So, I just saved myself from my own mistake, which potentially could have killed me.
And it’s the same mistake I have made over and over, and every time I wonder what the hell is wrong with me that this sort of thing happens three or four times a year instead of, ya know, never.
What was my mistake?
I skipped a meal.
And you know what that means. I had a blood sugar crash. One of those lovely experiences where I feel cold all over, as if blood sugar was fuel oil and I forgot to pay the bill. It’s like the chill hand of death was feeling me up.
So, ya know, almost died. Godo thing the pizza guy showed up. I had ordered my food before I realized how bad it had gotten and, because my brain was not working very well at the time, decicded I would just wait for it to show up instead of getting up and going to the kitchen to snack on something so I wouldn’t die.
My not eating between meals like ever might end up killing me one day.
But then again, so might a lot of things.
Happy ending, food arrived, I ate, I feel a whole lot better now. But for some reason, I am now very sleepy. It is taking effort just to type these simple words.
So tonight I will go “halfsies”. 500 words, nap, other 500 words.
Consider what I have been through, I feel it’s entirely justified. A different sort of person might give themselves the day off, so to speak, but I know myself too well and I know that it has to be every single day or I will stop.
And I can’t stop. I’ve been writing 1000 words a day for six years now. It’s the only thing that gives my day any kind of shape or purpose at all. Even when I am seriously falling apart inside, I always have writing to you nice people to look forward to and to give me something to focus on and towards. It lets me releases some of the word pressure in my head and gives me a chance to feel like I accomplished something, at least, instead of letting the days go by without a trace as I drown myself in distractions.
Anyhow, back to how unfit I am to look after myself.
I know, you’ve heard it all bnefore from me, over and over. About how I clearly am not fit to look after myself considering the lousy job I am doing of it.
And it’s getting worse. I haven’t been to see my GP in six months and my diabetes meds have officially run out. I am flyinj’ unmedicated now, whee.
That moight kill me, toio.
I don’t even take my nightly insulin any more. Somehow that habit just fell away as I let Skyrim hollow me out and take me apart.
And I feel so lost. I try to hold on to the good things but they slip through my ice-numbed fingers. I let go of what I should retain and cling to things I should abandon.
It’s exactly like I have no idea what I am doing.
Nap time! will BBIAB.
The war within. I have been trying very hard to improve my thinking.
You know, getting rid of the negative thoughts that lead to negative feelings and reinforce negative attitudes and so forth and so on. Classic cognitive therapy.
And to do this, I have tapped into all that rage I have buried deep within me and turned it towards the depression it partially causes.
Seemed like a good idea at the time. And don’t get me wrong, it’s done me a lot of good. I fucking hate my depression and that makes it much easier to fight it. And fight it with the sort of kamakazi abandon that made my ancestors berserkers.
But lately I haveen wondering if I might have gotten it wrong somewhere. Turning my rage against my depression is more or less declaring war on myself and I am beginning to wonder if maybe it is time I tried a different approach.
Because I can’t live with this tension any more. And really, it’s just a new face on the same old overactive superego. I am still brutally prosecuting myself, in a sense, and there has to be a better solution than that.
Something in the opposite direction, perhaps,. Total acceptance of all I contain, ihncluding the unhealthy part of me. End the war within and work towards a lasting peace. An end to the division between healthy me and the depression that I happen to have had for a long time, but which isn’t me.
Sounds wrong, doesn’t it? Why, that would be giving in to depression,. Surely that could only make this worse. Like, as bad as they can be.
It would mean surrendering to the enemy! Evil wins! Good loses! GAME OVER!
But I am not so binary of thinking. I can accept the idea that the war might be the problem. That the inner conflict is costing me more than it is worth.
Maybe it is time that all the voices in my head sat down at the same table, aired their grievances without judgment or persecution, and tried to finally the solve the problem of who I would be if I listened to all of them.
Because that’s the thing. Right now, I put on difrferent masks to express different parts of myself. But there is no mask for me as a whole.
And who am I when I have no mask at all? I have no idea. I look behind the mask and all I see is darkness, which is a different kind of mask entirely.
Clearly, I am afraid of what I would see if I really looked. Scared it would cause my self-loathing to explode and kill me. Scared that once I see it, I woukd be stuck in that form forever and lose my shapeshifting abilities entirely.
And that would be bad…. wouldn’t it?
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.