Tag Archives: control

MEDS


drugs

God.  I apologize to everyone.  I haven’t been inspired lately.  I write on the side when I can (and I suppose I can put up all my Part 2 postings that were to be continued despite how awful they read?), but it’s hard to feel like I can write something blog-worthy and share it with the rest of you guys.  I can only write from the heart or what I’m personally experiencing at the moment so I’ll share some recent events with you’s. How’s that?  Thanks for reading!

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I’ve been on an interesting ride these last few years when it comes to seeing therapists and psychiatrists.  At the age of twelve I was diagnosed with Depression.  I had old features, black circles under eyes, razor cuts on my arms and protruding ribs from starving myself at the time to show for it.  However, decades later it seemed I’ve graduated a few years ago (2013) because now new psychiatrists and therapists have diagnosed me: Bipolar.  This explains all the wicked instant mood swings, triggers that were really landmines and how come many of my relationships as well as friendships have failed.

Of course I debated with these so-called experts about nature and nurture because I’m suspicious of everything and everyone that isn’t me.  I debated about all the things that come from my family’s blood and all the things that come from social disease and conditioning.  Still, in the center I fought with myself and knew the truth: There were cracks in the instances and in between all these instances is where I was getting worse.

I’d go into subterranean dark places for leisure, fun and to isolate myself from the world.  I’d write in essays, poems and prose my suicidal ideations which continued from childhood.  I’d meet with a new friend called anxiety again and again and again questioning the past, present and future concerning everything that became (or was) broken.  Was I going to make it another day in this physical realm? My other good friend (since I was 5) came knocking hard on my door and I’d go through all my cycles of chronic loneliness, hopelessness and meaninglessness and stare at the bottomless grief that arrives to taint and place a million holes in my mind, spirit and heart.

Those cracks in the instances became clear as well as my past history when I was going through one of my most tragic experiences at the age of 12 – signed over to two mental hospitals for over six months – I was fed medication for the supposed imbalances in my brain.  First was Prozac, and then came Lithium.  And of course, I didn’t agree with medication being fed to anyone less than 18 years of age, but my mother didn’t share the same views as her 12 year old.  I had zero control as any kid does at that age and was subjected to doctor’s tests, special diets, wondering what was love and how did it look like and was it true I wasn’t normal and these two medications would be the cure everybody else was looking for?

Prozac made me hyper – so hyper that cartwheels became my favorite thing to perform.  I couldn’t stop!  However throughout the day I’d have hallucinations (of what? I don’t remember anymore – but I’m sure I wrote about it in a lost book for the universe to know) and during the night when I closed my eyes to go to sleep I’d have white flashes come over my eyes like strobe lights.  And when I finally fell into deep sleep, the nightmares were horrible – once I dreamt of giving birth to a demonic alien baby.  (Why would a 12 year old dream of having a baby?)

After the hyperactivity, doctors thought to give me Lithium because my grandmother took it and they had reason to believe it succeeded. (I’m not sure how?)  But something tells me this was all a plot for me to lie on their silver platter to undergo a Spinal Tap procedure.  Lithium had its own issues and the dosage was higher – I had to take it 3 times a day.  With this medication came weekly blood work because mercury and other dangerous things a doctor wouldn’t inform you about were concerns. Then there were countless yeast infections my tiny body couldn’t handle.  Lastly, long-term usage meant my kidney and thyroid would be altered, better yet, damaged to a degree in the future.

So every time a current psychiatrist or therapist would bring up the idea of medication to balance the chemicals in my brain – it’s not a wonder why I would say FUCK NO for years on end!  But a few months ago before bringing on the New Year, I made one of the biggest decisions of my adult life and figured I’ll try medication to stabilize my moods and prevent sudden manic highs and lowly lows.  The reason why I decided to try it is because I’m committed to fixing all aspects of myself.

Then again, who’s to say I need fixing if it’s not someone outside me like a relative, a partner or a societal authoritative figure who keeps claiming there’s something about me I need to fix?

 

To be continued.

-Hall

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DOMS & Addiction Stirrings



Emotional pain is an addiction.

When I think of this fact,  my mind goes into a line I read somewhere, “When a person is continuously stress by emotional pain, there are subtle changes in the body that creates a dependency on stress-related chemistry.”

Is the key word in this line: Dependency or Chemistry?
Or did you find another?

This reminds me of other crying out forms of fixations like depression, food, sex, porn, drugs, alcohol, exercise, justification of the Self and giving way to Ego.  Everything’s an addiction if you wish it to be.  And in my life I’ve went through different types of addictions.  But physical affliction in some form has always been treasured in my beating heart.  Where my mind would crave a razor to skin, my fist to fracture a wall or pills to induce an attention whore suicide:  LOOK AT ME!  I know what it’s like to want to rob your life away because cleaning up your existence in a blink of a rep feels like sweet freedom is right on the other side.

Oh, wait, you  never thought like this? 😉
Well then.  Excuse me.

DOMS feels like a dangerous phenomenon to me.  One I absolutely am obsessed to play with in the pits of violent fire.  I’m completely in love with the euphoria from an endorphins rush.  I’m addicted to the pain I can cause within my muscle bellies and dare I say it?  Sadly my joints.  It’s beyond the rising blood of a bold pump or the voluminous cells and formidable twitching of slow or haste fibers.  I take great pride in the immense pleasure or brutal tenderness of muscle soreness.  At this point in the game, I work like a crazy horse to build a forceful, grinding teeth, overloading rich sore stimulus.  I’m thirsty to hurt!

I’ve yet to grasp the full scope of excitement and arousal levels.  Or even why I hide my smile behind a hood or distract myself by biting down on my bottom lip (something new) in public as if I’m keeping a harassing secret?  All I know is I want no end and I always pine for the beginning, for the straightforward permanence of destruction.  To me, it’s dark, crazy beautiful and downright disgusting!  With a bundle of these emotions and forces I’m drawn deeply in an entanglement of glory, devotion of pain, sufferer of pleasure.

Now, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking on:  BDSM?   To best honest, I’ve never dabbled in nothing more but the occasional whipping, candle wax drippings, tying hands/feet with rope, which was typically seen coming (this doesn’t count, right?).   But nothing where I’m submitting to a partner as a master while I howl at the moon because nipple clamps are about to make me bleed and beatings leave me paralyzed in humiliation.

Mostly because I don’t necessarily enjoy the thought of men abusing me with domination.  I like the Illusion of Control just as much as the next person.  However now I’m wondering if perhaps I must enter an unfamiliar territory in order to understand the different doors within that may be locked?  Maybe this will lead to clues as to where this premeditated arousal affliction to muscle soreness comes from despite the emotional pain on the surface?

Perhaps I’m performing small acts of Light Bondage, Slight Discipline and Sadomasochism without truly giving it conscious thought?  I do enjoy a hard tightening of the grip around my wrists to the point of turning the skin around white as circulation begins to trip itself out and cut blood.  Or the insistence pressure of weight pinning my body down on a cushion of sorts or against a wall.  Or even when my legs, hips or shoulders are being used for thrusting/leverage purposes.  Still my definitive preference is the act of sensual love making.  Pardon me.  *nervous laughter*  I digress.

There are things I’ve yet to discover about myself.  But the growing need for poking, prodding, stretching, tensing, flexing, lengthening, contracting, massaging and drilling my sore muscles as I become invincibly aroused is obsessive compulsive for longer than what I could remember.  Only difference is now I embraced the pain and addiction a good deal.

To end this, there are some folks who believe I train for muscle endurance and  this couldn’t be further from the truth.  Things seem one way always when they really are screaming another.  I train with moderate weights and high reps or collectively with exercise combinations to build extreme muscle soreness.  With sustaining injuries and injuries forever waiting to happen I could only go so heavy all the time.

And this is where I stop. 🙂

-Penn