True thoughts on pain

An emotional wreck.

I know in my heart how much of an emotional wreck I am right now.

I’m pretty sure it’s not normal to think about suicide every single day.

I saw this picture the other day, or a couple weeks ago, or something on an article on Buzzfeed about a self-harm blog, and it was a picture of a wrist with a cross on it, and on the horizontal line it said hospital and on the vertical line it said morgue. And I think about that picutre way more than I should.

It’s just that. It’s just that it all hurts so much.

And the only time it doesn’t hurt is when I’m on so many drugs that I can’t think straight or see straight or have a normal conversation. The only time I get any relief from the pain that feels like a cindar block on my right ribs and a butcher knife stabbing me in the side is when I take so many drugs that I stumble around my apartment. And I hate it.

I hate it so much.

I cry because I’m in pain. I cry because I’m on drugs. I cry because I’m on drugs and they aren’t working and I’m still in pain.

And I hate all of it.

And I just want all of it to end so bad.

And I feel like I’m screaming with everything I have left in my heart for help, but nobody can hear me. Or nobody wants to hear me.

I feel like my fingers are on the edge of a giant cliff in the middle of a forest and the dirt beneath them is slipping and I can’t figure out how to hold on.

How do you possibly explain to someone that you’re just about out of strength? That your faith is pretty much dried up? And that everything you thought you believed you don’t believe anymore?

I feel like the doctors are mad at me when the stupid crap they keep trying to do isn’t working. And I feel like they think I’m over exaggerating how much pain I’m in.

I feel like I need an insane amount of emotional support right now, but I have no idea where to find it. It’s like I’m looking at my body from a distance, and I can stand outside of the situation and see how much help I need, but I can’t seem to figure out where to get it.

Because how do you just bring up in conversation that you’re in so much pain everyday all day that you want to kill yourself?

When people ask you how you’re doing, you can’t just shout, “HORRIBLE! PLEASE HELP ME! I NEED HELP!!”

This pain is wearing me down. It’s getting to me. And I can see it happening. And I don’t know what to do about it.

I don’t understand it. I don’t know where God is in this.

All I know is that I hate it. I hate all of it.

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Trying to find my way through the darkness

It still feels like there’s a butcher knife in my right side.

I know, I know. I talk about it all the damn time.

But when you feel like you have a stab wound every second of every minute of every hour, you tend to bring it up in conversation.

You also tend to use words like “damn” more often. Actually, I’ve found myself swearing with abandon these days. It’s a habit I picked up during my time in newsrooms, and then was sort of forced to drop when I started leading young souls on Sunday mornings. However, when you’re at a level nine pain most of every day, swear words just seem more appropriate. At least for me.

You can tell yourself you’d choose more poetic words in my situation, and maybe you would, but I seriously doubt it.

I’m keeping it relatively clean on here because I think there’s some clause against swearing in my advertising contract. I’m hoping damn doesn’t count. On the scale of swear words, it’s pretty low on the totem pole.

I know there are a lot of people who believe that swear words are just a cop out. That true writers don’t need to depend on them. But I’ve never been against them, personally. Rather, it’s my opinion, as a writer, that it’s best not to limit your tool box. After all, swears are a string of letters just like any other words.

And my life has been in a state of swear words lately.

If there was ever a time to drop the F bomb, it’s when you’re trying to explain to someone how you woke up one sunny day in early February with a little bit of pain on your right side, and then the next day you were in the emergency room and since then everything you ever thought you believed about the world and your life and God has been tested.

Sometimes, only Hell will do, when you’re trying to tell someone the state you find yourself in most nights as you lie there on your back, praying you’ll just get it over with and die already, because there is no reason that anyone, anywhere should have to live in this kind of pain on a daily basis.

And sometimes, the only phrase that I, personally, can think to drop when I’m so angry at my maker that I want to slit my wrists, rhymes with Son of Witch.

Don’t worry. My pastor tells me God has big shoulders. He can handle it if I’m mad at Him.

I’m still on an insane amount of pills. I’m still in so much pain some days that I can barely will myself to get off the couch to go to the bathroom. And I still don’t know what the Hell is causing this.

I am seeing a pain psychiatrist though. She’s helping me with my depressive state. Personally, I like it best when she just lets me vent without getting annoyed that I’m talking about the fact that I hurt like Hell. Again. And crying like a water fountain the entire time.

But I’m also working on some other stuff with her. Like last week, she asked me to start keeping a gratitude journal. I’m supposed to write down three things a day that I’m thankful for. They can be anything. Like, I could write that I’m thankful for sunshine, cable TV and Taco Bell. Any three things at all in the world. I just have to write them down.

It doesn’t seem like it should be a hard assignment, but for someone who’s drifting deeper and deeper in the depths of the darkness, it can excruciating. In fact, I resisted this assignment so much that I put it off for three days with the lame excuse that I wanted to wait until I could go out and buy a new journal and start this thankful list thing right.

Before the pain started, I used to pray to God every night, and part of my pattern was to tell Him things I was thankful for from that day. But as things have just gotten worse and worse and I have felt only silence from Him, more and more nights have gone between prayers, and I’ve been thankful for less and less.

Finally though, last Saturday, I was at Walmart, and there was beautiful little journal with lovely pink flowers on a pale green background and I realized I couldn’t put it off any longer.

And so, I started the stupid list.

Five days in, well, I kind of like it. I kind of think it’s helping. It’s kind of become something I look forward to each day. When I write something down on it, like, “Conversation with my brother Steve,” or “Hanging out with my boyfriend Eric,” it somehow helps me appreciate it that much more the next day.

And when I have things, even small things like “air conditioning” or “sleeping late”, to appreciate, well then, I can start to see a little bit of the light again. It’s kind of bright, but it’s pretty glorious.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. — John 1:5

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I’m finally getting some sleep, so I don’t want to kill myself anymore

So, sleep is freaking important.

And, I’m finally taking some medicine that is strong enough to overcome the stabbing pain in my right ribs and help me get some of it every night. YAY!

I mean, sure, whatever, I sleep for like 12 hours straight no matter how many alarms I set. But hey, at least I’m not suicidal anymore.

Seriously, it was those long nights awake in pain that were driving me down to Hell. When each long minute seemed like an hour and each night seemed like an eternity and the pain was at its worst and I was all alone.

That’s when I couldn’t think clearly.

That’s when I would lose all hope.

And it didn’t really get much better when the sun came up, because functioning on no sleep makes you insane. It just does.

So I would spend all day, still in horrible pain, dreading the night time, thinking about suicide. Laying on the floor in various places, because I was so tired and in so much pain that I couldn’t sit upright.

I remember laying on the floor in a dining room and being able to see into a bathroom where a jug of Drano sat on the floor. And I remember thinking, maybe I could just drink that and this whole thing would be over.

It was awful.

I kept clawing for help, reaching out in anyway I knew how. But I didn’t know  what exactly it was that was making me crazy. And I assumed it was the horrible, daily pain. And I couldn’t seem to get help for that.

I did know I needed to get the sleep thing figured out though. I knew, for example, that it was at least a third of the reason I would cry for the first hour after I got to work everyday. (The other two-thirds being equal parts horrible stabbing pain, and a cocktail of medications screwing with my brian).

Unfortunately, Advil PM is just not strong enough for me right now, but thankfully, my doctor finally put me on 50 mg. of amitriptyline.

And I’m finally getting some sleep every single day.

And I’m finally thinking just a little bit more clearly.

The other good news about that medication, is that it’s also supposed to help with my pain. I mean, I don’t think it really has yet, but I’ve been told that’s going to happen, so YAY!

I also went to see another doctor yesterday who put me on an anti-viral medication, just in case this is shingles without a rash. And he paired it with a steroid pack so that it’s more effective and so that I can get better at hitting baseballs and eventually play for the Cubs.

If the anti-viral/steroid thing works, I could be cured before the huge candy show I have to cover for my job at the end of May. And let me just tell you that I really, really, really, really want to work that show with all of my sugar-coated heart.

If that doesn’t work, well, then I’m pretty much screwed. And I do not use the word screwed on here lightly.

Let’s just say visions of The Mayo Clinic are dancing in all my doctor’s brains right now. And I thought they would think that place was like some sort of drastic measure. But no. They were like, you should probably make an appointment now just to be safe. And I was like, Crap.

Anyway, I hope the anit-viral medication works.

It probably will.

And now that I’m getting enough sleep, even if it doesn’t, I won’t get so defeated that I’ll end up killing myself. So yay.

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