Still not ok.

Things haven't been anything close to ok in a long time. I'm honestly forgetting what it feels like to be ok.

While recent events should make me feel less ok, they're honestly making me feel better in my own little way.

So here it is.

I know I'm a tremendously vain, self-centered, and selfish person. There's no denying that. I need a lot of attention. I tend to ignore people because my spotlight NEEDS the attention. Blame my childhood. Blame my adulthood. Blame my general terror about life in general. Make sure you blame me, though. Admitting all of this won't make it instantly ok, especially if I've been snubbing you lately.
I'm sorry, by the way, if I have. Apologizing now probably doesn't do much to help. From here on, though, call me on it. Tell me I'm overdoing it, or that I need to back off/cool down. Tell me that you need attention, too. Be mean. Be nice. Be whatever you think I deserve. Make me feel things. Slap me, if you want. Don't be afraid of what might happen.

My life is in the middle of a few Big Changes. If you can't support that I'm trying to be a better person, you know where the door is. It'll be easier for all of us if you use it now. I won't run damage control, I won't try to fix everything. I'll miss you, sure, because I trusted you enough to be myself, but I won't blame you. I'll be a bit jealous. Most days, I wish I could walk out the door and leave me behind.

A couple months ago, someone I tried way too hard to be friends with after a misunderstanding turned into a full-blown "I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU NO MORE" fight (lacking only the Frenchmen to throw cows and taunts around) informed me that I've changed, and that I wasn't the person she loved when we first met. It's true, in many ways, that I'm not the same person I was when any of us met. It hurt because she was half the reason I made any progress in my head at all. She was one of the few people who was there when the story came spilling out. For lack of better terms, it sucked. Our entire reconciliation was strained and for the sake of a mutual friend. The whole thing was a mistake, but at least she had the balls to walk out when she realised it. I would've sat forever, afraid to say anything.




And then there's the rest of me. The part of me that will want to just stop and sob hysterically over losing you. The part that will be furious about me using poor sentence structures when I try to rationalise this all in my head.
I'm going to be upset. Losing friends sucks, especially when I was comfortable enough to not hide behind the walls I've always hidden behind. In the end, though, it's like being dumped by the person you thought was 'The One'. It sucks. I'll cry like an idiot. I'll pretend I'm perfectly fine with you leaving, then I'll post an angry blog/facebook message/send a few angry texts. Eventually, though, I'll get over it and move on with my life.


Losing anyone you care about is not pleasant, but honestly, I'd rather it happens now. I stand by what I said. If you can't support me, you're not my friend. It's not worth the effort on either of our parts to try to fix it. If the trust isn't there, it won't be there again.

I am not ok.

In regards to silly fears

My fear of zombies is fairly well known. It remains to this day one of the few things that will trigger panic-filled episodes just by me thinking about it, and I'm not talking deep contemplation here. I'm talking that fleeting thought, much like 'Oh, did I leave the gas on? No, I'm a fucking SQUIRREL!' (I shall refrain from more references people don't get.)
I've known this whole time that zombies have made me unbearably anxious (which is roughly the last eight years of my life) that it's an unlikely, at best, scenario. I'm well aware that it's silly to let myself panic over this. The other day, I realized something (on my way to get a massage during a thunderstorm, which triggered two other major anxieties, but that's a different story).

Years ago, my brother was obsessed with the supposed alien invasion that was going to happen on January 1, 2000. The winter of 1996, when my parents were just starting the divorce paperwork, my mum, my brother, and I went to stay with my grandfather over Christmas break. We went to see Mars Attacks!, which was very much not a scary movie, but I was on the verge of my ninth birthday and it was TERRIFYING. My brother did pretty much nothing but make fun of me for it and as his obsession with aliens grew, so did my terror.
As I grew up (and as January 1, 2000 passed without an invasion), I got a few laughs in at my expense. Let's face it. If other life exists in this universe (which I firmly believe is true), I sincerely doubt they're just going to invade because they can. The nightmares disappeared, as did my fear. It was a full ten years after I first saw Mars Attacks! that I was actually able to watch it and realise it's freaking HILARIOUS. Of course, by this point, zombies had moved into the part of my brain aliens used to inhabit.

It's not just me. My brother, after seeing the first Jurassic Park, decided cloned dinosaurs would be the death of us all, while I decided for the second time that I wanted to be a t-rex when I grew up. It's a ridiculous fear. We both recognize it now. Back in 1993, though, dinosaurs running amok just happened to be the scariest thing my brother could imagine. In 1996, aliens became mine, and in 2004, zombies took over for aliens. I'm terrified of being outside at night, I can't stand being in crowds, thunderstorms occasionally (but not always) launch me into panic attacks, and I can't let a passing thought of zombies cross my mind without feeling my chest tighten and my heart beat faster. Even here, just talking about my fear of zombies, I'm telling myself that the panic is completely unnecessary. My brother copes with his fears by laughing at them, but he's afraid of salamanders, spiders, and cloned dinosaurs. Spiders are easy to smash. His wife can move salamanders should they ever find one. Cloned dinosaurs? Unlikely, at best. His life has been free of velociraptor attacks since 1985.
Mine are a little harder to laugh at than his. I can avoid going outside at night, I stay away from large crowds (especially in places I'm not entirely familiar with), and I avoid reading and watching things that involve zombies. If a thunderstorm rolls in, I find my flashlight, make a cup of tea, and read a book until it blows over.
There are some things I won't get to enjoy to the same extent as other people, like zombie walks (and the local zombie carnival), even though I'm pretty damn good at doing zombie stage makeup. Zombies have become so prevalent in today's culture that it's hard to avoid them. That little bit of doubt I've convinced myself exists, the bit of doubt that says humans are totally capable of making this happen may have some truth. That doesn't make zombies any more likely. I know this, and I'm not going to let a panic attack grip me and run every time I accidentally let a zombie thought shamble across my mind.


I'm not saying I'm going to go watch a bunch of zombie movies and read ALL the apocalyptic novels. That's still asking too much. I am, however, saying this.
Zombies, you've held my heart and mind in terror for far too long. Some weird shit happens on this planet and it has been for years. It'll keep happening long after I'm gone. "OMFG ZOMBIES!" is not a rational reaction. Twelve years ago, I would've blamed it on aliens. I'm terrified of zombies, true, but I'm not going to let it control my life. I'm not going to hide inside, terrified of every noise I hear through a window, terrified of every movement I catch through the curtains over this. Letting fear control my life hasn't given me a very fulfilling life so far. Spending three weeks unable to go outside, even to check the mail or get something from the car, is not ok. If zombies are going to happen, I can worry about it then and only then.

'Vagina' is not a dirty word

It's true that most of the time I don't identify as a woman, but it is also true that I don't identify as a man.
Recently, a Michigan state representative was thrown out and barred from speaking in a debate about abortion for saying the word 'vagina'. The abortion debate itself is neither here nor there; I acknowledge that it is a highly sensitive subject. I will not force my beliefs down your throat, and I ask you do the same. In exchange, though, I ask that you at least listen. I will do the same for you.

My issue with this matter lies in the fact that 'vagina' is not a dirty word. It should not be found offensive, nor should saying it be punishable.

If you would like to do a bit of reading yourself, here's a couple links. If you find others, including links from the other side of this whole argument, please link me to them.
I've heard the argument all morning (mostly from following Maureen Johnson on twitter) that she was "baiting" the men in the room. I agree with Maureen on several points. If we're not allowed to call it a vagina, what the hell are we supposed to call it? As Representative Brown said, "If I can't say the word vagina, why are we legislating vaginas? What language should I use?"

I have a vagina. No one has any right to tell me what I am and am not allowed to do with my vagina but me. Who I choose to have sex with is not the law's business, nor is my right to birth control, my right to equal health care, and my right to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. This last statement does depend upon when you believe life begins, and this is not something I wish to go into at the moment. This issue is not black and white. Believing that there are EXACTLY two sides to any issue is close-minded and foolish.


When I was seventeen, I was raped. I've told very few people about it (and even that didn't happen for several years after the fact), but it's slowly becoming something I cannot keep quiet. In the aftermath, I very nearly killed myself. Had the resulting pregnancy not ended in miscarriage, I don't know if I would have gone through with it or not. Access to birth control was extremely limited in my home town, thanks to the highly conservative population.
Two years later, in the middle of an abusive relationship, I made the choice to not bring a child into the world. Again, I told no one for years after the fact. I was not in the place physically, emotionally, or mentally to care for a kid, and carrying a pregnancy to full term would have been dangerous in more ways than one.


Thanks to a medley of medical problems (both physical and mental), it is my choice to not have children (although I reserve the right to change my mind as it is my body, and I alone may make that decision). Before you wonder why, take into consideration the likelihood of passing on bipolar disorder and any number of other potentially hereditary mental illnesses that have cropped up in my family. Any spawn of mine is likely to be just as messed up as I am, and while I can tell myself I would be a GOOD parent, I have no way of guaranteeing that. The thought of putting someone else through what I've been through is terrifying, and there are loads of children in this nation's broken foster care system who could use a home. It seems selfish to insist on passing on my defective genetic material while denying someone else a home.


You have the right to an opinion on all matters, but so do I. If I disagree with you, that's fine. The second you try to take away my right to an opinion just because I disagree, we have a serious problem.
My vagina is angry. It's angry because people who do not have vaginas are attempting to tell me what I can do with mine. It's angry because people still try to make me feel ashamed for making a decision about my own health and well-being. It's angry because I have a voice, damn it, and I will not be silenced.

Mixed States

After a strange and frankly almost terrifying evening spent awake on my couch, scrawling out as many words as I could convince my brain to write, I met my therapist for an 'emergency' session early this morning.

Last night, my head was a scary place to be. I've been so blatantly Red, so on top of the world, practically indestructible, that last night nearly took me down. Many, many thanks to the people who stayed up with me over the internet just to make sure I wouldn't do anything stupid.

I'm fairly certain I've never experienced a mixed episode quite like last night. I've never felt so utterly broken, so useless and ready to die. After making sure the sharp things were hidden, I resigned myself to staying awake. My mind is still racing, mostly back into the Red, but just the fact that my mixed states combine the energy with suicidal ideation and completely remove my mental filter reminding me suicide is not an acceptable answer is frightening. I've learned over the years to anticipate the Red and the Black, but the mixed states are damn near impossible to notice until they're here in all their terrifying glory. If Red and Black are a rollercoaster, mixed states are being stuck upside down in the middle of a loop, yelling and screaming at yourself for getting on the damn ride in the first place.

No, I am not ok. I know I will BE ok, though. Just give me some time. I'm not going to act on the things my mind suggests to me, no matter how tempting they may be. I'm on this rollercoaster until the end, and I'm not about to get off it before I see where it goes.

Small victories

Yesterday, I managed to get myself outside.

From a little after 1 AM to now, I have been on my couch, which is the closest I will be to outside after dark.

I think these drugs are helping, if they aren't making things perfect. I'll take what I can get at this point. 

Also, you shall have to forgive me, Blogger changed the layout of things and my font sizes don't show up on the page the way they do in the previews. Complain at me if I make a change that's too hard to read, by all means. 

Between the release of Diablo III and my random anxiety attacks, I haven't left home in almost a week.

My doctor prescribed a new anti-anxiety drug for me (and it's not the "in case of panic attack" sort, it's the "take this every day and you'll feel normal again" sort), so we'll just have to see how it works out. I am notoriously bad with daily pills, and I've had some stupid reactions to medications I've been on before.

I don't WANT to be medicated. There's a part of me that is damn proud of my own ability to cope with my lack of sanity without pills, but it's at the point that I cannot function if I do not do something. The rest of me just wants HELP.

Now I just have to conquer my own shameful feelings about needing help.