It Starts Inside My Head

I’m really good at trying to destroy myself.

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Not with alcohol or drugs. Not by being promiscuous or by acting recklessly.

It all starts inside my head. The voice that whispers that I’m never going to amount to anything much, that I’m just a loser who can’t manage her own life. A woman who can’t even work, for fucks sake, that has to depend on the government and her daughter just to barely survive.

A woman who must have “abuse me” written on her forehead.

I’m free now, but there’s so much damage to sort through, I’m absolutely overwhelmed by it all.

He got to skitter away without a scratch and I cannot even begin to explain how much that pisses me off.

I canceled my doctor appointment earlier this month because I couldn’t get myself to leave the house and face my health (or lack thereof.) I rescheduled and it took everything I had just to show up. It started to rain so hard that the roads instantly began flooding. I started having a panic attack because my brakes are starting to get pretty wonky and I can’t afford to get them fixed right now.

So I just don’t go anywhere unless I absolutely have to or I’m with my boyfriend, usually in his car.

Because of my credit, I’ve been denied for every loan that I’ve applied for, even though it’s gone up 25 points within a year. This fuels the voice in my head that I absolutely suck ass.

I’ve been having the most wicked fibro flare for about two weeks now and it just won’t let go of its grip on me. I wake up each day with the hope that I’ll feel better and I’m so bitterly frustrated when I don’t.

I want to call my mom. I’ll forget sometimes that she’s gone and I’ll reach for my phone. Then the realization hits me hard and I start to cry softly.

I’ve missed two of my grief support groups now and I’m ashamed.

Do I even own a sense of humor anymore? Where did it go?

There are so many ways that you can destroy yourself. In my case, it’s an addiction to feeling like I’m a piece of worthless shit.

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Annoying Mosquito

Sometimes, I just don’t want to be here anymore.

I’ve fought hard and continue to try to banish this unwelcome emotion and for periods of time, I’ve even succeeded. I’ve gotten too cocky about it a few times, thinking that I’ve finally accomplished what seems like the impossible.

But what’s really near impossible is being able to just talk about it with someone without scaring them so badly that they either:

A. Avoid me like the plague, which happens 89% of the time

B. Try to lock me up in the psych ward

It seems to me that suicide is becoming more of an epidemic because people just don’t want to get involved.

I would go back to weave some nice baskets if I honestly thought that I’d follow through with a plan to end this thing called life once and for all. I really would, even though the accommodations and quality of care were less than desirable.

They stopped my pain medications, gave me insulin when I didn’t need it, upped a med that was making matters worse and their idea of a mattress absolutely destroyed any chance that I’d be able to sleep, heal, rest and not wake up in severe pain every morning.

They also served me decaf coffee.

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Yet as much as I fear having to go back inside, in order to save my life, I guess that I fucking would.

It helps me when I can talk about what I am experiencing openly without being afraid of the assumption that I’m holding a steak knife across my throat. 

I really just want somebody to listen to me and that was what my mom did, bless her beautiful soul.

Here’s the craziest thing…I can go a few weeks without the thought even crossing my mind. Actually, the idea of it absolutely appalls me to my very core and I’ll wave my hand at it like it’s an annoying mosquito (that I know deep down will be back eventually to suck at my blood.)


Since my mom died almost three months ago, the notion to bring on my own demise has come back around hot and fresh, just like my morning cup of caffeinated coffee.

I’m also astonished how my grief is being handled by the few friends that I claim to have.

They mostly avoid me like the plague.

It’s blaringly obvious (more than before) that I don’t have many people who consistently check up on my mental state.

Even then, what is there to really say?

It’s really hard for me to make friends and it’s always been that way. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a introverted empath or if it’s because I’m just a weirdo with a mood disorder.

Hell, it’s probably both.

Back in the old days when I still was able to work for a living, I socialized with my coworkers. Those relationships fizzled out once I went on disability, which my mom had told me meant that they really weren’t my friends anyway.

She always had a knack for explaining the world to me, especially when it came to relationships.

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I’m starting to think that I’m just destined to be on again/off again suicidal. When I look forward at the big picture, it’s the one thing that loves to land on me, trying to suck me dry.

The Chronically Hopeful Award

My good friend Kim (who guest posted here for a spell) nominated me for The Chronically Hopeful Award.

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Thank you, Kimmy.

The two of us share a disease. You may have read one of my MANY posts about it…yes, that’s right, fibromyalgia.

Since I really don’t do these award posts anymore, I’m only going to thank the person who nominated me (I did!) and then answer her questions.

Because I’m a lazy rebel with brain fog.

At what age were you diagnosed?

I was 24 years old when I was officially diagnosed with fibro, but looking back on my youth, there were mild symptoms as young as the age of 5. I believe that I was born with it (or maybe it’s Maybelline?)

It didn’t become blaringly obvious until after I gave birth to my daughter in 1997. She was five weeks early due to a condition called gestational hypertension. My labor was induced in order to save both of our lives.

It was a miracle that we both survived. The trauma my body endured triggered the fibromyalgia to really show its fangs. It took me two years to finally find a doctor who knew what in the hell was wrong with me. I cried tears of relief initially, because it meant that I wasn’t crazy, after all.

What were your first thoughts after you received this diagnosis?

Fuck.

Do you think chronically ill people are expected to behave a certain way when they are in public?

Yes, I do.

I look perfectly healthy, unless you’re really paying attention.

I limp. I have awful balance. I walk slowly. I wince in pain most days. I nod off constantly and forget to use my big girl words. My short term (and somewhat long term) memory is full of black holes.

I stare off into space often and I become extremely overwhelmed without much provocation. When that happens, I’ll freak the fuck out and have myself a lovely panic attack.

But most people don’t look that closely at me. They’ve often judged me when I use my handicap parking thingy or when I’m at Walmart on the zippy cart.

They can kiss my flat ass, though. I might have an invisible illness, but it’s as real as global warming.

What is the biggest misconception about your illness?

I know that it shouldn’t irk me, but when people tell me that they hope I feel better, I want to scream “it’s chronic, damn it!”

But I just say thank you, because I’m usually a polite human.

There’s no decent treatment or cure, so I am stuck in this never-ending cycle of good and bad days, just trying to walk the line.

Don’t do too much or don’t do anything at all.

Have you seen any significant strides in the treatment for your illness? 

Sadly, no.

I got tired of bee-bopping around to doctor after doctor. My current physician and I are on the same page with medications. I want two things to help me manage my fibro; pain medication (200 mg of Tramadol a day) and my muscle relaxer (20 mg of Flexeril a day.)

I take Magnesium and B-12 supplements. I’ll use CBD oil sometimes, but I really don’t see what the big fuss is all about.

I also smoke some marihuana now and then, when I can afford to purchase some. I do tend to take breaks from it for months at a time though, within the last decade that I’ve been a “pothead.”

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I found this gem at an antique mall that I went to with my boyfriend a few weeks ago. The place was huge, so he was kind enough to push me in my transport chair.

That pretty much sums up this post.

Again, thank you so much Kim, you’re a true chronic illness warrior and I’m honored to call you my friend.