For days… weeks(?)… I’ve been unable to say words in writing. My head aches at the mere thought of making sense of my Feels enough to attach actual words to them…
Dailyos haven’t been filled in (will have to do them retrospectively… Somehow… Using this log…). Even this Journey Journal hasn’t been used for anything much more than a LogBook.
I’ve found this to be a Notably Reliable Indicator of Depression. Not the bad kind… No. The Really, Really, BadlyFucked Up Kind.
What’s been happening over the past few weeks, along with the God-Awful bitter hopelessness of recent times, is ensuring my brain is being cemented into the Wonderland of my Mind… And it seems I am, once again, being packed up and flung down that Rabbit Hole, ready to be destroyed and torn to pieces all over again.
Chaos. Fatigue. Exhaustion. Grief. Confusion. The inability to process complicated Emotional Feels. Not enough time to process Complex Emotional Feels. It all just builds up and up and up, until I’m so completely and entirely overwhelmed…
I am done in… Distressed. Frustrated. Overwhelmed. Frightened. Anxious. Wound Up. Agitated.
I fear sleeping again. I’m not even sure if I know why…
I am am in such a physical mess… And not just the Fibro. Not being able to wash my body, or my hair, or engage in any proper self-care at all is heartbreaking. But it also has an actual knock-on affect in so many other ways, too. You cannwot get properly cleaned with wet wipes. You don’t get properly washed to prevent catheter infections. Taking all your clothes off properly means that heat rash, allergens, creams and oils, groom and backside areas get properly washed, rinsed and sluiced.
I need to get some kind of grip on it… Quickly. Before it become next to impossible to wrangle The Beast back without an all-out war…
Overwhelmed. TMI’d up to the hilt. My Mind has been blown to pieces… and then those pieces have been blown up too.
I can’t even… You know, I am buzzing on the inside… I mean literally, like every cell has its own TENS machine or Thumper Wand.
Too much everything. There’s no time to think. No time to wind down. There’s no time to Sleep – and they come with Nightmares anyways.
I’m blacking out – because All of This is just Too Damned Much. I am dying inside. I don’t want to know about any of this. The Pain is Ridiculous. The Emotional Turmoil is Overwhelming and Pathetic.
I need Space. Headspace. Peace – from the Chaos, the noise, the constant haranguing. Something always has to be done. Or noted. Or talked about. There’s always a Ping. There is always someone talking. Then there’s people walking in and out of my room, as they please, talking about stuff they could message me with.
Things keep happening and going very, very wrong… A continuous chaotic cacophony of Mind-Blowing, Brain-Breaking Stress, that just seems to never, ever end…
Nothing goes right. Nothing goes easy. Nothing I do is *enough. And worse of all, is that I can’t stop other people from messing with my head, giving meMeltdowns, frightening me, Badly Shocking me, or breaking The Rules and Harming Me… Destructive, Harmful, Destroying.
I haven’t stopped. I’ve been going, going, going, and haven’t even barely taken a breath for myself… Everything takes time away from me. There is no rest. There is no peace to steal. There is no respite. There is no Mercy…
The Agony… The abundance of TMI… It has me blacking out into hallucinating unconsciousness; one that is uncomfortable and frightening.
Physically, I can’t move. Breathing is difficult. I am “imprisoned” in my Room again. I am Resentful, Frustrated, Hateful, Forced into this…The Agony is Unbearable.
These Feels are… Heavy… And I don’t like them. I only want them to go away.
Still can’t think beyond the pain. My brain is zoned out.
I’m in no shape of, or for, anything.
Done naught but a few words in Daylio and Jouney Journal, then blindly and mindlessly poking around the internet a little.
Somehow, it’s now 5:30pm. I have no idea how that could have happened. I wanted extra meds to help play Skyrim. Guess that didn’t work out.
It’s horrible outside. Cold, rainy, high Humidity. The isobars are decent-ish at 1016mb. I’m so cold… But I can’t move, and in too much pain to do anything about it… 😣🤕🤨🥺
There are a few emails on my system now that I haven’t read. Refused to read. There’s 2 about the Boots thing, 1 about the Ubisoft problem with Assassin’s CreedUnity (the downloads run at 3mb/s & then the game won’t load anyway), and 1 from Sophie the OT regarding people coming here to install my shower.
I’m too scared to read them. Or, more specifically, I’m way, way, way far too way into OTT & TMI to cope with facing them or processing them, let along answering them…😟😣😢
I don’t know where the “Me” who used to jump at all correspondence, had Zero outstanding emails in her inbox, is avoiding messages and has nearly 7,000 “unread” emails in her inbox 🤯😫😟… 💔
… I could really do with her right now…
I’m in 9.95 Pain… I can’t think past it, or of anything else, and my mind is blanking to try and deal with it…
I’ve been rushing around checking into, and booking, Premier Inns…
Mentally preparing for the crapload of Appointments we have to deal with and somehow manage through in May, including 2 big hospital appointments far enough away to require overnight accommodation…
I’ve had to deal with the last minute Car Tax thing and go out to do it, causing this latest flare up of agony (because I don’t have a shower)…
My glasses got snapped in half, and I had to circumvent my immense panic and Dragon of Disappointment long enough to get new ones.
I’ve had a good couple of mini-ish Meltdowns caused by other people…
My Catheter came out after only 6 days, and at 10:22pm, of all times… Late at night is *never* good; at least the nurses are great 👍🏻 🙂🤕
I’m even more exhausted because my mattress was being mean to me, and causing several nights of extreme pain and nightmares.
I flipped the big Hypnos mattress with Dad, and had to empty and redo the bed with Sara.
There’s been too much stuff, way, way, way too fast. Too much pain. Too much chaos. Too much… everything-too-much-on-top-of-everything-else.
NB: I think the new Food Plan is going to have to go in the bin, for today. There’s no way I am eating between 6pm and 7pm when I am like this. I’ll need at least 6:30pm meds to have kicked in, as well as an extra mini-dose of Oramorph, to manage to eat anything.
Well, Storm Hannah has well-and-truly landed here… My entire body feels like it’s being crushed and outside the wind has been playing up something terrible…
Oh, the lovely Horrible Hannah…
I truly am in a boatload of pain. Now, between the big storm and the bed that was supposed to help my back but is now hurting it, I’m not even really functional. And my fingers are on another planet of horrible, with all kinds of Paraesthesia running rampant in them. Numbed. Achey. “Buzzy”. Severe Paraesthesia. Difficult-to-Impossible to move.
They can’t even type on the iPad screen keyboard properly, for here. Not just through function, but also because the electrical stimulation in the fingertips is what actually makes a touch-screen touchable. And when fingers are numbed they have a hell of a lot less of it, to make it work. 🙄
Today is clearly as frikked up as yesterday, and I don’t think anything is going to be right with this day, either.
Yesterday was all planned out… Until something went snap. We were going to flip the mattress, change the bedding, and make the bed not try to kill me with pain. I had a huge bag of beanbag beans come specifically for that day, so I could sort out the giant beanbag, and beanbag pouffe, to go with the nice, fixed-up bed.
I even had a Loot Crate box come. Although… I’m mad at them right now, for losing one of my boxes, then being an annoying bitch about it, going around and around, trying to wheedle out of any responsibility for it. I also asked to skip this current month’s crate, but they sent it anyway, probably because I bought a 3-month “subscription” from them.
So, the “skipped” one received is currently shoved in a far corner of the room, because I never really wanted one with a bunch of IPs that I’ve not even played, let alone a fan of, in the first place. And, to make it worse, the box is diddy.
Today is already going the same way. So much Pain. Cold. Storm Horrible outside. Back, Spine (Skull To Sacrem), Fingers, Hands, Head, and Left Arm, all hurting and aching and being horrible a lot. My left arm being in such pain is different, and a bit of a Big Deal, as it does a lot of things… and I can barely lift a coffee cup with it. Not Good…
And on top of all that, Dad is out in the storm (with the dogs, if course…), rushing around trying to get emergency Tramadol for me from the Out of Hours system, because Mam accidentally ran out, and only realised last night that there was only enough for this morning in her box.
It was Friday night, so OOH was the only place to turn to.
Thankfully, they ponied up a prescription that could be picked up this morning, so after waking me at 10:30am, Dad left to go pick it up from the Hospital and take it to Boot’s to fill it. All ready in time for next Meds at 1:00pm.
Last weekend, it was my face. This weekend, it’s the Tramadol. I wonder what we’ll bug OOH for next weekend… 🤨😒😒😒
I went to physio. I wish I hadn’t. Even though it was technically a “good session” — productive, challenging, effective… It was not a good experience.
Mainly, I’m upset because after all my (emotional/ psychological/ mental) hard work, I’ve been thrown back to feeling inadequate, clunky, awkward. It was horrible, making me feel like physically vomiting; the nausea siting in the bottom of my throat like a boulder. I felt shame, resentment, disgust (with myself, and also the physio). And the worst thing—My chair no longer felt like an extension my myself, like it usually did now.
This was how I felt for years. When my legs were failing, and after they failed. When I had to learn to deal with spending my moving life with a wheelchair. Learning to realise, that — amazingly — I was not “confined” to a wheelchair at all, as people so often expressed. No—The exact opposite, in fact. I was freed by my chair!
The realisation was slow coming, but it was astounding. No longer was there suffering of pain through my hips and back, wobbling on my feet and afraid I would fall. Over time, I became stronger, and then when I also had Neuro-Physio with the previous physio specialist, who was amazing, I got even better. Even stronger. First with Musty (GTM Mustang) and then with Kushty (Küschall K-Series), I become better, more capable, more confident, more accepting. My lovely chairs helped be better, stronger. It becomes my new normal.
Then someone turns up and says… it’s not. Not normal. Not good enough. Not something to be confident about.
As good as physio might be, the new person is not. She’s not like the last one. She hurts my insides, my Feels. Today, she kept going on about using my legs, “waking them up” and maybe walking. “Ooooohhhhhh, you never knowwww…”etc, etc, hollow, disingenuous, delusional idiotic bullcrap, over and over and over again. Seriously, she must have said exactly that five or six times. At least.
It felt like the obvious underlying statement was, only that was good enough—having legs. That I should blindly hold out all and any fragments of hope, and everything short of that was insinuated to be —gods-damned presumed to be! — nothing but a pathetic and miserable existence.
This ridiculous notion is what they call “Hope” — but what it really is, is Magical Thinking. And it just makes my heart and soul dissolve and freeze into dark black ice, caught between utter hopelessness and fuming anger and insult, at such horrendous ignorance.
What I prefer is realistic expectations, not stupid “oh, you never know…” utter bullcrap. I could say the same thing about walking on the moon, for gods-and-spirits’ sake! “You never know…!” Gah! It’s moronic, babyish, and, frankly, pathetic.
Oh, and believe me when I say I couldn’t care less if it’s “coming from a good place“, or they mean something nice. If you mean something nice, say something… y’know…Nice..?! Intention means nothing if the result is nothing but harm.
I will never understand the NTs’ obsessive insistence of clinging to blind, delusional “optimism” (aka: Magical Thinking). What’s wrong with Truth? What’s wrong with Reality? What is wrong with being less than Fairy-Tale Perfect…?? 🤬😡😤
I understand “Never say Never” about Unknown Quantity or Unknown Outcomes, especially with people. I fully accept there could be some connective electrical activity re-triggered and re-awakened after the (stress-induced) traumas I have endured over and over again. Unlikely as it is. But there are many, many better ways of communicating this, including offering great support (this is what her predecessor did). Pity is never an answer.
No scientist or mathematician got anywhere by basing their answer (or presumption) on nothing but a premise or hypothesis — Yes, almost anything is technically possible. But then, there’s also Magical Thinking, which involves utter Unicorns-and-Rainbows levels of nothing but fantasy.
Scientists allow for anomalies and possibilities, and yet they also don’t expect the moon to fall down to just 33,000ft above sea-level so we can all have it easy and just fly there on a 747 widebody, or for a black hole to morph into a sandwich, because “it’d be cool”. 🤨🤨🤨
In other words, we can’t just manifest crap because we prefer it.
If that was the case, I’d be using my own 3 wishes to make my natural hair to that of Disney’s The Little Mermaid, for my legs to be her tail, and for the ability to read people’s minds. I would not be wasting one on whether I could walk again…! 😒🤨😤
I cannot even begin to explain how these sweeping statements put my teeth on edge. Disingenuous. Despicable. Fantastical. Delusional. Weak. All things I am not, and refuse to be..
Maybe it’s the ASD. Maybe it’s just (or/and) Alexithymia. But all of that delusional stuff just… Sends me into a tailspin. I’m here, I’m *Me*, and *I. Can’t. Walk*. I have a pretty chair with cool wheels to make up for it, and the physical strength to help me function and manage it. There’s nothing wrong with that. Is there…?
What I *do not* have is Mental Strength, and I’m Traumatised and Fragile. I cannot bear being told that basically I should do nothing but “hope” I can walk “one day”, because nothing else is good enough, and anything else is entirely… Pitiable.
So… What, then? I genuinely do not understand… Why is it so not OK to be like this, like me, that I’m being pitied and told to invest in false hope by a physiotherapist? One who dismissed what small (or huge, to me…) progress I had made, in favour of sweeping statements of disingenuous pity and false hope?
Am I supposed to twiddle my thumbs in the Lobby of Life, waiting for the 0.000000000001% chance I *may* feel or move my legs again? I have a better chance of winning the lottery… and I never play it. Am I now just some-thing… That I’m not worthy to do anything else, I I have no use of my legs? Am I just to sit around and be Pitied? Is that supposed to be it, now? That “walking should be the bee-all-and-end-all of life and everything” is… life-limiting. Debilitating. Disabling.
To me, it’s a rediculous notion for anyone to have… And for it to be utterly despicable in a damned physiotherapist.
I’ve spent a long time trying to build up to having confidence in being in a chair. This made it all come crashing down. Swept away, destroyed, what little confidence I had started to develop in myself as an active wheelchair user. I cried — and I do not cry easily, if ever. I’d worked so hard to feel some self-worth in being a wheelchair user and physically incapable. Now, it was gone.
I do not wish to sit in Limbo, waiting for some fantasy “Maybe” (which isn’t real at all). I’m not putting things on hold anymore — I’ve been pushing myself to go ahead and be Me, which includes having Wheels and getting on with things. Even if its small things.
I don’t know if I have the… verbal sophistication?… to fully explain what I mean. Why it hurts, damages, so much. Nothing I’ve written here, or could write, could convey, that is accurate to how much this affects me and hurts me. Harms me.
I feel Depression inside, with its special brand of Extreme Anxiety & Sad. They’re playing their part well, and strongly. Inflicting their “Bad Feels” upon me, and more than occasionally drowning me in them. Making all these things worse, communication and processing longer. Meaning this “incident” with the physio made everything 10,000 times worse.
It’s all become a bigger mess now. This has been added to my brain as yet ONE MORE TRAUMA to deal with. It shouldn’t be like this.
There really is only so much that a person can take… and I passed my limit a long time ago.
Anxiety and Chaos rules my mind. It feels like it’s been long buried under mountains of agonising pain, sorrow, grief. Fibro-Fog, medication, and more and more Chaos and Anxiety. I can feel my mind still there, calling, struggling to be freed, to be heard… yet, there seems to be so little I can do about digging it back out.
As long and all this overwhelming Anxiety and Chaos rules me, rules my life, is forced upon me – truly, it seems that no matter what I do to prepare against it, it floods and breaks through my defences and laying siege until I can do nothing more against it. – it will Rule me. It overwhelms me. Then, it eventually takes over me. My life. And now, it just simply continues to do so… because I have only so many spoons at all, and that number is barely above Zero, and none of those spoons are even remotely strong enough to fight against the sheer mountain of things that continue to suffocate me every minute of Every. Single. Day.
With no Short Term Memory to speak of, and pretty much no Long Term Memory to fall back on (although, thankfully, the odd one can be brought out with certain triggers, unfortunately few and far between), it’s like I am nothing and no one.
As an Aspie, who once remembered everything and anything just about, this fact is near killing me inside. I still don’t know what to do with it – the grief and frustration of going through this, being forced to live without something embedded into me, that was an intricate part of me… Quite often, it is all too overwhelming. Even the inability to control my environment was entirely reliant on this… and without it, Anxiety and Chaos reign entirely. It is painful and frightening, and there seems to be nothing I can do about it – and I feel this because I have gone through everything I can think of over these past Five Years this has been happening to me…
I physically cannot move – my condition leaves me with only the shoulders and arms and what is above it; pretty much nothing else is movable by my own conscious will. I must remain on the floor whilst upstairs because my chair (or any chair) cannot fit up here; the house is too old and the landing is far too narrow to accommodate one. This means that I remain next to useless up here – unable to move or control my own environment in my bedroom. Despite assistance, there is no way to keep it sane without someone perfectly able-bodied to take things out and put them away as required. Whilst I may be able to retrieve something, putting it back may cost too much spoons, or be too difficult – or worse, I might forget.
I have been numbed by the sheer and exhaustive amount of confusing and destructive emotions that keep washing over and drowning me. I do not like emotions – actually, I loathe them, and wish they did not exist. And, quite frankly, there are definitelyfar to many of them. It’s a cornucopia of horror that I flail at, until I fall victim to my terror and end up falling and drowning beneath them all. “NT” people have called this dead numbness “depression” – but I’ve studied psychology for years, and what I have has never quite been fully described by that theory, and it does not fully cover what it is that I experience.
I am TMI (Too Much [Sensory] Information) when it comes to all these emotions – and all are fuelled by my two arch enemies: Anxiety and Chaos. I literally cannot live like this – I barely even exist like this. To live, to participate in… well, something, anything… to do what I love again… That would be Everything.
So, by that measure, it seems that right now I would have nothing…?
Someone I haven’t spoken to in a while over text sent me a quite innocent message yesterday, with Are you still alive? written on it. A running joke when catching up after a while. It meant nothing, had no other significant meaning. They didn’t know it was not so this time.
This time, it wasn’t so funny. This time I really meant it when I wrote back, Yeh, just about…
It was a literal answer… and one I was decidedly uncomfortable with. Especially when I didn’t tell them that, or why.
How do you answer someone else… Yourself… When the rest of the answer to that question is I could have died…?
I was desperately ill and point-blank refusing treatment and, well, in all honesty and reality, getting close to dying. Literally screaming myself hoarse in agony, until I was lost consciousness from the pain, for hours every day for a month, not realising my body was being attacked by a silent killer, tearing up my insides and leaving me barely conscious on a daily basis. But I still refused any help or medial treatment. The scars, the terror, the shame of the way I had been treated by medical “professionals” in the past meant I was too traumatised, especially in my current state, to go anywhere near them.
What an utterly terrifying thought… and nauseating right now, with 30/20 hindsight. I did it to myself. Unwittingly. But I still did it. And I quite possibly came a bit to close to maybe not making it. I became unreasonable, delirious, the agony too indescribable apart from being able to say it felt like actual torture.
Eventually, it seemed something in my brain snapped and I somehow, for some reason, decided to finally allow my parents to seek emergency treatment for me. I must have finally realised somewhere inside my subconscious my money was up and it was now or never, the last chance saloon. I don’t know because I don’t remember anything of that day except coming to around 5:30pm in a strange place, in a strange bed, somewhere that I only recognised as “a hospital”. Which or where I hadn’t a clue. My mother had to fill me in on the rest.
I was told I was dragged, barely conscious, downstairs and to the car, then taken to the out-of-hours GP service located in the main general hospital on Saturday 27th January. The time on my discharge note shows it as being logged in to see them just after 12pm. They rushed me in to the Surgical Assessment Unit and ran tests, put me in x-ray and gave me a CT scan. They pushed fluids for severe dehydration and vast amounts of strong painkillers to stop me screaming. I was apparently there for five hours before I became coherent enough to come around, the pain subsided much, but still quite agonising – although nowhere near what it had been – and I had to be told what happened to me and why there were lines in my arm and why I was in a hospital. And especially the question, Which hospital?
After negative scans and intensive blood tests, it turned out I had blood poisoning and a “horrendous” [their words] UTI (urine infection). Specifically, I had contracted Staphylococcus and Streptococcus. And I’d probably had it for weeks, if not months. The entire time I’d been feeling very ill all the way to the point where I’d spent an entire month screaming myself into unconsciousness from the mind-exploding incomprehensible agony I was enduring.
I ended up being hooked up to some kick-ass antibiotics for 3 weeks before I was getting better. But us took 6 weeks before I was given the all-clear to finally go home with clean and clear blood with zero infections left in it. Even when the ococcus infections had been dimming down, I still got 2 other infections on top of it, and one of them remains an actual mystery to this day, but it was so bad I got a temperature higher than I’d even had with the blood infection – hitting 40.7˚C at its worst. They couldn’t find the actual cause (and they looked a lot) so they dumped me right back on the antibiotics (I’d just got rid of that damn cannula the day before, too!) for another week and a half or so.
So, I spent 6 weeks in hospital trying to recover from my stupidity. For the first couple of weeks I felt it acutely that it was a fight, a real battle, to get on top of this thing (or things) and get rid of it. Once I started to get the upper hand, it was a slow but assured ascent to the top of the mountain of recovery. A couple of minor setbacks is expected, and otherwise it was a fairly smooth ride, if not long. Very, very long…!
I was very lucky the people there were really good and helped me with my little Aspie quirks, and were quite happy to help and make it as easy as possible for me. I also got a lot out of it that wasn’t just my life, or recovery too. I got actually got my life back in a different sense. Whilst I was there, I got more than I ever expected, and although the way I got there was, frankly, terrifying, I clearly needed to go there to get everything I got from it.
Institutionalisation, at certain points of extreme chaos, apparently suits me. It allows me to reset, obtain new and better habits, in a safe environment of regiment and set patterns. Whilst at hospital, their set mealtimes reset my non-functional non-eating habits that for a long time had kept blowing between starvation and binge-eating. Even stopped me being completely terrified of food after realising there were bland and basic things that could be eaten without feeling overwhelmed and shaking. I learned that some medication didn’t outrightly hate me and worked well – and for the first time in 4 years I had adequate pain control that did not require a distillery. It was such a relief. Even anti-nausea medication given alleviated the horrible nausea from the pain and allowed me to eat easier. Even Oramorph for when the pain momentarily got out of control again. Not one single side effect – just what it was made for, for a change.
I actually got people to arrange referrals for me to help with the fibromyalgia, as well as a few followups regarding what I had been through. This was the first time I’d ever received adequate assistance, support and referrals for my condition… and that was probably because this was the first time that medical professionals had spent 24/7 over 6 weeks to see what I was going through. I even had a wonderful OT (Occupational Therapist) organise my being able to see my dog downstairs whilst I was stuck there, and I ended up managing it twice, which was wonderful.
By the time I left, I really was ready to go home. As in I was clear of any and all infections, everything had been put into place, and I was going home with support and medication that was going to make my life easier to live with. It may not have been the best way to end up getting help, but somehow having a serious illness had managed to bring the never-ending freefall of Hell I had been spinning in, and send me in a completely new direction.
Over-enthusiastic Gamer, Goth, Geek, Techaholic, Dabbling Writer & Blogger, and Raging Coffeeholic ~
Loves Gadgets, Games, Tech... And Coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
~ Obsessively-loving: Dragon Age Series, Mass Effect Triligy, The Witcher Games, Skyrim Special Edition, Elder Scrolls Online, Divinity: Original Sin Series (amongst others!) ~
~ Self-Built Gaming Rig: i7-4970K, 16GB RAM, 128GB SSD, 1TB + 3TB HDD Storage, GTX 1070 8GB OC, 1150 ASUS Z97-A ATX mobo, Windows 10
... Oh, and did I mention I love coffee...?
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