Here Kitty Kitty Kitty

Re- Posted from some other blog…written by some other person. Damn, they seem so familiar too 😉

Here Kitty Kitty Kitty.

via  Here Kitty Kitty Kitty.

Read the original at the Beetlejuice 2014 at the link above,

I has pictures and every-thang!

————————————————————-
Last week my therapist told me I should adopt Cat as my totem animal. This is the same guy who told me he believed in aliens a few weeks ago. Not as in ‘there must be life out there some place’ but the whole ancient astronauts building the pyramids and making crop circles. Pulled my jaw up off the floor and said ‘Did you ever consider that when a civilization gets to a certain point somebody says ‘Hey, I am sick and tired of these goddamned square buildings?.’
Think I hurt his feelings but since a therapist is basically just a person you pay to be your friend, he can deal with it.

This is the So You’re A Cat backstory. Make sure your coffee is still hot.
I’ve been a Raven for more years than I can remember (so up until 2012 at least).
Think may know I’m diagnosed bi-polar (about 10 years ago). Along with a list of other disorders; which I was only made aware of after looking at my intake/nurse’s form and hospital records during that lovely 2 month hospital stay last year. It’s my expert opinion that my diagnosis consists of two disorders and they go together, but what do I know?
Have only had 3 manic episodes in my life; none caused me to re-paint the house, chain smoke or lose weight though. Have what is called Dysphoric Mania.

So the point is: Prior to being diagnosed as anything but a garden variety neurotic with Major Depressive Disorder and Anxiety Disorder (this is what happens when your father is a psychiatrist) I KNEW when an ‘episode’ of severe depression, and all of my worst symptoms, was impending.
I hear cats.

They’re saying ‘Banish the dog! Banish the dog!
I Hear Cat Voices. This isn’t the pin I carried. This graphic almost appalls me with it’s bad design. I feel a lawsuit coming on.

Not like Son of Sam; Snowball isn’t telling me to kill the dog or the neighbors. Just a faint meowing of a kitty coming from somewhere outside my line of sight. As I’ve always had a cat or cats it didn’t seem that bizarre, and has become a family joke. A few close friends are also aware and are cheerfully allowed to make puckish comments about the kitty thing. When I owned a retail store there was a button available that I carried, ‘I Hear Cat Voices.’ Sonofabitch I sold hundreds of those. Makes me wonder.

So I get this a new shrink here, as I moved. The guy is humorless and has no business as a clinician. Only see him for meds so let it slide. Made the mistake of mentioning the cat thing to this I-take-every-word-literally fool while he was filling out his 50 question paperwork on our first visit. Then he asks me how often I hallucinate.
Back up. What? I don’t SEE cats, and on occasion I have heard cats and there’s actually a cat outside the door.
I DO check every time though. Hmmmm. Also thinking: after everything I’ve told him: what I’d like to work on, past traumas that still bother me, how come mom and dad did like me best?
Why is he fixating on the cat thing?
My second visit he leans back in his chair and says, with his thick accent, and out of the blue, “Tell me about these cats.” All I could think of was the Thomas Dolby song Blinded me with Science with the line ‘Tell me about your childhood!’

Tell me about these cats…

So back to last week: Was telling my therapist about my loony psychiatrist and the cat obsession. He cracked up and said in all seriousness ‘I think you should adopt the cat as your spirit animal.’
Thought about it for a few seconds and said ‘You’re right. I’ve always wanted to come back as one of my cats. Sure it’s a paradox, but so am I.’

I don’t like milk but this shouldn’t be a hindrance. My own cat doesn’t like milk. Unless it’s in the form of ice cream. Whoa, me too!

Which breed am I? Cool cat? Hep cat? Am I registered. Damn, at least I’ve been spayed.

Kitties and Sunshine and Effexor,
Beetlejuice
Beetlejuice
Beetlejuice

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Transverse Myelitis: My Feet Are Baked Potatoes!

Originally posted at YoyoDyne.wordpress.com

Hope this sparks insight, introspection, anger or hilarity at your own experiences with either a chronic painful disease and/or  clinical depression What happens when the two collide?

via Transverse Myelitis: My Feet Are Baked Potatoes!

Don’t Jump! I’m Still Looking for a Rope

steep cliff of suicidal thoughts

Why can’t someone with a gripping familiarity with an affliction find words to guide another suffering the same? To help a brother or sister in arms, aching with a familiar pain? It makes me uncomfortable. Not another’s pain, that part I understand intellectually and emotionally. The discomfort comes from my perceived inability to offer succor and relief.

While I have real empathy and an affinity born of traveling the same shadowed passages, my responses or advice never feel helpful. Not completely.
This must be what family and friends feel when I’ve stumbles to the precipice.

My responses to someone with suicidal ideation aren’t flippant, but after uttering or writing the words, they seem hollow.
How can this be when I know the ropes? And pills? And a closed garage? It feels like a book written by someone who has never experienced the hopeless unending agony themselves.  Ever read or been subject to the fitness guru who has never had a weight problem? How about the jackasses who write, or tell you, that if you just tapered off, or didn’t drink so much, you’d be fine.
Don’t believe it’s a coincidence that all of these disorders manifest in the physical.

Unless you’re a very good actor, the people closest to you will notice the despair. If you’re not used to hiding your feelings then ALL of these illnesses are immediately glaring to anyone.

I can’t hide the weight, but dress and hold myself like a beautiful sexy woman. I can’t hide being an alcoholic, but I don’t pick up a drink even when my ass is falling off.

I can and do hide my depression. Most of the time. The tears can’t always be stopped at will. The mental anguish induces a physical reflex that cannot be hidden 24 hours a day.

There is nowhere to go at this point. No option seems worthwhile or helpful. We’re broken and when someone offers to help fix us they don’t know what to do.

So I’ve come to the conclusion that the best thing in the world is the simplest.
Listen.

Listen to another’s pain, their specific problems, the reasoning which brings them to thoughts of suicide.
Listen without comment. Without advice. Without condemnation of any kind. Especially without inane cheerful platitudes.

I think this is something everyone requires. Another human being who takes the time to hear us. Allowing the words and tears and snot and pain to flood from mind and body. Those of us already walking on glass need this something more than an average individual.

We need someone who cares. Especially when we are afraid to let the sickness have a voice. We need someone who takes the time to listen.

~R Noir

Listening to:
Stubborn Love
By: The Lumineers
Album: The Lumineers

Cry Baby. Cry.

falling_down_stairs

Today I fell. First time in several weeks. Was sans walker and concentrating on every step. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

Is this my fucking life? Already on disability and now the Transverse Myelitis?
Living with mom? Waiting to find low income housing with the crack heads and welfare mothers? Trying to find a decent pain management doc, psychiatrist and neurologist?
Mom insisting I stay in rural redneck northern California…. forever.
Tonight she told me she was tired of the constant crying.
Bit my tongue.
I’m tired of the constant living but I get up every day and don’t call a cab to the gun store while screaming ‘Step on it!’. Not a day passes that I don’t want to blow my brains out to end this surreal nightmare.

Did pretty well the first month or so out of the hospital. Did pretty well the three months in the hospital.
Until it sunk in that this was it. The constant wrenching back, leg, ankle and hand pain is forever. The electrical shocks, though much better thanks to the Lyrica, are forever. Being unable to walk in stilettos is forever. Never standing on my tip toes is forever. Never being with a man again is forever.

Two days ago I found an amazing ski program for the disabled (and hopefully disgruntled) at Squaw Valley. It’s a two hour drive each way. It would be possible to race again and the cost is reasonable. Even found a grant available for those with spinal cord injuries (TM qualifies) who are serious about getting into or continuing a specific winter sport.
Mom will not drive me three times a week and I will not even ask. I can no longer drive. Have no idea if that is forever.

Sent mom a link to the following piece instead of speaking. Wish I had written it. Goddamn this writer hit the nail on the head. It isn’t often that I say that. Not because I don’t respect a lot of other’s writer’s work, but because this is something that has affected me for 30 years.. and it will forever.

The 10 Stupidest Things You Can Say To A Depressed Person

I can damn well cry if I want to.
You’d cry too
If it happened to you


Currently Listening To:
O
by Damien Rice
2003 Vector Recordings

~miss b