The following post was written during a time I was in an extremely low mood, a mood lasting only hours but feeling like a lifetime when I’m experiencing the worst of it. I’ve decided to post it though because I think people should know that this is how I am at times. It’s called PMDD; a severe form of pms, lasting far longer than pms and affecting relationships, self-confidence and most parts of my life worse than pms. Irritability can turn into a cycle of anger outbursts, restlessness, anxiety and low feelings can turn into suicide. This is not just something all women go through – only 5% of women do and there needs to be far more awareness about it than there is.
I have chosen to only edit this post for grammatical reasons and keep much of the language intact. It’s important that people understand how much PMDD can alter my attitude towards matters that I could usually brush aside.
I must mention though a few things mentioned here, especially the decisions I came to, are quite real. The issues are real; the reaction is chemical.
I figured I’d give this blog post a title from a Phil Och’s song, seeing how most people appreciate him as much as me. Sarcasm.
I have no idea where to start, just to say this is another ‘thought dump’ post because I’m going insane from my many distressing thoughts, and once it affects my ability to work on my novel I just know it’s time to write another blog post.
These past few days have been pretty lonely for me. The natural non-conformist that I am and unapologetic opponent of the ‘samey-ness’ of society, even on social networking sites, can make one feel left out. It’s not even that I enjoy it – sometimes I do – sometimes I get so angry at myself for being this different. It’s who I am: oppositional regardless of the subject matter.
I don’t have that much social awkwardness these days. I can talk to anyone as long as I take a pill but there are moments when not even that is good enough, once in a lifetime opportunities when I can’t think fast enough to make an impact, as my brain responds to a sudden change with avoidance and would just like me very well to put my hands over my ears and start screaming and thrashing around.
But I’ve since learned that in some environments it’s not the best option.
I’m going to stop being vague now. For years I have been trying to meet all my favourite band members and have only achieved that when I’ve been intoxicated and for health reasons I’ve had to stop. If only you understood how close to death I could be if I ever got that drunk again. This might sound like I’m exaggerating but that’s because I’m being vague again. I’ve tried explaining it before; if you weren’t paying attention then it’s your own fault.
So, I’ve decided: why should I even try? Why should I go to concerts, take pills and drink alcohol with the notion that this combination will be enough to have a few words with the band members afterwards? And when I don’t I’ll leave the concert quiet, despondent, apparently looking tired from having such a busy night.
Eventually I’ll recover from it, I’ll forget, and again it will happen. The endless cycle of misery and self-loathing because I can’t do what every fan in that room can do without pause if the opportunity rises. I have been placed in such situations that the opportunity is often right in front of my face, but I don’t take it. No not now, I say. This is happening too fast. I need time to prepare. Dammit I shouldn’t have taken my meds – but I’d get sensory overload. Dammit I shouldn’t have had all those beers – but then I’d be too sensible. It was the lights that did it to me, right? Those lights, they gave me a seizure. I felt it, I was acting odd, could barely sing along. But yet nobody notices it even when I have a seizure. The continuous head jerking out of step with the beat, the rigid posture, the inexpressive face – why couldn’t they see it? My eye swelled the size of a plum. Still nothing?
The next day I’ll be so depressed I wouldn’t care what happened to me then something will happen to alert me to my fragile mortality, and I’ll want nothing better but to live. Such a thing did happen. I had to outrun a group of muggers, big guys with hoarse voices. Little old me; lost, tired and depressed, thought the buses and cabs wouldn’t stop for me because I didn’t deserve it. I felt so safe being out of the Bad Lands (my old town) that I put my guard down, and wandered right into danger.
But you know after all the negative things people said about those muggers, I never held anything against them. I understood, at least I thought I did, why they were doing what they did. What else did they have? Why else would a person turn to such a life? The evolutionary trait of survival is in all of us, except me. I’d like to think I have some survival skills but when comes to fight or flight I’ll always be a flighter.
How screwed up I must sound for empathising with those who wouldn’t think twice about what they do to their victims; to extinguish a life for the cost of a piece of a little leather, and the contents inside.
So, there it is; mending a broken heart through avoidance. I don’t know why it took me so long to reach this decision. I had to have the last couple of days of hell to be able to see it, and I don’t think it was just a bad day. I don’t have bad days I have tests. Every day is a new challenge, a new lesson learned; a never ending cycle of building up my skills, of struggling to control my behaviour, of finally becoming aware of my limits when I was sure I had overcome them.
I only had a few months of feeling safe after a lifetime of fear, and at least when I was afraid I never had to worry about running away from danger because danger was everywhere. And danger remains. Somehow I always thought being cautious would hold me back from experiencing all that life had to offer but being impulsive doesn’t do much good either. You end up bruised, broke, embarrassed and terrified.
Maybe I left home too soon. Maybe I haven’t developed as many new skills as I thought I had. Once autistic always autistic. How I am reminded at times I least want to be.