Thursday, July 6, 2017
Not A Hero (Not the Video Game)
This particular forever I suppose started during my last period. It feels stupid and shameful to admit, but periods are incredibly rough on me. Usually they aren't bad physically (though this past one was debilitating and I actually felt like I was dying), but they affect me mentally more than they should. It's like one solid week of me not being on my medication, that's the easiest way to explain it.
I don't know if I would go as far as saying I get suicidal, because my cats if nothing else keep me going because I know Palmer doesn't like anyone else and he would be upset if I were gone. I don't get suicidal, but I do get reckless. I'm less careful, I do things I shouldn't, I ignore the warning labels on my medication.
My period ended around my 23rd birthday, which was a very depressing day. I certainly was not expecting a surprise party with fifteen hundred people (that would have been terrifying, actually), but all I really wanted was to see someone. But no one could or wanted to. Okay, shout out to the one who did bring me Canes at like, midnight. But I just got really depressed and lonely and drank too much and watched a really bad movie by DW Griffith.
It didn't get much better as time went on. I made the terrible mistake of trying to read Fifty Shades of Grey simply because I wanted to see if the writing really was as bad as I'd heard. Sometimes reading really terrible writing can be fun and humorous and good for the self-esteem. I was not, however, expecting to have a three hour panic attack complete with crying and shaking. I have meds to take for anxiety attacks, but I've only ever taken half of one. I took two during that episode and went super numb and can't really remember what happened after that. I passed out and felt like shit the next morning.
Since then, I've been having panic attacks more frequently, though none as bad as that one. That shitty book just awakened all these things that I hadn't thought about in a while, that I hadn't had problems with in a while. Then suddenly they're all back and it's overwhelming and just plain sucks.
And now I'm here. The past two or three days have been absolute hell. I've been depressed for no discernible reason, super panicky. I haven't been grocery shopping in a very, very long time. Right now I'm living off of Ritz crackers and peanut butter, trying to conserve the cans of not-so-great-soup I have in my cabinet. Part of it is that I'm genuinely worried about money because I'm about to move and I need deposit money and rent money and all of this stuff, and I won't start getting paid by the University until probably September.
But part of it is that I don't want to leave my house, and I certainly don't want to go to the store. I don't want to have to make decisions about what food to buy, and I don't want to have to exchange pleasantries with the cashier. I don't want anyone to look at me.
I've had a few good moments. I took out the trash the other day, which is really rare for me because I'm terrified of my creepy neighbor who always tries to talk to me and says creepy things. I've packed a very small bit for the move to Florida. I have done a few small things.
But I haven't really been eating, which kind of bit me in the ass yesterday when my body started shutting down and it was hard to go up and down the stairs and I felt like I was going to vomit and was really shaky and all of this stuff. I did eat, eventually, and miraculously felt better.
Yeah, eating is important. I'm not good at it.
I think I might've mentioned that I'm basically mentally disabled, and that certainly affects feeding myself. It makes me feel absolutely pathetic and pitiful. I am fully capable of feeding myself, and yet...can't always do it. It's stupid.
A few nights ago I drank too much again (have I mentioned that I'm becoming an alcoholic? Trying to nip that in the bud before it gets too far...) and took my anxiety meds that you're absolutely not supposed to take with alcohol. I found my old knife and played with it too much. I wasn't outright trying to kill myself, but I admit that I was hoping I just wouldn't wake up after taking my anxiety meds and going to sleep for the night.
I don't want to die, not really. There's a lot going for me right now. I've somehow gotten into a really competitive and amazing graduate school and somehow gotten a really nice apartment and somehow have friends who still love me even though I constantly make them worry that I might be dead. I want to go to grad school. I want to experience life and read books and get more cats. I don't want to die.
But when everything hurts so bad and you can't find something to blame it on, you end up turning on yourself. If there's no external source for your misery, it's got to be coming from you, right?
Useless piece of shit who only likes to complain and make herself miserable and draw attention to herself by telling all of her friends she's worried she's going to hurt herself.
These are lies. I know this. I know this very well. I know I have an illness that, while treatable, will probably never fully go away. I know that I will have better days and that every day will not suck like the past few weeks have. I know these things.
But it's still so hard. And then I get on here and try to write inspiring things to help other people who also struggle.
But don't you see? I'm just a massive hypocrite who is spiraling out of control and has no grasp on her life.
I'm not a role model.
I'm not an inspiration.
I'm not a hero.
I'm literally just a psychotic twenty-something girl (who apparently looks seventeen according to the entire population of Florida) who just so happens to know how to write well.
I am certainly glad that people know they aren't alone in their struggles. And I am certainly glad to talk about it and to be there for you (as long as I myself am not about to go over the edge, cause then I will not be much help). I am certainly glad that this blog somehow helps people, whether it's to understand others or themselves, or to know that they aren't alone, or to know that surviving hell is possible. I am certainly glad that you are still here and you are reading this.
But I'm just me. And that's nothing special. There are countless people just like me, who go through what I do and who do it better.
I read through my old blog posts recently, and there's one about me wanting to inspire people but knowing that I'm too much of a hypocrite to do it properly. So this is a follow-up post, saying that I don't know if "inspire" is really the proper word anymore.
I also had a good post about hope and encouragement that I'd completely forgotten about. Funnily enough, my own post made me cry and promise to keep trying for just one more day.
Okay so maybe I am inspiring. Whatever. Shut up. Leave me alone.
I have no idea where I'm going with this. But I'm not a hero and I'm not trying to be. I'm just a person, just like you. And, you know, you've gotten just as far as I have. You're still here too, and that's important.
If I'm a fucking hero, then you sure as hell are too. Don't forget it.