I will not go quietly

Weebie died a little over a week ago. Considering my mental state, I haven't had the ability to deal with it much. It is my fault; I should have taken her in to be looked at instead of assuming she would need surgery and trying to get a little more weight on her. No matter how I try, I still feel as if I fucked up.

It's because I did.

Today I had an appointment with a psychiatrist because my gyn wanted me to have someone overseeing my Buspar dosing, and christ, did I make a bad call there. I chose to go see the same psychiatrist Harry has used because she managed his epilepsy so well.

So much for that.

She did not listen to a word I said, and raged at me that I am not a doctor (well, I didn't say, I did not go to trade school, I have an academic degree, but, umm, yes, I am), I know nothing about the brain (that'd be *two* wrong, for those playing at home), and...let's just wrap it up with 'and so forth'. I spent more time hearing about what a worthless piece of shit I am than talking about what brought me there. And then I left.

I can only assume she feels that I have no business helping Harry, but whatever.

I am tired now. I have to start looking for another psychiatrist tomorrow. The lesson I am learning from this is that there are a lot of fucktard MDs out there with god complexes. And that, in the end, no one really cares unless you agree with them completely, prostrate yourself before them, and take whatever they tell you without question. And after lambasting me for over forty-five minutes (I stayed largely quiet), her 'wrap-up' was to tell me how smart and beautiful I am, and how if I would listen to her, I could accomplish so much; I told her that sounded like hollow, narcissistic love-bombing, and to please just can it.

Probably I am not her favourite patient.

I may be best off just winging this one, like I do with everything else.

Just don't ever fall for the lies. That's the best advice I can give you. Don't ever listen to someone who says your worth as a human being rests entirely on whether you unquestioningly will drink whatever Kool-Aid they are peddling. Don't ever be that desperate for help or companionship, regardless of what you think it is costing you. The 'sunk cost effect' is real, and it works. Just like love-bombing.

That's all I have.




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And so it goes.

Meg is away, playing poker and doing fun things; I can no longer accompany her because of my current (precarious) financial situation, one which is not being helped in the least by the panic attacks I am having throughout every day any more.

I have an appointment to be screened for PTSD later in the month; I suppose then I will get stronger medication, I do not know. Probably nothing will change. I am trying to not become a bitter recluse, really no-one understands how hard I am trying, and in a way, my months in a semi-dissociative haze, when I was denying everything, were easier. I have always felt that my dissociations, from extreme compartmentalisation to full-out 'non-presence' (which has only happened a few times in my life) were more of a blessing than anything else, and for that reason, I have no need or desire to discuss, dissect, or 'cure' something which I do not feel to be broken.

And for the record, I'm a firm sceptic with regards to DID, I actually think it is an iatrogenic pseudo-disorder stemming from possibly a predisposition to dissociate accompanied by a desire to please and a tendency towards the fanciful and dramatic...on both the part of the pt as well as the therapist. Just my two cents.

There is not much exciting right now; it is hard to sell oneself as spectacular when one is actually feeling Quite Worthless. I also have a sneaking suspicion that my case legally was listed as my declining to prosecute; I base this on an unusual comment from the Advocate to whom I had been assigned, but there seems to be nothing I can do about it now. Nor, really, do I care to. I am tired of fighting.

I am trying to keep to a normal sleep/wake schedule, even though my mind just does not want to cooperate most days. I figure that the more I force normal behaviour and do not engage in self-indulgent stupidities, the sooner my brain will catch on that I do not give a fuck what it thinks, so it can stop having crying jags, flashbacks, emotional upheavals, and making up fake sounds and smells all the faster.

I do believe that things will be better after I change a little more about my life (like my job). I want so desperately to be contributive to things again...that alone will make things better.

I haven't felt very friendly towards some of the old group of friends, so I have been keeping to myself a lot. I don't anticipate this changing because, away from a certain few, I realise that I never much cared for them anyway.

It is time to try to sleep. I am desperately craving thus awesome chicken sauté from a local Turkish restaurant, but I am not up to taking myself. At least not right now; thinking about doing it is exhausting, and I don't know how to stop that feeling. Maybe the PTSD-specialist psychiatrist will have some drug for that, too. I dropped the counsellor I was seeing; in between not listening to me (I don't need this horseshit 'you aren't to blame' PC fuckery when all substantive evidence, including the Ass't DA's own words, spells out pretty clearly that I am the ONLY one upon whom blame rests in this case), she dealt fabulous advice (such as 'be a bitch!') which I found remarkably unhelpful. But the fact is, this isn't her problem; it is my problem, and I am a fool to look to anyone to change things for me.

Anyway...good-night; I will just leave with an archaic thought from Locard, whom no-one appears to read any longer anyway. I think we are all the poorer for it, but...yes; there's that fag talk we talked about, Dr. Lexus.

Sigh.


'Physical evidence cannot be wrong, it cannot perjure itself, it cannot be wholly absent. Only human failure to find it, study and understand it, can diminish its value.'




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Moses -- Gorgeous

I’m inside out
Up and overrun with doubt.
The price of pain
from self-inflicted wounds again.

The need to feel
this low and lonely.
The need to be
this low.



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Curiouser and Curiouser

I am not talking to many...well, any really. My tsouris are nothing compared to what two friends are going through: each has lost *their* mother in this past week.

In Interstitial News, I am on blood pressure medication now. I am changing my life. I will not let this bastard kill me.

I am trying to lose myself in puzzles, mysteries...anything where I can, well, lose myself. My preferred outlets are my work (yes, I will be more forthcoming about this soon), and missing/disappeared/Doe cases. To that point, I have just finished watching one of the most (potentially) elegant solutions, one which only serves to demonstrate that, often, our solutions are presented to us; we just fail to attend to the signal (and I could wear my fingers to nubs were I to try to type out all the names, even the ones that immediately spring to mind, so I shan't). For me, for this reason, the event was not fruitless; far from it, in fact. I have no-one in my life who shares my passion for these cases, I have only those who will tolerate my ramblings occasionally, and I guess I am rambling here. But it is well worth watching if one likes to think. I will not bore anyone with discussion of the advancement of Reason as being a service to a Higher Purpose. People cringe when things like that come out of my mouth, so I will just give a little 'z"l' to be decent.

Sigh.

http://youtu.be/2ypHEhf94Qs



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Complex Simplex Complex

I know...buffalo buffalo buffalo... Did you know that? Ha, ha, ha.

I suppose that it is wrong that I am reading pure wish-fulfilment pabulum, but it is all that I can take right now.

I can hardly listen. I can't respond. I just need time. Wearing a fake smile and balancing on a ball for everyone's amusement is tiring. So...that's my complex. What's yours?

Thank you.




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Figures.

'pit' = 'put'; 'mice' = 'move'. I fail at everything.


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Don't Panic

I am less panic-stricken since being pit on a maintenance dose of Buspar and Clonazepam. So that is nice.

I am doing everything I can to move on with my life, I really am. I would be lying if I said that I don't have moments of fear, rage, humiliation, shame, disgust...all of that. I do. I have such deeply-seated rage that our district attorney, whose salary I pay with my taxes, can say that virtually every form of acquaintance rape is a 'he said/she said' issue that juries don't 'buy'. There is nothing -- nothing -- that will ever heal that rage.

But I suppose that if that's the logic, I now have carte blanche to myself rape and debase some acquaintance, so don't say that I didn't warn you in advance.

Yes, I am joking and being a bitch. Humour is the only weapon I have. That, and a lot of Clonazepam.

It is hard for me to talk about, or write about, how I feel. I suppose it is easier for me to admit to fear than rage, and easier again to admit to rage than jealousy or envy.

Yes. Covetous envy. I has it.

I keep thinking, besides blaming myself in the first place, that none of this would have happened if I were beautiful. This is how my mind works, and if I can't be honest about it here, I have nowhere on Earth where I can be honest. I have always envied pretty girls, but now even more so because of the illogical thoughts that tell me that, were I beautiful, I would have been more valuable, too valuable to injure, or at the very least, I would have someone who would have made it such that this whole situation was never an event in the first place.

And hate. I have hate. It is for myself. Like the parable of the frog and the scorpion, a predator is a predator is a predator. No surprise there. What *is* surprising is how stupid *I* am. My stupidity renders ridiculous any claim to sympathy, pity, or help. It's not coming, and I do not deserve it anyway. That hurts, but it is the cold, hard truth.

And yes, I think of others, like Leah Peebles, and I understand the rage. As beautiful as she is, I would have thought she would have help, get help...something. But her case was dropped by the DA also. I feel for the rage, the need to just be numb anymore. I understand. I understand the desire to just let the Earth swallow you up.

I have days where I am productive, and days where I am less than so. Today is one of those 'less than' days. I try to distract myself, but it is hard some days. I will not hide and hate myself forever; I do not know when it will end, but it will. All I can do is push it out of my mind like I have been doing. Hopefully soon this will become permanent.

I left Eviljob early today because of the need to hide. I can't explain this need to hide; it is simply irrational. Possibly things will get better as I leave this area and mice on with my life. Everyone says, 'move on, move on...'. I am trying to. I really am.

So I am self-indulgent sometimes, and I hide. I wish there were someone to apologise to for this, but there is only myself.

I promise that I will try to post something more upbeat next time. I really promise that I will try. I guess my always having compartmentalised everything in my life has helped as far as a survival strategy.

Bye for now. I'm sorry to have been depressing.






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