The Angry Muse

I’ve had fainty spells that felt like small seizures for much of my life.  They usually happened when I was under extreme emotional stress (either that or in intense pain from the stomach problem, which caused emotional stress).

Well, I have had no stomach pain since the surgery.  None.  None at all whatsoever.

I should be rejoicing over that, right?  Well, I’m not.  I’m still a mess.  I also had a seizure-fainty spell thing in my bathroom a little while ago.  I was crying and fantasizing about drowning myself in my bathtub, and I just dropped.  My entire body went stiff, and I was out like a light.  I think I was down for maybe a minute, and then I felt fine.  Drained, but not like I’d fall down again.  I have no energy, and my arms and legs are so heavy that it took some effort to walk back into my bedroom.  I should go to the hospital and see what’s going on, but I don’t feel like I can drive, the roommates aren’t here, and this isn’t a life threatening emergency that would justify an ambulance.

You know, at the beginning of the year I had the strange thought that I was going to be dead before the end of 2009.  It was a feeling that has been hard to shake.  I can’t help but to think of how long it would take for anyone to realize I was gone if I died in my bed tonight.

I can’t wait until Tuesday.  I need medicine ASAP.

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Today I went up to DC, and I felt okay once I got out of the car.  I was flipping out the entire drive and thinking about drowning myself in my bathtub, but then I went to Mount Vernon, I took the train into the city and roamed around a little bit, and then went to IKEA.  I was busy.  I was looking at nice things.  I was interested in what I was looking at.  I was taking nice pictures to show my friends and family.  I felt amazingly *okay*.

Then, once I got back in the car, I was flippng out again.

Well, apparently I’m going to be stage managing a show in a month or so, so that should keep me from doing something ridiculous.

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I just have to make it to May 19.

This is exactly the way I felt when I tried to kill myself back in college.  This is exactly the kind of hopeless depression that overcame me, and I still can’t find the joy that should come from knowing that it’s chemical and I’m not a deficient, immature monster like some people think.

I want to die.  I truly want to die, but something inside of me is telling me that I need to hold on until May 19.

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I decided to remind myself of why this song, that I’ve liked since I was a kid, has been the theme song of my life for the past few weeks.  Out of Control may be my old Boingo theme song, but Private Life just passed it.

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I feel as though I am a monster at times like this.  I am worthless.  I am a disease that makes the world more of a vile, nasty place and I don’t deserve to be here.

I just need the strength to make it to the 19th, which is my appointment where they decide what medicine to put me on.  I am glad that I have been officially diagnosed, and not just told “you probably are” by a regular doctor.  I know what is wrong, and I am on my way to fixing it.

Today the hope for the future that I should have simply isn’t there.  Nothing is good today.

People have been lying to me when they tell me how worthy I am.  I’m flawed, and I’m sick.  I remember something Matt told me right before he ditched me.  I told him how I was feeling and how bipolar I felt and he said “Nobody wants a girl like that.”  That felt SHITTY.  Nobody wants me because there’s a chemical imbalance in my brain that I can’t do anything about but wait to get on some medicine.  You have to be perfect to get that mythical thing they call love, I’m not perfect, so I guess I need to completely erase that word from my vocabulary.  It doesn’t exist, and I don’t love anything anymore.

People just don’t get it.  You can’t just decide to cheer up when you are in this state and the problem is in your brain. I have tried.  I have tried so hard.  A person with cancer can’t will the cancer away, so you sure as hell can’t will a chemical imbalance away.

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I had a few posts here from the last few days that where nothing but bullshit emo nonsense, and I deleted them.  I know that things like this are going to be somewhat bitchy and emotional at times since they’re private thoughts, but when I read them with a clear head and I cringe I know it’s time to click delete.

Anyway…

I had surgery Monday morning.  Dr. Ramirez made a couple of tiny cuts in me, stuck a balloon thingy in me, blew it up, found the main part of my small intestine that is all jacked up from being sick for so long, cut it a little bit, then sewed it back together to make it wider.  It was really minor, and I’m glad I got it over with.  It should really help with the attacks I have, and make it easier for things to “pass” properly without a bunch of infection and bleeding

And yes, there’s a reason why I didn’t want anyone there.  It was minor.  If I had been told I had cancer or was having my colon removed I would have told people because that shiznit is serious.  It was so minor that I just wanted to go, get it done, go home (my mom kicks ass, by the way), and start to feel better without any significant fuss.

I’ve had very little pain, and I’m going back to work on Friday.  Anything other than that would have been embarassing because when I got some of my shoulder removed a few years back I was at work in six days… and that shiznit was major.

Anyway, mom and I left the hotel this afternoon, went back to the hospital, got my car, she followed me home, and now I’m here and feeling not half bad.

See, even I can blog about a huge inconvenience without sounding like Emo Princess of the Universe.

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I also had another mental fit the other day that I’m not quite recovered from.  I’ve had too much on my plate here lately, and it just added to what I already know about my fucked up brain.  It reached its darkest point a couple of days ago, and I’m going to see another shrink on Wednesday.

I had the idea the other day that maybe what I did to irritate Matthew was my subconscious looking for a way to keep him away from me.  I love that man more than life itself, but some of the things he did were bringing me to a dark place that I hadn’t seen in a good while.When he re initiated contact a few weeks ago I was so happy.  Maybe my friend would be back.  The problem was that he controlled everything I was able to say to him.  I could not speak freely.  I was only allowed to answer questions and respond to statements and conversations that he started.  I have had times during our friendship that I was scared to death to talk to him, I trained myself to hush up and just take it, so I stayed silent.

I didn’t want to stay silent anymore.  I was tired of having my power ripped away from me, and nothing being on *my* terms in regards to our frienship.  It was his way or the highway, and though my heart soars every time I think of him and I would gladly throw myself in front of a bullet for him, It seems as though my subconscious found a way to irritate him so much that it would make him stay away.

The funny thing was that during those times I called him on my cell during those couple of weeks I didn’t even hold the phone up to my face.  I don’t know if he answered or not, and it doesn’t matter.  I think part of me knew that he’d know it was me, and deep down I knew it would make him so mad that he wouldn’t come back, or if he did it wouldn’t be for a *very* long time.

It hurts.  It hurts so much.  The fact of the matter is that I’d gotten tired of it.  I’d gotten tired of him constantly criticizing my driving, my hair, my clothes, my fat ass, my voice, and numerous other things.  Honesty is the most important thing in life and he had the right to say anything he wanted to me, but I wondered why it mattered.  Why did it matter that I tend to have a twangy voice?  Why did it matter that I still have a little residual fat from my fat days?  Friendship means accepting and loving someone for who and what they are (god knows I did that for him… there were plenty of things I could have criticized about him, but I didn’t dare), and not constantly beating them to a pulp with merciless attacks.

Finally, when he shut me out again and treated me like a child by telling me when I could and couldn’t speak made it the last straw.  There is so much power and strength inside of me, and I needed a way to find it without the only person that I love within a 300 mile radius of my home beating me to death.  Don’t get me wrong.  He did so much for me.  He made dreams come true.  He comforted me so much with kind words. But then as soon as those kind words were out, another mental jousting match would come up, and I’d have to give in and stay silent in order to keep the peace.

Just imagine asking someone one day what they thought of your new haircut, and they said they didn’t like it.  Okay.  Fine!  Just an opinion, and it’s duly noted.

But then every time you were around that person, it came up… “It’s great to see you!  Christ, your hair looks like shit.”  “You did a great job on your speech, but I was distracted by that ugly hair of yours.”  “You know, if you’d follow my advice and change your hair to the way I like it your life would be so much easier.”  You’d feel like nothing you did was good enough, and it would get really really OLD.  That’s how it was.

Now he hates me.  I didn’t want him to hate me, but if I was going to have the time to get my power and my inner strength back I guess I had to make him hate me.  I just wonder if he ever loved me in the first place.

Anyway, I have more to worry about than that.  I have to figure out how to fix my brain before I fucking kill myself, and figure out what I’m going to do about my guts.    Yeah, I’m not dying of cancer or anything but I have to deal with a few things regarding that fairly soon as well.

I also can’t believe that I’m actually blogging while in this state of mind.  I’m having to watch movie after movie in order to keep my mind stimulated.  If I have any down time I start having thoughts so dark that I fear for my life.  I’m sick, and tomorrow I get to go to the therapist and hopefully start to get well.

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I’m headed to the doctor to get poked and prodded.

I get the feeling that I’m going to be fine, but what if I’m not?  Do I tell anyone?

I’ll take this one step at a time and figure out if I’m sick first…

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Well, I’m having to live for nearly three weeks on a week’s worth of pay.

I ALMOST had it down where I’d be fine, but then I started bleeding and I had to go to the doctor.  Then that asshole doctor told me to take the test on Saturday.

I had my money budgeted to the PENNY, and I’m having to use my food money to pay for those co-pays.  I have a half a box of taco shells, a can of corn, and a third of a box of cereal to last me until the end of the month.  There isn’t a single red cent left, and I cut up all of my credit cards ages ago.

The only money I have left until I get paid at the end of next week is the money it will take to get to work and back, and to get to the theater.  I have no choice but to keep those funds free.

This is going to suck.

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I have to take yet another cancer test on Saturday, and I’m scared shitless.

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