My moment

I am going on a new pill next week. Getting off some others. It's kind of like going on a plane- you know that they hardly ever crash, but somewhere in your lizard brain you worry that the "hardly ever" will become "today" and you will go down in a hot mess of a crash.

In the meantime I have to wean off the old pill. And I am not sure what caused the moment of clarity for me, but I am going to say that it was due to me really, really paying attention to my body and thoughts this week.

I want an apology. From my parents. Thats all- three words "I am sorry".

Most of you will smile to yourselves and think "oh, she is so young, she has so much to learn about the world" Yeah? Try raising your sister, placating your father by holding flashlights while working on stupid cars in a freezing garage, and prying the bottle out of mommy's hand at night, then tell me I need to grow up. My sister is graduating medical school this year, so I guess I did alright there.

What I have NEVER gotten was an apology. Not for my mom busting my nose, not for...so much. So very, very much.

So while I am still to chicken shit to demand it from them...thats what I want. That's the only thing I want from them. Instead I will get a care package for my birthday and Christmas...and while I pretend that those presents carry a hint of apology...well I can only pretend for so long.

It is hard, not feeling close to your parents. It's even harder to explain to people that I would rather be just about anywhere else then in a room with both of them.

Maybe I should change this website to "How I hate my parents" with how much I am writing about them lately. Stick with me reader, if anyone is reading. I promise that soon, oh so soon, I will be on a new pill and I am sure the hilarity will ensue

They say that writing is the writer’s own therapy, their way to make sense of the world around them. It was that for me, but after leaving my therapist, facing what I faced at the doctor yesterday, and coming home to a dog who no matter what we did to him (when he was sick mind you), he runs to the door like he has not seen me in a month…I realized that while it might be my therapy, it’s also my saving grace.

Pious bull? Maybe. I won’t lie, the thought that my opinions and thoughts are now out for people to see and maybe, just maybe agree with me is tempting. It’s also terrifying. When I am on an up and look at what I wrote when I was down, so, so far down it.terrifies.me. Bone chilling terror.

How could I have thought that? God, was I really that close too…?

Yes. Yes you were and only the Devil/God/Buddha knows why you pulled away from the edge of the cliff again.

So it might be my therapy, it might be what jolts me into reality from my fuzzy, pill filled world. I know what it is for sure.

It is my safety net that keeps me from falling off the ledge of sobriety I am walking on.

When you need a miracle and chemistry kicks your ass

I woke up this morning drenched in sweat. Crying with puffy eyes. I also woke up with pain all over. Aches. Pain in my joints and muscles. It’s been just like this for a week. I think the storm is coming again and I am not sure I can sit tight through it again. If medicine ain’t working, then what the fuck am I supposed to do?! Therapy made my night terrors worse.

I thought about leaving my boyfriend this morning. Just packing up and going. Partly to hurt someone, partly because I would rather be alone. All my friends are social beings. Me- I could live on a mountain top alone with only squirrels. That started early, but I can’t blame my parents forever for whats going on in my head. It’s not that I feel I don’t deserve to be happy- I want to be happy. I am happy for stretches at a time. Then, it’s like the meds stop fucking working. And what do you do when your first, last, and backup line of defense crumbles around you, leaving you heaving, sweating, with eyes so puffy you cannot even focus to see your mortal enemy? Because that’s what we are talking about here folks, my mortal enemy. The thing that if I let draw blood, even once, will kill me. Viciously and without mercy or thought of my family or friends.

I know I love him. I know that he is the best thing to happen to me. Ever. Period. I also know that he is going to get on one knee next month and ask me to marry him. And I want to be happy about it. Instead I am terrified. Terrified that I will be inexorably attached to another human. Why would he want to tie himself up with someone who has historically lashed out after lashing herself for months at a time.

The awesome part is that I keep wishing that I am going to channel Joan of Arc or something, find a sword and kick ass on that battlefield, with no defense. Instead what happens is I keep my head just above the blood. I sidestepped a sword thrust from my enemy this morning, and I am not sure how long I can keep moving. I need backup. I need this medicine to get my brain chemicals in check.

I need a miracle. And a reason.