Time’s up. Rules change.

It’s my turn.  Don’t worry, it’s not my goal in life to hurt people. That’s not where I’m going with this.  A bit ago, gimmemocha disappeared because she needed to. She went to the hospital, checked in, got new drugs, help, yada, yada.  Me? I just need to disappear so I don’t tell everyone I know to fuck off.  Oh the temptation is there. There are a lot of people who have been just pissing me off and playing hopscotch with lines that I’ve drawn.  Yet, I won’t.  Just a few.

Now, let’s discuss empathy.  Sorry, I know some of you try, but there’s something you need to understand.  You can’t.  Normal people can’t empathize with us.  You process things completely different.

Here’s the most important part about empathy.  Sympathy, too.  This is something I’ve been fairly vocal about most of my adult life.  My pain is more important than yours.  MY pain is more important than yours.  And yet… Your pain is more important than mine.  YOUR pain is more important than mine.  That’s just it.  People don’t realize.  Everyone else’s pain is more important to them than yours. And it’s more painful, too.  And you can’t imagine, or relate, or empathize.  You can’t know what it feels like for me to get a paper cut, much less feel like my world is ending.

Why does any of this matter?  Because I’m sick of people.  It seems like for every person I can trust, there are three to five that I can’t.  Paranoid?  Possibly.  But just because I’m paranoid… well, you know the rest of that sentence. So, as I’ve said before, gimmemocha disappeared, she’s good now, she’s back.  Now it’s my turn to disappear.  Granted, I’m not going into any hospitals.  (Also, I’m not suicidal–since I apparently need to throw that disclaimer in there for a few fucktwats.) I just don’t WANT to deal with any more assholes right now.  I’ll still get contact page messages, but otherwise, down periscope. *salutes* I’m out.

Betrayal and trust, one always murders the other.

I’m angry.  Not angry inside. Not angry at myself. I have a very focused anger.  An anger at a betrayal. By now, if you’ve kept up, you know how I feel about people discussing me behind my back.  You know how I feel about people making assumptions about me.  It tends to end poorly, and painfully, and with me angry, hurt, and feeling more alone than I do normally.  Oh, yeah, and me cutting off all communication with the people involved.  Why, you may ask?  It’s healthier.  Yes, yes, I’m aware that most of you are saying, “No, it’s not healthy to shut out people.”  When it comes to me, it’s absolutely healthier.  If I don’t, I’ll sit there, tempted to talk to the person, thinking things over and over, what do I say, what do I do, yada, yada, yada, yada, yada, you get the point.  Blocked? I don’t see them, I don’t think about it, I don’t focus.

I posted a blog a few days ago about not taking my meds for 2 days because, ick, nastiness.  Some of you may be here from Twitter, G+, or WReader.  Well, those of you from G+ may have had the privilege of seeing the comment that set me off.(That I’ve deleted, because, well, do I really need to explain why?)  Someone, a “friend,” posting that I needed to stay off of any bridges.  Please, PLEASE imply that because I didn’t take my medicine for two days that I’m going to commit suicide.  Since it seems to be a popular topic to jump to this conclusion, I assume because I’m bipolar, because that is what depressed people do, because I’m not normal, because I have a mental illness, because I DON’T FUCKING KNOW…

I have zero intention of ever killing myself.  

Have I made that clear enough for you?  Apparently not, as this is not the first time I’ve had to say this. (Remember the email situation? I bet some of you are intimately familiar with that email.)

I will not. Kill. Myself.

I really. REALLY. Am sick of saying it.  Guys, I may be depressed, I may be bat shit fucking crazy, but I’m not that far gone.  I will know well before you do if I ever get to that point.  Should I ever get to that point? That almost no turning back point? I’ll do what gimmemocha did, and go check in.  Besides, I like cardboard food.

Now, onto the betrayal that destroyed my trust.  So, remember that email? Oh how much it hurt that all of my “friends” were talking about me, in depth, behind my back.  Granted, I’m not naive or stupid enough to believe it doesn’t actually happen.  Trash talk away.  I know it happens. I KNOW it happens.  Fine, go for it. Here’s the kick in the asshole. When you TELL me that you have gone behind my back to discuss in length with the person who made the comment about me.   And then telling me I’m wrong because that person cares so much about me? I’m done. My trust, my care, my give a fuck.  It’s gone. And I don’t know if it hurt so much because it was someone I was close to, or if it was because it was someone I trusted not to hurt me. But it’s completely moot.  Right now, I just added a shit ton of bricks to that wall.

Thank you you two.

Spoonful of Sugar and I Still Don’t Want to Down These Drugs

I didn’t take my meds last night. … Or this morning… I just didn’t want to.  I’ll take them tonight or tomorrow, I’m sure.  One of the major symptoms (signs?) of bipolar disorder is that someone who is on medication will feel “better” and stop taking their pills. Sometimes they do alright for a bit before crashing, sometimes they don’t.  I’m not one of those people. I’m having a fairly alright time right now still.  Ups and downs throughout the day, but nothing severe.  This is a good thing. And yet… I don’t want to take my meds.  I don’t say this as in “I’m better, I need not these chemicals!” but more so “I’m so fucking sick of swallowing a handful of foul tasting chalk that never quite goes down right, and even still makes me nauseated anyway.”

I don’t feel better, or fixed, or the need to be med-free.  Okay, maybe I do feel a little better than I was a year ago.  That’s progress, not sticking my hand in a rabid dog’s mouth.  While I don’t think that half of my pills have much of an effect on me (that’s an entire post of its own if I ever get around to it.), I’m not really into randomly stopping medicine because I want to. Shit, when I lost 20 pounds in two weeks because the Lithium made me so sick and the doctor refused to see me or change the meds, I stayed the course.  “Stick it out, it’ll be fine,” she’d said.  I walked in, “… Wow, so we’ll change your medication.”  I think it’s something to do with having faith in the medical professionals who spent 10 years in education to learn how to do this.  Trust your instincts, niblets.

I’m drifting. I do that a lot, I know.  Back to the point. I don’t want to take my meds. I’m just tired of every night before bed taking a fat handful of pills, and feeling so nauseated that all I can do is lie there and stare at the ceiling in the dark, hoping I fall asleep before I vomit.  Woe is the insomniac. Then daylight hits, and I get up and do the same thing.  At least my vitamins are chewies.  I know, I know. What’s the alternative, an endless spiral of insanity?  That may look fun in the movies, but in the real world, it’s one of the most terrifying things I can imagine.

That said, I’m not entirely sure that I won’t stab the next person who says “Quit all of the meds and just smoke pot,” to me.  It isn’t a cure all. Sure, it may help with pain, and some sleeping problems, but it isn’t going to magically fix my brain.  I’ve never had any desire to smoke anything, the smell repulses me (both tobacco and marijuana), and quite frankly, I find it downright insulting that people who have known me for years (and my disdain for the drug) tend to be the people who suggest it.  It’s just disappointing.

I swear I’ll try to convince myself to choke down the talc tonight.

Sometimes We Need To Disappear

I totally planned on writing something about how great my week has been going.  Mostly to show that it doesn’t suck ALL of the time.  It really doesn’t.  But. I can’t. I want to. My week has been really awesome. I went to the shore, I walked along the beach. I faced one of my uber-fears, and even walked barefoot IN the water (okay, seriously, 3 inches deep, but still… It’s a start.), and didn’t freak out when I found out I lost my house key somewhere in the sand.

That said. One of our inmates checked herself in today.  Or at least went in for eval, and I haven’t heard from her since.  This bugs me.  Well, this is good news, because she’s had it rough lately, and that means she’s taking the steps she needs.  But it bugs me because I can’t be there. And it bugs me because Right Now, she’s disappeared and I’m not 100% sure what’s going on.  So, hopefully, we’ll figure it out in a few days.

Everyone has different levels of help that they’ll accept, give, take, donate, walk away from, run to, etc. Some, will voluntarily go to the psychiatric hospital when they’re feeling hopeless. Some won’t.  Some will  simply go to the Emergency Department.  Some won’t.  Some will make an appointment with their therapist, or the after hours therapist. Some won’t.  Some call hotlines, or go to AA/NA/etcA meetings. Me? Not so much. I’ll crash and burn but I won’t ask for help. Pride? Stubbornness? Sure. Probably. I can probably come up with a few other choice reasons. Point is, everyone handles life differently, and I’m damn glad I know people who look out for themselves.