railenthe: Red Lantern Tonberry (DOINK)
What started out as an attempt to straighten up a bit—hey, let's reclaim our little corner office—rapidly devolved into a panic attack as I knocked over an open bottle of Dr. Bronner's soap.

"NO problem," I think, "I'll get a rag and wipe it up."

The next thing I know I've scrubbed the entire floor of the apartment on my hands and knees, and as I get to the corner office zone I hear my damn grandmother's voice in my head, calling fat and filthy.

I'm finding outdated paperwork and wondering why I still have it. I'm losing things in my hands while I hold them. The only thing I can think of to get her toxic echo out of my brain is to move to a different part of the apartment.

I pass the chest of drawers in what passes for a closet here…and then I hear my father's voice in my head. It was one of the more unforgettable taunts.

"Look at this shit. You live like a fucking hamster building a nest."

As repeated thought loops of "Unclean, fix it" went through my head I ripped the shelf apart and flipped a suitcase open. Several things fell from this case: a rope, my "I'm travelling overnight and don't want to make laundry for my hosts" towels (ironically, the towels I usually reserve for post panic care because I keep them fragranced and they're like extra floofy) and my sgian knife.

For a quick moment, clarity returned. The day I got that knife, with its fine black leather handle and beautifully simple blade, I formally considered myself ready to call myself pagan. It was the same deep clarity I felt that day—whoa, thirteen years ago now.

And I realized as I held the simple knife that this panic was fucking irrational. I took a couple breaths. I remembered that Pops can't, er, pop in because my misadventure with the elevator has allowed me to ninja the spare key back.

I wrestled an out of season blanket into the suitcase, clearing space. I wrestled out of season clothes into a blanket holder that was too small the blanket in question. Stopped to pop a couple kava caps because I was still a bit on edge.

I can finish this. No one is here to hurt me.

I'm going back to work on it now.
railenthe: (Default)
I'm freaking the hell out.

I'm supposed to lose weight. So says my doctor. I wouldn't mind doing so for my own reasons—like a single digit pant size (I have too much rack to ever have a single digit dress size again).

But the doctor is persistent. Pushy almost. I dislodge my kneecap in my sleep and I get crap about my weight.

I look for more effective migraine solutions, I get crap about my weight.

I get it. I weigh more than the ideal at my height.
But the way to go about that was not to say nothing about an unrelated visit and prescribe a screening for "obesity."

I have been paranoid since then. Every calorie gets counted. Even the negligible 2 from brewed tea. If I want a luxury snack I skip the day before so I can have it.

I avoid my mirror because my face looks fat. Everything does in the mirror. I've been considering covering it with something so I don't have to see it.

I've had maybe 650 calories today. Not enough.

I know I should eat.

I look at my fridge and I freeze.

I'm about one standard cuil from asking it for a hamburger. Hell it might answer.

I should eat...

*looks at fridge*


Posted via m.livejournal.com.

railenthe: (Default)
Yesterday I blew up at two very good friends for no good reason, came very close to quitting writing for good, came even closer to getting drunk just to feel stupid and happy—I don't miss the alcohol but I miss feeling happy (and yes, a little stupid), and then came close to recommitting myself.

I honestly wanted to destroy something. Preferably something with a consciousness so it could see what was happening to it.

To avoid a raking over the coals (which didn't happen, as my friends are neither my family nor my dick of an ex) I start apologizing, one of which produces the...absolute stupidest mental image. It winds up becoming the first thing I've written in three weeks.

So even though things worked out half decent? I'm keeping my damn mouth shut.

I've had a med adjustment, I've got an empty hormone rod in one arm making me off in general, I've lost all knowledge of how being social works outside the series of tubes internet, and I'm having a string of recurring nightmares about friends leaving me for dead. Also my headache set up camp again and that always sours my mood.

So today, I keep quiet. And sleep.

When I wake up next, I won't be so bitchy.


Posted via m.livejournal.com.

railenthe: (Lethal Angel)

It has been a long time since I’ve actively made use of any of the gifts of the Goddess, but today there was a true need…

 

In a final burst of energy fueled by the wind of change, I went through all of my things in search of the Prince AttentionWhore’s (we can thank Alkonost_Storm for that name) stuff. It is now packed into a bag, taped up with duct tape, has one of those ‘dangerously-polite-tone’ notes from me in it along with an inventory of  my stuff that I want back, and is sitting in a tiny closed room (the bathroom, since it’s the only closed room I have) with loads of incense going. I tell you, there were slips of burning celestial lettering, pentagrams, and evocations galore earlier today.

I kicked it a little further by chucking magicks at it. He can think whatever the FUCK he wants to think after this—he made a step down when I left, and he’s never going to get that far up again. I KNOW what I’m worth, and it ain’t that kind of trouble, that’s for sure.

I no longer think “OMG HOW DO I GET HIM BACK” when I think of him.

I think “OH, ECCCCCK, I AM NEVER MAKING THAT MISTAKE AGAIN.”

 

Will the so-called friendship ever go again? Considering that apparently he only showed interest because before I broke up with my (officially on again) other ex I wasn’t getting any action and he heard I wrote kinky slash, which he assumed to mean I was going to be a real firecracker in the sack?

Magic 8-ball says, “Outlook Hazy.”

 

 

I can honestly say that I officially no longer give a fuck. I’d like to get out of the house more to do more things, but what’cha gonna do? Until my friends feel like it’s a safe option (OMG YOU GUYS THANK  YOU) they’re keeping us at least 100 feet apart. Which, when I still get flashbacks when I see his car, is probably a good idea.

railenthe: (Noes)
I seriously wish I had a better handle on this thing sometimes. A perfectly serviceable night out almost went pear-shaped for me in a hurry when a sudden stressor kicked my paranoia back up. It wasn’t even a specific paranoia, just that vague sensation of there being just “too much stuff going on right now too fast to process oh gods please get all of this out of my head.”

I wish I could explain it better while it’s happening but when it’s happening I just want something to PAUSE EVERYTHING so that I can make my head do something that it’s supposed to do.

I guess I wasn’t quite ready to get out of the house yet.

You can skip this if implication of r—e is a stressor/trigger of yours. Suffice it to say BAD DAY. )

railenthe: (Noes)

Frankly, I’m out of hit points. I can’t sign on today because I don’t know what’ll happen.

All day today I’ve been having flashbacks while I’m awake, horrible nightmares when I’m asleep. I don’t want to talk to people because everyone I’ve heard from today has set them off. More than a few people around me at once even online today—kind of dangerous.

I'M NOT CRAZY IF THEY'RE ACTUALLY OUT THERE RIGHT? )

railenthe: (TEA)
I had a dream that began as a nightmare. I saw a man get out of a car and run to the Metro tracks. As he passed me by, I saw that it was my ex. As my body and mind began to flip out, he got onto one of the tracks, inches away from the live third rail.

I called a friend on my phone, explaining what I was seeing. He says that something may not be right, and to keep an eye. As I watch, a guy that I don't know but seems familiar runs up, and dumps a bucket of water over his head. Sparks jump from the third rail; a nearby store goes up in flames. Nothing happens to him.

The train comes as he stunts, running up and down the rail. It suddenly comes to a screeching halt, mere centimeters from a collision. Arms flailing, he falls from the tracks—and breaks his neck. He doesn't move. No one goes to check him.

I then make another call while I examine his car. A cutesy-fied Cthulhu plush sits on the front passenger seat—I open the door and take it. I can't tell who I've called. I explain what has happened.

My friend is more concerned about the store, the fact that it took out the internet tower. We explore the ruins. No one notices or cares about the corpse, which has begun to smoke.

This message brought to you by LjBeetle. ^_^
railenthe: (Squee!)
In what I can only describe as a Goddess-cuddlingly beautiful day, I managed a productive 6-hour shift, got my errands run, spent an alarming amount of money on a combination of housewares and healthwares, and quite possibly discovered the fix for my migraine hangovers and leg pain.

(For the record it is usually called the “postdrome” stage, but that belies what it acts and feels like—which is a fucking hangover. And I'm not the only one who feels like this term needs to be official.)
Excuse me while I gush about the awesome day. )

This message brought to you by LjBeetle. ^_^
railenthe: (Default)
It's going slowly—even WITHOUT accounting for this hand injury (NEVER let your tonberry chef's knife meet gravity. I'm typing with increasingly fatigued thumbs here.

As I went through the bookshelf, I stumbled upon these:



A “ten of cups” tarot card and a Love Pokéball.

Had I found these earlier in the year I might be in bad shape right now. I got the ball as a gift from...yeah. The card, I found rogue—cleaning a suite at work. This card's meaning is “joy, abundance, fortune.” It's one of the few cards whose meaning when reversed in a reading (upside down to the tarot reader) can be unchanged. I found them together, almost just like this—I merely had to turn the card face-up.

I realized something as I looked at these things: I deserve what they signify. I deserve their joy, their abundance. And to hell with people who would have me believe otherwise, or belittle me when they think that I cannot hear. To hell with people who think that I'm just lying when I admit I'm hurt. To hell with people who think I fake that pain.

I'll keep going—spite them and heal, even thrive.

Who knows, maybe I'll exchange another Love Pokéball with someone who's actually worthy of it this time.

The Wheel turns. Even if we land in the same place again, there's no excuse to not move.

And thus, I shall move.

This message brought to you by LjBeetle. ^_^
railenthe: (Beat)

I'm toast.

 

I just had…the biggest, most screamingest fight with my aunt I’ve ever had…and this includes the crazy phase in high school when pretty much the entire family used me regularly as a punching bag.

She offers to basically swoop in and help, and I get taken to task for…

Wait for it… Here it comes… )

railenthe: (Tired)
Note: I tried posting this a few hours ago. It would appear that ScribeFire ate my post.

CUE THE TOSCA. )

Notes:

The next 100 Things post will most likely be tomorrow.

Until further notice, fic writing is on the back burner. I need to retrain my ability to focus; the last time I tried to write actively it was either “meh” or “…I coulda sworn this made sense in my head.” [Spoiler: it didn't make sense anywhere.]

I still have no idea why my computer won’t detect Windows Media Player. Can anyone recommend a program that will take its place, so I can watch DVDs again?

 

And now sleep! Because I work in the morning and I’m kinda tired.

railenthe: (Beat)

I got to the appointment without incident--I made a point of leaving an hour and a half early, to compensate for the road construction (most of the street on which I live is completely impassible right now.  Sinkholes opening up, demanding repair, have kind of put a damper on quite a few thoroughfares, and standing little blocker signs on top of the holes isn't going to cut it when there's subsidence A BLOCK WIDE).  To my infinite luck, I didn't have to deal with the sour-puss nurse who triggers me and screams at me to "SIT DOWN!"  I got in right away, but had to be directed where my doctor's room was.

I'mma ramble some, k? )

railenthe: (IDGAF CoD)

First I’d like to say thanks to [livejournal.com profile] toffeethesnob for the new IDGAF icons.  Sometimes I can’t believe that people can be so nice to me.  Even on my little off-site diary, complete strangers are being nicer to me than I am to myself—and here too—and I wanna say thanks so so so SO much—

 

Sheebus I sound like I’m blitzed on estrogen right now, don’t I?  I’ll man up now.

 

First off: Seroquel's kicking my ass. Several times today I've grabbed for the nearest ledge so that I don't go flying off into space, only to realize that I am in fact:

 

 1) still in bed,

 2) not falling, and

 3) not floating, either.

 And then there's the Laguna moments. )

railenthe: (…that sounded wrong.)

Ever had one of those days where you just couldn’t work up a good amount of “give a fuck?”  Well, today is one of those days for me.

 

It’s not like anything went badly at work, or even here at home (well, excepting the return of the gross drip of the pipe over my bathroom).  I just…really don’t feel like much of anything.  I could write, but…eeh.  There’s reading, but I’m feeling unfocused.  I could watch TV, but…blah.

 

In short, I’ve been hit with the IDGAF [I Don’t Give A Fuck] stick.

 I need an IDGAF icon. )

railenthe: (Default)

I’m taking a second day off before jumping back into the fray online.  I’m trying to be careful while I adjust to new medications—and also trying to get myself quit of a few bad habits that I’ve picked up since my brain started to play tricks on me.  For one, I’ve apparently taken to bingeing hard enough on sugary snacks that when they rolled me into the ER for intake into the loony bin, my blood sugar was shot up so high that apparently I SHOULD’VE been in diabetic shock.  I’ve actually gotten to the point where the thought of my favorite vanilla cake is enough to make my stomach turn; even candy bars or Rice Krispies treats—one of each even—is too much for me to handle at one sitting.  Diet soda has become something I’ve turned to more and more often because sugar’s been making me quote chibi!Italy:  “Yuck.”xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /

In which I ramble about medicine, life, and mistakes )

railenthe: (Default)

Loony Bin, Exeunt II…

 

Things did not improve after the tea and stabbing session on the 30th.  The voices came back, and in alarm I tried to contact someone—anyone—on my “if shit goes pearshaped” list.  Not getting any response out of anyone, I called the crisis hotline.  They directed me to a different line—the number I’d been given was for people one state over.  …seriously, why they couldn’t have given me the right number was beyond me.  It was right there.  And I could WALK across to the other state, for shit’s sake.

 

After I’d mentioned chest pain—probably spasms and nothing worse—I had two choices: call an ambulance or they’d call one for me.  I resisted.  An ambulance was called for me.  The paramedics arrived eventually, and their initial knock sent me to the ceiling.  After I recovered, I opened the door—

 

A male paramedic veritably speeds toward me.

 

I bolt.  Apparently dispatch did not tell the paramedics about my condition.  I’m perched on the back of my couch before I know how I got there.  I managed coherence long enough to ask for the lady medic before explaining.  After a bit more difficulty—this time I wound up behind the couch, which is a neat trick since it’s nearly flush against the wall—I get out and am strapped to the stretcher, answering questions, explaining the problem and generally getting ready for the inevitable destination.

 

I was going back to the loony bin.

Here we go again… )
railenthe: (Default)

I’m going to admit it, I’m nervous.

 

Yesterday, I was able to answer “yes” to one of the questions that made me go “*pff*” in the ‘bin: I started hearing voices.

 

It sounded like a bunch of people I knew (some of you reading this, actually), talking in hushed tones while my back was turned.  Saying all kinds of things that I knew damn well that my friends would never say with me around (it wouldn’t surprise me if some of them did say such things when I’m not around; I’ve been kind of a little bitch recently).  Insulted, I wheeled around to launch some invective at my open Skype connection—

 

The computer was off.  Furthermore, the computer was under my bed, meaning that even if the voices did belong to something there, there was no there there.

 

“Oh, fuck…”

 

I immediately began to freak out.  Of course I did.  Nothing was fucking there.  I wound up hopping on Skype to get some voices that WERE there—before it hit me full force.  It was like the first one at work, the one that sent me to the bin.

 

This morning I had the foresight to call my supervisor to ask if anyone was getting called off due to Monday slowness—and since the answer was yes, I volunteered.  On the way to work…the geometry went…weird.

 

I mean that as in, the horizon slanted, then turned into a kind of sine wave, and straight things…weren’t.  The angles did not add up.  I went home and tried to sleep.  A close friend came over to keep me company—and boy did I ever need it, because my perception got weirder and weirder all day: Walls get curvy.  Stove’s bendy.  Suddenly, I feel like I’m standing on the wall—I’m standing but I feel like I’m still on my back, floaty somehow.  After a look at the wall—and the wall’s still there—I feel fairly certain that if I tried to, I could walk right up it and break physics.  Brainzaps on unimportant information and how to say words—again, it just sort of trails off into the noise “Haaahblrbabal.”

For the record, most of that started inside of five minutes.  And kept going.  It’s why I’ve been offline all day: I don’t know what my head’s doing from one moment to the other.  That’s fucking scary.

 Read more... )

railenthe: (Beat)

I’m having a harder time than I have in a while.  I’m feeling alternatively ranty and antisocial, stuck between wanting to vent at someone and wanting to just sit in a dark room and think about nothing.  My head’s all turned around and I’m not sure what to do about working in the morning—besides taking a couple valerian pills in my purse and chomping down on them as soon as I feel the ceiling rushing down to meet me.

This is the part where I tell myself, SUCK IT UP, WORDHERDER!  )

Oh, crap.

Apr. 12th, 2012 07:15 pm
railenthe: (WTF?)
I can't remember what I was doing.

I was in the middle of something and suddenly I forgot what it was.  I spent several minutes turning around in circles in my apartment trying to remember what it was.  I still can't remember what  i was in the middle of doing--I decided to stop trying so that I'd not try to rip my own head off in frustration.

First day back at work, and I'm a good sort of tired.  The only problem that I really had was the fact that they were in the middle of replacing switches, outlets, and painting.  So between the adhesives and paint, I'm actually still a little high.

And now I remember what I was trying to tell my boss earlier today and zapped on: the missing light switch in the third floor chute room.

But I still can't remember why I was standing in the middle of my apartment spinning around.

…and I think I'm going to take the evening off.  I obviously can't think well enough to carry on a conversation.

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