Prevent trigger intent
Say X amount of words
You’re solar, bipolar
Seems harder and harder and harder
Still you try to control it
You mold, you mold
Yeah you shape to mold
Oh you’re bold you’re bold
But your shape is bold
You’re a symptom superficial
To what they call knowing you
Minus the speed,
Could you imagine the phobia?
Your brain is faulty wiring
the reason for tiring
Keep treating the curse,
Imagine the worst
Quite pathetic, apologetic, paramedic
Your heart is prosthetic
Blue October, X Amount of Words
Sometimes I can’t find the right words to say how I feel. Thankfully, Blue October is often there to explain it. I listen to their music and hear the feelings that are in my head. A lot of times I cry. Mostly I’m just relieved that someone else has been in the same place as me and is still surviving.
I’ve been hiding in my house for more than a week now because everything outside is just too much. I hear people talking behind me, whispering, but when I turn around there’s no one there. Out of the corner of my eye, I see shadows and know there’s someone back there, following me. When there’s no one there I assume they’re hiding. It’s a fact that they’re reading my Twitter and this blog. It follows that they might be able to read my email as well but I can’t be sure of that.
When I’m in my apartment, things are okay. Mister E and I joke around, I work on cross-stitchery, we watch movies. Depending on the situation, I’m able to write sometimes but other times I can’t stop replaying horrible things in my head. Remembering things. Seeing what could have been. The farthest I can go on my own is the fitness center across the parking lot but only because it’s still inside our complex. Even then I have to be at the treadmill in the corner so I can watch everyone that comes inside. Sometimes I’m aware that my behavior is irrational. Sometimes I don’t even remember doing it. Even when I’m not, I’m scared. Scared of everything.
Yesterday I went and saw my shrink. He told me some things that I needed some time to process.
What’s happening to me is a transitory psychotic episode brought on by the stress of everything that happened with the bullies and the aftermath. It’s a severe result of my bipolar disorder, which is something of a relief because it means I’m not slipping into schizophrenia. What’s not a relief is that I’m that person that gets portrayed in the media, the one who’s crazy as a shithouse rat. I used to be the survivor, the one whose BPD was under control and who lived a normal life. Now I’m a stereotype.
The doctor upped my antidepressants and put me back on antipsychotics, which he says will stop the voices and the paranoia. He wants me on Ativan regularly, not just when needed, to keep my fear under control. And he wants me to apply for disability. My mental illness has finally reached the point where I can’t function at a job. He gave me the contact information for the center for health services, which will help me apply for disability and get my medications. I’m about to become a drain on the federal health care system because I’m too goddamn crazy to function.
Getting used to the meds is…not fun. While I was trying to get to sleep last night, my skin was itching and crawling like there were bugs running over it. I scratched my arms raw. This morning I’m nauseous and there were lights flashing when I opened my eyes, along with full body shaking when I stretched. To say nothing of the wobbly dizziness. I’m not worried just yet because this was what happened last time I started antipsychotics. It’s just unpleasant. But it’s going to help. I guess.
I’ll get through this, I’m sure. Mister E is supporting me completely, and I have my friends in The Band to keep my spirits up and fling glitter at me. Still, the fear is overwhelming. Paralyzing. I need a worry hat.
On a more pleasant note, I got a new postcard from Postcrossing yesterday. I’m so glad I joined that project, there’s nothing that makes a person feel more wonderful than finding a postcard in your mailbox from some random person saying hello from somewhere in the world. It’s a way for me to have some contact with the outside world without actually having to contact people. I love postcards anyway, for the simple reason that it means that someone cared enough to pick out a pretty picture, stamp it, and send it to me.
Maybe I’ll do a gallery.