Today I saw this: An Interview with Ida of ‘Ida’s Diary’, a New Film About Borderline Personality Disorder. I watched the short and it was a serious “aha!” moment. I started crying because seeing someone else going through and explaining things similar to what I deal with felt like having my heart ripped out and held before my eyes.

I haven’t seen the entire film, but I plan to rectify that as soon as possible.

I have so many things I want to say, but I’ve reached the point in my mental cycle where words feel like knives. I want to bury my head in a game, crank Miley Cyrus and Her Dead Petz, or Rob Thomas’s The Great Unknown, or Halestorm’s Into the Wild Life in my headphones, and tune out the world. Their words don’t feel like knives. Their words feel like hands soothing the ache in my stomach that I first noticed when I was four.

I avoid talking about my mental illness. With most everyone. And when it comes right down to it, it’s because…well, Ida said it herself. People don’t tell cancer patients to just pull themselves together. Read more…

So…

Things have been insane the past couple weeks, to say the least.

It’s no secret that I have mental health issues. They are exacerbated by changes in pretty much everything. Usually more exercise, sleep and at least snacking a few times a day if I don’t eat three meals helps. The past few months we’ve just had to weather the storm and hope things come out all right in the end. Especially around my period. This is nothing new, either. We just went a really long time without having to really deal with it. A long time for us, anyway. Read more…

Bear with me.  I’m getting somewhere.  And while this isn’t exactly BDSM-related, it is very much Master-and-our-relationship-related.

I’ve had cats on and off since I was nine.  My first was a kitten, and she was a gift from my father.  While I was at summer camp, Dad brought home a black and white furball, and let my sister name her.  Pajamas.  PJ for short.  Sis said her markings made her look like she was wearing jammies.  But there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who PJ belonged to.

When I was somewhere between ten and twelve, PJ got out the house by pushing the screen out of my bedroom window.  A dog chased her all the way to my house, and killed her in my backyard.  The only people home were me and Mom.

I went out to the backyard with my baseball bat, by myself, to chase the dog away.  And my mother? Stayed in the bathroom curling her hair.  When I told her I thought my cat was dying, she said she didn’t know what to tell me.  As I lay in the backyard stroking my dead cat’s fur, she came outside and told me I’d better get my ass in the house and get ready for school.  Then she told me I would never get another pet again.  It was my fault my cat died.  Read more…

Yes, I realize there’s no “Getting Fit” for last week.  No, I didn’t forget.  We took a “mental health” vacation that almost turned into a “gone completely ’round the bend” vacation thanks to M’s HR person, for which I scheduled a lot of posts, so I could stay away from the internet and my computer if I was so inclined.  And I figured that getting online to talk about how we were stepping away from the computers to improve our mental health was sort of defeating the purpose.

Let’s see…  What’d we do last week?

M’s vacation started on payday.  So we bused it into town, and stopped by His office.  We only intended to be there a minute or two, but I think we ended up staying at least an hour.  First M had to talk to the boss.  Then the CEO.  Then the HR person.

Speaking of the HR person, if you saw our call for attorneys, you know that we’re still having issues with regard to M’s child support.  And at this point, it’s not completely child support’s fault.  It’s also partially the fault of the HR person at M’s job, who insists that it’s not her job to keep track of how much she’s withholding from M’s paycheck.  ~blink~  Read more…

The other day, M and I had an argument… sort of.  It was meant to be a discussion, and we tried to keep it conversational, but emotions got high, as they tend to do, and tempers flared, and we were both licking wounds when things were over.  We worked it out, and we promised each other we’d fix it.

But something He said stuck with me.

He told me there’s a shit ton of stuff that He does throughout the day to help me maintain an even keel, and stay on task.  He reminds me of things often, and points out obstacles I don’t see so I won’t trip over them (literally and figuratively), and when He sees me trying to take something from the bottom of the pile without moving everything, He’ll make me stop and take everything off the pile first so I don’t knock it all over.  All of this, and more, He does so I don’t freak out about how clumsy I am, or get upset about my failing memory, or get frustrated with my disabilities.  Read more…

This whole catching up financially thing is going to take longer than I’d hoped and it’s making me nervous.  We have things we need and we can’t buy them yet because M’s paycheck is still spent the second it touches His fingertips due to back bills and such.  Like, Him getting a raise was so totally supposed to magically put us in perfect financial shape and we were supposed to be able to buy whatever we wanted right the fuck now without any sort of catching up period, right? Right??!?

Why, yes! Yes, I am an impatient soandso.

But, seriously? While I am getting a little antsy, I’m really only kidding about thinking our finances would miraculously reverse themselves and the needs are mostly glorified wants.  Like, we have plenty of clothes that aren’t falling apart and at least fit us comfortably.  But they’re completely out of style and/or could use some taking in.  And we could definitely use more of them.  We’ve made do for a year.  We can make do for another month if we have to.  It’s just annoying.

Oops.  What I meant to say was: I’m so grateful M has a job in the current economy and we can pay our bills!

Ya know what? I am.  But I’m so sick of hearing it when I bitch about His job.  The money is not consolation enough for the bullshit He’s dealing with (Still!) or the fact that I still rarely see Him even when He’s home.

It’s like offering me a peanut as a consolation prize when the grand prize was an eight bedroom mansion in Maui complete with an olive green 2009 Mustang convertible and a navy blue Eddie Bauer Explorer (Can you tell I’m a Ford fan?), two jet skis, a pool, a hot tub, a jacuzzi bathtub, a ginormous kitchen and an all expense paid, three month cruise that takes you everywhere in the world while the team from Extreme Makeover: Home Edition deck out the house any way you want regardless of price.  And not even a fresh roasted peanut still in the shell.  A dried up, overcooked peanut that’s already been de-shelled and tastes like ass.

I feel like a yo-yo.

Every once in a while, something will fill me up with confidence.  And it’ll bubble up to the surface, the water tension barely restraining what’s inside.  The bubble will dance precariously amidst its cloud of bubbly friends as long as nothing disturbs the water.  But the second a frog leaps onto a nearby lily pad, the water tension loses its grip and the confidence floats off into the air.   Read more…