Cydniey Buffers (cydniey) wrote,
Cydniey Buffers

oh dear oh dear oh dear, we are out of hunney

Right, this hurts. This hurts bad. Not my back so much as my ass. That's where the pain is resting now, in the right side of my ass. I can even massage it and make it feel better. Why did sciatic pain become lower back wrench become muscle pain in my ass? I have issues with this. But I'm going to sit like this until it either stops hurting or I start to cry. And I have to type . . . softly. Slowly. Carefully. I actually pound on the keys when I get worked up, like the keypad is my dad's old typewriter.

Got the stockings! Got to get the wire out of the studio, it is buried now, since we dismantled one of my work tables to accommodate the arrival of the washing machine, I mean Tardis. So once I'm done with this, and a bit of Twitter, I will go do that. Make myself a nice pop filter and then rig it up to my mic. I guess that means I'm ready to record tonight. Fuck me. I have some six or so pieces to start with. One is going to be a killer. And if I don't nail the performance just so, it's not getting released, I'm not half assing it. The reading has to be just right. More so than anything else I've ever written. It will more than likely become the most first and last poem people ever hear of mine. After it they won't want to hear anymore. It's one I've contemplated putting a trigger warning on it if I do release it. It's about when Henry, my constant feline companion died of a lingering illness a few years ago when I was really psychotic all the time and it is . . . . intense.

Doc mentioned our brief conversation as he was leaving last night. He started with, "You've been really fucked up for the last week and I had no idea what it was, and it was this thing you were doing online with the Bad Man . . ."

I said, "No, that's not what it is."


". . . ."

"Then what is going on that you are so sure is going to make me mad if we talk about it, that is eating you up inside?"

"I've been, on Dr. B.'s recommendation, reading articles and studies on schizophrenia's various sets of symptoms and their treatments or lack of, and I'm seeing stuff that is, or has always been 'wrong' with me, that is a symptom of this disease, and isn't my fucking fault. But I know that you don't want to hear it and it will just make you angry, but my whole life of inexplicable failures is being explained to me. I can finally see what are flaws that I can work on because they are mine to own, and what things have been foisted upon me by an illness that there is no control for."

He thought for a little bit, and then told me he wanted me to stop reading and obsessing over articles and studies online and go back to my art.

"I swear upon the Holy Book, the only craic you'll get is a slap in the ear." - An Irish Pub, The Rumjacks

We must be in Egypt because there's the Denial running through the sand in my yard.

Apparently there is a whole lot to understand about what is going on in my head, and the ignorance of the past hasn't done anything to make me better.

The other night, a Veteran's PTSD group on twitter was posting triggering things, mock battle scenarios, to draw attention to their cause, and I was retweeting them all, but these things were triggering me, as well. The panic in the soldier's faces in the photos, the desperation in the text. Fuck. I wanted to get on a plane and go give the guy a fucking hug. I told him I loved him for fighting for me.

See, he's got a fair understanding of his illness and is developing ways to work through and around and over it. That's all I'm doing. And the stuff I find is not all bad. For one, I am learning that to get cutting edge treatment, this is NOT the continent I want to be on. I should be in Europe, where they are making breakthroughs, often. They are doing nothing of use here in America. Schizophrenics are looked upon with abject hopelessness here, talk therapy doesn't help them, the drugs are complicated, layered, and dangerous, and they don't treat all of the symptoms, just one subset of the three. So in America, you just get the label and the "see me in three months for more meds." In Europe, they seem to take a different, less 'ah fuck it' attitude towards it. All the good news I'm reading is coming out of Europe, especially France.

Could I possibly make enough with my "ART" to move to England/Ireland and fund medical trips to France? That's a better goal than fame. Or stay here in Vegas, and fund treatment trips to France. I really couldn't make Doc live in England. I'm afraid the rain and fog would get to him and turn him into Neil Gaiman and he would start writing. I can't be married to a writer.

Okay, I'm not in pain sitting like this anymore. Time to get up and stretch, this is going to suck. Have a good evening.

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