The words inside my head.

The only words I hear tonight are ‘…as I lay dying, inside my mind…’

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Runaway

I find myself thinking of all the times I wanted to run away when I was a child.  I wanted so bad to run away and never be found.  I wasn’t looking to find another family, or somewhere I belonged.  I just wanted to be ‘away.  When I was a very young child, it was because I wanted to escape an abusive home.  As I got older, I still wanted to escape, but it turned into something else too.  I wanted to be alone, without worrying about whether or not I was acting right.  As I got older still, this desire has never left.  

I’ve never fit in; even when I seemed to fit in, I wasn’t able to relax into a situation, because I spent all of my time analyzing my actions and the reactions of those around me.  This is my curse.  I’ll never fit in anywhere.  

I find myself wanting to run away again a lot lately.  And it’s not because things are falling apart.  I’m stoic, so I’ll always stick around when life turns to shit, but give me clear smooth sailing and I feel trapped.  In therapy, I’m learning about distancing, but I find it kind of funny that when everything is running smoothly, everyone thinks I’m better and need less help.  Sure, when stuff is in flames around me, it’s stressful.  What no one realizes is that it’s when things are smooth and seemingly good that my brain turns to darker sinister thoughts.  If everything is going up in figurative flames, I’m right there.  Social anxiety abates, emotional intensity (or whatever the hell the diagnoses is right now) goes on the back burner.  

It’s when things seem to be going good that I have time to get inside my own head.  It’s a dark and frightening place to go.  I’m severely depressed right now, and I really do t have much of a reason.  I’m well ahead of quota year to date, and it looks like I’ll be above this month too.  My older son seems to be doing better at school.  My husband has been chipping in and helping.  

But now is when my thoughts centre around the I’m not supposed to be here feeling.  I never thought I’d live past 30, so I have no compass for this trip.  And because of that, I feel lost.  And when I’m lost I analyze.  Everything.  The fact that no one ever invites me over for fun times (although if I’m honest, I probably wouldn’t go), the fact that the only time I can have a close relationship with someone is if they’re FAR away so I can have things totally on my terms.  I analyze my own behaviour, and it’s never what I want.  I have been told that I turn my personality into whatever the situation requires, and it’s true.  I identify with Hollywood depictions of serial killers more than with any others.  I’m not psychotic, or even a sociopath.  But I have to nearly break my mind in two to be able to express any emotion.
I’m very depressed right now.  I asked my psychiatrist for anti depressants. He said he won’t prescribe them because he doesn’t think I’m depressed.  This is obviously because I still crack jokes and do t show any negative emotions, but yet I still can’t say it out loud.  I can’t show it.  In therapy today I said ‘I’m actually severely depressed, and thinking about killing myself on a fairly constant basis’, and then I cracked a joke and laughed.  
What is wrong with me?!

Useless

I haven’t been posting regularly, but what the hell…no one reads this anyway.  

I had a major event a couple of weeks ago.  I was prescribed beta blockers for anxiety, because I asked if there was anything that could help me day to day, without slowing down my brain.  I need my brain.  A lot of the time, I can use my brain to intellectually talk myself through things that are happening.  For instance:  I think of myself as garbage that nobody can love, but the intellectual part of my brain argues that I have been more or less happily married for 16 years, that I have children who love their mother, that workmates don’t recoil at the sight of me, that I have friends I talk to who truly seem to like me, warts and all.  

I’m having a hard time staying on track…I was prescribed a beta blocker to help with anxiety.  Apparently I can’t take beta blockers.  I took the first one about a half hour before going on a company ‘team building event’ that was supposed to be fun for the whole family.  What I didn’t know is that this beta blocker was doing the opposite of what it’s supposed to do.  From what I understand beta blockers are supposed to slow your heart rate, and can induce a feeling of calm that you may not normally feel.  What this beta blocker was doing to me (the doctors disagreed, but in the end the general consensus was this) was causing a bronchial spasm; in lay mans terms, an asthma attack.  My brain told my heart that I wasn’t getting enough oxygen and made it speed up to compensate, and then my heart short circuited (because it’s me, and nothing is easy) and went into SVT (you can look up SVT if you want, I did.).  

I felt woozy and just sat around for a little while, because I thought maybe I was overtired, or stood up too fast.  Then I told my husband we needed to go, so everyone started saying good bye, and it was nice to see you.  Then I realized I couldn’t walk, or stand up for that matter, so I laid on the floor and told my husband to call 911.  

I have social anxiety.  That’s the reason I had the beta blocker.  Now here I was the centre of attention in a very public place on a Friday night.  That wasn’t the cause of the problem, but it sure didn’t help.  The paramedics came and at first, they couldn’t get a pulse.  My heart was racing so fast their machine couldn’t capture it. When it started to work, I was at 260 beats per minute, and VERY mortified that everyone was looking at me on the floor, but totally incapable of doing anything about it.  They loaded me on a stretcher and took me out to the waiting ambulance.  I stared at the ceiling and tried to pretend I was t there.

Once inside the ambulance the paramedics worked fast trying to get an IV (it would later take the nurses in the ER 14 tries, because my heart was beating too fast to fill with blood, and my veins sort of collapsed), and attaching all kinds of leads to me, including the ones for the AED machine.  The paramedic in back asked if I had ever been in an ambulance before, and when I shook my head he said ‘well you are priority 1, which means you get lights and sirens!’…great. 

Halfway to the hospital he looked at me and asked how I was feeling (apparently I was all 50 shades of gray), and I said, ‘I hear my breath crackling’, at which point my airway closed off and I could barely get a breath.  

When I got to the hospital, it was just like you see in al the medical shows, except everyone was focused on me, and there was no underlying sexual tension between them, at least as far as I could tell!  The doctor (super hot young doctor with the bluest eyes I have ever seen by the way) leaned in over my face and said that they needed to give me a medication that would ‘feel a bit weird’.  

Now, ‘by a bit weird’, he meant that they needed to stop my heart temporarily to let it reset.  This became the single most terrifying moment of my life so far, so yeah, it was a bit weird.  Then my wonderful heart took a couple of extra seconds, or my breathing was too deteriorated or something, because I heard someone say ‘do you have the propofol? ‘ and another one say ‘tube ready’ or something to that effect.  And then I felt much calmer and they just started treating the asthma attack (because my heart started again on its own).  I was in the ER from early Friday evening until almost noon on Sunday.  I was actually admitted Friday night, but they kept changing their minds about which unit to transfer me too so I just stayed there, on oxygen, with my heart still racing and totally freaked out that all of those people saw my boobs, and my legs were fuzzy (because it’s winter dammit). 

I stayed home Monday, but went back to work Tuesday (nothing like ripping the bandage off).  What’s weird is that each time I’ve come home from the hospital, I find myself wanting to go back.  Back to being a nameless patient, where no one expects anything of me, and I can not talk to anyone if I don’t want to, but when it’s required, there’s always a clear purpose to what’s being asked. 

How damaged does that make me.  The fact that I want to escape from my family (who honestly do love and care for me, even if I don’t know why, or feel like it’s deserved), and live my life away from everyone and everything.  The fact the the cold emotionless walls of a hospital are a comfort to me, baffles me.  Looking at my life from the outside, you would think I have it all.  I have absolutely gorgeous, loveable kids.  I have a good marriage, good job, nice place to live.  And yet when I look at my life I almost get physically ill in my need to escape.  How screwed up is that?  Is that borderline personality disorder, or just some other weird disorder that makes happiness a bad thing?  

I don’t know.  I don’t know if I care.  I’m going to bed. 

Music

I shouldn’t be writing right now…too much bourbon is flowing in my veins.  If it weren’t for spellcheck this would be totally illegible.  

I want to say something that I haven’t been able to say in therapy, or to my psychiatrist.  I don’t feel.  Not like you.  I feel anger and frustration.  But everything else with me is a level or energy.  What you call depression, for me, is low energy.  What you call mania, for me, is high energy. 

This is the extent of my emotions,  anger, frustration, pain…and energy or lack thereof.  Except with music.  Music permeates my ‘self’.  It’s one of the few things that can make those little hairs on my arm stand on end.  It can bring tears to my eyes without there being any hint of frustration.  To hear a beautiful piece of music is like a drug to me.  Music brings so much FEELING to the surface that sometimes it’s actually painful.  

And I love nearly every type of music too.  Music is feeling, sweet pain, melancholy…Maurice makes me feel HUMAN.  I don’t feel human any other time.  I feel robotic…to the point that I wish I could replace my brain with an operating system, my circulatory systems with wires, and my bones with steel.  To be robotic would be a relief to me.  It would mean freedom from trying to fit in with others.  

Music flows over me like water washing over a stone.  It can cover and suffocate.  It can smooth the surface or send it tumbling downstream.  

Music flows through me like a wind I. The leaves of a tree. Reminding the tree that it’s not all hardened wood.  

I’m not an emotional person.  I often asked if my lack of emotion or ‘affect’ makes me dangerous, or creepy, or wrong.  But music reminds me that I do FEEL. Just not like you. 

The real me.

I haven’t posted in ages.  I haven’t written or gone searching for photos since last spring.  Something in my mind broke then, and I haven’t gotten it back.  The artistry of life that I used to see everywhere I looked is gone.  

I’m 2 different people, neither of whom I like.  On the outside is the cheerful, happy person; she goes to work everyday, and no one knows who she really is.  I look at her, and if I look really close, standing right behind her eyes is another person…sullen, remorseful, and ashamed.  

Ashamed because she doesn’t like the other ‘her’, remorseful of who she truly is inside, sullen because she’s given up hope of ever changing.  

I work very hard to spend my life centred around helping everyone in the hopes that if they like me, maybe it will finally contradict how I feel inside, about myself.  But it never does.  

There is a darkness, a monster that I’ve tried to cage; and it lives right behind my eyes.  And everything I see…I see through this darkness.  

I’m socially inept.  As hard as I try, through volunteering or donating of my time or money, I can never get a feeling that I’ve done enough.  Can never have the satisfaction of a job well done.  

People are never what I think they are, and I’m always very hurt when I find that someone I respected is a bigot, or something other than I thought.  This constant feeling of being ‘let down’ wears on my soul, if I have one. 

Someone I’m close to told me that I’m not a nice person by nature, but that I see what I am, and consciously change myself to what is kind and nice.  It was a compliment, and at first it made me feel good, because this outer shell takes a lot of work.  It’s hard when your concept of ‘good’ is easier for everyone other than yourself.  But even so, people disappointment me so regularly that my emotional pain at what I perceive as betrayal and insincerity is palpable…I can taste it in the air that forces it’s way into my lungs, past the monster who hides behind my eyes…

I should t speak in absolutes.  Never, and always are cruel unforgiving suppositions.  But that dark shadow in my mind colours everything.  No matter how many people I try to be.

I wish I could move to somewhere nobody knows me.  Where I could be alone and suffer in silent annonimity.  I would gladly live on the street, with no comforts.  It’s what a person like me deserves.  But I have a family, so I’m sure I’d hate myself even more if I left them.
I’m 40 years old and I’m so many people, I can’t even keep it straight anymore. 

I mutant

Waiting to meet my new therapist today, sitting in the waiting room, an instrumental version of REM’s man on the moon playing on the speakers. The walls covered and dripping like thick paint with other people’s misery.  The chair I sit in full of other people’s stories of pain and abuse.  Stories of addicts, stories of abusers, stories of those abused.  Tears and emotion coat everything in that place.  

But not me.  I have no emotion, and none of the emotional residue sticks to me.  I am like Teflon.  My mutant mind has no feelings to talk about.  My mutant mind’s first thoughts and words are about science.  Show me the science behind what therapy you are going to do.  Don’t try any new age hippy therapy that has no science behind it.  I said those words.  I said I don’t want to try any kind of therapy unless you can show me the science of how it works.

No touchy feely therapy today.  We talked about me trying to kill myself.  I’m sure that’s supposed to warrant some emotion on my part, but I just couldn’t muster up any, not even pretend.  We talked about getting off these medications that aren’t working.  Still nothing definitive.  Just more ‘I’ll see what I can do to speed the process’.  I suppose I should be mad or frustrated or something, but my mutant mind just doesn’t care anymore. 

I’ve set a time limit.  If they haven’t done something or made progress by that time.  I will fix it myself.  I went nearly 40 years without meds.  I can go off this one.  It might be hard, but I’ve lived without sleep before.  My mutant brain can handle it.

**update**   Forget setting a time limit.  I’m so done. I called the pharmacist and got her to give me my prescription at a third of the dose (just 3 times as many pills).  I explained that I have no doctor.  That my family doctor won’t help, and that I HAVE to get off this medicine before I go back to work, because Seroquel doesn’t let me wake up before 11am, and my job starts at 8am most mornings.  I told her that I will lose my job before ANYONE steps up to help me.  So the pharmacist gave 3 times as many pills at a third of the dosage, with the description on the bottle saying ‘take 3 at bedtime’.  I’ll taper myself off over the next 3 week.  

Then I called my new therapist and left her a message of what I’m doing.  Maybe that will expedite me getting a new psychiatrist, maybe not.  But either way, I will be off the Seroquel in 3 weeks.  

Me and my never broken heart

I realize I’ve never had my heart broken by a man.  I know this is a weird revelation to have in the middle of the day, but I was talking to someone who has had her heart broken a couple of times, and I start looking back at my own history. 

And I looked way back. I’ve never been in a romantic relationship where my heart was broken.  I’ve never let my heart get involved enough.  But then I started thinking a bit harder on the topic and realized, I don’t have a heart. I mean yes, I have a literal heart…but I don’t have an emotional heart that can be broken.  In the spot where it should be is just an empty shell. The emotions that I have are never deep enough to hurt me.  Those deep feelings people have; for me they just aren’t there.  I fake them.  I put on my person mask, and play my part so everyone feels the emotions they should from me, but they just aren’t there for real.

It’s really making me wonder why I should even bother with these medications.  They just seem to amplify the emptiness.  

I found myself looking for an iPod nano today.  The reason?  They don’t have cameras on them.  I’m subconsciously planning for another trip to the psychiatric inpatient ward of the hospital.  An iPod without a camera would be allowed on the ward because of not having a camera, and would mean I could have music.  That would have made my last stay on the ward much easier. 

I dreamt about my heart last night.  I held it in my hands as it burned.  The ash sat in my hands for a few moments, and then a soft breeze blew it away.