Not Quite ,&, God, It's His Fault So Why Am I The One Suffering?

*This post is in the beginig phase of writing. When I am done it may very well look vastly different than it does now. However for some reason I cannot explain I wanted to get what I have posted before I went to work. Please bare with me the poor writing style and all as I will be refining it as soon as I can*


I'm stuck. Caught in this state of Not Quite. Not Quite depressed. Not Quite Normal. Not Quite anything. Now in all honesty Not Quite is slightly preferable to the Pit. And Not Quite is, well, not quite *insert groan here* the same as that Dysthymic haze that more often than not enveloped me when I was not in the Pit. But Not Quite leaves me trapped in a place where I can still be haunted by ghosts of the past, plagued by problems I would rather not recall, relive, or experience again. Problems such as suicidal ideation (I love using that phrase :) Makes me feel smart, lol). I know that, having unlocked that particular door I have now become incapable of closing it. Death, for me, will always be an option, as much as I wish it were not. But that problem brings with it one particular Ghost, that man I blame for pushing me to that point. Because I truly believe that were it not for the actions of this one, sick, twisted (I'm trying to come up with a word that can describe just exactly how I feel about him but as yet I am at a loss) I would not have reached that point, the point where I realized that I could, in fact, take my own life. When it comes right down to it I even believe that, were it not for him, for what he did, that last major depressive episode would not have been nearly as bad as it was. I blame him for causing me to go so deeply down in to the Pit that I could not even function. And so it stands to reason that maybe he is at least partially responsible for where I am now, or more precisely, where I am not. That maybe he must take a portion the blame. I am not where I had hoped to be. I have lost my dream (I desperately wish I could grab hold of it once again). Not only have I lost that dream for the moment, should I find my way back to it I am not sure I would be able to accomplish it. I would love to go to graduate school. My GPA was such that I had decided that was one goal for my last year of university, to get it up so that I could go forward with that dream I held so dear (oh how I wish I could impress upon you how much I wanted this, how excited the thought of that future made me). I had already succeeded in getting it to a 3.0 (usually the minimum GPA graduate programs will accept) the spring before. This year I would take it up as high as I could. I would work hard at my classes, research with a professor, volunteer, do everything I could think of to give myself the best chance of getting in to the program I wanted. Instead I spent most of that year in bed sleeping or just staring vacantly at the wall or ceiling with literally no thought in my head (it's possible, really, I've experienced it). I skipped classes to sleep and often even when I was physically present in a class I was also only physically present. Try as I might I could not seem to pull myself together enough to pay attention to anything (and believe me, I tried hard).

I Survived

Had my doctors appointment today and, thankfully, survived it. This is more than likely because it was just to talk about my meds and apparently he knew nothing of my history (needless to say I only told him what I needed to).

Unfortunately I am supposed to go back in two weeks for a 'full exam' (ladies, you can sympathise I am sure). The only bright spot of that is that apparently the guy I saw today, nice as he was, will not be doing it as he is not actually my PCP.

Having said that I am going to take a moment to sound immature and silly.

Don't make me go to this... I don't want to :'(

Moment over. I know it's not a big deal and I'm being stupid. Thanks for bearing with me.

That's Not Really The Problem...

So I finally found a new Doctor... only a half an hour drive over a shit load of hills but I found one.

But...

That's not really the problem...

He's an intern which means he probably won't be there for too long (internship is something like
3 years I think and I am not sure how long he has been there already)... I'm not thrilled about that as it means that, should I stay in the area for a few more years at least I will have to find another doctor.

But...

That's not really the problem...

I looked him up on the clinics web site (being a resident I figured he was probably rather young). From the picture of him and the fact that undergraduate school is four years and med school is another four I'd guess he's only a few years older than me... probably younger than my older sister... That's a little weird.

But...

That's not really the problem.

Obviously, from the above bit, the doctor is a guy. That can come with it's own set of 'worries' (OK so I'm easily embarrassed, doctor or no...) but as women, especially those in helping professions -at least when I am the one they are dealing with- tend to 'bug' me (very descriptive, I know) it's not worrying me all that much... yet.

But..

That's not really the problem.

So what the hell 'really the problem'?

My scars. My history (specifically the last four years, more precisely the last two, and even more so, that year or so from about May 2007 through July or August 2008).

Those things, that's 'really the problem'.

My scars. I'm mortified about someone else seeing them. I'm ashamed and embarrassed. People tell you not to be, hell, I tell others not to be. I've had folks in the medical profession tell me the equivalent of 'you shouldn't be ashamed'... but what they are really saying is ' don't be ashamed, you're totally messed up, you can't help it'.

My 'history'. *shudder* I don't want to go into that either. I don't want to tell another person, another stranger, that I wanted to die. I don't want to talk about how bad it got. I don't want to have someone ask, wonder, how I'm feeling... not again.

That's 'really the problem'.

One Small Cut...

And apparently that's enough to ask 'Are you a cutter?' I looked at the girl sitting next to me (if I remember correctly she is something like 15 or 16 though I am not sure because I don't really know her... just some very chatty kid at the public library) and said 'I don't think that is an appropriate question to ask someone.' What else could I say? 'Yes, want to see the scars on my arms?'!! Her excuse: well, she's just outgoing, likes to meet new people... *rolls eyes* At the risk of sounding much older than my years, someone has got to teach these kids about proper social behavior (this is the same kid who sat there talking to me about her sunburn -I was trying to go about my business in peace- and then told me to touch it to see how hot it actually was). It shouldn't affect me this much, this way... I can't describe it, but it doesn't feel good...



Alright, done with the rant.

Is It Worth It?

I find that, as I begin to 'feel better', as my mood becomes 'normal', the need to write, to draw in order to express myself becomes less. That does not mean, however. that that need has completely disappeared. It is unfortunate, than, that while the need is still there my ability to express myself in those ways seems to have gone, or at least to have become much less apparent. The images are all but gone (happily, though, with the gradual disappearance of those useful images, those 'drawings' in my head waiting to be brought alive on paper, the other images that haunted me, of blood, razor blades, and suicide, have also become more and more infrequent), the words which seemed almost effortlessly to string themselves into poetry now only present themselves in a useless jumbled fashion. Even my ability to write a halfway decent blog entry has been severely diminished (as some of you have surely noticed).

These changes would not be worth mentioning were it not for the fact that I find myself still in need of those abilities, those ways of expressing myself. After all, they were, in some ways, my only means of expressing myself, of 'explaining' what went on inside this head of mine. Though my drawings and poetry may seem somewhat indirect (as indeed they often are) from there I was often able to explain things that would have otherwise remained locked inside the dark chasms of my mind, leaving me frustrated, tortured by these feelings, emotions, and experiences which I could not otherwise explain, not even to myself. Poems like 'My Child, My Beloved' (which came from my realization of exactly how far I had wandered from the One who cares the most for me) and 'The Choice' (written when I was moving ever closer to taking my own live, when there seemed nothing more to hold me on this celestial globe); drawings like 'Head/Heart'(illustrating what I believe is a disconnect between head knowledge and heart knowledge) and 'A Work In Progress' (a drawing for which the idea goes back, eight, nine, or 10 years, one that I cannot explain in words but instead must be felt by the viewer), these were the means by which I expressed myself, the ways in which I was able to best explain my experience, to myself as well as others. Without these I am left only with feelings and experiences that I cannot explain to others because I myself do not understand them.

It has been suggested that there is a link between creativity and mood disorders such as major depressive and bipolar disorders (). No surprise when we look at the lives of such people as Vincent van Gogh, Edgar Allen Poe, and Sylvia Plath. Taking my own experience into account I, for one, am inclined to agree.

I wonder... is it worth it..?

Borderline FUCKING Personality Disorder My ASS!!! -OR- They Didn't Listen

"She met the criterion for a major depressive disorder and has borderline personality traits." Axis II diagnosis, 799.99 ,deferred
"Per B____: Escalating borderline personality type behaviour." Axis II diagnosis, 301.83, borderline personality disorder.
"Primary axis II presentation." Axis II diagnosis: borderline personality behaviours noted.

They didn't really listen to me. Two different people from the same agency. I saw the first only once. He spent probably the longest amount of time talking to me. I saw the second one twice. After reading the records of those 'crisis calls' that I requested from Mental Health it was clear that, while she spent some time talking to me that after she consulted with the guy who came to the first 'crisis call' she had already made up her mind, she wasn't really listening, she wasn't hearing what i was saying.

It's just... I don't want to have a personality disorder (and btw, what the hell am I borderline between anyway???). And I honestly do not believe that I do. I cannot fully explain it right now (honestly I'm just too tired). Lets say I've got my fun little DSM IV (thanks Abnormal Psychology class, lol) and I just don't meet the criteria... at least, not enough of them to make mentioning it worth while. And I would bet money that these mental health professionals and I would disagree with the criteria we think I DO meet.

Sorry, this isn't a very good post... I hate that my writing has gone down hill... maybe I'll try explaining again, when I am not so tired.

Rejected

I got a call yesterday from the records office of the clinic I've been trying to get into for over a month now. It's in a town about 20 minutes away but none of the doctors offices in town are accepting new patients so this was my next best option. Unfortunately I missed the call as I was napping (I wasn't feeling very well yesterday and after getting up that morning found my way back to bed a few hours later and slept until 13:00). I listened to the message all the while knowing full well what I was going to hear. It was almost funny, the message reminded me of the 'thanks but no thanks' letters I've gotten while applying for work. Anyway it took me back to the letter I first got from them telling me they needed my file before they could say yea or nay to accepting me as a patient. The letter was worded something like "... accept or decline you as a patient". That's where the word 'Rejected' in my title came from. I remember thinking that the sentence was worded incorrectly, that it didn't flow right "accept or decline". It just struck me as more of a rejection. I suppose I thought of it this way: you can choose to accept or decline something that is being given to you, like a gift. You accept or reject something that is asked of you. I was not declined as a patient, I was rejected as a patient.

I was not really surprised to hear that I was not "accepted". I knew they had many files to go through and, after all, it would make much more sense to take on patients that are less of a "problem", a patient who did not have anything more than "regular everyday issues"; the cold, the flu, high blood pressure, etc. To take on a patient with my history would take more effort on the part of the clinician. There's more to worry about, more to ask after, more liability. But damn it how can you really make such a decision without talking to me? I've read my medical files, believe me, they are at times rather misrepresentative of who I actually am, what I am capable of handling, etc. And I'd like to ask what they think I am supposed to do. I'm going to run out of my medications. I've got two months left of one and four more of the other. I've got no one to tell that I've been inexplicably anxious recently, no one to tell me how much longer I'm going to have to put up with this anemia I brought upon myself, no one to tell me if I should be doing better at this point than I am (It's been a month since I last bled excessively, a month since I went to the ER to make sure I hadn't done something that needed more than just rest and frankly I am tired of waiting for the day when my heart rate doesn't go up 40 or 50 beats per minute after getting up and walking to the DVD player and back to the couch or when I get up in the morning and walk from my bed to the kitchen to feed the cat). Is it really too much to ask? Sure, the patient who is no more problem than a cold once in a while would be easier but which one of us can go without a doctor the longest?

Excuse me, I'm sorry. I'm so tired, so very tired. And it seems the only answer I get to anything lately is "too bad, so sad" or "thanks but no thanks". So I'm venting here, and sounding much less than my 25 years, I am sorry.