 2010. The fact that I can actually remember the year is pretty cool, since my memory pretty much sucks. Actually, my memory basically works of it's own will, selecting at random what information I will and will not remember. Anyways, these verses have always had a lot of meaning to me. It pretty much sums up God's intended experience for a person who believes in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ and His salvation. That's why I don't worry too much about how my life goes and the way I choose to live it. As long as I'm saved, and I believe I am, regardless of what happens to me, I know how things will turn out for me in the very end.

The rest of the chapter reiterated the theme of Proverbs, which is to delight in wisdom, knowledge, and understanding, so that you live a good life. It ends with some good general pieces of advice for life: use common sense, when you see someone who needs help, don't hesitate to help them, don't hurt people, don't pick petty fights with people, don't act like violent people act, and if you dedicate your life to wisdom, you will "inherit honor".

Blog post - TWLOHA - "Beyond Shades of Gray" by Sharleigh Thomson:

At the beginning of this article, Sharleigh defines how we as a society talk about something clear and defined. "You've either attempted or you haven't." But then she begins to describe what she calls a gray zone as the place where you desperately want to escape from the pain and being willing to die to do so. "A place where you might have the means, the will, the plan, the note—everything but the follow through." And good fucking god, I know what the gray zone is like. I instantly identified with the author of this blog post. She proceeded to describe how she was once unable to find the words to truly explain her experience and her pain. That there weren't enough syllables in the English language to describe just how hard what she was going through was. She started talk therapy, but had trouble opening up and finding the words to explain herself to her therapist. He suggested that she start writing down how she was feeling. My therapist told me to do the same thing, and I reacted the way Sharleigh did: with stubbornness. At that time she believed that writing was some sort of cop out. I used to believe that if I couldn't find a way to say it out loud, how the hell can I get it one paper? Well, as I've discovered, the opposite is true sometimes. If I can get my thoughts, whether they are complete sentences or not, out on paper (or most likely, the notes app on my computer), then I can form the way to say it out loud. As a matter of fact, writing down my train of thoughts has lead me to more epiphanies than I ever expected... I've got to start doing it again.

Finally, after another suicidal episode, Sharleigh gave in and began writing. She said that it started out dark and emotional, but eventually became something personal, beautiful, and hopeful. She found a way to break down her problems in her writing. Then she began to write plays, poetry, and blog posts about her experiences with mental health and suicide. Hey, I'm doing that last thing now! What a coincidence.

I haven't written poetry since I was a teenager. My poetry back then varied in quality, a good portion of them being angsty emo depression poetry about how much I hated my life. But I'm sure if I looked back into my old journals (which I somehow still have after losing the rest of my belongings over the course of a few months before moving to Florida), I could find two or three good ones. I wish I remembered how to write poetry. Not that it's all that hard, so long as you're good with words. But I have no idea what to write a poem about. I don't want to write one about my depression or anxiety, because I have grown to enjoy poetry that ends on a positive note, and I have yet to find a positive note for a poem about depression. It's not that I'm this huge pessimist, I know there's a light at the end of this dark ass stanky ass tunnel, but I just don't know how to end a poem anymore. I don't like writing poems about nature, because those are boring. I have a sense of humor, but for some reason I'm put off by funny poems. Oh well, maybe I'll find something to write a poem about someday.

As the blog post starts to near it's end, Sharleigh tells of how she rebuilt herself through writing, and how while she still feels darkness, she's still willing to keep creating things and searching for hope when times get hard. I'm trying to have that same attitude. Practice makes perfect, I suppose. She ends the post with some encouragement to stay alive, to find a way to make your voice heard, and most importantly, to find what you were made for. I appreciate the encouragement she offered, and I hope others who read that article find comfort in them, but more often than not I read inspiring words and ideas and they have little to no affect on me. It's the reading equivalent of "in one ear, out the other" (in one eye, out the other? I don't know). But when push comes to shove, I do get it. Really, I do. And she's not wrong. I suppose one day I'll find myself smack dab in the middle of what I was made to do. Maybe I'm doing it now. Regardless, though I don't feel encouraged, I'm choosing to be encouraged. I'm making it my state of mind rather than waiting to feel warm and fuzzy. It's all I've got right now.

Encouraging someone on reddit - r/anxiety:

I found an easy one. And when I say easy, I mean I had the experience to give to this person who was nervous about increasing their dosage of their antidepressant. They said they were afraid that increasing their dose from 10mg to 20mg would make them feel "weird". I let out a light chuckle when I read that, because if any psychiatric drug is gonna make you feel "weird" (or in my case, a fucking zombie), it's not the antidepressants; it's the antipsychotics. I told them about how I was misdiagnosed a year ago during my mental breakdown and was put on some VERY HEAVY antipsychotic drugs, which made me act like a robot. Ask my dad, he saw me a lot at that time. I had no emotions. My mother, who at this point lived across the country from me, even noticed that I was different. Now I'm not saying antipsychotics are bad, because some people really do need them. But if you don't need them, they definitely make you more numb than anyone needs to be, and not the "high" kind of numb, but the "I feel literally nothing; good or bad" kind of numb. I then told this person that I have had times in my life where I was only on an antidepressant. I've tried a bunch, and coincidentally, along with my vast experience with psychiatric medications, I've also experienced being on Lexapro alone. So I told them it doesn't make you feel weird, and that it is more likely to help them than anything. Or a bit less likely (but still possible), it could just not work for them at all and they need to try a different antidepressant. All in all, I hope I at the very least encouraged them not to be afraid to increase their medication, so long as the doctor says it's best.

Walk:

The neighbors came by today to let us know a few sex offenders live in our neighborhood. One guy even lives just a few houses down. Fortunately, all the ones closest to us are child sex offenders, so I'm pretty sure I'm too old for them to want to assault. Regardless, my mom made me take her stun gun with me while I went for my walk. I listened to another one of my favorite bands, Gazpacho, this time. It was nice and peaceful. On my way back a dog started following and barking at me for a few yards, until its owner got it to go back to its house. I laughed as this was quite amusing. Instead of getting followed by creepy sex offenders as my mother fears, I was getting followed by a medium sized brown yapping dog. When I got home I felt refreshed, and my depression went from like a 8 down to a 6, so there was some improvement. End of Day Notes: I don’t know if I feel any different yet. But then again, it’s only the end of day 3. Any noticeable improvements seem small: the morning pranayama yoga centers and calms me for the day, I’m starting a routine which always brings a sense of accomplishment, I’m learning a few things from what I’m reading, and I’m getting better at giving encouragement or advice. So at least it’s something. P.S. I promise I’ll make this blog look pretty at some point. I could have done it today, but along with all my goals, I spent 3 hours cleaning to whole house, so I didn’t have time to work on this blog’s appearance. 

[mamagagax3]

Living with Bipolar disorder

So about a week ago I switched from topimax to lithium and holy hell this stuff really works. I am only on 300mg (starter dose), but I can definitely tell a HUGE difference than before. For the first time in over 6 years I am waking up and actually wanting to get up. Normally, mornings were the hardest for me. I would wake up and instantly feel overwhelmed, and full of anxiety. Now it’s so easy to wake up and take on the day. For months I thought that my anxiety medications needed to be upped, or my antidepressants, as I thought that the anxiety was making me feel so overwhelmed every day. This entire time I just wasn’t on the correct bipolar medication. It has been beyond exhausting holding onto hope, hope that I would finally find the right medication and finally begin to get better. Over the last year my doctor has basically been experimenting with me and my medications. I eventually got so sick of it and saw a new doctor for a second opinion. So I was re-evaluated and all of my medications were adjusted and lithium was finally added. I just can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve felt this kind of happiness. And to think that this whole time I was on the wrong bipolar medication. FYI to anyone who suffers from bipolar disorder, I do NOT recommend lamotrigine or topimax. The lamotrigine caused me to have severe cystic acne, and didn’t really control manic episodes, and the topimax also made me break out and it didn’t feel like it was doing anything at all to be honest. I was maxed out on antidepressants and anxiety medicine and could not understand why I was not getting better. Come to find out the antidepressants were way too high and conflicting with each other which actually caused me to have even more anxiety. Confused yet? I know that most people probably could care less about what I’m talking about, but I’m hoping that I can reach someone who is struggling and provide them with hope that they can get better. A month ago I was in the worst mental condition I’ve ever experienced. I almost lost hope. Because it’s just so easy to remain angry. Angry that I have to see all of these doctors constantly, all of the medications, just everything was draining me. You get to a point where you don’t understand why. Living with bipolar disorder can be extremely daunting. You just never know how you’re going to feel. But since I began Lithium it’s like all the lights turned on in my brain. I have finally found a medication that keeps me even. I haven’t felt so “normal” in so many years. My anxiety has reduced tremendously, and the depression is no longer present. I’ve made it. I had to dig so fucking deep to get myself out of this last depression. I had never felt so low in my life. I believe it was “rock bottom” for me. Sink or swim type of shit. And I refuse to sink. My point here is not to lose hope. Stay in constant prayer. Continue to make positive changes in your life. I’ve prayed for years for God to take away my depression and anxiety. I know that being on the right medication plays a huge role in me getting better, but God also answered my prayers. He knew that I was at my limit, my “breaking point”. I couldn’t hold onto life much longer. I’ve taken back control of my life, and no longer allow my illnesses to make all of my decisions.

I’ll be honest it’s sometimes embarrassing putting all of this stuff out there. Most people would not want anyone to know about their mental illnesses. But this topic needs to be discussed more. People need to feel comfortable talking about their illnesses.There are people out there suffering in silence. And that silence can kill you. I have been through some really scary shit in life, REALLY scary shit, and I will say that 3 weeks ago nothing mattered to me. It’s even scary to write about. But I promised myself that I would document this. When you are not scared to take your own life, it does something to you. It shook me to my core. This is a feeling I never want to feel again. I will never ever let myself get to the point where I ever feel like that again. 

As for now, I am in a really really good place. I am happy just to be alive and well. I am actually living, and damn does it feel good.

-A