I might have commented before that I'm not in the mood to be screwed around with the internet right now. Random parts of my posts are being highlighted and I don't know why. This isn't helpful to my current state of mind. I can't decide whether I'm sleep deprived, confused, anxious, heartbroken or plain irritated. All these feelings come from a dull patch that resides in my medication-pickled brain. The little part that speaks in riddles and ejects severe phobias and post-traumatic stress and bipolar into my system. I can never decide whether I'm friends with this part of my brain or not. On the one hand, it contributes greatly to the structure of my being, making me artistic, sensitive, creative and expressive and on the other hand, it fucks me about and makes me fuck up with absolutely everything I do and I despise it.
I feel like a failure to everything and everyone around me. I feel stupid and worthless and that I should be punished. I feel angry at myself and the world. The world, I think, has gone to shit - it's all a big joke. How can a simple, natural part of life such as death cause so much pain and devastation to people? How do we explain this? Can science? When does something stop being a mathematical instruction and start becoming a torment of the soul? My philosophies are running about my head wildly and I feel the motion sickness taking its toll.
I feel nothing, mostly. Apathy has crept into my being like a clawed virus and numbed every nerve and thought that penetrates my vulnerable brain. I now function. Function! Just like everyone else! Just like anyone who hasn't witnessed the dark, morbid and horrific side of life that grabs hold of you and draws the life out of you, drains you of the will to keep on living. I refuse. I REFUSE TO GO BACK.
I want to remain. Remain unsettled, remain unjustified, remain disgusted with this world. This world which I KNOW is unfair, is detestable, is disgusting and vile. This world which I retch to view. I don't want to live here. I want to remain repulsed by the stench of the bodies of victims of child abuse, rape, human trafficking, murder, war, torture, trauma. I want to hate the world as it should be hated. There is no alternative.
There is no alternative.
Friday, 20 July 2012
Sunday, 15 July 2012
Probably the most ironic statement I have ever made
Posted on a Youtube clip by me.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UYsLcvX9aDA
"I am a Christian. I don't go to church because I get judged for wearing black and having bipolar disorder. My views of the Bible are full of skepticism. I find church songs boring. I find most other "Christians" to be judgmental, close-minded and superficial while the mental health support group I go to offers a group of atheist Christlike beings. Jesus is my friend, and Marilyn Manson restores my faith in humanity. God works in mysterious ways, they say. Well, the fucking irony is killing me."
- CrazyDiamond003
Wish I could have added how Manson's intelligence seems to surpass all the members of all the churches I've been to put together.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UYsLcvX9aDA
"I am a Christian. I don't go to church because I get judged for wearing black and having bipolar disorder. My views of the Bible are full of skepticism. I find church songs boring. I find most other "Christians" to be judgmental, close-minded and superficial while the mental health support group I go to offers a group of atheist Christlike beings. Jesus is my friend, and Marilyn Manson restores my faith in humanity. God works in mysterious ways, they say. Well, the fucking irony is killing me."
- CrazyDiamond003
Wish I could have added how Manson's intelligence seems to surpass all the members of all the churches I've been to put together.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
Fighting the Temptation
So, like any classic certified nutcase, the following procedure ends with the most unfortunate mood swing.
50mg quetiapine + 0mg fluoxetine + PMS = certified nutcase waking up feeling awful.
I could probably help it if it were any other time of the month, to be honest. Today, I woke up and felt like cutting. By "cutting" I mean the typical trend among adolescent wannabes trying to draw attention to their individuality. For me, it's a release. I want to cut myself.
I WON'T DO IT, of course. I'm determined not to let this take me over. Having said that, it's always been a hard battle. In the beginning, I often lost. I have the scars to show it. Big, ugly pink ones and thin, pearly white ones. Scars that dent, scars that wrinkle, scars like ribbons of regret sewn into my flesh. But rather than notifying it as a losing battle and giving up any hope of survival, I feel lucky enough to have the ability to feel so over the moon I can taste paradise. An advantage to being bipolar - you know there's a flipside to the pain and despair.
It's not like self-harming has ever got me anywhere, either. Sure, it's a satisfying release, there's pain, there's the mutilation that my mind is craving, there's the splash of crimson perfection, there's the laceration of flawless precision, there's the catalyst - internal pain becomes external pain. Pain that will go away. But other than that, it's five minutes pleasure for a lifetime mark. Carry them around like a badge of honour, but it's not so honourable to others. People, of course, judge. Can you blame them? Self-mutilation is the art of a disturbed mind. And people fear what they don't understand. To you, it's a coping mechanism, no different than a stressed man at work nipping outside for a lung-plaguing cigarette. To everyone else, it's a striking sign for alarm. It's illogical, it's senseless - and you love it.
I've done it ever since I was thirteen. I think of that as an unwise and puerile age to start engaging in such a complex coping strategy. My reasons for doing it then were far more infantile than my reasons for doing it now. Had I known how much devastation and pointless heartache boys could cause you then, I probably wouldn't have bothered with it. But for a young girl who had no confidante or shoulder to cry on in the grip of pubescent agony, it was an easy way out. Small, shallow cuts at first, then deeper, slender ones - cut, cut, cut, slice, cut, slice - then the euphoria hit. A beautiful, natural high that relieved me of the pain of living for a few, precious moments. By fourteen, I was doing it every day. At fourteen, I attempted suicide.
If you've ever become addicted to a drug of some sort, you would understand. Cutting is just like that. You try it once, at the cost of one tiny portion of skin, and you feel better. Then you figure just one more time wouldn't hurt. Then one day, you're feeling stressed and you figure you'll just pitch one little scratch. That scratch becomes a wound. You know it's bad and at some point it will just lead to ruin, but in that state of euphoria and relief, you just don't care. So you grow a dependency on it. Every time you hurt inside, you know it's time to turn that hurt into real pain - a pain that people can understand, that people can see. The addiction is incredible, and can be wildly out of control.
Lucky for me, the cuts on my face and chest and legs healed over pretty effectively and you can hardly see them now. But towards the end, cutting just wasn't enough anymore. Nothing was enjoyable. Not even physical pain. Nothing good ever lasted. I decided I wanted out.
And I felt that way more than once - when I decided I had no other alternative but suicide. I've attempted it quite a number of times, in fact.
And through all this, what have I achieved?
A few dozen hospital stays, a few stitches and plenty of scars. That and a worried-sick family.
What hadn't changed in spite of all my efforts? A life of psychological hell.
Cutting doesn't make your problems disappear. It can relieve you of really difficult emotions for a while - yes, definitely - but in the end, those emotions come back, and trying to cut it out of your system, out of underneath your skin, just doesn't work. Just like a drug.
Writing helps, I find. Writing this blog is, I've found, a very effective way of putting things into perspective and realising a different sense of relief. I'd recommend writing. It's very powerful, a set of words. And it doesn't even matter if it makes sense or not. Hell, the stuff I've put down to paper (or computer screen) has sometimes been so incomprehensible even I can't make sense of it a few weeks later! Whatever your soul speaks, it should be recorded, because your soul is precious.
Heck, I don't even know what a soul is and I'm supposed to be a little Christian girl.
Whatever you believe in, believe this: there's always an alternative to putting yourself through hell.
Be it writing, talking, painting, cooking, watching a good movie, listening to some really chilled out music (Mike Oldfield FTW!) or recording a spoken message, I think sometimes it's far more fun and satisfying than digging a red river down your arm :) In emergencies, I would recommend throwing your head into an icy bowl of water. Sounds crazy, but it really works. You don't even have to submerge your entire head - just the area around your eyes and nose. Leave space for your mouth so you can still breathe of course, because the idea is to keep your head submerged like that for thirty seconds at least. It's called the diver's reflex - after thirty seconds of ice-cold water, your sinus area and your eyes release endorphins and other lovely chemicals that make you feel uber-calm and relaxed. It's a strange little technique, but trust a certified nutjob - it works!
Thanks for letting me get this out of my system and thank you a million times for taking the time to read it! I hope it's helped you in some way as much as it's helped me. God bless.
50mg quetiapine + 0mg fluoxetine + PMS = certified nutcase waking up feeling awful.
I could probably help it if it were any other time of the month, to be honest. Today, I woke up and felt like cutting. By "cutting" I mean the typical trend among adolescent wannabes trying to draw attention to their individuality. For me, it's a release. I want to cut myself.
I WON'T DO IT, of course. I'm determined not to let this take me over. Having said that, it's always been a hard battle. In the beginning, I often lost. I have the scars to show it. Big, ugly pink ones and thin, pearly white ones. Scars that dent, scars that wrinkle, scars like ribbons of regret sewn into my flesh. But rather than notifying it as a losing battle and giving up any hope of survival, I feel lucky enough to have the ability to feel so over the moon I can taste paradise. An advantage to being bipolar - you know there's a flipside to the pain and despair.
It's not like self-harming has ever got me anywhere, either. Sure, it's a satisfying release, there's pain, there's the mutilation that my mind is craving, there's the splash of crimson perfection, there's the laceration of flawless precision, there's the catalyst - internal pain becomes external pain. Pain that will go away. But other than that, it's five minutes pleasure for a lifetime mark. Carry them around like a badge of honour, but it's not so honourable to others. People, of course, judge. Can you blame them? Self-mutilation is the art of a disturbed mind. And people fear what they don't understand. To you, it's a coping mechanism, no different than a stressed man at work nipping outside for a lung-plaguing cigarette. To everyone else, it's a striking sign for alarm. It's illogical, it's senseless - and you love it.
I've done it ever since I was thirteen. I think of that as an unwise and puerile age to start engaging in such a complex coping strategy. My reasons for doing it then were far more infantile than my reasons for doing it now. Had I known how much devastation and pointless heartache boys could cause you then, I probably wouldn't have bothered with it. But for a young girl who had no confidante or shoulder to cry on in the grip of pubescent agony, it was an easy way out. Small, shallow cuts at first, then deeper, slender ones - cut, cut, cut, slice, cut, slice - then the euphoria hit. A beautiful, natural high that relieved me of the pain of living for a few, precious moments. By fourteen, I was doing it every day. At fourteen, I attempted suicide.
If you've ever become addicted to a drug of some sort, you would understand. Cutting is just like that. You try it once, at the cost of one tiny portion of skin, and you feel better. Then you figure just one more time wouldn't hurt. Then one day, you're feeling stressed and you figure you'll just pitch one little scratch. That scratch becomes a wound. You know it's bad and at some point it will just lead to ruin, but in that state of euphoria and relief, you just don't care. So you grow a dependency on it. Every time you hurt inside, you know it's time to turn that hurt into real pain - a pain that people can understand, that people can see. The addiction is incredible, and can be wildly out of control.
Lucky for me, the cuts on my face and chest and legs healed over pretty effectively and you can hardly see them now. But towards the end, cutting just wasn't enough anymore. Nothing was enjoyable. Not even physical pain. Nothing good ever lasted. I decided I wanted out.
And I felt that way more than once - when I decided I had no other alternative but suicide. I've attempted it quite a number of times, in fact.
And through all this, what have I achieved?
A few dozen hospital stays, a few stitches and plenty of scars. That and a worried-sick family.
What hadn't changed in spite of all my efforts? A life of psychological hell.
Cutting doesn't make your problems disappear. It can relieve you of really difficult emotions for a while - yes, definitely - but in the end, those emotions come back, and trying to cut it out of your system, out of underneath your skin, just doesn't work. Just like a drug.
Writing helps, I find. Writing this blog is, I've found, a very effective way of putting things into perspective and realising a different sense of relief. I'd recommend writing. It's very powerful, a set of words. And it doesn't even matter if it makes sense or not. Hell, the stuff I've put down to paper (or computer screen) has sometimes been so incomprehensible even I can't make sense of it a few weeks later! Whatever your soul speaks, it should be recorded, because your soul is precious.
Heck, I don't even know what a soul is and I'm supposed to be a little Christian girl.
Whatever you believe in, believe this: there's always an alternative to putting yourself through hell.
Be it writing, talking, painting, cooking, watching a good movie, listening to some really chilled out music (Mike Oldfield FTW!) or recording a spoken message, I think sometimes it's far more fun and satisfying than digging a red river down your arm :) In emergencies, I would recommend throwing your head into an icy bowl of water. Sounds crazy, but it really works. You don't even have to submerge your entire head - just the area around your eyes and nose. Leave space for your mouth so you can still breathe of course, because the idea is to keep your head submerged like that for thirty seconds at least. It's called the diver's reflex - after thirty seconds of ice-cold water, your sinus area and your eyes release endorphins and other lovely chemicals that make you feel uber-calm and relaxed. It's a strange little technique, but trust a certified nutjob - it works!
Thanks for letting me get this out of my system and thank you a million times for taking the time to read it! I hope it's helped you in some way as much as it's helped me. God bless.
Monday, 9 July 2012
WTF...?
My brother's just face-planted the floor. Literally, he just got up and keeled over like a log. He came to quickly enough, but it was still a bit of a surprise. My brother is prone to fainting spells and we haven't even come to a proper conclusion of what's causing them. He went for a brain scan when he was very little and another he went to more recently. He's thirteen years old, nearly fourteen, and falling like a newborn giraffe. It's quite bizarre.
Anyway. The diagnosis for me is official now, apparently - bipolar type 2, characterised by episodes of severe depression and episodes of hypomania. I'm actually quite surprised. I didn't expect them to come up with this diagnosis so soon. It's lead me to feel a bit out of my depth and wondering if I really am in the same boat as stars such as Stephen Fry and Richard Dreyfuss. Apart from the times where I'm wanting to kill myself and bouncing off the walls in a state of heightened euphoria, I feel pretty normal. I'm told that's how it's supposed to be. Anyway, my opinion, or my view or my perception or whatever you want to call it, on my diagnosis has been rather erratic. At first, it was a light suggestion that fit in with my episodes of rage, despair and ecstasy. Then I was rather shamelessly convinced, ahead of the game, ahead of everyone else. Then I was firmly in denial, refusing to accept it. I didn't feel comfortable with being noted as "mentally ill". I'm still a bit discomforted by that very prospect, if I'm honest. Now, with the rest of my life ahead of me, I journey on, carrying nothing more than a label for my seemingly childish mood swings.
I can hear my brother chattering away downstairs. The fall obviously didn't affect him much. He's okay, and I'm glad he is, but like my mother, I'm concerned for his wellbeing while he's plagued by these fainting spells. Let's just hope he doesn't fall onto anything too lethal in years to come.
My God. There are a lot of freaks in this family XD
Anyway. The diagnosis for me is official now, apparently - bipolar type 2, characterised by episodes of severe depression and episodes of hypomania. I'm actually quite surprised. I didn't expect them to come up with this diagnosis so soon. It's lead me to feel a bit out of my depth and wondering if I really am in the same boat as stars such as Stephen Fry and Richard Dreyfuss. Apart from the times where I'm wanting to kill myself and bouncing off the walls in a state of heightened euphoria, I feel pretty normal. I'm told that's how it's supposed to be. Anyway, my opinion, or my view or my perception or whatever you want to call it, on my diagnosis has been rather erratic. At first, it was a light suggestion that fit in with my episodes of rage, despair and ecstasy. Then I was rather shamelessly convinced, ahead of the game, ahead of everyone else. Then I was firmly in denial, refusing to accept it. I didn't feel comfortable with being noted as "mentally ill". I'm still a bit discomforted by that very prospect, if I'm honest. Now, with the rest of my life ahead of me, I journey on, carrying nothing more than a label for my seemingly childish mood swings.
I can hear my brother chattering away downstairs. The fall obviously didn't affect him much. He's okay, and I'm glad he is, but like my mother, I'm concerned for his wellbeing while he's plagued by these fainting spells. Let's just hope he doesn't fall onto anything too lethal in years to come.
My God. There are a lot of freaks in this family XD
Saturday, 7 July 2012
Sleepwalking
I wake up after twelve hours of sleep, my body heavy as lead. I blink lazily at the grey light that fills my room, accompanied by the sound of a storm. I have missed my art class. I get out of bed, feeling strangely lightheaded. My stomach hurts. Why does my stomach hurt? I didn't have enough to eat last night. I need something to eat. No, I need to wake up.
The chemical lobotomy has begun.
Last night was the second time I took my new fancy mood stabilizer, Seroquel. It's supposed to stop me having manic episodes. Well, it's worked very well. Too well, in fact. I'm standing in the kitchen with my feet planted into the ground, wide apart, so as to stop me from losing balance and answer each question with a mystified sigh or mumble. I must look so stupid. I feel like the living dead.
I lick my salty lips and cherish this new state of living I've stepped into. It may be troubling, but it's also calming. I feel freer in a way. I'm learning to feel okay with falling. Angels have spat into my mouth and sent their pity to me in a gift-wrapped box. I have no idea where this lyricism is coming from. Spiritual voyeurism - that's what this whole blog thing is. And I'm okay with that. My brain is a mass of word salad today. Loser. Unappreciated. Bubbly. Meaningful. Lovely! Down. Let's all go back to bed and smile at the ceiling.
Side effects while taking Seroquel (quetiapine as fumarate):
Lethargy
Increased appetite
Weight gain
Headaches
And others besides.
At least I'm safe now.
The chemical lobotomy has begun.
Last night was the second time I took my new fancy mood stabilizer, Seroquel. It's supposed to stop me having manic episodes. Well, it's worked very well. Too well, in fact. I'm standing in the kitchen with my feet planted into the ground, wide apart, so as to stop me from losing balance and answer each question with a mystified sigh or mumble. I must look so stupid. I feel like the living dead.
I lick my salty lips and cherish this new state of living I've stepped into. It may be troubling, but it's also calming. I feel freer in a way. I'm learning to feel okay with falling. Angels have spat into my mouth and sent their pity to me in a gift-wrapped box. I have no idea where this lyricism is coming from. Spiritual voyeurism - that's what this whole blog thing is. And I'm okay with that. My brain is a mass of word salad today. Loser. Unappreciated. Bubbly. Meaningful. Lovely! Down. Let's all go back to bed and smile at the ceiling.
Side effects while taking Seroquel (quetiapine as fumarate):
Lethargy
Increased appetite
Weight gain
Headaches
And others besides.
At least I'm safe now.
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