Tuesday, June 2, 2015

This post has been eaten by my phone three times.

Maybe this time it will stick?

I'm typing with my thumbs, so I will make this succinct.
I quit smoking six days ago, and I feel like shit.

The reason I quit then as opposed to tapering off until the required 3 weeks before my surgery was a terrifying visitation in a dream by a deity from a religion I knew next to nothing about. I will elaborate later.

Even so, I am sitting here in the lobby watching for people to go out the back to see if they can spare a smoke. No luck. Probably just as well.

I am having trouble reconciling my feelings of worthlessness to the blessings I've been given. Matt got a promotion, both Kate and Paul are working, and I sit at home, at a loss as to what to do with myself. I feel I do not deserve the roof over my head.

There is a lot of noise in my head, as if I am aware of every minute process in my brain. It often paralyzes me in the middle of trying to do something, like getting dressed. I will sit there, half-dressed, staring at the wall, while my brain buzzes away. My train of thought is less a train and more like a hundred boxcars all going in different directions on separate, whirling tracks. This isn't new, just more pronounced, now.

I am still feeling a deep loss of identity. I have been unable to motivate myself to make Matt's room "our room." I am overwhelmed by things like laundry. We don't even have separate piles anymore. I used to do all my own laundry and hang them up right away. I don't have a door to close when I want to be alone. This reminds me of my couch-surfing/homeless days and triggers me.

Meanwhile, Kate and Paul wasted no time in making themselves comfortable in what was once my space. Irrationally, I feel stolen from, even though I had all but abandoned my room for months before, due to severe anxiety and fear of sleeping alone.

Kate and I rarely see each other, because of her work schedule, and she and Paul have the same issue.

Everyone is busy and productive. I can't even muster the ability to take a shower. I am in pain all the time, and I can't take anything for it. I feel like I am just leeching off others for support. I feel like cutting myself, but I would rather have a cigarette.

I have realized that cigarettes have become part of my identity, too, and it's just another aspect of myself that I have lost. (Also, I associate them with Loki. We'd often share.)

But when a Voodoo god of death tells you to "quit smokin' or he'll start diggin'", you kinda think twice.

Shut the fuck up.

Things I should be grateful for:

My "polycule" moving in with us
My breast reduction surgery has a set date (August 17.)
I did great at Marcon.
I had a lovely time with Matt on our "courtiversary" (we went to the zoo.)
I have a built-in support network here at home now, and I don't even have to leave the house.

But I'm not happy. I feel completely burnt out. I'm still on antibiotics for the mysterious vertigo illness, and I think maybe the doxycycline is interfering with my antidepressant. Or maybe it's not, and I'm just sad for no reason. I haven't showered in three days, and I don't care. Eating is hard. All I want to do is sleep. I tell myself that maybe if I put on some meditative music and relax and take a nap, I'll wake up and feel better. That worked last night, actually, but definitely not this morning. I have, in general, been plagued with bizarre nightmares that defy any kind of explanation. Just blurs of colors and shapes, the presence of people in my past, emotions of desperation and frustration and fear.

The one thing that sticks out from the dreams is Bartholomew. In my dreams, he's my imaginary friend. He's a tiny blue and black spider with a cartoonish expression. He is so small that most people would need a microscope to see him, but for some reason I can see him really clearly. In the dream, I feel sad because I want to get rid of him (he's pinching me and doesn't understand that it hurts), but I don't know how to cut the cord of spider silk that connects us. The cord is black and is attached to my hand with a tiny barb in my skin. I try pulling on it and cutting it, but nothing works. And he's really, really sad that I'm trying to get rid of him, because most people don't even see him, much less try to be friends. But I know I have to get rid of him somehow.

It sounds so stupid, like a dream a little kid would have. Well, I have been feeling very small. There are now three breadwinners in this house, and I contribute absolutely nothing financially. All I can think of is the other times when I have lived with other couples and been in the same position. I always got kicked out, or if I didn't, there was drama, and they all talked about me behind my back, and made promises to me that they either never intended to keep. Or, maybe they just didn't understand the gravity of those promises when they were made. I am a difficult person to live with. I have mental illness and physical disabilities, and they aren't going to disappear. I feel like I need to carry around disclaimers for people to sign if they really want to be my friend. I lost not one, not two, but three potential life partners because they decided they couldn't handle my depression. So, despite their assertions to the contrary, I find it hard to believe that Kate and Paul won't tire of me and my issues, and that eventually, Matt will see me for the broken, lazy, ungrateful piece of shit the others saw me as. I've still got abandonment issues, and no amount of reassurance helps beyond the moment, because I've heard it all before from people who have cast me aside.

I'm afraid I'm like Bartholomew the tiny spider, and there will come a time when people will see that I am toxic to them, and that they need to cut me out of their lives.

The fact that Kate and Paul work opposite shifts also does not help. I don't actually see them that often. When I do, it's nice, but in some ways, I feel more alone than ever. I shouldn't feel that way, because Paul has really opened up to me, and Kate says he barely ever opens up to anyone the way he has with me. He has shown me trust. I'm afraid to strain that trust or break it because of my illnesses.

I'm just afraid. The sadness is thick and viscous and gumming up my gears. I can't concentrate on anything (this blog entry is a small miracle.) I had to take half a Xanax just to be able to write it. I've said it before- I can deal with melancholy, with sadness and grief that has an actual cause. This sad-for-no-reason shit pisses me off. So does the insecurity. Intellectually, I know better. I know they aren't all secretly plotting to get rid of me, or that they talk about me disparagingly. I know these people are my chosen family, and they care for me and want me to get better. But tell the other part of my brain that. The part that keeps me in a constant state of fear.

I don't know what to do. I'm stuck. I want to feel like I did at Marcon all the time. I had a purpose. I made new friends, and reconnected with old ones. I felt like me. That was only two weeks ago, and I've backpedaled so much since then, and hit the wall behind me so hard, that my resolve feels broken. I look to my gods, and all they can do is remind me that my strength is there, even if I can't feel it, and it's my responsibility to do something about it. Right now, though, I don't have the strength. I just want to go back home and go to bed.

Oh, and I miss my room a lot more than I thought I would, too. I think that's contributing to my feeling of disconnection with the rest of the house. What was mine is mine no longer, given to those who better deserve it. That may not actually be the truth, but it's how I feel. The voice that tells me I am worthless and don't deserve anything nice is very loud right now, and I just want it to shut the fuck up.