brightlotusmoon: (Asha)
Leonard Nimoy is dead. I am crying.

An article explains how the fervor and insanity over the "ugly Tumblr dress" can compare to sensory processing difficulty in autism. And every autistic goes "NO SHIT."

And a very powerful article about the dangers of Autism Speaks makes me cry again.
brightlotusmoon: (Asha)
"...Williams died by the claw of the ghastly inner monster that severe depression lodges in the human spirit, losing a long fight with the unholy ghost." -Brain Pickings (included is a link to a book referencing clinical depression to a holy ghost)

In my last session with my therapist, I kept calling depression The Hollow and a Dark Ghost and The Nothing and, naturally, true pure abyss. In such violent howling emptiness, there could be sound and fury, signifying nothing. And sometimes there is just nothing. Fury would be an emotion, after all.
(And I know why depressed people don't tell the tale, lest they be called an idiot. They'll be mocked today. And tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. And they are heard no more, and as they are poor players, life is but a walking shadow. Out, brief candle. -And people wonder why we get angry when mental illness gets blamed for so many blameless things and things where mental illness is completely not ever the blame. This is why we can't have nice things.)

People always ask me why I cry when I say I am hollow, empty, ghostly, feeling nothing. Isn't crying an emotion? they say Doesn't it mean you feel something? they say. I think Allie Brosh, who wrote the greatest description of depression I have ever read in her blog Hyperbole and a Half, said it best: It is just something that is happening.
Because I don't feel like crying. I'm crying because my body is having a reaction. A symptom, if you will. Something needs to release. Some sort of physiological reaction must occur, lest I literally fade into ghosts.

I understand some of the reasons Robin did what he did. I don't know why he did what he did. No one knows why. No one can know why, because no one is Robin.
People have the same thoughts and feelings and illnesses as Robin had, and they see everything he saw. But none of them and nobody will ever fully purely viscerally know, truly know why he, Robin Williams, the funniest man of a thousand laughs, physically participated in his own death. Only Robin Williams knows.

Cool story, bro:
Someone who survied her own suicide attempt once told me that for her, there was only pain, agony, chaos, and the kind of despair that consumes utterly. Beneath it was a nearly robotic thought process. Any emotional thoughts came from a distance. As she began the process, she became enveloped in a still emotionless sedating transcendent serenity, and time slowed down, and she literally had no more thoughts. Since she was stopped by other people, she couldn't tell me much more. But she told me that during recovery, she experienced every single one of those sensations at once, from the pain and chaos to the calm transcendence. It took a lot of sedatives and intense biofeedback to help her out of that state and she was put on suicide watch again for a few days. They allowed her family to bring in her kitten, which helped so much that she now advocates for cat therapy when treating mental illness. I think of her when I talk to attempt survivors. I only remember her first name and some day I will forget some of her story. But she lives a different life. Not better nor worse, just different. She has learned lessons. She doesn't regret things. She still battles symptoms and switched to a new drug regimen and still does biofeedback. She hasn't had any suicidal ideations in over a year. She also treats her cat like the most important sentient being in the universe, since he helped save her life. Cats are awesome.
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Ruby Blood Dragon Witch Light)

My medically knowledgeable best friend was right about that daily extra Klonopin. Hello, sudden sobbing breakdown and potential nightmare about my cat dying all over again.
I know she is still here. She's just not... here.
Oh, Rose-kitten. I miss your sleepy weight on my torso.
Oh, now this is fascinating.
I took that second Klonopin while crying wildly. Across the hall, in the other room, Calliope started meowing loudly. I went in despite wanting to just curl back up in bed. She immediately rubbed against my legs. When I sat on the couch, she nuzzled and kneaded me, then jumped down, rolled on the floor, and offered her belly. I immediately, instantly, powerfully, got a sense of "I am here to give you comfort. Here is my love, if you want it. Touch me. Love me. If you want. I am here." And as soon as I touched her face and she purred so loud my hand vibrated, I felt so calm and tranquil it was like a river becoming still after a rock had been tossed in. Mind, the Klonopin had not had a chance to work yet. But Calliope's purring did... something. I just breathed. I breathed and I stroked her and I ran my fingers through her unshaved belly fur, and she nibbled my fingers and rubbed her cheeks on them. She hadn't instantly jumped on me or rubbed my face, but she had quietly and simply offered comfort. And as I made sounds of pain and sadness, her soft mewing and loud purring grew stronger.
I know it is far too soon to tell, but I think this kitten will be a medicine cat. Not like Rose. Not in an instant touch way. In a quantum touch way. Give when it is needed. Push out serenity without nudging. Be there without being instant.
I think I can work with that...


She jumped onto my lap now, right as I write this, purring purring purring, and I swear it is quantum healing. Touch when touch seems okay, distance with comforting waves when needed. Yes. This is who Calliope will be. Offering. Asking. Culture of consent. Do you want me to help you? I am here if you need me. I will not disturb you unless you come to me. I understand you. I will care for you. Here is my energy. Here is my Serenity.
The way she touches me is like a healer hovering hands above a patient, drawing power from outside sources.


I believe her middle name should be Serenity.


I think she knows who Rose is...

brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Ruby Blood Dragon Witch Light)
Back pain back pain back pain backpain backpain backpain NNNGGHH.
It's the lumbar area, leading to sciatica down both legs. Of course, you know? I've got an appointment with my new orthopedist on January sixth, and we're going to get be fitted for true customized orthotics... although I am going to insist they be cushioned, if not highly comfortable. The ones I had as a teenager actually made my feet hurt whilst walking. I still have the left one from those days. It is not comfortable. I understand practicality and function, but still.
Nnngh. Back, hips, legs, knees, ankles. Come on, drugs, work faster.

When we came home from grocery shopping, I looked up at the stairs and whispered, "Mama's home, Rose." I had meant it merely for her memory, for her spirit that now lived in the house, free to leave the clay statue that was a vessel, as Adam had not bound her to it. Adam said, "She's still gone, sweetheart." And I knew, and I reminded him that it was just... oh, I couldn't even find the words. It was just for her ghost. But he knew. We held each other and he knew.

My friends have cried for me, I think, more than I've cried for myself. I will have pockets of moments in which I will break down in gasping sobs, but they are so quick and triggered. A brush that had moved through her fur while I was comforting her in her lethargy, before I understood what was really happening, tufts of fur clinging to the bristles that I may not remove for a while. My pillow, and the soft bean-bag type pillow behind it that served as a general cat pillow but which was generally used by Rose especially in the mornings. A bag of Greenies treats that I realized I no longer had to move to a high place where Rose couldn't grab it and tear into it. Sitting in this desk chair, now, and knowing that Rose will never jump onto my lap and rub her cheeks over my mouth. She will not curl up on the floor, waiting for me to announce that Mama is going to bed so she can lead me there and see me to sleep. Oh. Yes, I'm in tears now. Oh, babygirl. Luna is on my lap now, kissing me, nuzzling. In her own Luna way.

We will be adopting another cat. Yes. It may be sooner than anyone thinks. I've already dreamed of her. I've already named her. I already know her age range. But... you know, someones through the grief and the numbness and the deep deep shock and the horror of physical death, we know deep deep inside that even if it takes only a week or two to get another pet, it is nothing like a replacement. It just means that the throbbing empty hollow burning in our hearts might start to heal, just a little. Luna is still my heart and soul, my queen and my moon goddess, my precious love. Jupiter is still my beautiful big boy, my chatty feline child who brightens my day just by smiling. The new kitten, the new young cat, will never be Rose. She will be herself.
Rose is never coming back, not even in a new incarnation. I'm not even sure I want that; it might hurt too deeply. Rose herself was already the reincarnation of Adam's patchwork dog, Ralph. Rose spent five glorious years learning to love and be loved. In Buddhism, that is a vital thing. All animals understand this. It is slightly Jainist. Adam and I, in our eclectic paganism, are mildly Buddhist in various, often conflicting, ways. It is not possible for us to be fully Buddhist in any way, but eclecticism is a wide arena.

"Life is a journey.
Death is a return to earth.
The universe is like an inn.
The passing years are like dust.
Regard this phantom world
As a star at dawn, a bubble in a stream,
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
A flickering lamp - a phantom - and a dream"
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Ruby Blood Dragon Witch Light)
Last night... I dreamed that we went to the shelter and adopted a young cat - a kitten, really, a domestic shorthair tabby - and the gender didn't matter, but the name meant "Life" or "World" or anything magical...
Emma. Zoe. Zoya. Gaia. Vita. Asha. Mira. Zena. Yuki. Saturn. Nova. Chronos. Rhea. Deus. Dragon. Elfin.

Why did it have to be so soon? My heart/mind already is desperate to fill that abyss. Rose was that kind of cat, after all. Everyone says their cat is incredibly unique. Rose was incredibly unique. I don't even know.

I know well enough that I need a cat whose personality and behavior involves pure love: holding, hugging, cuddling, nuzzling, trilling, adoration.

My heart needs time to heal. I know. But soon enough, that cat will be waiting for me.

I don't know what I will do. Emotionally dead one moment, sobbing wildly the next minute. I know this is normal.

Luna snuggles me and purrs louder than ever.

Yes. I want a third cat.

I don't know how I will feel or think tomorrow.

I am not used to thinking in the moment.
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Ruby Blood Dragon Witch)
Seizure happened in the kitchen. Jupiter meowed and rubbed against me while I crouched. Adam came in and gently lay me on the floor. My eyes were open and blank. Adam touched my face and reached for my mind, and I spasmed and gasped and blinked. I asked why I was on the floor. Adam helped me up and stood me against the large freezer. My memory is swirling. Alicia is holding me. Earlier, Adam said he told his boss, a fellow animal lover, that he needed an extra day to care for his wife. I rolled my eyes and said that was not necessary; that I was fine. Never mind. It was so dark and so white equally braided as order and chaos magics. I was spinning at ninety-nine percent light speed and thirty-five miles an hour. The world was elsewhere. A few seconds lasted a thousand years. Adam suggested I go upstairs and rest. Jupiter is suggesting a cuddle. I am thinking coffee and clonazepam and baclofen. I am made of light and love and pure order-chaos magic in its simplest form. I can give myself the right strength. May be that I can regenerate. As brightly and intensely as a Time Lord. I always shine enough for everyone.

brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Ruby Blood Dragon Witch Light)
Since I am still in shock, I feel like I'm moving through the Kubler-Ross stages of grief completely out of order. I've accepted that Rose is dead and I am deeply depressed. While I held her waiting for Adam, I knew she was dying and I was already angry and bargaining. When the vet said she was critical, I accepted and realized she was probably going to die. When she coded and they couldn't revive her, I accepted and understood, then went right on to bargaining again, blaming myself and how I just kept waiting. It became anger, wondering how the fuck a five-year old cat with a clean bill of health could suddenly present with congestive heart failure and die so quickly. I became angry that we hadn't figured it might be genetic. I became depressed that I couldn't have known. I still blamed myself for not finding a way to take her to the clinic sooner.
When we held her body, I went through acceptance and depression again, followed by deep gratefulness that at least she waited until Adam came home, that Adam got to hold her, that she knew how much we loved her. Depression again. Acceptance.
No denial. Slight isolation.
I updated Facebook right there in the clinic's comfort room, since in this age of instant communication it was much faster than a sobbing phone chain. We finished holding Rose and signed the private cremation form. We walked to the car. My best friend Beca called and all I could hear was her screams, and I cried. She and her husband James came over with food: Whole rotisserie chickens that I ripped into because I hadn't eaten all day. Alcohol because it helped dull the pain. Being a doctor, she commanded that I keep taking Klonopin, as well as baclofen, two to three times a day just to keep my mind and body from shattering.
I realized how desperately I needed them there, and she knew it, and late that night she brought me to bed, fed me my drugs, and climbed into bed with me. Adam was downstairs on the couch with James.
I clung to my plushie ginger tabby Haiku all night. Beca and James left early this morning, and Adam came up to sleep with me. I woke up and instinctively reached behind my head to the soft pillow where Rose would be sprawled out, and I made a soft whimper of intense pain, because she wasn't there.
And Jupiter has been meowing, softly. Meowing and meowing. I don't know how much he understands yet. Luna has been so quiet, but always there, always ready for a hug. It's only been a day. I've only shed a few tears. The real grieving hasn't begun.
People are gently discussing taking me across the street to the new shelter on Solstice or after Christmas, to let me adopt a cat. Others have suggested waiting a few months. I cannot wait. Because I don't believe in waiting for too long. My heart cannot take it. I cannot spent months mourning and empty when a pet dies, otherwise I may lose my mind. See... After Tuesday died in November 2006, I spent four agonizing months with a growing, burning, echoing hole inside me, until I begged Adam to take me to the old shelter on Rothgeb just to look, just to see... and that was where Luna stole my heart and filled my soul. And one year later, my other best friend Charlotte begged us to come see her former coworker's new litter of five female gingers, and Adam picked up one, looked into those wide bright sunny eyes, and announced she was coming home. And Rose took our hearts and ran.
I never expected the baby of the family to be the first to die.
I think we will always be a three-cat house now.
I want and do not want isolation. I don't want platitudes. I am completely fine with "I'm so sorry for your loss" - as "sorry" is shorthand for "sorrowful" and it helps me to know that others feel the loss and mourn with me. But I am depressed. And I don't know what to say.
We have been getting so many phone calls and messages.
She was only five years old. I guess it was genetic. She was so young.

Now, her soul resides in the gold-cream clay sculpture Adam had made in her likeness months ago. Adam absorbed her energy, stored it, released it, and made sure she would stay with us.

The house of Rose's soul.
Oh sweet Bast, please love Rose and care for her. Give her sweet cuddles and nuzzles and kisses. And give her as many treats as she wants.
With Adam Paul, the sculptor.
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Ruby Blood Dragon Witch Light)
I'm too much in shock and too tired, so I am copying from Facebook.

Yesterday Part 1.
I don't think I'm having a nightmare. But if I am, I just want to do something to make Rose stop panting rapidly and lethargically with wide pupils and mild legarthy. It is four in the morning. I have no car. I could call a taxi service to take us to the Nebel Street emergency clinic but I can't think straight. Maybe she is having a cat anxiety attack. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's nothing. I will stay awake for her. I will offer her treats. I will remain calm because Klonopin is in me and I cannot panic. She is letting me cuddle her. Maybe it's nothing. I need it to be nothing. It's four in the morning and I can't drive and I can't find a carrier and vets don't make house calls. I need this to be nothing. Bast, please let Rose be fine. I will stay awake.

Yesterday Part 2.
Okay. Rose is okay. I mean... well, she did turn down Greenies, which never happens, which means she may not be hungry or is just very tired. When I pressed my ear to her side, I didn't hear anything unusual, just breathing and purring. But she also turned down water and food, which makes me concerned. Her nose is dark... is that a thing? I mean, it's not that 'normal' bright pink flush. She is also acting physically weak - when I picked her up she went limp, and when I put her on the dresser with the food and water bowls she looked almost depressed. She then jumped off and lay on the floor and mewed. I think it's allergies or maybe the start of a cold. She is absolutely lethargic. There isn't much I can do right now - I don't want to rush her to a vet right now just out of worry. She's breathing fine. Adam won't be home until tomorrow, though.

Today Part 1.
As soon as Adam gets home we are rushing Rose to the VCA emergency clinic on Perry Parkway. FYI. Her breathing troubles are much worse.

Today Part 2.
Rose Sunshine Paul.
Time of death: 2:20 PM December 14 2013. VCA Veterinary Referral Associates.
My cat died of heart failure caused by liquid around the heart and lungs.

Today Part 3.
Rose Sunshine Paul.
April 2008 to December 2013. Confirmed cause of death: fluid around the heart and lungs. Heart attack and shock.

At the Gaithersburg VCA Veterinary Referral Associates, the closest pet emergency hospital, the one we have been going to for years since its Darnestown location... they called in every single doctor and nurse into the ICU since Rose was already severely critical. They did everything possible to stabilize her even through the Code Blue. A dozen veterinary specialists for one little cat. They spent 15 minutes on resuscitation. Dr. Marc led us to the comfort room and said there was nothing else to ben done. Let me stress that every single doctor was in that room working to save our cat.
We opted for a private cremation. Just like Tuesday and Ralph and Puff, with polished wood boxes and name plates and clay discs with paw prints. These people were wonderful.
Rose died knowing she was dearly loved. She knew how intensely we cherished her. She loved us with every part of her soul. We were tribe.

Adam and I held her in the towels and hugged her body, and Adam absorbed her soul. At home, he transferred Rose to the sculpture he had made, with gold and cream paint. Rose as a soul will always be with us.

Read more... )
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Blood Red Light Pale)
Well, now that I've learned how to properly pronounce "Hypoxic-ischemic encephalopathy" I can do more thorough research into how the brain lesions from periventricular leukomalacia damaged those particular sections of my brain.
As cerebral palsy is a static encephalopathy, yet always comes with co-morbid and co-existing disorders that are progressive, cerebral palsy can sometimes be confused with a disease that progresses. But no. The damage has already been done and cannot change. However, the extent of that damage can spawn syndromes and conditions over the years that can still cause permanent and progressive damage to the brain and the body. Which basically means that I get to smack anyone upside the head who insists that I can be completely cured. Because it's funny.

Also, this is accurate:
Periventricular leukomalacia (PVL) is a type of brain damage that involves the periventricular white matter of the brain. Damage to white matter results in the death and decay of injured cells, leaving empty areas in the brain — called lateral ventricles, which fill with fluid (a condition called leukomalacia).
The brain primarily consists of white matter and gray matter. Gray matter has neural cell bodies, which can initiate nerve impulses, while white matter transports impulses between gray matter cells. The periventricular white matter that surrounds two horseshoe shaped cavities in the brain is primarily responsible for the transmission of nerve impulses that control motor function. Damage in this area can result in spasticity and intellectual impairment.
Myelin is an integral component of white matter that coats and essentially insulates cell pathways, promoting speedy transmission of nerve impulses. Damage to myelin slows and impedes nerve transmission, possibly impairing brain function.
Approximately 60-100% of infants with periventricular leukomalacia are diagnosed with cerebral palsy. Four to 26% of premature infants placed in neonatal intensive care units have cerebral palsy. In severe cases, postmortem examinations have discovered that 75% of premature infants who died shortly after birth had periventricular leukomalacia.
Experts believe intrauterine infections are the underlying factor for periventricular leukomalacia. Membranes around the fetus are affected by the release of toxins, which travel through amniotic fluid to selectively injure areas of the developing brain. These toxins can also cause premature rupture of the membranes and premature birth.

In conclusion: Whenever someone thinks they're insulting me by telling me I am brain-damaged, I always say "Thank you! I am brain damaged! I'm impressed you noticed!" Which confuses them so much that they just stop talking altogether. And then I feel happy.

brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Blood Red Dragon Witch)
"That which does not kill us leaves us with scars." -Failure To Fire webcomic

As of 11:58 PM April 6, I will have survived for thirty-four years with all my scars still around. I am constantly asked why I don't have the scars smoothed over or rubbed out. And I have finally realized that I don't want to. They are here for a reason. They are not going anywhere. They cannot go anywhere.

Also, if I try to rub out the keloids, I suffer blisters that look like third degree burns. That is what happens to tender newborn prematurely born technically still fetus skin where veins and blood vessels and lungs and brain matter and organs collapse and struggle even in life-saving incubators. All that tape to hold in all those IV needles. Scars all over my abdomen, arms, hands, legs, skull, tiny bits of flesh missing and regrown in textures that look like prokaryote cells - scars that look like tiny nibbles from tiny sharp teeth. Skin that stretches and alters as the body grows, scars that grow with body growth in fascinating ways.
Three months early birth, three months stay in hospital, one pound thirteen ounces, mild periventricular leukomalacia, mild cerebral palsy ... I earned those fucking scars. The only one I might want smoothed out is the one on the side of my right breast, where that tube was inserted to inflate my lung. Sometimes it makes it hard to wear a bra properly since the keloid pulls the breast tissue flat and crooked. But the ankle keloids will stay. They hurt constantly. They are highly sensitive. They bleed extremely. But they remind me. I did not die.
brightlotusmoon: (Pixie Model 5)
Well, then.
Spears raised to the sky, screaming hard enough for the gods to hear my battle cry.
Covered in blood and dark and pain and scars and insanity. Teeth and talons bared, skin flayed just enough to show how I can still stand and fight. Do not back down. Stand up until my body collapses on its own. Find a safe place to heal and rest. Gear up again and rush out again. Over and over, on and on, for the rest of my life, this will never end. Spears and swords and armor and power and intensity.
I am not strong. I just want to live.
This is not about bravery or inspiration. This is not about using my disabilities to show or prove anything to anyone.
This is about my life. This about my battles. This is about my fellow warriors, who I will support until I fall, and if I fall I will crawl to throw the final spear.
I just want to live. I don't care what is normal or crazy. I just want myself back. It will take the rest of this life and beyond, but I am prepared.
My monsters will always be there to damage me. I will always be there to damage my monsters. Welcome to life.
I will stand. I will fight. I will hurt. I will heal. I will crawl. I will return. I will fight on and on because it is all I am. I will fight.
I will stand up.
brightlotusmoon: (Snow White Blood Red Dragon Witch)
Today is a day of deep, deep depression, fatigue, and chronic pain so endless that the abyss is right in my face grinning. Everything is a Cheshire cat.

I have been forming this post in my head since yesterday morning, when I woke up with nothing working properly, with only bits of my brain and body truly functional, and I had to put on a mask and a whole costume, I had to grip my spears and even a sword for dear life, I had to smile and pretend to shine because I refused to worry anyone, because I didn't want to sink further.

And people tend to get tired of me constantly talking about my pains and feelings, because whoa, can't I talk about happy things, things that maybe don't involve medicine and coping mechanisms and feelings?
But here is the Big Thing: So many people feel this way. So many dear friends will read this and understand and perhaps comment and know they have someone to help them stand and fight.
And that is the other Big Thing. We do need help. We do need to stand with each other and fight. On the internet and in life, there are people who will say we are faking, that we are pill addicts, that we are attention whores, that we are crazy.

I will stand up and say, No, I am not faking, nor a pill addict, nor do I desire attention. But crazy? Yes. Yes, I am crazy. Yes, I need help. I am getting help. Medications. Therapy. Exercise. Nutrition. Supplements. Herbs. Vitamins. Holistics. I am not afraid to tell you what is happening, because you need to hear it, you who would mock and tease and bully and tell me to "Just slap a Band-Aid on it and walk it off, just exercise and feel better, just eat this food for two weeks without any drugs, just smile a lot, oh hey, I felt sad yesterday and then I got over it, I know how you feel, I wrenched my ankle last week and wrapped it up and now I feel better, I know how you feel, maybe you're just pretending, why don't you just get better? Quit talking about how much you hurt, everybody hurts, it could be worse."
It could be worse, yes oh yes. Ohhh, sweethearts, it could be so much worse. Yes.
Here, let us try something: You can have my body for a while. You can feel every single feeling I feel, think every thought I think, know every pain I know. See how it feels. No? You can't? Really? Are you sure? Still no? Oh, dear. Well, then, I suppose we will have to stop associating, even if we have only been talking via a forum, a community, a social network, a bus stop, a party, via phone, via web video, in a store, in a house. Oh, well. I thought maybe you had enough compassion, or, you know, empathy. I guess I won't find out. But you know what? If it ever happens to you - and part of me hopes it won't and part of me hopes it will - I shall still stand with you even if you hurt me, because warriors stand up.

There are beautiful, wonderful, incredible, amazing, extraordinary, fantastic people who are being slowly devastated, crippled, destroyed by their own bodies' various systems, for no true reason other than they just happen to live in those bodies. Some of them think about how horrible they are, how they are useless, worthless, pointless, draining, a burden to everyone around them. I feel that way quite a bit. There are some who want to harm themselves, some who want to kill themselves. I cannot do that, but I admit I have imagined it. If I truly wanted to harm myself, I would stop taking my medications. I would let all the pain crash over me in one single tsunami with wave after wave, while I spasm and shake and seize and sob and scream and shiver because I refuse to give myself relief, because I refuse to make it stop. But I will not do that. I can not do that. It would destroy everyone who loves me, whom I love. And I know that. That is another Big Thing.

To everyone reading this who feels the same way: I love you. You are loved. You will always be loved. You are extraordinary. You are amazing. You are fantastic. You are beautiful in so many ways. I love you. I will stand up with you. I will give you spears, swords, shields. I will show you how to scream a battle cry loud enough to make the gods hear you. I will show you how to launch into battle with these monsters. We will never win the war. We will often retreat covered in blood and darkness, growling and licking our wounds and crouching together to patch up each other's wounds.
I will take you by the hand and lead you outside. We will stare up at the sky and say, "Oh, this is such a beautiful sky." The sky may not look beautiful. The sky may be full of dark storm clouds and we cannot see the sun. But just because there is a storm does not mean that the sky has gone away. The clouds and the dark will move, and we will see the bright, bright sky, all shades of blue, and we will see the sun, gazing upon us like the eye of a god, giving us light and warmth and strength. We cannot look directly at the sun, but we can look at the sky and call it beautiful, and we can look at each other, covered in war wounds, and say we are beautiful. We are. We are beautiful.
I love you.

Oh, and I wanted to add: I took my painkillers and anti-anxiety drugs today, of course. They are helping, of course. I got exercise, I meditated deeply, I spoke with a therapist, I ate healthful happy foods, I did all the things people suggest one does in these situations. I am very very slowly working my way back to a steady and stable mood, but it will take a while - many people don't understand that it takes a while. That is yet another Big Thing. "Why isn't your treatment working yet? What is wrong with you? Shouldn't you be feeling better by now? Why are you still like this?"
It is tiring, and it is irritating. But I am still going to share, and speak, and stand, and stay strong. Because you asked. Because you need to know. Because I love you.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
I dreamed about Pamela last night for the first time since my teens. She knew me when I was born, she had been best friends with my parents. Mom says that when I was born, Pam got a little jealous because my parents spent more time with me. She was not mentally sound or stable. She loved us. She loved me. As I grew up, she loved me so so much. She clung to me and my parents. She took her life, alone and deliberate, when she knew she was surrounded by friends and loved ones, but the depression and loneliness and the drugs had a stronger pull. I wish I hadn't blamed myself. I wish she hadn't told me how she was alive because of her love for me. It didn't matter in the end. I was only a child. I had no idea how bad the inside of her head was. My parents shielded me. Pam gave me gifts and love, and then she was gone, and for a long time I thought it was partly my fault. Because she loved me. I wasn't enough. Nobody was enough. Nothing was enough. She killed herself because nothing was enough.
Fuck you, Pam. I loved you. I hate you. I love you.

Misha is dead. Misha killed herself. I can't talk about Misha right now, I don't even know what to say. She was always shining, she was always laughing, she always pulling people into her orbit and dancing. Her laughter was huge. Her smile was brilliant. She was joyous and bright and strong and lively and giving and selfless. Why the fuck? Why why why why? Why?

Last week, I learned that a member of a fibromyalgia forum I used to frequent had taken her own life. She had no support network, no doctors who believed in her, only pain and depression. I still don't understand why.

There are many reasons why people commit suicide. I cannot wrap my head around any of them. I just feel numb and confused and upset and angry. I want to know why. I want to understand what happens when a person makes such a decision. I need to understand because I just don't know.

I can't cry. Not yet. I still feel like it's a horrible dream. What if I never cry? What if I stay confused and angry?

Why the fuck does this happen?
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
I am going to make a cup of sea buckthorn berry green tea and sip it slowly.
I am going to drink acai juice blended with goji and mangosteen.
I am going to watch more episodes of "Babylon 5."
I am going to treat my skin with various superfruit products.
I am going to hug all three of my cats until they purr.
I am going to try and meditate.

Today, a friend killed herself. I don't know why yet. I don't have any details. People are shocked and sick and numb and confused and angry and upset. Her Facebook wall is full of posts from people expressing love, and wondering why, wondering why she didn't come to anyone. I don't know if anyone knew she was in such a mindset. I don't think anyone ever thought she would ever consider suicide. I don't know. I don't know why these things happen. I can't make sense of it. I've missed her since she moved away. Now she will never come back.

I hope Adam reaches Manhattan safely and soon. I hope he gets rest and pain relief. I hope his job for the next four days goes well. I love him. I called him to let him know that M. was dead and then I told him I loved him, over and over. It's what I can do. I can tell people that I love them.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
This isn't my favorite season, but it is my favorite month, and it is also the last month of the year according to certain calenders. The god is dying, the world is turning, the veil between worlds is thinning. Welcome to the harvest.
Also, I just love saying the word "October."
Also, eight is my favorite number.

I wanted to endure the migraine without drugs, but screw it; I took a Flexeril and drank it down with coffee. Much better.
Adam wanted to go to GameStop, and after that we hopped over to the Trader Joe's on the other side of the shopping center. I got their Charmingly Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies. They're amazing. Best store-bought packaged cookies I've ever eaten.

The fibro flare has wound down, and now I am merely aching all over with occasional twinges and random bursts of minor pain. This is my Doing Better.

Oh, gods, Rose is lounging on Adam's lap and she's smiling. Like, actually smiling. Adam is lying on the long couch playing on the PlayStation, and Rose is doing mashy-paws on his belly and she's smiling. And earlier, Luna gave me kisses for twenty minutes straight. Damn, I love my cats.

I have been having the most bizarre, awesome dreams lately. I'm actually looking forward to having dreams tonight.
brightlotusmoon: (Default)
"So," he said as two of the nurses drew a sheet over his remains and the others left the room to console Wanda, "That's it. I go through the rest of timeless time, on a new, higher plane of existence, and as I float godlike among the insubstantial void, all I'll ever be thinking is, Who the fuck was Cary?"

"Stories are hope. They take you out of yourself for a bit, and when you get dropped back in, you're different – you're stronger, you’ve seen more, you've felt more. Stories are like spiritual currency."
If you have not yet picked up The Sandman: Book Of Dreams, a collection of short stories inspired by Neil Gaiman's graphic novels and edited by Neil Gaiman, you should do so just for the above story. It's about Wanda, the male-to-female transsexual from "A Game Of You" and it's about her friend Darren, who is in a hospital bed dying rapidly from AIDS. Wanda is telling him a story, and Death comes to him before he finds out how it ends. He gets very upset -- he wants to hear the end, he wants to find out who was the guy Wanda had been fucking behind the Countess' back. He tries to defy Death herself, but Wanda is too upset to finish. So Death makes a deal with Darren and tells him he can come back later, as a spirit, so Wanda can tell him who Cary was.
The story is about dying before the story ends. But it's also about being an endless part of the story, forever in time, having that "extra smidgen of eternity" because part of you will always remain, in the story.
The story made me smile big and go "Awwww!" and sniffle a little.
And you know what, The Dream King really does look a bit like Daniel Day-Lewis.
I think the story tells a lot about life and death and how it just keeps going, this one long cycle, this neverending story. We can always come back later to hear how it ends.

That is why I write stories. It's also about leaving a piece of yourself out there, in the insubstantial void, where spirits floating godlike can know who you are.


brightlotusmoon: (Default)

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