Cydniey Buffers (cydniey) wrote,
Cydniey Buffers
cydniey

An easy thing to forget about me . . .

While I write prolifically, and I would like to think, well, things are different in the real world. I am about 70-85% non-verbal. Unless I'm on stage, in front of a microphone, or feel particularly safe with Doc, I don't speak. Ever. Which I guess is why it was so surprising to my shrink when I flipped out. He's never heard me say so much, so loudly.

So, I don't often talk. Sometimes, a bunch of stuff will build up in me and I will tell it to the dogs when no one is around. Or when Doc is around (the rare times he isn't "just waking up," "recovering from work," or "about to go to bed") and I am feeling secure, I will talk to him. Especially if I have new toys to show off (I got a box from Amazon yesterday for stuff I ordered over a month ago).

Then we play the game I call "Leave Me Alone (I'm Lonely)" after a song by Pink. Where he begs me to shut up, and then two minutes later, starts a conversation with me. When it doesn't go the way he wants when I answer, he begs me to shut up again. Another two minutes goes by, and he does it to me again. This goes on until I yell at him to go to bed. Or go to work. Or just get the fuck out. I can't stand his games, but this one is my least favorite because I fall for it every time.

I think I'm going to study the effects of isolation on mental health, that alone might be the reason I am deteriorating. 16 years of being alone, not leaving the house except for dog walks and trips to the doctor every three months. I think that may be why I am going more crazy, instead of getting better. Because I am getting worse.

The "positive" effects of voices, hallucinations and paranoia are what they are, but the "negative" symptoms, like cognitive impairment, increasing PTSD and anxiety beyond what legal drugs can handle are getting worse, and not slowly. Progressively, and steadily. I have an episode nearly every day, now. I lose insane amounts of time. I spend most of my time disconnected from my body, watching myself at the computer from across the room. At least that is how it feels. All of my thoughts are consumed with the past. I can't seem to stop the onslaught of slights, humiliations, and shame that followed me through my life.

I used a steak knife and more than a "pound of pressure" and tried to cut cross hatches in my arms last night. I just have cat scratches now. Next time I use a razor blade. I can't say exactly when that will be. It's hard to say.

I'm going to shut all of the blinds at noon today in hopes of staving off the "afternoon rages" that I have been experiencing. Something about the heat (the electric company cranks our a/c up 5 degrees from 3-6 every day during peak hours), and the harsh desert light that just send me over the edge. Today it is closed blinds, lights off, crank down the a/c before peak hours to offset the upswing, and a cool bath. "Miss Pereguine's" opens September 30th, I have to finish the book before then. I'm going to beg Doc to take me. There is a local casino with a multiplex nearby that I have been to and feel moderately comfortable in. Comfortable enough to stay awake for the entire movie and not fall asleep as a defense mechanism against the strangers and darkness and loud. I used to go to haunted houses, and laugh at the scary men that would follow me, trying to catch me by surprise. I would disarm them of their plastic mummy daggers and chase them back down the aisles. I used to be fun.
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