Wrist to forehead.
Sometimes I don't actually like posting stuff about the lycanthropy publicly but that's what I do, and I believe in it, so . . . apparently I'm going to.
I went to see my case manager last Friday and we talked about the doctor I don't like. I have two other people to choose from, both of which are apparently terse, but also apparently easygoing with the meds. After consultation with my imaginary friends, decided to see the one that's an actual psychiatrist. I don't have to like the person. I just need to trust them to listen to me and do right by me. Two different things, actually.
The visit was simple and easy and the case manager was nothing but sympathetic -- apparently the doctor has done this sort of thing before -- but she can only help to a limited extent.
I also discussed the waiting room issue. I won't be waiting in there again, and will arrange to have the doctors look for me in the other area. Not ideal, but better. Apparently there's nothing to be done about the longass waits, but if I'm in a room that's not A) really crowded and B) got that fucking television in it, I can probably amuse myself with a book. Ordinarily, actually, it wouldn't be a problem, but given how often I've been aggravated by this place already, it's like my system is primed to be on high rage alert every time I go in there for anything but therapy. Thank fuck I like the therapist.
I've been doing okay, but it's like . . . I just get my feet under me, and something else knocks me over, and then it takes me forever to get up again. And, frustratingly, embarrassingly, it doesn't take much to unbalance me.
People say not to let your illness define who you are, and I agree with that, but often there's no letting about it. It does dictate what you are and are not able to do. Even when you are able to do more, that's the illness letting up. So a very large part of my frustration is born of being unable to be the person I desperately wish I was. I went to pieces when Etrigan left to visit the Not-So-Great Outdoors (agree with you on that one, dude). I'm upset about that. My therapist was like "That was a normal response. And then, when he came back, you felt better, and that's good, so overall, that was healthy. It was okay." And I'm just like . . . I can see that, I guess, but . . . I need that to not be me. I need to be able to respond better, to deal with things better, because there's nobody fucking helping me with 75% of this shit, when shit gets bad. Nobody can.
I want to be a different sort of person. I want a different kind of life. And everyone says that, so I probably sound like an asshole, but not everyone who says that has to live with what I have to live with. It's hardly the heaviest burden, but it's way more than most people have to carry.
I've lived my whole fucking life thinking I am weak. I was told that over and over and over by everyone close to me as a child. Weak, spoiled, a baby, naive. And I took the fact that life is hard for me, and mostly always has been, as proof that I am weak. It's not that hard for everyone else. I look at people doing stuff like having a "normal" job, going to college, raising kids, owning a fucking dog, and I think "That would break me." And I feel so weak, because those are things that everyone is supposed to be able to do, and things that mostly everyone can manage at least sort-of. Better than I can. So . . . to do what seems to me to be incredibly difficult if not impossible, they must be so much stronger and better able to cope so much better than me. And they can cope better, but that's not weakness, that's just the luck of the draw. That's me having a handicap on the field that they don't have. That's me not having the same tools or the same resources.
It never occurred to me that other people seem strong to me because they aren't dealing with this shit. That the gap between "normal" and "Naamah" is just that wide.
And I was told I was weak, and a whiner, and a pussy, and a crybaby, and lazy so fucking often that now I find it hard, maybe impossible, to believe that I am just that screwed-up, and not just a failure.
I'm having a bad night. I tried to get work done on two different projects and got nowhere, and I tried to make some headway on sourcing the materials for some of the Indiegogo incentives and realized that I may have to spend more on them than I thought, and . . . I don't want to have that argument. I just don't. I can't. I can't cope.
I'm not tired so much as worn down, because it never seems to get any easier. I'm not in pain or depressed so much as just exasperated, because I'm running out of time so fast, so very fucking fast, and there just isn't enough life left to fit in all of the things I need to do because it takes me so very long to do anything at all. And every time I start to make headway, I get kicked in the balls again.
I really, really, really fucking wish that some trustworthy but impartial outside source could get literally right up inside my mind and take a look around and tell me whether I'm halfassing it, or whether I am so fucked up I'm doing well to be doing as much as I am. I suspect it's the latter, but I wish I knew. Because most of the time, it doesn't feel so fucked up. It's just that I can't do anything. I function really well within my limits, but I cannot go outside them. And that has got to be one of the hardest things to get across to people. I seem functional in my habitat because I've evolved to fit it. Take me out of it and put me somewhere else and I don't do so well.
I hate being like this. I wish things were different. I wish I was a different kind of person. I really, really do. Sometimes I can be, but those parts of me are small in comparison to the hugeness of Life, and they can't always run the show. And those parts, too, want things that we can never, ever have. (I am so sorry, guys. I really am.)
You know, I lied. It's not even a particularly bad night. It's just. I'm just tired of being alone with these stupid thoughts, and I am tired of knowing it will be the same tomorrow, or worse, because the odds of it being better are so awful that I learned to never bet on it, or I will fall into the Gambler's Ruin of spoons, hedging against a day when I'll be able to pay, catch up, when that day is never really going to come.
I'm not hopeless, I'm not suicidal at all, but Jesus, I wish I could get away from my life.
X-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment count:
I went to see my case manager last Friday and we talked about the doctor I don't like. I have two other people to choose from, both of which are apparently terse, but also apparently easygoing with the meds. After consultation with my imaginary friends, decided to see the one that's an actual psychiatrist. I don't have to like the person. I just need to trust them to listen to me and do right by me. Two different things, actually.
The visit was simple and easy and the case manager was nothing but sympathetic -- apparently the doctor has done this sort of thing before -- but she can only help to a limited extent.
I also discussed the waiting room issue. I won't be waiting in there again, and will arrange to have the doctors look for me in the other area. Not ideal, but better. Apparently there's nothing to be done about the longass waits, but if I'm in a room that's not A) really crowded and B) got that fucking television in it, I can probably amuse myself with a book. Ordinarily, actually, it wouldn't be a problem, but given how often I've been aggravated by this place already, it's like my system is primed to be on high rage alert every time I go in there for anything but therapy. Thank fuck I like the therapist.
I've been doing okay, but it's like . . . I just get my feet under me, and something else knocks me over, and then it takes me forever to get up again. And, frustratingly, embarrassingly, it doesn't take much to unbalance me.
People say not to let your illness define who you are, and I agree with that, but often there's no letting about it. It does dictate what you are and are not able to do. Even when you are able to do more, that's the illness letting up. So a very large part of my frustration is born of being unable to be the person I desperately wish I was. I went to pieces when Etrigan left to visit the Not-So-Great Outdoors (agree with you on that one, dude). I'm upset about that. My therapist was like "That was a normal response. And then, when he came back, you felt better, and that's good, so overall, that was healthy. It was okay." And I'm just like . . . I can see that, I guess, but . . . I need that to not be me. I need to be able to respond better, to deal with things better, because there's nobody fucking helping me with 75% of this shit, when shit gets bad. Nobody can.
I want to be a different sort of person. I want a different kind of life. And everyone says that, so I probably sound like an asshole, but not everyone who says that has to live with what I have to live with. It's hardly the heaviest burden, but it's way more than most people have to carry.
I've lived my whole fucking life thinking I am weak. I was told that over and over and over by everyone close to me as a child. Weak, spoiled, a baby, naive. And I took the fact that life is hard for me, and mostly always has been, as proof that I am weak. It's not that hard for everyone else. I look at people doing stuff like having a "normal" job, going to college, raising kids, owning a fucking dog, and I think "That would break me." And I feel so weak, because those are things that everyone is supposed to be able to do, and things that mostly everyone can manage at least sort-of. Better than I can. So . . . to do what seems to me to be incredibly difficult if not impossible, they must be so much stronger and better able to cope so much better than me. And they can cope better, but that's not weakness, that's just the luck of the draw. That's me having a handicap on the field that they don't have. That's me not having the same tools or the same resources.
It never occurred to me that other people seem strong to me because they aren't dealing with this shit. That the gap between "normal" and "Naamah" is just that wide.
And I was told I was weak, and a whiner, and a pussy, and a crybaby, and lazy so fucking often that now I find it hard, maybe impossible, to believe that I am just that screwed-up, and not just a failure.
I'm having a bad night. I tried to get work done on two different projects and got nowhere, and I tried to make some headway on sourcing the materials for some of the Indiegogo incentives and realized that I may have to spend more on them than I thought, and . . . I don't want to have that argument. I just don't. I can't. I can't cope.
I'm not tired so much as worn down, because it never seems to get any easier. I'm not in pain or depressed so much as just exasperated, because I'm running out of time so fast, so very fucking fast, and there just isn't enough life left to fit in all of the things I need to do because it takes me so very long to do anything at all. And every time I start to make headway, I get kicked in the balls again.
I really, really, really fucking wish that some trustworthy but impartial outside source could get literally right up inside my mind and take a look around and tell me whether I'm halfassing it, or whether I am so fucked up I'm doing well to be doing as much as I am. I suspect it's the latter, but I wish I knew. Because most of the time, it doesn't feel so fucked up. It's just that I can't do anything. I function really well within my limits, but I cannot go outside them. And that has got to be one of the hardest things to get across to people. I seem functional in my habitat because I've evolved to fit it. Take me out of it and put me somewhere else and I don't do so well.
I hate being like this. I wish things were different. I wish I was a different kind of person. I really, really do. Sometimes I can be, but those parts of me are small in comparison to the hugeness of Life, and they can't always run the show. And those parts, too, want things that we can never, ever have. (I am so sorry, guys. I really am.)
You know, I lied. It's not even a particularly bad night. It's just. I'm just tired of being alone with these stupid thoughts, and I am tired of knowing it will be the same tomorrow, or worse, because the odds of it being better are so awful that I learned to never bet on it, or I will fall into the Gambler's Ruin of spoons, hedging against a day when I'll be able to pay, catch up, when that day is never really going to come.
I'm not hopeless, I'm not suicidal at all, but Jesus, I wish I could get away from my life.
X-posted from Dreamwidth. Comment count: