we don't want this anymore (i crack the code, you end the war)
I feel like this is forever. I feel like this is always, that it will be forever, it will be angst and anxiety and --just breathless, and all I want to do is breathe in, breathe deep, breathe in calm and breathe out love, my meditation mantra-but all I am is breathless.
My light lamp is bright blue-my fingernails are blue, my eye makeup is blue, my dress has blue splotches all over it, my necklace is blue, my scarf is blue, my heart is blue.
I smoke cigarette after cigarette, paint my nails, makeup my face, take my medication when I'd rather hurl it down the street, against a wall . . . but nothing changes the ache inside. It hurts. Something hurts. Something hurts and I don't know what, I think, perhaps, it is my soul. It is tender to the touch, like a good bruise, and like a bad bruise, it aches. I hurt. I wish this fucking pain were physical, somatic instead of psychosomatic.
I just want this to be over with. I'm not going to kill myself, no matter how many cryptic entries I post with just song lyrics-it's just a way of trying to describe what I have no words for, when I have no words-when even language, my first & best lover, deserts me.
And the worst part is, I know what my therapist is going to say, she's going to say "did something happen" (i.e. is this a negative thought pattern, is this something we can fix) and I'm going to tell her, no, nothing happened, nothing happened except maybe I overexerted myself and now I have to pay this penalty, this stiff price for thinking I'm capable of more than I am. For daring to try something outside the limits that have been so sharply delineated, thick black lines of disability.
It's not something therapy can fix, it's not something medication has been able to fix so far, so I'm left with the conclusion that it's not something fixable, maybe. I don't know this for sure, since there are still things left to try, though not good options.
The question is am I desperate enough to use them? To try MAOIs, which interact with everything? To try ECT, which ... I don't even know how to rationally consider that one.
Is this something we can fix? Is there something that set it off? Is there a reaction, a thought, an event, a feeling even that just bowled you over-anything to fucking work with, anything for the tools that I've painstakingly gathered to WORK WITH: to etch or score or hammer or grind or screw or pummel or pound or cut or glue or paste or paperclip or fucking pray, even... Is there SOMETHING to work with?
And the answer is no. There is nothing to work with, not like that, not in the way my therapist wishes there were-it's just the fucking chemistry, that's all, the chemicals in my head that want me to hate myself and hurt myself and end myself. Chemicals.
If they knew what was missing, what to exactly change in my head, I'm willing to bet the pill I'd have to swallow would be the size of my pinky nail, if even that big. But they don't.
It's crude surgery, in the 1800s, except it's MY brain they're amputating without anesthetic, my brain they're not washing their hands before they touch-simple things, things that are going to look like absolute idiocy to not know for anyone in 200 years, but we don't know them yet.
And so my life, every so often, is reduced to a pile of ash. For want of a nail, the shoe was lost, for want of a shoe, the horse was lost, etc.
Is that what they'll say about me? For want of something to work with, for want of something that would actually work, her life was lost...?
My light lamp is bright blue-my fingernails are blue, my eye makeup is blue, my dress has blue splotches all over it, my necklace is blue, my scarf is blue, my heart is blue.
I smoke cigarette after cigarette, paint my nails, makeup my face, take my medication when I'd rather hurl it down the street, against a wall . . . but nothing changes the ache inside. It hurts. Something hurts. Something hurts and I don't know what, I think, perhaps, it is my soul. It is tender to the touch, like a good bruise, and like a bad bruise, it aches. I hurt. I wish this fucking pain were physical, somatic instead of psychosomatic.
I just want this to be over with. I'm not going to kill myself, no matter how many cryptic entries I post with just song lyrics-it's just a way of trying to describe what I have no words for, when I have no words-when even language, my first & best lover, deserts me.
And the worst part is, I know what my therapist is going to say, she's going to say "did something happen" (i.e. is this a negative thought pattern, is this something we can fix) and I'm going to tell her, no, nothing happened, nothing happened except maybe I overexerted myself and now I have to pay this penalty, this stiff price for thinking I'm capable of more than I am. For daring to try something outside the limits that have been so sharply delineated, thick black lines of disability.
It's not something therapy can fix, it's not something medication has been able to fix so far, so I'm left with the conclusion that it's not something fixable, maybe. I don't know this for sure, since there are still things left to try, though not good options.
The question is am I desperate enough to use them? To try MAOIs, which interact with everything? To try ECT, which ... I don't even know how to rationally consider that one.
Is this something we can fix? Is there something that set it off? Is there a reaction, a thought, an event, a feeling even that just bowled you over-anything to fucking work with, anything for the tools that I've painstakingly gathered to WORK WITH: to etch or score or hammer or grind or screw or pummel or pound or cut or glue or paste or paperclip or fucking pray, even... Is there SOMETHING to work with?
And the answer is no. There is nothing to work with, not like that, not in the way my therapist wishes there were-it's just the fucking chemistry, that's all, the chemicals in my head that want me to hate myself and hurt myself and end myself. Chemicals.
If they knew what was missing, what to exactly change in my head, I'm willing to bet the pill I'd have to swallow would be the size of my pinky nail, if even that big. But they don't.
It's crude surgery, in the 1800s, except it's MY brain they're amputating without anesthetic, my brain they're not washing their hands before they touch-simple things, things that are going to look like absolute idiocy to not know for anyone in 200 years, but we don't know them yet.
And so my life, every so often, is reduced to a pile of ash. For want of a nail, the shoe was lost, for want of a shoe, the horse was lost, etc.
Is that what they'll say about me? For want of something to work with, for want of something that would actually work, her life was lost...?