headcurse

[headcurse]

writing therapy

I had a migraine all day and was in a deep crying-type depressed state. I watched the Netflix documentary about Elisa Lam and it brought me to tears about her mental illness. She inspired me to come here to Tumblr. She seems like she could have been a kindred spirit. 

After writing my first post, I feel so much better. I want to write more about my mental health but don’t feel like I need to right now. I feel lighter and feel like the depression is eased. My migraine is also gone by some miracle. I did take 2 Excedrin earlier though. But usually nothing touches my migraines.

I have great hopes for this blog medium. I want to share it, but at the same time I want it to be private from people I know in real life. I plan to share it only with my husband because I don’t want to keep secrets from him. 

It feels freeing to be able to express myself with no judgement and nobody knowing who I am. Maybe I can finally figure out who I actually am.

[headcurse]

a poem I started about how a panic attack feels

Unreality Spinning, reeling Anxious Numb Weak Racing heart Tingling extremities Breath catching Terror Frantic Helpless Tumultuous mind Chaotic thoughts Racking emotions Writhing Pleading Silent screaming Electrified senses Distorted vision Cold Sweat Clinging, gripping, fighting Desperate Realities converging Shuddering Collapsing Limp Defeated -originally written April 1, 2015

[headcurse]

First Post

I need a place to put my unfiltered self. The truth of my mental illness. The place I don’t have to keep clean. A journal. A place to vent and ramble. A void. 

My normal is mental illness. I don’t know what it’s like to not suffer. I’ve been terrified of life since I was 2. I don’t know what happened then. My mom said she left me with family to come house hunting in our new town. That would have been my older brother and older sister. Possibly my grandmother or uncles. 

Around that time she discovered I have separation anxiety. I was terrified of being dropped off in the nursery at church. Until one day they were doing an art project making flags and that intrigued me enough to overcome my anxiety. Even at that early age, art became my coping tool.

I plan to post my art here that I can’t share anywhere else. I have spiraling thoughts and emotions that manifest into art. What I can’t speak, I draw. 

I seem normal, fun, goofy, even outgoing in my comfort zone. At home I was great. When I started school, I didn’t speak in class until March of the school year. My teacher came and told my mom to “mark this day on your calendar, with_feathers spoke up in class today!” They put me in Resource. Mrs. Clements, a large black lady who I remember feeling loved by and I have memories of loving her, discovered I was in the normal range so I didn’t need to be in there. I was just “quiet”. In truth I was paralyzed. I was so afraid to speak, that I wet myself in my seat because I was too afraid to raise my hand and ask the teacher if I could go to the bathroom. There was a bathroom inside the classroom, not 15 feet away from me. I probably didn’t even have to ask. My teacher was perfectly nice and I wasn’t afraid of her. I just had terrible, terrible anxiety.

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I’ll call myself with-feathers because I want to remain as anonymous as possible. I don’t want to be judged. I don’t want people I know to know my dark, sad, tortured side. I share a little on my public social media about my mental illness, which I call my curse. But I think very few people genuinely care or understand except my husband. He’s seen the worst of me. I have cause him so many long nights when I’ve been in the throes of an episode. I wish I could take back all the heartache I’ve caused him over the years. I don’t deserve him. He deserves so much better. 

Currently I deal with PTSD, depression, generalized anxiety, agoraphobia, panic attacks, and possibly other undiagnosed things like something on the autism spectrum. I am greatly influenced by the weather when it comes to my mood. I’m on wellbutrin 300mg, lorazapam as needed and hydroxyzine as needed. I hate taking meds because I don’t think they work. In the past, the only med that gave me relief from anxiety was Xanax, but I haven’t been prescribed it in years. I don’t want to become addicted to anything. I never even finished the one bottle I had. But nothing else has ever actually helped calm me down when I needed it to. I don’t know if Wellbutrin helps me or not. I know when I’ve been off of it, I have sunk into the deep end of my depression where I get suicidal thoughts. My husband tried to have me checked in to a psych hospital at one point, but it had to be voluntary. I chose not to go. So I suppose it does keep me out of the deep end. 

I have tried therapy. I have loved both of my therapists so far. But I don’t know if it’s actually helping. I get anxiety about talking to them, even though they are perfectly nice. I need to make a new appoinment since I missed my last one. I feel guilty.

I hate being flakey. I hate my self-sabatoging behaviors. I hate drawing attention to myself with odd behaviors. I hate oversharing. I hate ruminating about the past. I hate being paralyzed. I hate the migraines and physical pain that my anxiety wreaks on my body. I hate the unhealthy coping mechanisms I have. I hate bringing others down, especially my husband. I hate that I’ve pushed people away. I hate that I can’t love myself or believe it when my husband tells me I’m beautiful. I hate the chaos in my mind. I hate having so many ideas that I can’t keep up with them all and I can’t finish them. I hate that I will have this head curse probably my whole life. 

I know I said this would be a place for sharing my dark side, but it is not in my personality to dwell on these things. I am not my mental illness. I am so much more. I do believe that. Every day is a new battle. Sometimes the head curse wins. But there is ALWAYS hope. And that is the thing with-feathers that perches in the soul.