Friday, January 27, 2012

Test Test Test, Are These Things Working or What?

I met my new family dr today. A very nice fellow from England. I haven't had my own dr in 18 years - hurrah to walk-in clinics - so having someone who I can spill my medical beans to is such a stress relief. I've felt like I've been just a number to all of the past doc's I've seen, thus I haven't been forthcoming in all of my ailments and 'can you please fix this'isms.
Today I finally talked about getting my baby making area checked out. Husband & I have always had the pregnancy philosophy of 'if it happens, it happens' and rarely, if ever, use any birth control. Six years later we are still baby free (not that there is anything wrong with that) and we are starting to wonder if it's us that is broken, instead of the universe telling us it's not our time just yet.
I get tested next week for my progesterone level, and a whole bunch of thyroid shit. Then comes the scraping and analyzing of my lady bits.
Fingers crossed I'm still a girl who can make a baby with my man. One day.
And if not, I will fill my house with puppies.

Monday, January 9, 2012

I Want to Drink the Gatorade

I can't remember exactly how old I was when I first started to contemplate suicide. I recall a time in grade seven when someone dropped a jar at school, and I was helping to clean it up. I felt drawn to picking up a large shard of glass and seeing what it would feel like to slice my wrist. Not deep, but just enough to ... I don't even know. I was wearing a thick leather bracelet at the time, so I figured I could hide the injury. So I did. A sad, pathetic loser huddling in the hallway of her elementary school calculating how long she had until anyone would be walking by. Slice. Bleed. Cover. Then sporting a Club Monaco sweatshirt for the rest of the day to ensure no one noticed the Kleenex and tape under my bracelet.

Walking through the forest when I was eleven, a friend of mine at the time was showing me a short-cut home from school. She took me through a little gully and told me a story of a girl who had hung herself from a tree after jumping off of a log into the gully. Whether it was true or not, I had no idea, but I remember thinking that it was a good spot - off the beaten path, easy to set up a rope, a long enough fall to make it end quick.

At thirteen & fourteen I was silently miserable and drugging my sorrows with OTC drugs. Extra-strength Tylenol, Ibuprofen, sleeping pills, T3's, allergy medication, and whatever else I could sneak from the medicine cabinet, or buy from the store with my allowance. Some days I was taking 10-15 pills a day. Other days I could function without. Some days my body hated me for it and let me know that what I was doing was wrong, but I didn't care. Numbing my anger and misery was all that mattered.

When taking too many pills caused me to throw up too much or give me the worst bathroom sessions ever, I had to find a new release. I started cutting my self with a pair of scissors. I had a couple of cats, so I made sure that the cuts looked like cat scratches - in case anyone noticed, or asked. My stomach, my forearms, my legs, my cheeks, my neck, my breasts. Everything was open season.

When the cutting didn't hurt anymore I escalated to hitting myself. First just punching my forearms; enough to hurt, but not leave a bruise. Then I began to punch my legs, hips, ribs and eventually my face. It was always enough to hurt, but never leave a bruise (or if it did, I hid it). Sometimes I used a heavy candle holder to bash my arms and legs. Other times I used the edge of my wardrobe dresser or bookcase. Looking back, I can still feel how soothing it was for me at the time. That's so fucked up. So fucked up.

In my late teen years there were many times I craved death. One night after a bad night with a long-term boyfriend, I went and sat on the tracks, waiting for the next train. I chickened out because I was more scared of my dad being pissed that I would be late coming home... If he only knew.
The train passed by just as I was walking in the door.

There have been many times that I have been tempted to jump in front of a bus, or OD on my meds, or drive off the road over a cliff. It would just be so easy to end my trouble. But I couldn't hurt my family that way. It would devastate them, and that stress is something they don't need. They have enough issues to worry about already.

I have been off and on suicidal for two thirds of my life. Some days closer than others. Many days rationalizing, planning, writing, and realizing it's wrong. It's a slippery slope, but I have been up and down it so many times, that I have created my own set of stairs from the treacherous climb to the light. I don't have the urge to live. I don't feel like I have a life inside of my self. I feel like an empty shell that is based on what others want me to be. I am not authentic. I never have been. I am not real. There is no me. I am a fraud. I can't continue to pretend. To be OK. To be happy. To be satisfied.

Tell me please - where do I go from here?

A Whirlwind of Crazy

This last month has been a challenge. Many bits of life have crumbled and brought Husband and I to rock bottom. Both of us have been scrambling to find work, which is virtually non-existent. Husband is owed a large chunk of money from a client who refuses to pay for whatever jackass reason, leaving OUR family to struggle to put food on the table. It makes me so mad to know that this well-off client is holding a financial carrot in front of Husband just because he can. Small business owners in construction have no rights. Liens mean nothing. Going to court takes money that we don't have and time we can't spare. This frustration meant that we didn't have Christmas this year. My two 'new' jobs are fun, but would be better suited for a fifteen year old. I walk a friend's dog and I work at a local concession stand that my friends own. Clearly my resume is going to be super awesome by the end of the summer.... Husband is making the greatest sacrifice. And if I could physically do it too, I would. He has decided to head north to work on the oil rigs. He won't be leaving for a few more weeks, so we have time to spend together before he is gone for a month at a time. We've been apart for long times before - it sucks - though I know we can do it. But the money. Oh, the money. It makes it so worth it. We can be COMPLETELY out of debt in 6 months. Six months. SIX MONTHS. We won't be living paycheck to paycheck, struggling to save for a down payment for a real home, knowing it's only a pipe dream. So far 2012 has some potential.