Am I Dr. Watson?

So, I am totally in a spiral of self-hatred, dissociation and shame.  I have been stuck in my house for about 2 months (?) basically eating and watching Netflix and whatever I torrent off the internet.  I am not in a good place.  And no matter how I say it here, I will sound better than I actually am.  I am not good.  3 weeks ago, if I had a gun, I probably would have killed myself.  Ironically, only my depression stopped my suicide.  It was too much work to plan the whole fucking thing, so I slept instead.

I have been watching and "fangirl" ing this TV show I like- Sherlock on BBC.  It is about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson in the present.  Dr. Watson is a ptsd guy from the Afghanistan war, and he shacks up with Sherlock to solve crimes.  What I love about the show is that Dr. Watson is just like me.  He has nothing, no love, no passion, nothing to live for and as he says in episode 1 to his therapist (!) "nothing ever happens to me."  And then he randomly becomes flatmates with Sherlock and his life begins.  GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDDDd.  Please let that happen to me.  I have nothing, no life, nothing.  I feel I am unworthy of even a tumblr account.  I want a Sherlock to come save me.  And I will be the practical human being to his sociopathic/neutral good/asperger's bx.  I just need to be saved.

The beauty of the show Sherlock is basically that they fall in love with each other, without either one knowing what the fuck to do about it.  So they stay platonic work partners that spend every fucking waking moment with each other.  I would be happy with even this fucked up codependent relationship.

I just need help.  Help..  I need love.  And companionship.  But I need to save myself, because no one else can save me.  The idea of a Sherlock is beautiful, but misguided.  I have to be my own Sherlock.  I have to save myself.

PS. After at least a year and a half of abstaining, I got drunk tonight at a lesbian bar and talked to some women.  I even sort of have plans for later in the week.  And let me tell you, I would trade (and did) all the sobriety in the world to have a life. and friendship.  So there.

Here I Come Again

So I'm writing again because Lara wants me to write. I would like to take some of the credit, but hell, I really don't want to write. But I am at my wit's end and don't know what else to do, so here it is, me writing.

I've been fighting, white knuckle fighting, doing something/anything destructive for the past few days. Over the weekend I was sure I was going to use. Either drink and pick someone up or do DXM and maunder on the beach after watching Dorian Gray. But I didn't. But I still want to. It's early enough still tonight for me to go get some alcohol and be a dumbass.

We have a ton of new people in group, which I wasn't thrilled about at first, but am now glad of it. They are going to bring new energy, new perspectives. Good times.

I really do hate myself. And when I hate myself, I'm embarrassed that I'm still alive. I think I want to kill myself. Ugh. But I think I do.

My watch is too damn big and was fucking up my typing so I just took it off. I guess if I'm going to die, then should I have fun first? I was in this same place in March, when I sent my super-duper awesome email to Dr. . Yeah, there was a veiled "hey wanna fuck?" question in there, but the bulk of the email was about how I hated myself and wanted to travel, get fucked up and jump trains until I died. But somehow that whole part got ignored. Wonder why?

So.... I am coming to grips with the fact that my mom might just suck royally. But I'm not there yet. It would be easier if I could remember some really horrible thing she did to me, but there isn't anything. She just was mean and extremely unpredictable and unsafe. She hit me. She dragged me on the floor. She kicked me. She slammed my head by my hair all the time in the car. She broke my stereo, my most prized possession. But I figured out how to fix it every time she threw it. Fucking bitch.

She left me at the mall once. I was 16 or 17. It was before college. She got mad at me and left me at the mall. I had to walk home probably 6 or 7 (or more) miles. I remember walking home and being so embarrassed. I stopped to eat at a pizza place and somehow felt that everyone could see how gross I was, how contaminated and tainted. I felt like an other, like an "it", but a gross, unwelcome "it", not a neutral being. I was tainted. I just remember being shamed.

When I finally got home I walked back in the house through the front door. I remember trying to decide: front door or through my window? For some reason I chose the front door. Walking through the door was harder than the whole walk home. I just sort of wished I could die and not have to face her. She was sitting in the living room watching TV and didn't say a thing to me. It must have been hours later, it was a LONG fucking walk, with a stop to eat. And she didn't say a thing to me. nothing.

How could she do that to me? How could she not say "I am so sorry, I know I got mad, but I never wanted you to have to walk all by yourself all that way." Or "I went back to look for you and couldn't find you, I'm sorry." She had no idea if I had money or not. And this was long before I had a cell phone. She left her kid alone miles and miles from home and didn't give a shit.

But I did have money. I don't remember if I had my backpack, but I almost ALWAYS had it with me as a teenager, and it was exactly for reasons like that. In fact, maybe that started the backpack thing? But I remember I always wanted to be ready. I always had money, an extra jacket, writing materials and a book. I was safe then. Set for anything. I didn't need her, or safety, or knowing I had a ride home. I could take care of myself. Fuck her. I think. I mean, is leaving me awful? It feels awful, but maybe it's no big damn deal. I mean it's not being raped. It's not being beat up... It's just being... left.

Podcasts are kewl.

So I went for a run tonight and listened to a podcast of J being interviewed.  This is the first time I've ever listened to a podcast.  Wow, I'm only like 10 years behind the curve.  Wow.

So J was great.  It is good to hear his theories when I'm not in the room and know that what he's saying has nothing to do with me personally.  Because as we all know, everything has to do with me at all times.  Seriously though, when he talks about abuser values, loyalty and being stuck, it's nice to hear it dispassionately.  Every other time I hear/see him I'm in the middle of some type of emotional quagmire.  Either I'm ready to run from the room or dissociate, want to cut myself and die, or am somehow trying to flirt with him and get him to like me. 

It is really sad how important it is to me for him to like me.  Find me attractive even.  I can't believe I am writing this on a public blog, but that is what I've decided to do.  Have a blog with no secrets just out here on the net.  So here it is.  I've related crazier shit than this before.  But now I'm afraid J will somehow track this down and read it.  But I doubt it.  I get the feeling he's 1. not incredibly invested in his blog, 2. not really invested in stalking his readers and 3. not that net savvy.

But yeah, so even after working through it with him somewhat, even after I already told him I don't want to start getting a crush on him or hitting on him, and after he told me there would be no way in hell he would ever entertain any of that shit from me; even after all that, still, if he would go for it, I would go for it.  "It" being some kind of ridiculous romantic entanglement.  Still.  Sick huh?  I think it is actually a blockage to me getting better.  I guess I should talk to him or Cheryl about it.  Honesty, right?

I seriously have a problem in the needing male attention arena.  Why do I not do this with women?  I am bisexual, you would think I would also crave attention from women in power/authority.  But I don't.  Weird.  With women, I want the prettiest (to me) one in the room.  But I usually go for women my age or younger, who are at my status or below.  But, they have to be great looking, smart and connected.

With men it's a little looser.  If they have a PhD (or MD) (or DO I guess) then they could be a goddamn toad and I'd sleep with them.  This has been proven empirically.  Dr. Sputo is a case in point.  Yep, I said his fucking name.  No more fucking secrets asshole.  Angry, maybe...

But anyway, if a man is smart, accomplished and unavailable I will drool over him.  If he's young, working on himself, good looking and interested in me, I won't touch him.  This has also been proven many times empirically.  I never believe that a guy would actually like me.

The guy I'm sleeping with now completely confuses me.  OK, I just had a lightbulb moment.  Duh, guys will sleep with you because they want to have sex.  With pretty much anyone.  Just because they want to sleep with me doesn't mean they like me.  Duh.  Duh.  And I know that, hell, I've slept with enough guys in the "only sex" kinda way- no feelings, no attachments.  But always safe :-)

OK, so while running and listening to J tonight, I started to cry for no reason.  Then I started to get angry any time J (I'm sick of putting the damn Dr. in front of his name) said anything positive about "survivors".  At one point I started kicking a concrete wall, and now my freaking ankle hurts.   I literally was saying "fuck you" out loud at a couple of points.  I hear his self-love stuff and I want to reach through my ipod and punch him in the face then get a knife and shove it in my chest and thigh.

I've been having these recurring visions of stabbing myself HARD AND DEEP in my chest.  To die. Also visions of stabbing myself in my leg and stomach to hurt myself.  It's like cutting isn't enough anymore.  I want to violently, angrily stab myself again and again.  I want to stab into the meat of me.  It's scaring the shit out of me.  I'm afraid I'm going to do it.

I just sort of want to give up.  I'm tired and life is no good.  But at the same time I just want someone to sweep me up in their arms and hug me and love me.  But anything in between I don't want.  I either want to stop living or I want love.  The painful life I have now is unendurable and just stupid.

Holy moly, a movie can change your life.

Maybe not completely change your life. Or maybe so... "The Graduate" changed my life when I was a teenager.  And Paul Simon's "Negotiations and Love Songs" changed my life when I was a teenager as well.  Yes, I know that is an album, not a movie, but whatever.

So yeah.  I went to see A Single Man tonight, starring (my pretend husband) Colin Firth.  Bonus: Colin was playing a dapper, intelligent, and educated gay man.  Swoon.

Anyway, Colin's character lost his long-time partner and was planning on killing himself.  But he didn't.  I'm not going to go into the plot of the entire movie- but it moved me and made me feel a little better about being alive.

(I then went to see "The Book of Eli" and was not as moved.  Cheesy and formulaic. Cinematography was excellent, though.)

So, I'm still alive and (barring any mid-night tragedies) will be alive in the morning as well.  I am going to ride my bike to the beach and get some sun and exercise.  I am also going to write about what has been going on in my brain this week.  I want to write about my anger towards Cheryl and J.  I am really, really pissed that I was ignored and not cared for.  My feelings were really hurt.  It makes me not trust either of them very much right now.  Which really sucks, because I have to trust them to get better.  Or maybe I don't?  I don't know.  Can you not trust your therapists, hate their guts for being mean to you and still get better?  We'll see.

All I know is I'm going to lay it on the line.  I've had it with bullshit, lying and beating around the bush.  Which seems to be my theme for the past few months.  Hell, it's what got me sober and to the hospital.  If only it had gotten me a little more sane :-)

Blah Blah Blah

So, I feel like shit.  Suicidally like shit.  And I'm too much of a chicken to do anything about it.  Or I'm too apathetic.  Or lazy.  Whatever the reason, I'm still here whining instead of going through with it.

I told two different mental health professionals today that I was feeling suicidal.  And neither one did anything about it.  Is that normal?  I guess they think I need to be in charge of my own life or lack of it?  Which I guess is correct.  If I want to die, that's my prerogative and responsibility.  I guess I was hoping somebody would care and help me.  But they haven't.

Which falls in line with what I have learned in the past 3 months.  Only I am responsible for me.  I can't count on anyone else to care.  So if I want to die, then I should do it.

I cut a few times today.  It helped a little.  But not enough.  I am proud I didn't use though.  So hell, I'll die clean.

So, how am I going to do it?  Lately I've been envisioning slicing my wrists and bleeding to death.  I don't think it would hurt that badly and wouldn't make that much of a mess.   But after reading about Elliot Smith, I've been thinking about sticking a knife in my chest.  That is how his girlfriend found him- with  a knife protruding from his chest.

I could do it with my Swiss army knife, it is sharp as hell, but probably not long enough.  I have to hit my heart or the aorta, otherwise I won't bleed out and die quickly. 

Or I could go the wussy way and take pills.  But I don't want to be puking while I'm dying.  We'll see.

Why do I just keep thinking about it and not doing it?  Why?  Why can't I decide once and for all and get it over with?  Or, why can't I decide I want to live and keep going?  I just keep swinging from complete apathy to suicidal depression.  I can't keep steady.

I am really, really, really angry at Dr. J and Cheryl, I just realized this.  They both blew me off.  It does seem weird.  This is the first time I've felt this badly in my life, and none of the mental health professionals I'm seeing seem to give a shit.  Do I not sound sincere?  Am I that annoying?  I guess I'm still just looking for external validation, for external help when I should just be taking care of myself.

So on to taking care of myself- I need to get busy living or get busy dying.  Dying it will be.  A hotel room and some razors this weekend.  Why on the weekend?  I'm not sure, but that's when.  This Saturday. 

I wish I could figure out a way to make a case for continuing my life.  But I can't.  I'm just wasting space, resources and time that could be better spent on other people.  I am in the way and I am useless.  If I don't want this life, then I should get the fuck out of the way.  People could use the water, food and air I'm using up on this wasted, self-centered, whiny, bullshit life I'm living.

I am not anything and I need to accept it and follow through.  Goodnight.