Anniversary Of Madness

I've been pulled to my old journals of late. I do this quite often, actually. I'll just find myself drawn into them.

Last night I went and found myself digging out journals from '94 and '95. Not entirely sure why, I dove in.

I was diagnosed in March of 1995. March 2, 1995. I was 25 and in the throes of the worst episode to date.

Hard Won Truce

How do I do it?

Ok, let's look at the timeline, then? This is certainly not all inclusive.

18 - I break apart almost completely. I have no idea why and the people around me are scared. I begin the really heavy therapy. Begin wandering around old neighborhoods trying to "trigger" some kind of memory of my past.

20 - I seem to be making progress in therapy. I am currently working with my third (?) dx, cyclothemia. Develop my first major mystery illness. Voice is gone, can't swallow, lymph nodes huge. Nothing shows up on tests. When I am healthy, I still wander neighborhoods. Begin questioning family and friends about my childhood.

21 - Somehow I manage to appear, for the most part, sane in public and at work. The anger in me grows. I have spent countless hours wandering old neighborhoods and old schools. I've found myself weeping harshly in old classrooms I didn't recall entering. I have body memories I don't understand. Enter faith. I begin talking to God. No church. No bible. Just me and him. The load lightens some, but I remain angry and sick.

22-24 - I live in the larger city near me now. I am having the hardest time ever maintaining the look of sanity. I take trips back to my home town a lot to drive the old neighborhoods. My mom says I was "a courageous child" and this just makes me more angry. Why does a child need to be courageous? My veneer begins to crack again and I re-enter therapy. Immediately they put me on lithium. My system collapses. Third major mystery illness puts me down for 6 weeks. Nothing on tests, I am healthy. I lay on my bed and talk into a small recorder because I am too sick to write. If I had the strength, I would throw myself out the window. I want to die now from the physical pain. The mental stuff is old news. I have stigmata on my hands sometimes. I am convinced that I will not live to see 25. I begin to live in the shadow of my own mortality.

25 - Final dx. MPD. Awareness. What now? I begin working with this new therapist with tactics aimed at MPD. I begin to see marginal results. I remain angry. I continue to scream at my God. To hate my mother. I remain convinced that if I could just remember my past that I'd be well. The voices always in my head tell me this is untrue. At some point, I find myself in the church of my childhood. Alone. I have it out with God and He makes it clear that I can come home. My faith is so strong. All I want when I die is to hear "Well done, my good and faithful servant" and I don't think I will if I let Him take me now. It pisses me off. I rail at Him. How *dare* You think me unable to do this! My choice is to know and maybe never ever be well, to always be so terribly sick. Or to not know, to maybe never know, and be well.

My choice is made. I chose to live.

There are times when I am still angry. I have sacrificed much for this fucking illness; lost more than I admit to it. But by 28 I was doing really quite well. I am still sick. I still have episodes. I still have voices in my head and I still make major sacrifices for them.

But it occurred to me in that church that day that God does not give you more than you can handle. He gives you tools along the way. I'd tried so hard for so long to "fix" this thing in me. But He'd given it to me. And maybe, just maybe, if I stopped trying to "fix" that which was in His eyes not broken but exactly as He'd meant it to be... if I stopped trying to change my lot and instead work with what I'd been given... maybe I could make a real go at life.

So, to you it sounds like this peace is something that has always been. That is not the case. For a whole decade I was so sick I should have, on at least three occasions, been hospitalized. My therapist wouldn't hear of it. Never truly suicidal, she let it slide and we got through it.

Yes. I am at peace with this monster. But it was a hard won truce that remains sometimes shaky. I am battered and bruised for those who care to look. I am damaged goods.

But that is as my God intended.

I don't know that this answers the question. But it is what they gave me to write.

On Wood And Knocking

Dare I say it? I am feeling better. The cough is miserable and there is this rattling in my chest. The doctor says that is to be expected; that the cough will linger but I will mostly be starting to feel much better.

Can I get an amen??

I've not updated in ages. Sorry. I've just felt a little exposed and maybe a little protective of my head and life lately.

And seriously. I don't think I have been so sick in eons.

I got a surprise package in the mail today. The Hot Potter sent me cra'ns!! Crayola and everything! So, thanks, HP!

My world is great, just now. My head has been full and keeping me busy. We've apparently lapsed into extended story time. They get this way every now and again. I get stories all day long. It's like they're testing the waters of where my life might head and trying those images and dialogues out on me. I like it, mostly. Makes me feel in the loop.

Just Random

So, have I mentioned that I am sick?

Funny how one glass of water can make you feel soooo much better. I need to remember to stay hydrated.

I had to cancel my trip to see Fancy's second show. I hate that. Her stuff is so amazing. But Southwest (there I go again. Free ticket time!) let me cancel and hold the money to put towards my next flight. No hassle. No gripes. They just did it. Anyone wonder, really, why Southwest is making money and all the others are failing miserably?? Hell, American was going to charge me four bucks just for a shitty snack! And their flights cost tons more!

40 is having a tough couple of days. There isn't much I can do, and I know that. I just really feel my Superman in times like this and wish I could at least be closer. Again, nothing I can do and it isn't mine to fix. But I hate seeing it all the same. I love that girl, is all.

I'm bored. Mom used to bring me coloring books and new crayola cra'ns when I'd get sick as a kid. Now, at 35, I find myself jonesin' for those things.

I need closer connections. I haven't willingly shut myself out here, but I miss having people close who give a shit. Fancy and my group back home. Even in Nashville, I could at least pretend that K could come over and make me soup and baby me a bit. She wouldn't, most likely. But I could pretend.

I want to be curled in 40's lap snoozing comfortably while she reads a book and plays with my hair and my face.

Damn this distance...

Guess What?

I'm sick. Again. Still.

This time is much worse, though. Oy. I was so out of it yesterday that I misread the sample perscription antibiotics. I took three times the daily dose. In a span of five hours.

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Reno was good for me professionally. Could have been better personally. G was wonderful but guarded. Apparently, even though she knows where I stand with her, it was my job to make any moves. And I didn't make them.

Got this blasted sickness in Reno, too. Damn Reno.

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In other news, things are still going good guns with 40. Think I need to keep her around.

I'm off to bed because I am terribly sick. I shall sleep all the weekend through. Doctor's orders.