Tag: mental pain

Last night, I had an upsetting conversation with someone that I have known the past few months. She accused me of “needing help” and that I strung her along, when I ignored her messages the last few weeks. I had done so because the last time we chatted, she was in crisis. She wanted to cut herself and was seeking my assistance to stop herself. Apparently, I wasn’t enough, despite the measures of DBT and self-soothing. I told her that if she did cut, we couldn’t be friends anymore. It was just too stressful for me and I have my own problems. That must have worked for about five minutes and then she cut. I told her goodbye and thought that was the last of I would hear from her. I was wrong. She kept telling me “people were talking about my book negatively” and that she was “trying to stick up on my behalf’. I have no idea what she was talking about. I belong to the same groups she does and have not seen one post about my book in months. So I asked another CES friend if he had heard of any scuttle butt in the groups and he hadn’t. At that point, I was fed up. I kindly wrote to her and said I didn’t know what she was talking about but please don’t contact me any further. I said I needed to work on myself and that I would be no use to anyone if I didn’t. She comes back saying all this bullshit, like we have been going around and around for months, saying she hasn’t “needed my help at all for ages”. Then she blocked me so I couldn’t respond. What a fucking bitch loser she is. She got me so damn upset and angry. I told my friend, who referred her to me, that she isn’t to send people my way who have attempted suicide, again. I tried to help her but there was no way I could. I am not a trained professional, least not yet.

I discussed this with my therapist, who was happy that I am no longer in contact with her. But because she blocked me and I didn’t, it always stands the chance she could be back. I should have blocked her when she sent me the third message asking for a response as to why I wasn’t responding. But I wanted to give her a response before I did, thinking this could end peacefully. I was wrong. If she reads this blog, maybe she can see things from my perspective but I doubt it. She only sees things her way and that has always been what she sees.

I have been so upset today that I didn’t do anything. I haven’t showered, so I didn’t go out. I just slept after my therapy appointment. She (therapist) got me going, too. She wants me to write about all my past psychotic experiences. I told her I would think about it but I am not going to put much effort into those that affected my childhood/teenage years. They are too triggering for me. I don’t remember when they started, either. I have been hearing voices since I was five. When the Smurfs were on TV, I thought they lived under my bed and each night I would talk to them before falling asleep. It all started off as imaginary friends. But as I grew older, they did too. I always have at least two voices that follow me where ever I go. Sometimes they are loud, sometimes they are not. Sometimes I don’t even know they are there. But I hear them all the time like the ebbs and flows of the water against the shore. Without them, I cannot function. They have been a part of my life so long that for them not to exist, I cannot cognitively function. I can’t think, my thoughts are slow, I can’t read. I can’t do anything. It’s a symbiotic relationship. I had to keep them quiet when others were around. I had to not speak when I was in school even though they were telling me what to do. And always criticizing me. The freeing moment came when I was hospitalized for the first time and I was diagnosed with psychotic depression. As we walked down the hall to another part of the emergency room, I started talking with myself. I figured there was no way to stop it. I was already diagnosed. My mother thought I lose my mind when I started a conversation with myself. She said to stop, as it made it look like I was “crazy”. I will never forget the shame in her voice. I wasn’t talking in another language or anything. But I was freaking out because it was my first hospitalization and I was being sent to god knows where. I hated the first hospital I went to. Then I was transferred to another nicer hospital. My cousin said that all I had to do was to sign the three day paper to get myself out. But I didn’t want out. I needed help and the hospital was it. I didn’t want to be depressed anymore. But I needed my voices. They had stopped with medication and I was so lonely. I skipped a dose but back then, they had ways of making you take your meds. If you couldn’t take them orally, they would inject them into you. So I always took my meds. I was compliant. The voices got mad if I talked about them, so I always had a hushed tone when I spoke about them. But one day while I was still inpatient, I found my thoughts were numb. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t do anything. It made me sadder. Then the docs took me off the meds and things went back to “normal”. I knew from then on, I couldn’t talk about the voices to anyone and denied having them. They weren’t causing me harm, then. I always had a sense of paranoia and being watched. There was only one medication that ever really helped with that and that was olanzapine. I loved this drug because it helped me so much. Unfortunately, my pdoc didn’t because it had the risk of diabetes in people with a history of diabetes in their families. My mother is a diabetic. So I had to say goodbye to this drug. It was a long while before I was put on my current med, abilify.