This is as close as I can get

I've tried for ages now to come up with a good description of how I feel after that SEVER MD episode I had a few years back. I've been up and down since, never really Normal but never as bad as that last (meds here and there are probably mostly responsible for keeping me from the bottom of the Pit). Yesterday, while discussing with a friend the despondency I've been feeling since recently being denied DL benefits (what I tell people is essentially a temporary disability) I came up with what seems to be to be the best analogy by far. Because I haven't ever felt that I 'got over' that (and yes, I know how melodramatic that sounds, still, it's the truth). It's like I was beaten to a bloody pulp (yeah, it's a little graphic, sorry)... and I never really healed from it. I'm not bloody any more (this is just an analogy for how it feels and has nothing to do with the SI I engage in), that's true, so it may be a little harder to tell or to believe that I am still not doing well. But I've not healed. I still feel tender and raw and extremely painful. Sometimes just simply movement hurts too much.

*shakes head* So there it is. It's not great... but I think it's pretty accurate. The closest I've gotten, at any rate.

Per Ardua

I have more than one tattoo. I've got more than one unconventional piercing as well (and by conventional I mean the single lobe piercing that most women have) if you really want to know. But it's the tattoos that concern me tonight. Specifically the one that reads, simply, Per Ardua. It is the McIntire (MacIntyre, or a few other spellings, take your pick) clan motto (my Great Grandmothers maiden name) and means through difficulties (or through adversities, which translation I myself prefer). Because I worry about giving too much identifying information over this blog I won't tell you where this tattoo is. Still I suppose even without that information the story bears mentioning, though the writing is probably more for my own benefit than for any of yours.

I'm feeling rather Awful, you see. At the same time I am almost just existing. Not the 'stare vacantly into space' just existing... I'm just... existing. Anyway tonight I had in mind to cut. Specifically I wanted to cut 'please'(I will draw the line at telling you where). 'Please, what?', you may ask. If only I knew. 'Please, let this all end'? 'Please, let me find a way to get the help I need, that I want'? 'Please, let me find the courage to take my life, thus ending this mess'? 'Please, can't everything just be better, normal'? *shakes head* I honestly don't know. Probably it is a combination of all those things. Whatever the meaning behind the word that was the plan and I had everything I needed to do it. And then I that tattoo. Per Ardua. Through difficulties, adversities. And I couldn't do it. Oh, don't get me wrong, I want to. There is something about the whole stupid thing that makes me want to cry even as I sit here writing this and I notice the razor blade on my kitchen table... and know I will not use it, even as I did not use the one earlier.

My clan motto. Per Ardua. Through difficulties, adversities. Well damnit if i am to be totally honest I am getting a little sick and tired of difficulties, sick and tired of adversities, sick and tired of getting through them. And yet here is one more difficulty, one more adversity that I will get through before the night is over, as small as it is. When will it be the last one? When will I finally be able to say, that's it, I'm through?

Damn tattoo.

Yes, I think it sounds stupid as well

Unfortunatly I just do not know what else to do. So I have applied for what amounts to a temporary disability of sorts. Please understand that I do not want to be a drain on society, though that is what I will become should I be awarded this assistance. But as I said before I honestly don't know what else to do. *shakes head at self in confusion and disgust* I haven't had any medication (for those of you who haven't read my blog before I have taken antidepressents in the past) for about two months because that which I had been taking was not working (though it seems to have been better than nothing as I am doing worse now *shrug*). I cannot afford to try new ones because I am out of work. And I've not worked for some months now (and before that something like six months or so without work) and that could hardly even be called part time (I worked four hours a day, Saturday and Sunday, for about three months). I don't really want to go into it all, it always sounds so stupid and melodramatic even to myself but at the same time I know that it is very real.

The real purpose of this entry, really, was simply to ask that you do whatever it is you do, be it pray or just send out good thoughts regarding this. I'm going to call on Wednesday to see if they've gotten the psych eval I had on the 29th of last month. I think they should. I actually expect that they'll tell me what they've decided when I call. And I'm really rather worried. Because as much as I dislike things like doctors appointments and therapy and the like I know that it has become necessary. I honestly want to be a functioning member of society. I'd like to have a job. I'd like to go back to school. I just need some help to get back to the point where I can do those things. I hate to say that. I sometimes loath myself for it. But that is where I am.

Why do they care?

Why do others care if a person kills themselves? I'm not talking about parents, siblings, other, extended family, or others who know and care about the person. I'm talking about those who are not otherwise invested in the person. People who don't know them from Adam (query: if you're talking about a girl is the phrase 'don't know her from Eve' appropriate? or do you just have to find something else? I've often wondered about this, lol). What makes them bother? Why do they care if I die?

I ask these questions not because I am suicidal at this time. That is to say there is no intent. Heaven forbid the thought leave me alone for just one day. Restarted a couple of antidepressants yesterday so it's been even more fun these past 24 hours. Actually it's those antidepressants that bring me to the point of entry. Because yesterday I had strangers go out of their way so that I could be able to have those meds.

I went to the free clinic in town yesterday. I didn't expect much to come of it. As a matter of fact I rather expected to waste their time. But I had to try. Out of work again I have no way to pay for antidepressant medication. The best solution to that would be to get another job. I need another job, for more reasons than just medication. Student loans. Rent. Basic existence for myself and the boys (the cat and dog). The problem is... I don't know if I can do it. I want to. I need to. I need to finish growing up. I need to become an adult. But since that last sever MD episode (that anyone who has kept up with this blog is more than likely heartily sick of hearing me reference) I haven't felt capable. Fragile. It's the best word I can come up with. It's a word that I hate, at least when it is being used to describe myself. But when I was 'properly medicated' (on antidepressants and feeling blissfully Normal) I could do things. I know it sounds stupid but 'life' was possible again. All of it. A job. Exercising (I'd love to lose weight... a substantial amount, if I am to be honest). Going back to school. All of it. And now... nothing. Not when I'm not medicated. And it's just getting worse. Further into the Pit I go. And if I go too far, this time, I do not believe I'll make it out. So I went for help, believing that they would have none to give me, and OK with that. I spent two hours there and surprisingly enough most of that time was talking to someone, not just sitting in an exam room waiting. During that time I talked to a doctor (I think she's relatively new as far as volunteering there because I've never seen her before) and a mental health worker (at the risk of sounding ungrateful I will say to that 'joyous days'... but I mean, honestly, do I have to enjoy talking about all this crap? Because I'm not sure that is ever going to happen). They in turn talked to an NP who is apparently there 'all the time' and the guy who runs the clinic. And at the end of the two hours I was told by the guy who runs things (nice guy, from the whole three minute interaction we had) that the clinic would cover it (thankfully the two together, because of a discount the clinic gets at one of the local pharmacies, only added up to $27 so I don't have to feel too badly about it... I probably will, but I don't have to, lol) and left with an Rx for 200 mg sertraline (once daily) and one for 150 mg bupropion twice daily. Ah and a referral to comprehensive mental health in town, despite my telling them that they won't take me. That's alright I'll just suck it up, go talk to them once, and then present myself at the clinic again in two weeks to tell them that comprehensive once again told me no.

They didn't have to work so hard at it (there was a lot of phone calling before they decided the clinic would cover my meds). I'm not sure why they did. Why did they bother? What made them care? *shakes head* I don't know I'm making myself sound awful, I think. I understand helping people. I like people. So... I mean, I do understand... but I don't *is confused* Why do they care if I am depressed. Why do they care if I hurt myself or think of suicide daily. I mean, enough to bother, They didn't have to call around. They didn't have to do any of it.

And as I sit here, a huge mess of suicidal and self injurious ideas, thoughts in the form of images >.<, the tiniest part of me wishes they hadn't bothered(OK, not really but lord do I wish it would stop).

Is it stupid, that I don't understand? I should, I think. I don't know why I do not.

"You have a lot of scars... it's just something that you do"

He didn't mean anything by it. I actually think he was trying to be understanding. And odds are his telling them those things was a big part of why mental health didn't come and harass me that day in the emergency room (they didn't even call like they had said they would, much to my relief, if I'm being honest). All that aside though... "I told them you have a lot of scars [...] it's just something you do"... I think it was that bit which unsettled me so much. "It's what I do" or "It's just what I do" are phrases I have used several times in the past... but never about my SI. About my music... about my caring for people... I've said it about those things. To have the phrase I use when talking about positive things in my life, positive aspects of my character, be used in reference to my self injury... and especially by a medical professional... I wonder how many doctors have treated SI like that. Again, I'm not saying it was bad... it's just strange that he used that phrase.

I can't do anything about the scars I have... heaven knows if there was a way for me to get rid of them I would (I stopped counting before I got to my legs... with 300+ scars on the rest of my body I figured I didn't need to count the rest... it's enough to say 'a lot'). But I can stop adding to the ones I already have. I just don't want hurting myself (a phrase I don't care much for but it's what is) to be just something I do. So I'm trying to stop. I've made it eight days so far and it has been anything but easy. But I've made it eight days. I made it nine months once before... here's hoping I make it past that this time. Maybe I'll make it from now on...

The First Step To Recovery Is To Admit that You Have A Problem... Part II

It was his 'you have a lot of scars, and it is just something you do' comment, and the nurse coming in with the water and the antibiotics. At least I think that is what it was. *shakes head* To be honest I really don't know. I do know that I have never before felt this way after having a cut seen to.

Unsettled is actually a very good word, thanks Han :) (strange to talk to someone directly in my blog, lol). As to why... yeah, I just don't really know. As I said about I believe it centers mostly around the interaction I had with the doctor regarding Comprehensive and, even more strangely, being given my first dose of antibiotics while I was there. *shakes head* I think it might have hit me then, that there really is 'a problem'. But how much sense does it make that an ER visit where I mostly dealt with two very kind, understanding individuals (and didn't have to talk to mental health) would be a time I 'realize' that something is wrong with the behavior that landed me there in the first place (my cutting)? *shakes head* And probably most unfortunately is that... I think that is what was so unsettling (realizing that something is wrong)... but I don't know if there is much I can do about that realization. Because I cannot seem to take it much farther than that... and while I am still feeling unsettled (really good word choice, thanks again Han, lol) and I am pretty sure that is why... I cannot... I am not sure that I really want to stop. *shrug* I don't know. I really don't. And that seems to be the most unsettling part of it all.

The First Step To Recovery Is To Admit that You Have A Problem... Part I

So what the hell is the second step?

Maybe that isn't a fair question. I'm not even sure I've fully admitted that there is a problem. But I came one step closer this past Saturday.

I try and avoid the emergency room whenever possible. Now, I can hear you telling me that, yeah, so what? Most people try and avoid anything that might send the to the emergency room. But just hold on a minute, that is not exactly what I meant. Because as those of you who have read my blog before will undoubtedly know I sometimes engage in a specific behavior that could very easily land me at my local ER.

I cut.

And unfortunately I was careless enough this last time to cut just deeply enough in just the right spot that my normal method of care was not enough.

As I said I try and avoid the emergency room when at all possible. This is because it can sometimes be more trouble than it is worth (*trigger* at least, more trouble for a person with a penchant to take a razor blade to their skin). So I have become very adept at taping even the most gaping of wounds closed. This most recent one was no exception. Taping it closed was no problem. But keeping it that way proved more difficult than I had anticipated.

(This next section could trigger so please tread carefully)

It's on the side of my calf, about 4" long and 3/4" - 1" at it's widest point. It is not my longest cut, nor is it my deepest one; it is, however, the deepest one of any real significant length. I made the cut Monday night of that week. On Wednesday I tripped and only caught myself just before ending up on my knees. Unfortunately it bent my leg in such a way that it split the cut wide open. I wasn't thrilled about it but mostly I was just happy that I didn't bleed all over the carpet so after I got it taped back together it was no big deal. I contemplated going to the ER to get it stitched closed but because it was almost 48 hours since the original cut the odds that they would stitch it closed for me, as far as I knew, were slim to none. And since I didn't really relish the idea of owning up to the fact that I had intentionally inflicted such a sever cut upon myself (not that owning up to intentionally inflicting any sort of harm to ones self is ever pleasant) I abandoned the idea pretty quickly. On Saturday I showed up to work before the gal with the key did. It's been pretty hot here this summer (though not nearly so hot as you all in the East have been seeing) and that day was no exception so I found a spot of shade and sat down on the ground... and split the cut open again in the process. It was then I decided that, 'old' cut or not it was not going to stay closed without being stitched up. So I used what I could find at work to cover it until my shift was over (scotch tape and a tissue, not ideal but it kept any dirt out of it) and when it was I drove myself to the hospital.

Needless to say I was not looking forward to that visit.

(This is just a 'blanket trigger warning' as I can foresee several times that I may need to warn in the following section)

I think she phrased the question something like 'How did the cut happen?'. We'll go with that because she put it in such a way that, seeing as how I cut myself intentionally, I found it slightly amusing. In answer I chuckled and said 'How did the cut happen? Ah, well, I cut myself intentionally.' To her credit the nurse didn't really bat an eye; she simply asked me what I had used. When I told her that I had used a razor blade the nurse who was dealing with my blood pressure and pulse (no idea why they both had to be there, he showed up first but I got the idea that she was supposed to be doing it), without even looking at me, asked if it had been clean. I've seen him before when I have gone in for self inflicted injuries and I really appreciate his 'business as usual' attitude.

The gal led me back to a room and though I had come prepared with a book (thankfully I had one in the car) my wait for the doctor was very brief. I have to admit I often feel a bit of frustration at being asked by the nurse and later the doctor how I came to have these injuries. Why in the world do they ask at intake if the doctor is just going to ask again when he shows up? The answer is that, more often than not, the doctor has in fact already spoken to the nurse and knows exactly how I got the injury. It seems they most often just want to hear you say it for yourself. I haven't quite figured out why but that has been my experience with it. He didn't ask me why I had cut myself, just looked at it, listened to my explanation of exactly why I had used scotch tape and a tissue to cover the wound, and then told me, on his way out of the room, that I needed to be in a hospital gown. Great. I was less than thrilled with this as I've got scars pretty much every where (I actually started cutting on my legs as it was easiest to hide there; the since I always wore blue jeans no one would suspect anything) and I don't care who you are or what your profession is I do not want to show them to you unless I absolutely have to. Apparently the fact that did not want to wear one was something to be noted because after I tried to persuade the nurse that the leg of my pants would go up high enough (needless to say that didn't work) I heard her tell the doctor that I did not want to wear a gown. Big deal. I had not refused so why tell him? Because it was rather strange behavior, that's why. Anyway I kept my long sleeved shirt on under the gown so I was spared from showing off those scars at least.

If the doctor found it odd that I was still wearing my shirt underneath the gown he didn't say anything. He came back in and put the head of the bed down and told me to lay back. Wonderful. You never really think about how vulnerable you are in such a prone position until you find yourself in an already uncomfortable, mortifying situation. He took another look at the wound and asked me if I was depressed. I laughed a bit and told him that I was taking antidepressants. He started to ask me if I was depressed right at that time but then seemed to take my antidepressant answer to mean that I was not and did not finish the sentence. He didn't really look me in they eye throughout much of the process. I did not, however, get the impression that he was angry or frustrated with me. He was hard to read actually. He was almost as nonchalant as the male nurse (who when he came back in to irrigate the wound carried on an undemanding conversation about the small town that I work in, bless him) but there was something underlying that I could not clearly identify. This I know for sure, he was very kind. You hear horror stories of ER (or A&E for my friends outside the US) visits where doctors and nurses are rude and clearly upset that you would waste their time by intentionally hurting yourself to the point of needing medical attention. Thankfully I have never had such an experience.

He asked me, as he was numbing the area before the nurse came back in to clean the wound, who my counselor was. I told him I did not have one. He asked about my primary care doctor. Again, I told him I did not have one (I go to the free clinic in town). He mentioned mental health and said they would help me, if I wanted. I told him that they would talk to me and as I do not have health insurance and cannot get medical through DSHS they would then tell me there was nothing they could do for me. He deduced correctly that I had dealt with them before.

When he came back in to stitch up the wound he told me, almost apologetically, that he had had to call mental health. He told me that he told them he believed me when I said I was not suicidal (good man he didn't even question what I meant when I answered his 'are you suicidal' question with 'Not at the moment') and that I have a lot of scars, that this is just something I do (it was at this point he told me that it was probably not the best coping mechanism), and that he did not think they needed to go down to the hospital to see me. They did however, want to talk to me and so he had had to give them my phone number(they never did call, thank God). He told me all this so that I would not get a surprise call later. I told him that I would not have been surprised at all but thanked him for telling me none the less. It was some time around then that I told him that when I had dealt with them in the past I had come away with the impression that they do not really listen. They come in with a preconceived idea and in the case of someone who SIs that preconceived idea is Borderline Personality Disorder. 'They label you', he responded gently.

It took him the entire time but when he had finished stitching my wound closed he decided (after talking it out, with himself, I think) that I should probably have some antibiotics despite the fact that there was no infection present. I told him not to bother prescribing them as I did not get paid for another week and so could not afford them as it was (to be honest I couldn't have afforded them even then I barely make enough to afford my antidepressant and pay my electricity bill, forget anything extra). He said they would give me some. He left to write up my paperwork and in a few minutes the nurse came in with a glass of water and a couple antibiotic tablets. On his heels was the doctor with a small bottle of the same tablets and the instructions to take one every 8 hours until they were gone (I was given a larger dose to begin with). The nurse dressed the now closed wound and then brought back my discharge instructions. He told me, in a matter of fact way, to watch the wound and take my antibiotics and sent me on my way.

I went away much calmer than I had been when I got there; the experience had been much easier than I had anticipated, thank God.

Yet a couple days later I would realize that my worsening mood was correlated with my ER visit and I would try and figure out exactly why that was, seeing as how it was not nearly as stressful a visit as I thought it would be (and I hadn't had to talk to mental health, for which I was grateful).