One of the more interesting symptoms of my mental illness is that I have hallucinations.
Well, had—my meds were finally adjusted to keep those in check.
But the interesting thing about them was that they were…just like, bats.
They didn’t really do much besides… well, be bats. They just hung around. Everywhere. Sometimes one would get too close to my face and I’d flinch. Try explaining that to Joe Passerby.
Adjusting to life without the bats was strange. I’d gotten to a point where I couldn’t remember life without bats. But they went, and I was free.
Peripheral vision was suddenly actually something useful, at least.
I still have flashbacks to the day I woke up, in my stepmother’s house, to the accusations of theft from the pantry. I was wasting away at the time, a dangerous ninety something pounds. My stepsiblings were getting plumper and plumper. I was whipped with a belt in the laundry room while forced to hold the hanging bar, dissociation keeping me from giving that woman the satisfaction of a vivid pain reaction.
Every time I am around her, I remember this day.
I haven’t trusted her completely since that day.
Even on the days when we partake, a faint part of my mind remembers it. It’s engraved in my mind. When I’m around her, my guard just stays up.
It’s in the front of my mind because the anniversary of the beating is coming—
That’s right. I was lashed like a thief on my birthday.
The thoughts are…intrusive. I’m trying to get rid of them. It’s not working.
I can feel the impact points on my back, still.
I work in a hotel.
You see some things, working in a hotel. Drugs, alcohol, needles, diapers of all stripes, mayonnaise on the ceiling (don’t ask, I still haven’t figured that one out). There’s rarely a truly dull day. Today I was making my last bed when I stubbed my toe on something very solid. “Somebody leave a weight?” I mutter, reaching down, picking up the thing and
OH BOY WHOO-WHEE THAT IS MOST CERTAINLY A GAT BOY I TELL YOU, YES INDEED THAT IS A FIREARM, IT IS, THAT IS INDEED A GUN
“Shit!” I say, very wisely NOT dropping the very possibly loaded piece as I decide to call my boss on the phone.
“I might’ve slightly found a gun.”
“DO NOT MOVE. We’ll be up.”
We spend about eight minutes gawking at it before looking up the records and then confirming that yes, we need to call the cops and yes, I’m going to have to give a statement.
Never a dull day there…
Today, my BDD was out in full force.
Sitting on the bus, a voice in my head repeated: “Fattie. Fattie. What happened? You were so good last week. One piece of toast a day! You can do it again! Maybe half! Do you want to stay like this? Fattie? Look at yourself. Fattie.”
It was all I could do to not scream “SHUT UP!” at the voice in my head.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a shiny surface.
There is a reason why I don’t own a mirror big enough to see my body.
It took some mental wrangling to get myself to eat when I got home. Hell, I’m still hungry. But I’m also trying to shut that voice up again so I can eat in peace.
I mean, I was too sick to eat last week and the voice HEAPS PRAISE on that
It’s not easy. It’s not simple.
But it’s everyday.
… I better eat so I won’t get sick again.
I almost fainted getting on my last bus. Every movement induces even more nausea than the last. But the most alarming thing was a compliment today, on my weight loss.
I’ve been sick long enough to lose weight enough that it’s noticeable.
I still don’t know what the cause of this is. And it’s not letting up.
I managed to find some old nausea pills in the medicine drawer. After fighting with the front, which is jamming the drawer in and falling off at the same time, I had them in hand. Prescription, too—good stuff. Right now I’m praying that it works, and quickly.
My fantasies are occupied with visions of cheese and rice—my go to on a hard day, but in the last few days, an impossibility. I read articles about the aesthetics of food, making notes and experiencing the meal vicariously.
Come on, pill. Please work.
Ten godsdamned hours in that forsaken hotel.
My fibro picked today to assert itself over my body, remind me that it is a broken machine. Things burn, sting, and throb—some all at once. My head hurts, feeling like it has been inflated wrong.
… heads shouldn’t be inflated at all though, should they…
I plan on collapsing into bed when I get there. I’m in too much pain to eat. The only reason I am able to function at all right now is that I had my dear sweet Zappy—you know, my tens unit—in my bag. Enough muscles have been zapped into painlessness that I was able to get into the bus and train.
But I still won’t be home until ten thirty. An hour from right now.
And tomorrow is going to suck. I’m definitely in trouble with the boss. My only comfort is that I am not the only one in trouble.
… time to wait for another bus.
Bleach bathing bottles for more homebrewing.
If you told the me of last year that I’d be doing this, I’d tell you “No way, I ain’t no kind of hipster like that.” (Seriously, those exact words.) But here I am, cleaning and bottling, lovingly tending a colony!scoby named after Iggy Koopa, making fermented fizzy lifting drinks.
It’s the hobby I didn’t know I needed. In addition to giving me healthy drinks, homebrewing my own water kefir brings me much needed relaxation. The process becomes almost automatic, until the moment where I have to pick a flavor — then things get exciting. There are so many options, from plain apple to the allure of elderberry. It’s the real world equivalent of a crafting profession, and the grind is good.