Do you think anger is a sincere emotion or the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain?

Saturday, April 27, 2013

PCOS

     As part of my diagnostic process, I went to an endocrinologist to get my hormones checked, since hormones can always be a possible cause for some of my personal brand of crazy. Full disclosure, after being on birth control since I was 13 thanks to insane menstrual cycles, I stopped them in December simply out of laziness. Back to my natural hormones, I haven't had a cycle since mid January. Combined with some other factors (whoo uncontrollable weight gain!), she's assuming I have PCOS. If that's true, that likely means I'm infertile.

     Obviously, as a trans*guy, I'm planning on having a hysterectomy. Additionally, I have no plans of breeding, thanks to my craziness and a selfish outlook on life. Ironically, though, I was planning on keeping my ovaries in the event I ever decided to harvest my eggs. It's oddly saddening to lose that choice, even though I should never breed anyways. Huh.

Monday, April 22, 2013

More relapsing

     When your entire world feels like it's crumbling down around you, and you reach the point where you're past caring about recovery, it's all too easy to relapse. When you're disgusted by the form you see in the mirror, both by its sex and its weight, it's all too easy to relapse. When you know what sweet relief hunger and purging brings, it's all too easy to relapse.

     Over two years of recovery are now, very literally, down the toilet. Honestly? It's never felt better.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

"Are you a boy or a girl?"

"What do you think?"
"I don't know, I think maybe a girl."
"Why do you think I'm a girl?"
"Cuz your voice. And your earrings. But they're not sparkly like my earrings..."
"Does it matter if I'm a boy or a girl?"
"...No."
She called me "he" the rest of the night.

Friday, April 19, 2013

Anger

     My homework from my shrink for the week is to write letters to my rapist. I'm, apparently, supposed to be able to be angry at him; in the 6.5 months since the rape, I've never once felt angry. Hurt, betrayed, depressed, lonely, broken, filthy, yes. Angry? No. Apparently not only is that not normal, but it's not healthy. Hence the letters to him to try to be angry. It should really come as no surprise that I'm failing miserably at those letters; they read more like a manifesto to a desperately missed ex-lover.

     Don't misunderstand me, I'm terrifically skilled at unjustified rage. I can fly off the handle at the drop of a hat accidentally about inconsequential things. I'm good with righteous white anger, the kind that simmers inside but appears politely questioning, when it comes to social justice issues. But I've spent so long honing the latter skill and learning to ignore the first natural tendency that it's left me with no normal anger. I grew up learning that real anger got me no where; my daddy still wouldn't come home more often no matter how much I got angry. Apparently, that combined with some lovely TBIs, turned me into a pressure cooker of rage. I'm great at accidentally flying off the handle when the straw finally breaks my back. I'm completely inept, though, at having healthy anger towards my rapist. Damn.

     Well, onto the next letter to see if it's angrier yet.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Poor shrink

     So, I'm not sure what it is about me, but I have a tendency to upset my shrinks. I'm never quite sure why that is; my assumption is that, with as many people as they end up seeing, surely they shouldn't be surprised by what I tell them. Without fail, though, I manage to say things that make them tear up and look like the want to hug me.

     Lo and behold, apparently my current shrink is no different. I had my appointment with her this morning, and she definitely got the "let me hug you" look. If I can pick up on that kind of look, it should tell you how obvious it is.

     She was frustrated that it seems like I don't trust her. Obviously, if she's supposed to help me, me being able to open up to her is paramount. She finally realized that it isn't that I don't trust her; I mean, Christ, I've only seen her 4 times and she already knows more about me than any other shrink I've seen. What I finally made her realize, though, is there's obviously limits to what I can tell her because she's a mandated reporter. If I actually confirm with her that I'm actively suicidal and have a plan, rather than just suicidal ideation, that is then legally out of her hands. That's not her fault, it's just a fact of her profession. Needless to say, between telling her that and refusing to answer specific questions, I now have to email her daily to tell her I'm still breathing. Whoops.

     On the gallows humour side of things, though, I'm not sure if she was impressed or horrified when I corrected her that modern cars don't produce the right exhaust toxins to kill someone like they used to.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Relapse

     I'm dreading my shrink appointment Thursday morning. I actually like her, and am desperate to get better, so I'm working really hard not to work the system by telling her what she wants to hear. Not to mention, I found out that I can actually see her in private practice after the semester ends, which really makes me want to try to be at least mostly honest with her. For me, whenever I was suicidal before, I effectively hid it from whatever pdoc I was seeing at the time. I'd rather not lie to her. The problem that presents me is that, if I don't lie to her, things could go very badly for me. She's a mandated reporter, meaning that if she realizes just how much of a risk I am to myself, I can easily be put into a 72 mandatory hold. While I do want help, I don't think an involuntary 3 day hold will do anything other than stress me out more.

     Unfortunately, being honest with her also means admitting to her that I relapsed pretty badly with self injury over the past week or so, after over 6 months being clean. It's frustrating losing that progress, but it's scarier to have to think about telling her that.

     In... better(?) news, I had a great heart to heart with a good friend of mine. Admittedly, I felt terrible telling him most things, since his fiancée is my best friend who is currently in the behavioural hospital, but he swears he doesn't mind. He thinks I should commit myself to getting intense help now, whatever that means for me, even if it means having to take a sabbatical from school. He's convinced that I'm worth that and that, really, my degree would be useless if I end up not being able to make it to graduation day anyways. He's supporting my decision that I need to wait until after graduation, though; he's been making such a huge effort to check in with me pretty frequently. Bastard even has me going to the gym daily again; I'm already to the point I can jog a quarter mile without stopping, which is monumental for someone like me. I love seeing how much God has blessed me in this season, and how clear He's made it that, even with all He's allowing me to struggle with, He's given me support systems too. It makes me feel that much more selfish for being so suicidal, admittedly, but I still couldn't be more grateful to how much effort my friend is investing in me.

     On a sadly funny note, he has PTSD from his time in the military, so it's rather amusing when we go out together because our mannerisms mirror each other quite a lot. I actually trust his PTSD enough to let him sit facing the door, which he says he thinks he should be grateful for.

Friday, April 12, 2013

Self admitting

     One of my best friends self-admitted to a behavioural hospital on Wednesday evening. She's a recovering alcoholic with several severe psychiatric diagnoses; recently, she's fallen back into abusing pills, chain smoking, and her eating disorder. She was also recently diagnosed with RSD after being hit by a car; all of this combines to mean that she will be disabled and (according to the state) unemployable. She's in the middle of her last semester, like I am; even though she's taking fewer classes than I am, she certainly is busy. She decided to self-admit to a behavioural hospital to try to save herself before she goes back to rock bottom. Over the course of my life, she's one of a very small handful of people that I've actually made the effort to keep as a friend. For most people, I'm just not able to make an effort, but for her, it's different. I'm monumentally proud of her for doing what she needs to do to get better, even when it's hard and scary and a lot of work.

     Selfishly, though? I'm so incredibly jealous that she can just get up and walk away from the end of the semester just as a preventative measure to work on her mental health. I don't get to have the luxury of doing that, even knowing it's what I may need to save my life. Realistically, I'm in a darker place than I have been in years. I'm not entirely sure why; I didn't even go this low when The Ex left. Whatever the cause, it's left me struggling to literally just survive from day to day. I hate how melodramatic I sound saying it, but I'm so close to giving up. I can't just walk away from my last semester just a month and a half before I graduate, but I would give nearly anything to be able to get the kind of help my best friend is right now. That horrible awkward moment when you're so mentally ill that you're jealous that your friend got to go to a psych ward.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Awkward?

     I've recently started playing DrawSomething again; since the last time I'd played it, they've added the ability to message the user you're playing with. As I play predominantly with strangers, save for apologizing for a stupid guess, I don't use the option frequently.

    I just started a game with a new partner; lo and behold, she decided to send me a message, saying "Hey sexy mann ;)." Slightly awkward, but at least my profile pic makes me pass as a guy?

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Culture Shock

     According to all of the people I know who are familiar area, I live in "the nice part of the ghetto." Ignoring the racial connotations that are put with the negative interpretation of ghetto, what they're saying is true. While there aren't typically murders, rapes, or violent crimes in my immediate neighborhood, property theft and gang activity abounds. The population is a mix of races, but we're all lower middle class or below. I've lived here since I transferred to school; for a very long time, I was very comfortable here.

     Then, two things happened in very quick succession. My mother's car was broken into in the middle of the day while she was here visiting me. Maybe a week later, I was talking to my neighbor who said a group of young hoodlums had tried to jump and rob him in the alleyway by our parking. Needless to say, I feel less secure here now. (As part of the backstory, understand two things: I grew up in white, middle-upper-class suburbia where crime was unheard of. Also, my car is having software problems and requires between 20 and 40 clicks of the fob before the boot locks; as my MINI is a hatchback, if I don't lock my trunk, someone could access my entire car.) I arrived home tonight, fairly early but still after dark and general bedtimes. When I went to get out of my car, two large young men walked up near my car and stood for a while. Naturally, I didn't get out. It took several minutes for them to walk away, but they paused a short block away. I started fidgeting in my car to waste time until they actually left. Even after I could no longer see them, my PTSD had set in too badly to be able to get out of the car, so I started doing homework. In the hour and a half that I remained stuck in my car, I watched the same crappy white hatchback circling through the area numerous times as well as two separate pairs of men wandering up and down the streets continuously. Needless to say, if it wasn't midnight by that point, I would have called a friend and begged to stay there. As it was, I waited until the car passed again and headed down several blocks before daring to take the minute to be able to unload my dog, backpack, and lock the damn boot and run to our complex gate.

     Needless to say, even with several hours having passed, I'm too keyed up and nervous to sleep. I hate being reminded of the kind of area that I live in sometimes. As privileged as I know I am to be able to say this, I wish I could just go home to San Diego and live comfortably again.