I feel like I'm going fucking crazy. I woke up today in a funk (like usual), had some breakfast, put some TV on... and suddenly couldn't stop moving. I was jittering and twitching and jiggling my legs. I laid on the couch and felt my thoughts racing and racing, I clutched a couch cushion and cried into it. Pretty soon I had to get UP, I had to do something, anything, but I wasn't thinking and I didn't have my mind. I walked up and down the hallway, into the living room, detoured the kitchen. Paced that route for a good hour running most of the time, feeling like my head was ripping itself apart.
My mother and gramma got home and I sat on the couch with my gramma, talking with her and I didn't even realise I was talking faster and faster until she looked at me funny. I tried to slow down but I couldn't, I just shut up and stop talking and jiggled my legs. I begged my mother to help me, with something, anything - everything is too much. Too much. She called some psychiatrist offices and left my phone number with their answering services.
My mother said she was going to the store to pick up wine, and I immediately told her I was going with her. I thought getting out of the house sounded like a GREAT idea, I was suddenly euphoric. My gran went with us and I was UP and UP and UP. I spent the entire half hour or so we were in the grocery store just running around, being distracted - flirting. Nattering on and on.
Then we got home, and I crashed through the fucking floor. I went from a hundred miles per hour to zero so fast that I don't know what hit me. I slept for two hours and woke up feeling like shit, paced in the kitchen. I feel so fucking crazy I do not know how to cope. And on top of it all I'm starting to feel paranoid. Fucking fantastic.
-Z
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Friday, January 23, 2015
It's Hard To Say I Do When I Don't
So, I have been awake for about thirty six hours now. I'm approaching my previous record (38) and I plan to surpass it and have stayed up 40 hours! Whoo!
Yeah. There's sincerely no point to this. Basically I just like staying up for stupid amounts of time because the manic euphoria I get from doing so feels so much better to me than my usual depressed lethargy. Also, I know it's really bad for me, so I get to feel naughty the whole time, and if I feel naughty I get to pretend someone's going to do something about it. Oh yeah, didn't I mention this was a spanko blog too? Well, it is. I guess this is more of an introductory post than my first post which was really a depression vent. But I digress.
I've imagine very vividly, more than once today, that whenever I get to the end of this "staying up" spell... It's not just going to be me going to bed and finally succumbing to sleep of my own volition. It's going to be me, walking into my bedroom and confessing to my top that I have done something very unhealthy... I'll get a very sound spanking and promptly sent to bed. :) Yeah, I would much rather pretend that is going to happen instead of the entirely boring reality...
But hey! I was a freakin' hoot for about ten hours. Seriously. I was charming and funny and sent lots of very cute snapchats, helpful, and productive... Helped my mother get the dog to the groomer's and did several very overdue loads of laundry. I have no idea why I ever bother sleeping at all.
-Z
Let 'Em Spill Their Guts
'Cause one day they're gonna slip on 'em...
I have only confessed to self injuring a handful of times... and only once to someone who was not my peer. My grandmother finding out I've been cutting has always been one of the most painful experiences for me... And very recently, when I finally decided I Really Needed Help, I asked for a butterfly bandage (the biggest one I had at the moment was having trouble staying closed) and she did me one better: she gauzed and bandaged me right then and there. It is one of the very precious few memories I have of feeling really cared for, ever. She plied me with food that night, too, and had me watch a movie with her. We had tea. I slept in her bed next to her, on the heating pad and curled around one of her pillows.
That was about a week ago, now. Those cuts are a week old and mostly just inconsequential scabs... and it very much makes me want to cut again. But just knowing that I have told my grandmother, knowing she's probably been worried about me, makes me feel guilty about doing it in a way that I usually do not.
So. I got myself a felt-tipped pen and wrote the following:
Be kind to yourself
You are not worthless
You are worthy of being cherished
It's okay to take care of yourself
You don't deserve to be hurt
You are beautiful
You are loved
Your passion is a blessing
You're not alone
And finally,
You are kind and not horrible
I could have gone on, but there were healing scars I didn't want to take the chance of infecting, and by the time I'd written this, anyway, I was too on edge and close to crying. Some of these are obvious, and a few are not. The one about passion is written down because, a lot of the time, I feel as if I am simply too much: too tall, too loud, too moody, too much fixating, too self absorbed. I am passionate about certain things to such a degree that I can get into knock-down, drag-out fights with my best friend at the drop of a hat over those subjects. A lot of the time I'm annoyed by how combative I am and I wish sometimes I could just chill out... But at the end of the day, I'd rather be passionate and Too Much, than be boring.
It's so hard, late at night when I'm very alone, to have even a speck of kindness for myself. I don't like myself and I don't like having to live with me all the time. It's exhausting. Living with an alcoholic and a woman whose capacity for denial surpasses even my own is equally exhausting. Chronic, long-term depression is incredibly exhausting... It's no wonder I'm tired all the time.
I decided to start this mostly anonymous blog so I'd have somewhere to put these thoughts that wasn't my personal Tumblr. I have something like four real life friends on there as well as at least one family member, and who knows who else. This blog is meant as an emotional vent that is entirely uncensored, but much more well formatted than Tumblr usually leads me to be. I guess, currently, I'll be detailing the process of moving (when am I not moving?) back into my grandmother's home and how my struggles with depression are going. Hopefully in time I will be able to manage my illness, and maybe this blog will turn a little more lighthearted: kink, art, nerdy stuff. But for now, it is my emotional baggage dropzone.
-Z
I have only confessed to self injuring a handful of times... and only once to someone who was not my peer. My grandmother finding out I've been cutting has always been one of the most painful experiences for me... And very recently, when I finally decided I Really Needed Help, I asked for a butterfly bandage (the biggest one I had at the moment was having trouble staying closed) and she did me one better: she gauzed and bandaged me right then and there. It is one of the very precious few memories I have of feeling really cared for, ever. She plied me with food that night, too, and had me watch a movie with her. We had tea. I slept in her bed next to her, on the heating pad and curled around one of her pillows.
That was about a week ago, now. Those cuts are a week old and mostly just inconsequential scabs... and it very much makes me want to cut again. But just knowing that I have told my grandmother, knowing she's probably been worried about me, makes me feel guilty about doing it in a way that I usually do not.
So. I got myself a felt-tipped pen and wrote the following:
Be kind to yourself
You are not worthless
You are worthy of being cherished
It's okay to take care of yourself
You don't deserve to be hurt
You are beautiful
You are loved
Your passion is a blessing
You're not alone
And finally,
You are kind and not horrible
I could have gone on, but there were healing scars I didn't want to take the chance of infecting, and by the time I'd written this, anyway, I was too on edge and close to crying. Some of these are obvious, and a few are not. The one about passion is written down because, a lot of the time, I feel as if I am simply too much: too tall, too loud, too moody, too much fixating, too self absorbed. I am passionate about certain things to such a degree that I can get into knock-down, drag-out fights with my best friend at the drop of a hat over those subjects. A lot of the time I'm annoyed by how combative I am and I wish sometimes I could just chill out... But at the end of the day, I'd rather be passionate and Too Much, than be boring.
It's so hard, late at night when I'm very alone, to have even a speck of kindness for myself. I don't like myself and I don't like having to live with me all the time. It's exhausting. Living with an alcoholic and a woman whose capacity for denial surpasses even my own is equally exhausting. Chronic, long-term depression is incredibly exhausting... It's no wonder I'm tired all the time.
I decided to start this mostly anonymous blog so I'd have somewhere to put these thoughts that wasn't my personal Tumblr. I have something like four real life friends on there as well as at least one family member, and who knows who else. This blog is meant as an emotional vent that is entirely uncensored, but much more well formatted than Tumblr usually leads me to be. I guess, currently, I'll be detailing the process of moving (when am I not moving?) back into my grandmother's home and how my struggles with depression are going. Hopefully in time I will be able to manage my illness, and maybe this blog will turn a little more lighthearted: kink, art, nerdy stuff. But for now, it is my emotional baggage dropzone.
-Z
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