A Dose of "Pussy" . . . Rammstein, anyone?

I won't link to it here, since I'll always make a sincere effort not to link to porn in my blog (get your jollies the old-fashioned way, buddy: find it yourself), I'm totally gonna pimp the new Rammstein video as both porn-y and fucking hilarious. So, yeah . . . I like "Pussy" :)

Y'all are enterprising and smart, so go, find, enjoy, if you haven't seen it already. Quick hint: trawl German porn sites. Good luck, have fun.

Everyone--

DON'T PANIC.

A Dose of LMAO!

Dose of No-fucking-help Whatsoever

My GP was next to no help. Recommended a shrink . . . in Poughkeepsie, which is 40 minutes away by car. The car that I don't own and am not licensed to drive. Bus travel up here is complicated and sparse at best--nonexistent after six pm.

So . . . so much for hopes of not having to put up with this anymore. With not having to feel like I'm crumbling all the time. Help may as well be on Pluto, and I'm stuck like this.

I was crying for awhile. On the bus ride home. Not loud or anything, just couldn't make the tears stop. People kept giving me looks. I was angry at first. Now, I'm just extremely tired . . . and crying again. I need to lay down with Morphine blasting to cover up the sound of the idiot roofers, and of my fucking idiot brain doing what it does so very badly.

Maybe in time I'll adapt. Whatever's wrong with me, be it psychological, chemical, or both, I've had it for a really long time. The fact that it's been getting noticeably worse and more intense for the past six months means nothing, really. I'll just deal, like I always have, whether it keeps escalating, or whether I (and this proves hope springs eternally, like a geyser of stupid) finally emotionally burnout and stop feeling at all. If the time comes when I can't deal anymore, then I suppose we'll just have to see what we see.

A Dose of Silphium

Wow. Humans aren't smart. Even when motivated by the prospect of pregnancy-free fucking. Unbelievable.

Why, when we can't even manage our physical world, would we go around inventing a supernatural one? Just to liven up our epic fails? Self-defeating and self-destructing--just one more self- and we'd be a triple threat.

T minus four days till I see my GP and begin the likely long and unfun process of figuring out what--besides a lot--is wrong with me. Still only hearing the one Voice. I was also unbearably High, today, but in a happy-ish way, more so than angry . . . till I just got anxious, irritable and paranoid. Kept thinking everyone around me was talking about me. Not a fun feeling. I don't believe in a god anymore, but it's all too easy to imagine the universe is totally fucking with me. I'd hate to think that what's it's done thus far is borne of total indifference!

Bloodwork, tomorrow, to find out what other nuts I'm deathly allergic to these days, beside almonds.

It'd be best for all concerned if I had a massive stroke in my sleep and was cold by the time my alarm went off in the morning. For the next few days, the world's gonna be too shiny and bright to be dealt with by me someone this brittlely euphoric and itchingly alert. I'll spend all my spare moments weeping and/ or laughing, and unable to stop jittering. Cruushed by the wonder of existence.

I'm crossing my fingers for that stroke.

Daily Dose of the Voice

Hah. Yesterday, I posted here about possibly being bipolar, and--well, I've been rolling the possiblity around in my head for a few days, and my consolation was, well, whatever, at least I'm not hearing voices.

I've been telling myself that a lot lately, and today, at work, on a particularly annoying call (they all are, really, I despise the general public. They're stupid, immature, lazy, and mean) this voice whispers, like it was right next to my ear, really, Rachel, you should just kill yourself. You know that, right?

So, I don't hear voices, just a Voice. Big difference. For awhile, I didn't really notice it, anymore. It's like a white noise, only . . . it's suicide-slanted. And it's like the boy who cried wolf. To the point where, if I have to run to catch the bus, it's there, waiting to tell me what I can do to solve that thorny problem, and in a way that doesn't involve running or sweating.

See? I'm still in good shape. Fighting trim, even. Look out, personal demons.

Dunno if one Voice even counts anyway, especially since I've been hearing it since I was old enough to know what kill and death meant. So from five onward, if not a little earlier. I used to hear it rarely, randomly. Any time--during the Highs or the Lows, more often during the nice, uber-rational, mostly emotion-free Numbs.

I'd hear the Voice, and to shut it up, give it shit-tons of reasons why I should not just kill myself. Not step in front of the D-train, or that speeding minivan. Reasons that always won the day. And did, until recently, I mean--who can kill themselves when the Star Trek franchise's received an infusion of fresh blood? Not me!

And that Voice has gotten quieter, over the past couple of months. I thought that might mean, whatever other things were going horribly, off-the-rails-wrong with me, I had that wee, death-hungry Voice beat.

Thing is, I've taken to muttering I should just kill myself aloud in idle moments. Some stressy moments, but mostly non-stressy. I've had to stop myself from doing it on the phone with customers.

("Unfortunately sir I can't look up your iPod warranty with your social security number or your driver's license number oh my god I should just kill myself because this is all this is all this is motherfucking all but may I have your phone number please area code first?")

So, I'm now saying what the Voice used to say sometimes, and sometimes the Voice, playing what I assume is Devil's Advocate, tells me why I shouldn't kill myself. But. Well. It's running out of good reasons and so'm I. The reasons used to be passable but now, they don't hold water.

But mostly, the Voice tries to sway me with logic--or the only kind of logic I'm capable of understanding with regards to my own occasional death-wish: you're tired. Life is tiring. It won't get any less so. Why put yourself through it? If you just kill yourself, you can rest. Forever. No more emotions so big, it feels like you're being ripped apart half the time. No more being afraid of what you might do in the grip of these emotions. Just kill yourself, and you can rest. Don't you want to rest?

I do. I really, really do. I'm tired, and I'm not especially motivated or strong. But for now, I'm also not there yet. Not ready to accept the Voice's logic. Or my own logic. Whomever's. My voice and the Voice are starting to say all the same things, and I really can't tell them apart anymore. Not all the time, anyway. But yeah.

I hear a Voice. It's no one else's but mine, in the end. Some better demon, or worse angel, sitting on my shoulder, dispassionately telling me how to solve every problem I'll ever have, the easy way. And sometimes, telling me why I shouldn't take the easy way out (though suicide takes, I imagine, a brass pair to go through with it). I dunno if anyone else--anyone else sane, that is--has such a Voice. But I do. It's my oldest friend, at this point. I can ignore it, shunt it to the side, but I can't not hear it. Not when it's always made so much sense, and life almost never has.

I can't see my GP for a referral soon enough. T minus five days, and counting. . . .

Guess what, though? The voice telling me to scrag myself and save all this damn effort of living? Ain't god. It ain't his evil brother Lazslo, either, so . . . I may be nuts, but at least, at long last, by logic, I am not a theist.

Aaaaaand I'm back

Hopefully for keeps, this time.

Been a weird, weirdly awful five months, I must say. Don't know how to describe them, doubt it would be interesting to anyone who isn't me. Barely interesting to me, except that the process of straightening out my life has taken a turn.

I now have firsthand understanding of how dangerous a lifetime of "if not here, then in eternity" can be. A slow release revelation, you might say.

For awhile, I thought going cold turkey on all the woo might have made me go crazy, as well. That my fragile little mind might've been warped by subscribing to, you know, reality. Then I realized: I was always like this. I can remember being six and bored on occasional Saturdays but not wanting to play with my friends. So I'd lay in bed for hours, being entertained (after a fashion) by my moods. The happy one was very nice. If I was really still, I could maintain it for hours. It was intense--like a thousand summer days, filled with puppies and candy and rollercoasters--except it was in all my head. Little-kid orgasm.

The corresponding lows weren't very low, but usually followed right on the heels of it. It was more like being numb, but it felt low after the high.

I remember the actual lows, too. They'd hit like random bullets. I'd be standing in the subway with a parent or friends, or waiting to cross the street, and I'd think "I'm tired. I should step in front of that. Then it'd be over and I'd get to sleep forever."

As I got older, it of course got bigger. Worse. The happy times got too happy. Too nervous. Scary. Sometimes painful and angry. Sometimes I'd spend hours laughing and crying all at once, till I was too tired to do anything but sleep . . . not that I could. It was like being alive was too bright and wonderful, and it hurt just to exist in such awesomeness. And at the same time, I knew from experience, in a few hours or a couple days, I'd be numb, if I was lucky. Ready to buy a bottle of drano and find a secluded spot to guzzle it in, if I was wasn't.

Lately the mood-swings happen more frequently. The highs make me nervous, and as inclined to scream, as laugh. And I'm angry all throughout. Like . . . unbelievably, directionlessly angry. To the point where, if I had a knife handy, it'd be my wrists, or someone else's throat. And during the last low, I kept having to talk myself out of wandering off into the woods near my job (miles of it, then the mountains) and find somewhere quiet to lay down and die, just so I could finally be free, and rest.

For the past few days, thankfully, I've just been numb. I still feel things like amused, or annoyed, but it's very distant, like remembering how it feels to laugh at a joke you heard years ago, or remembering how it felt when something someone did six months ago kinda pissed you off. It's all very much elsewhere and elsewhen. I wish the numb time could last for the rest of my life, but I know it won't.

I don't blame any of this on my former adherence to woo, mind. The woo just let me pretend that I would get better on my own, or that I would simply grow out of it. Or that even if I was crazy now, in heaven/the next plane/my next life, I'd be sane. That when I died, Jeebus or whoever would fix me.

But he won't. I would have to say that's the biggest revelation I've had since coming out of the atheism closet--even bigger than the Grandma revelation of a year ago: if not me, then no one. If not in this life, then never. I'm on my own, so to speak, and if I want my life to be better, I have to take responsibility for and steps to make it better.

So, yeah. I probably need psychiatric help. Not in a facetious, narcissistic way, but gecause getting through my day takes more effort than my actual job. But then I have to do my job, too, so it's like working two forty hour weeks at once, only . . . getting through the day doesn't end till I'm dead. It's in my sleep, and when I eat. It's every moment of every day, and I'm too ragged around the edges to do a passable job of maintaining anymore. I keep cutting "extraneous" bits from my life in the hopes that that will stave off whatever collapse or suicide attempt I'm zipping along towards, but it really doesn't. It just isolates me, makes me feel ever more hopeless.

The self-medicating didn't go well at all, either. I've officially sworn off binge-drinking, and--well, pot doesn't really effect my mood anymore, just makes me dizzy, disoriented, nauseas, and sleepy.

But I'm pretty sure I've got some kinda chemical imbalance. Don't know what, yet, but I've got an appointment to see my GP next week, and I'm gonna tell her all my sypmtoms (life-long mood-swings getting more frequent, concentrated, and more intense, i.e., HIGH highs that make me happy, agitated, angry, nervous, and paranoid all at the same time. Lows that leave me lethargic, or leave me so wrecked and depressed, I can barely function. And if I'm lucky, some time and numbness in between these states) and hopefully get a referral to a good shrink. One who'll get me on some kinda meds, if necessary. Not that I can really afford either with my salary or insurance. . . .

I had a melt-down about this in my fiction journal, my friends list there were unbelievably supportive. I was too mortified to read their responses for days, wanting nothing more than to go back in time and delete that post before anyone saw it. But I'm almost kinda glad I don't (yet) have the ability to travel backwards in time. The resounding response, aside from acceptance and support, was: "sounds like you're bipolar. my (aunt, friend, grandmother, sister, parakeet) said she felt exactly like that, and it took awhile, but after they found the right combination of meds, they started getting better."

Maybe I am, and maybe I amn't bipolar. But whatever is going on with me, at least I'll be finally starting to fix it. Me. This life.

So. Dunno how often I'll be updating this blog. I don't really have the energy for much that isn't sleeping, maintaining, or writing fiction (one good thing about the lows, is that I tend to write prolifically and brainstorm better during those times, and world-building is still the best, safest distraction I've got. The numb times are good for editing. The highs are good for nothing at all, except possibly aquiring a felony rapsheet), but I will be reading and commenting in other blogs again. I missed you guys. I missed reality.

Shit, I better post this before I chickenshit-out and delete it--