Also, my fucking cutting scars.

Now that it’s short sleeve season I’m really feeling self-conscious about these fuckers. I don’t know if I can pass it off like I was trying to cut my cats claws and I got a swipe from his paw?

I’ve also spent considerable time and energy over the last couple of weeks investigating ways to cover this up. Cosmetically, I mean. Trying the entire gamut of concealers. Nothing is working. My arm is so pale that the vast majority of products make it look like I have a pink or peach or orange-ish patch on my arm, and then the few that I find a little more neutral just don’t stay on there. I guess I should buy a makeup setting spray.

Part of it is that it’s not just the color, it’s the texture, because I was just using shit on the ward and not like an actual blade, so it’s like I dug a little trenches into my arm that are sunken. I feel like I am going to need to get a tattoo to cover this up, because it makes me upset every time I look at them. Although I’m hard-pressed to think of a tattoo design that I’d want on the inside of my arm where the cuts are. I mean, I barely even scratched them. Honestly, like only enough for one drop of blood to fall off. Nowhere near even needing stitches. If I had known that like four months down the line I still have fucking scars, I might as well of gone to town. IMG_4760

Summer is coming

And I don’t know if I can stand another one like last year. Today’s pretty much the first day I’ve been migraine free in about a week and a half. I was flat out on the weekend, and I remember thinking on Sunday that I should get up and do some laundry or something because I didn’t exactly have a headache anymore, but I sure as hell had a headache hangover. I was trying to remember what I did last night, and of course I worked on my taxes all evening. How fucked up that I couldn’t even remember what I did 24 hours ago. Anyway, today I went to work, went to see my psychiatrist and cried talking to him the whole time, and he gave me a new drug to try, I don’t remember the name of it but it’s an antipsychotic that’s also approved as an add on for major depression and adults.

Then I went back to work, and started feeling overwhelmed and having difficulty concentrating. And so I basically was just sitting there looking at the screen for about an hour, and then I had my appointment with the counsellor and I cried really hard at him. I was talking about how I don’t get the point of being all anal about opioid addiction’s, because I don’t give a shit if I might get addicted to opioids in a couple of years, if I’m gonna fucking kill myself right now because I can’t stand the thought of being in pain for more than 15 days in the month.

Great quotes.

It is so comforting to read something that makes you feel understood:


“Everything seems to be exhausting me, not matter how much sleep or how much coffee I drink or how long I lie down, something inside me seems to have given up. My soul is tired.” ~Unknown


“Depression is being colorblind and constantly told how colorful the world is.” ~Atticus

Ugh, I made Monday worse.

I was having a hard time getting up and out this morning (with no group in the afternoon to serve as a deadline) and ended up rolling in to work at 11, standing in the coffeeshop buying a scone because I hadn’t even managed a protein shake. I should have showered before I went to work and was in jeans that were too big and a top that was WAY too big and polyester to boot. Anyway my boss came in to the coffeeshop as I was in line; that was fun.

I felt just blechy and sticky and gross the whole day, and wished that I’d had a fucking shower and looked harder for something to wear. You know when you just feel… ugh?

So when I came home I showered and then threw in some laundry so I’d have something to wear tomorrow (I still have no pants that aren’t too big, or too small, but at least they’ll be clean and baggy) and changed the sheets on the bed.

That was fucking gross as I hadn’t changed them since being discharged from the hospital in mid-February. Like beyond college bachelor gross. I just thought, what the fuck difference does it make? And then I couldn’t muster up the effort to do it, so whatever.  Now I have clean sheets AND clean laundry, which I guess is an advantage of having a shorter day (minus group).  So yay me, I guess.

I’m going to buy some greens powder to dump into my shakes because eating is just not going to happen, at least it hasn’t in the past 6 weeks so it’s no use imagining that I’ll suddenly start. I might as well plan as if I am not going to be able to cook a bunch of stuff, and my skin is horrible at the moment – I have forgotten to take my antibiotics, cheated with a face wipe before bed, and basically had protein powder, coffee, and milk exclusively – so maybe eating a more well-rounded smoothie will help.

I feel immensely sad and lonely in a way that I don’t know if I can get anyone who isn’t a professional, or who hasn’t had their own struggle with mental health, to understand. I actually looked up the professional cuddler that I had seen last summer (yes, I know, it sounds super sketch) because I thought the hell if it does cost $90 an hour; I’m going to go insane if I can’t feel close to someone.  And the guy has stopped doing it; he is not on the website anymore. So I can’t get a cuddle for love or money?  Dammit.

I’m resolved not to share as deeply with Beth anymore, and I know I’ve said this before, but I’ve felt resolved for a solid week now. I talked to her last week and she had an instant answer for everything – I shouldn’t focus on myself, I’ll have to let such-and-so go, I should pray harder, there was nothing where she was able to say “I hear that you feel really sad about this. Could I suggest…?”  Which makes me value my training, because I damn well know how to sit with someone in their pain and validate their feelings and help them to feel heard and apparently that does NOT come naturally.

But again, as I don’t have a ton of “outlets”, deciding to cut Beth off means that again I’m largely leaving myself to the realm of professionals and I wonder wtf is wrong with me that I can’t find a partner in real life to walk beside me with this shit? Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, I can’t change it.  I’m going to suggest at my psychiatrist appointment tomorrow that I just stop taking the antidepressants and we plan to try out MAOIs because I’m crying all the time anyway, how much worse can it get?

I seem sad? I am sad.

I  cried all through yesterday’s outpatient group. The content wasn’t even sad, we were just talking about having balance in our lives, but I just sat there and had tears dripping down my face the entire time. I cried on the bus on the way to work too actually.

I  left a voicemail with the nurse who is my primary therapist last night, asking if I could see her to talk about what would happen when the group ended. She called me back today, and said that she had had a cancellation so I could go see her at 2:30 if I wanted to. So I basically left right then and there and hopped on the bus.

When I got there I pretty much started crying again right away, and she was said that she was glad to be able to see me that day because I seem so sad.  And yes, I am sad. Depeche Mode’s album came out today, and I think I’ve listened to each song about 10 times, and they’re fantastic. But there’s six or seven months before their concerts. I can’t get over thinking how in the hospital I started counting down 31 days to the album release. And now it’s released, and it’s been the longest 31 fucking days ever. I just get up and drag myself to work and back,  and I feel like the tears are right at the top of my throat all the fucking time.

I’m sure my boss thinks everything is dandy. I had a meeting with someone today that I had to cancel on in January, for work, and he asked me if I was going to take a vacation. How the fuck would I pay for vacation? I don’t have any fucking benefits. I get paid a percentage in lieu of vacation time,  but I still haven’t gotten my employment insurance from five fucking weeks ago because I’m waiting for them to process the doctor’s note that I sent them.  Anyway, I’m probably the poorest person at work. Everybody else has a partner, and either has a house or goes on vacations or what have you. So I’m sure people don’t think that I’m living paycheque to paycheque it because it just doesn’t occur to them, because that’s not where they’re at.

I’m most worried about the group ending because I’m pretty much crying every fucking day at work now. By the end of the day I’ve just run out of the ability to hold out, and so I just sit there and work with tears running down my face. Not, like, ragged breath sobbing, just sitting there crying.  And that’s fine for now, when I take off for three hours in the middle of the day to go to group, so the end of my day is after everyone has gone home. I don’t know how I’ll cope with full workdays, if I start heading my limited the middle of the afternoon.

On the way back to work from my appointment with the nurse, it actually occurred to me that I don’t have to wait any fucking six or seven months for a Depeche Mode concert. If I can’t stand to be here anymore, I don’t have to be. I know what I need to do. That thought made me happier than anything else has in weeks. I’m not trapped, and I don’t have to deal with the dread I feel at the thought of living six or seven more months.  Yep, suicide is back on the table. The nurse talked to me about going back into the hospital, and whether I would be able to turn myself in at Emergency instead of being certified, and I know honestly I wouldn’t, because I didn’t want to be saved in January.  She said why not, because I might as well go back into the hospital if I have nothing to lose, which seems like a good argument but I just don’t feel that’s where I will be at.

It’s as if I’m using the Pomodoro method except on my life instead of on chores. Instead of saying the chores are too overwhelming, so I’m just going to do 20 minutes of dishes and then quit. I’m thinking that I’ll just keep going for N number of days, and if I don’t feel better by that time I’m gonna fucking be out of here.

So then I got home tonight. And checked my email. There was one from this guy on Match.  Match, that I signed up for like the last fucking June when I didn’t feel like killing myself. and then my mood was so in the toilet that I totally forgot to cancel the auto renewal. And it renewed for six more months. So I reactivated my profile when I got out of the hospital. What could it hurt?

So, one guy reached out to me. Good looking, older than me but not too old, has a good job, and his saying that he maybe wanted to have kids was the only thing that was at all off-putting on his profile. So he invited me for coffee two weeks ago,  and there wasn’t really any problem with keeping the conversation going or anything. He messaged me right afterward saying  it was nice to meet me, and then he’s been messaging me every day since.  Nothing big, just a hi how are you, here’s what I’m up to kind of thing. So today, with the weekend upon us, I thought I’d see what was what.   So I replied to his latest message and said that I’d like to get together again when he has some free time.

When I got home, there was a message waiting for me saying that he had to be honest that he didn’t think that we were the best match, and he was sorry if that hurt. So I replied saying thanks for letting me know, best of luck, and deactivated my profile.

And now I’m sitting here wondering, why the fuck have you been messaging me every day for two weeks,  if you didn’t fucking like me. And how the fuck can you decide if you like somebody in the course of one or two hours? I’ve had a few first dates now, and I don’t think that I feel I could make up my mind about any of the guys without meeting a few times. Like, they’d have to be a real creep or really ugly  for me to say no, there’s no potential here at all, full stop.

So what the fuck is wrong with me? I haven’t mentioned this to my psychiatrist, or to the nurse, because I knew that they’d be like oh I shouldn’t be thinking about dating, I should wait on that till I’m healthier, etc. etc. And I actually didn’t really think that I was going to get a relationship out of it,  although that was a tiny spark of idiotic hope in the back of my mind. All I hoped was that I could get a fucking second date. Just so that I would know that I could. I’ve been single for more than three years now. I haven’t got a second date, I haven’t even gotten a kiss, for THREE YEARS, and I have no fucking idea why.  Am I a lot uglier than I thought I am? Or a lot less likable? It doesn’t really matter, because whatever it is, I can’t fucking change it now.

So now I’m really hurting. And I feel like a fucking idiot for letting my hopes build up at all, but it seemed to me that when he messaged me saying it was nice to meet me and kept messaging me every day for two weeks, that  “sorry we’re not a good match” was not where it was going. Why don’t you just say nice to meet you, lots of luck in your search, and leave it at that?

Now I’m back to, I could literally die for some cuddling. And I’m too sad and too broke to go pay the professional cuddler just to have some human contact. I can barely even dictate this blog post through the tears. If overdosing was an effective and reliable method, I’d fucking kill myself tonight. But it’s not, and I don’t even think I have a single sleeping pill,  and I don’t think I get to have an actual conversation with any actual person until next Wednesday, when I get 20 minutes with my psychiatrist.  Maybe I should skip the appointment and just speed things up, because this hurts too much. I can’t fucking take it anymore.


Jackie Brown… I <3 Tarantino.

There’s been a big HR runaround here at work; I was supposedly supposed to get benefits but now that is on hold for probably a couple of months at least.

I am reminded of the quote from Jackie Brown, where the detective and ATF agent are trying to get her to flip on Ordell Robbie:

 If I was a 44-year-old black woman, desperately clinging on to this one shitty, little job I was fortunate enough to get, I don’t think that I’d think I had a year to throw away.

I’m not 44 and I’m not black, but I am desperately clinging on to this one shitty, little job I was fortunate enough to get…

Before and after “the incident.”

I had an appointment with my psychiatrist this morning. He was trying to find out if I’d had any kind of human contact, and somehow it got onto my relationship with Beth and I made a comment in passing that they had really been there for me ever since That Summer.

“What summer?” he asked. I said I was sure that I would’ve told him about this early on, and he started riffling through my file and saying that he didn’t think so. So I explained my creepy boss and my parents’ orders to not rock the boat and not say anything (really not to lose the job no matter what) and that three weeks later there had been a guy who is in his mid 40s and how the RCMP told me he had a record of 4 other women in Canada, even though he was American. Then I said “so I was a virgin… And then I wasn’t.” My psychiatrist exclaimed “You were raped??” Yes, I said, wondering what else I could have possibly meant.

He flipped through my file some more and then said that I had told him I’ve never been sexually abused. I said that I thought sexual abuse and sexual assault were different (that’s why I would have said no to that specific question), and that I’d thought he had known all along. He said that he was abusive and sexual, so it was sexual abuse. I said that I thought sexual abuse was like being molested by somebody who had access to you but but it’s not like I got this definition from the literature or had a really well-thought-out model in my head.

Anyway he acted like it was some kind of big revelation which I guess to him it was, but to me it’s old news. He kept saying stuff like how he was glad I told him, and how that must’ve been a really violent introduction to sexuality, and I said I’ve done a lot of work with my old (retired) counsellor about it, because I didn’t even used to be able to say the word ‘rape.’ I told him straight up that the worst part was that I now know that the only reason that hasn’t happened again is that I haven’t been near a guy who wants to do it. I fought as hard as I could, and got really bruised up for my troubles, but there’s no way that I, in any kind of shape, can counter the upper body strength of a man.

So then he said oh, he gets how I feel vulnerable, and why being alone is such a big deal to me, and he was all outraged that they didn’t make a big court case out of it. Yeah go look up some statistics on the number of cases that go to trial. Or the number of convictions relative to the number of police reports. Or the number of estimated attacks compared to the number of women that actually report it to the police. The numbers are pretty dismal. Anyway, he said that we have to talk more about it and that he was glad I told him (again) and I just sort of felt like it’s not really even something I can connect with here in the present; I dissociated during the attack, and then started drinking, smoking, cutting, and being bulimic for the rest of the summer and then got into drugs the year after that.

It’s as if he thought that I was too fucked up for the history that I had given him, and now he was like oh the pieces all fit together and it all makes sense now. He suggested that I tell the EAP counsellor about it too, and I sort of said that we were basically just focussing on making it from day to day. I don’t know, I’d already been in his office crying for 15 minutes before it came up so it’s hard to tell if I was upset about talking about that specifically or just the whole thing.

I also told him how Depeche Mode were going on tour again in the fall, and how they’re coming to a city much closer than they had on the previous tour (which I had a ticket for and didn’t go because I was laid off because of depression.) or the tour before, where I made a little trip out of it and stayed a few days to explore the city and met up with some fans from the Depeche Mode message board and have been in touch with the one gal ever since. “We are damaged people, drawn together by subtleties that we are not aware of” as DM lyrics put it. Instant connection.

Anyway, I don’t have anyone to go see them with which made me just fucking bawl. I assumed I was going to have to go somewhere again and now instead of being happy that they’re close by I am upset. I reminded the psychiatrist how I cried and cried in the hospital about missing Leonard Cohen in concert because I didn’t have anyone to go with, and now he’s dead. The psychiatrist said that it was OK to do things alone, and sometimes he went to the movies alone, but either way it was obviously pretty important to me and I better make it happen. I’ve gone to other concerts alone. I don’t fucking like it. So now I might buy tickets for another city just because I know another Depeche Mode fan there and won’t have to go by myself.

I’ve been crying every day at work at the end of the day and really just feeling like crap. Tonight I had a drink and a piece of hash truffle the minute I got in the door, and I’m sure I can make it to the weekend of the 17th when Depeche Mode’s new album is released. The concert, however, is over 200 days away. and I don’t know. I seriously just don’t know if I’ll be able to hang on that long. It’s always seem to me like before a birthday is an ideal time to die, and once my plans were thwarted in January and I was hospitalized till mid February, it seems reasonable to wait till mid-March. But waiting another seven months is something else.

I’ve been crying every day at the end of work, and sometimes on the bus, and then when I get home, and I just don’t think there’s anything here (in the world) for me. I can’t live seven months for one three hour concert. And then when that’s done I can just wait and work for three or four years for another album or another concert. And that’s the only thing that I can control, is buying albums and going to concerts. I can’t control my migraines, I can’t control losing jobs over migraines or depression. I can’t make other people love me or show up when I need them, and this is like when Beth said that her husband had thought they should come up and spend some time with me. In the moment on the phone I responded with how that would be great anytime, and then I sent them an email saying actually asking them to, explaining that would be really awesome and really helpful because it’s going to suck going back to my apartment alone with all the suicide equipment there. And they didn’t come. There was some reason they couldn’t come the week I asked, and then their son came to visit for a week from another province, and they just sort of haven’t mentioned it again.

I realized that I put up with the creepy boss and serving guys at tables beers literally the day after I’d been raped as a young waitress so that I would never be put in that position again. I never wanted to be put in a position where guys were going to do things to my body without my consent because I couldn’t afford to quit, or I didn’t have anywhere safe to go, or whatever. No, I needed to make sure that I was going to be able to make a living. Never have to call on people like my parents.

I went on a bit of a rant in the psychiatrists office, actually, saying I’d really like to know where the line would’ve been for my parents. If I’m getting felt up over my clothes that’s totally acceptable as long as I’m making my five bucks an hour. Plus tips for being friendly and flirty with the tables of guys with their beers. So what if my boss had felt me up under my clothes, would I be allowed to quit then? Or rubbed up on me with his body? It’s not like my parents said that I should quit  if he did anything worse. They said very clearly not to say anything about it and not to rock the boat. So fuck them, for all time. I got felt up for my $5 an hour and got raped for free.

And now, after going through SO MUCH to put myself through school, I’m underemployed, poor, and had to sell myself out for this job yet again. I just… this isn’t fucking sustainable. I’m going to die by suicide. The question is just when. Things have just gone too far to be redeemed. I can’t go back in time to change anything, and where I am represents trying my best. My very best. And if that’s not good enough to satisfy God or anyone else it’s really too bad. But I don’t see any reason to hope for the future when I don’t expect to perform better than my best in the future

I can’t afford to be depressed.

This is going to be a quickie, because I’m in the last hour of a day pass and have to get back to the hospital.

I asked my doctor this morning how long it would be before he decided whether this new drug regime was working and he said 3-4 weeks, “but I might not have to be in the hospital that whole time.”

So I went to work to talk to my boss in person, because I was worried I would cry on the phone and that I would make assumptions when I couldn’t see his facial expression. Before this he had been like “Your health comes first!”, and then that turned into “…Any idea of possible return dates to work?” and then today he was like “Another MONTH? Aren’t you feeling any better?” not in a jerk way, but in a way that made it clear that he thought it would be a matter of a few more days at maximum.

So then he said that he wouldn’t give me an answer on how long he could actually hold the job open for me, because he didn’t think that would be helpful, but “the sooner the better” and he wondered if I could start even a few hours a week because I was coordinating all these projects and now they’re kind of hung up because of me.  Then he said that now that he was aware that I might be absent from time to time, that he could get someone else to coordinate from now on (basically a demotion in duties because I’m unreliable.)

I can’t lose this job to depression; it would be the 3rd in a row and I just can’t go through that again. So I’m going to have to tell the psychiatrist tomorrow morning that I have to go back to work and see how much license he’ll allow me.  I’m so stressed.  I wanted to cut myself with something properly sharp for once just to release some of the tension and I cannot find my Exacto knives.  Aaaugh!

Life in a black garbage bag.

I was feeling… agitated tonight.  So I decided to start shredding the shit I wouldn’t want anyone else to find or to have to deal with when I’m gone. Holy shit, how cathartic! I shredded for over an hour, until I’d filled a big black garbage bag, and now I’m tired of listening to the “whirrrr” and feel like I can go to bed and continue tomorrow.

Everything just made me think that I’m not losing a thing, not a fucking thing, if I decide not to stay around.  Here are all my nicely filed receipts, from when I had a real job and did professional development!  Here’s an old lease from when I was still married!

All of it attesting to the hope I had back then, that I thought having more bills than money and more work than fun was just a step along the way — not that I thought “I’ll be happy when,” because I was a hell of a lot happier long long ago than I am now.  It’s just, it’s all records of a life that I’m never going to live. So fuck it! Into the shredder it goes!  Entire folders from the filing cabinet, of shit that eventually I started shredding face down so I wouldn’t have to see what it was.  Now there’s no evidence of that, for me or anyone else.