June 23rd, 2017
thebonesofferalletters: "If you are reading this, then you are awesome." (personal: awesome)
June 22nd, 2017
recessional: a small blue-paisley teapot with a blue mug (Default)
June 20th, 2017
recessional: green background, a sketch of a chair and the words "i made him say COMFY CHAIRS" (personal; totes taking this srsly)
June 18th, 2017
recessional: a woman with blood on her hands, wearing a helm (writing; blood of her enemies)
recessional: a line drawing of a monster-hand reaching out to grab a small foot from under the bed (writing; the dark stories)
June 17th, 2017
recessional: a woman with blood on her hands, wearing a helm (writing; blood of her enemies)
thebonesofferalletters: A city at evening (universes: see the city)
June 16th, 2017
recessional: an orange tabby kitten (writing; things get better)
musyc: Silver flute resting diagonally across sheet music (Default)
posted by [personal profile] musyc in [community profile] nuggan at 03:41pm on 16/06/2017
A thinning ponytail is an abomination unto Nuggan. :\
thebonesofferalletters: "Hello listeners." (fannish: hello listeners)
June 15th, 2017
quirkytizzy: (Default)
If anyone has 50$ they can spare my way, I and my vanity will be very grateful. And a new USB keyboard, which is 11$ at Walmart.

MAKE NO MISTAKE. THIS IS NOT AN EMERGENCY. THIS IS ABSOLUTY ***NOT*** AN AMBER ALERT FOR MONEY. THIS IS NOT FOR BILLS, MEDICINE, FOOD, OR HOUSEHOLD GOODS.

THIS IS JUST ME WANTING TO LOOK PRETTY.


This is to to go to the Dollar Store and rebuy all of the crazy colors - eyeshadow, eyeliner, nail polish, and other assortment beauty items. (I love Dollar Store brands - it seems the cheaper the makeup, the brighter and longer lasting the colors.) And I wear a FUCKTON of makeup.

And If anyone has it, an 11$ replacement for my now defunct keyboard will also be appreciated. The cat chewed through my current one and is not working. Thank God for Jesse's PC.

AGAIN, NOT AN EMERGENCY. DO NOT FEEL OBLIGED, SAD, OR OTHERWISE UPSET IF YOU CANNOT DONATE. THIS IS FOR SHEER, UNADULTERATED VANITY.

Payapal account name: quirkytizzy@gmail.com

And also, Michael, I did not thank you soon enough. The money you sent earlier this month paid for two weeks worth of food, cat litter, and the few remaining dollars on Pip's veterinarian bill. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THAT.
recessional: a small blue-paisley teapot with a blue mug (Default)
June 14th, 2017
quirkytizzy: (Default)
posted by [personal profile] quirkytizzy at 10:42pm on 14/06/2017 under
I am writing this under copious amounts of Xanax, garnered after two straight days in the ER trying desperately to find a psych ward that will take me. None have open beds. I feel defeated and annoyed by my typing skills. I not apologize for needing the calm-down after all that medical fuckery. I do apologize ahead for massive typos.

I also can't find my jeans, to which seems the most annoying part of all of this for some reason. I also have the hiccups, which are maddening enough to drive one to homicide.

Fucking too long nails. Gotta trim them. It does not make for easy typing.

He's terrified I'll worried about being in the hospital. I'm less afraid of that, since that's the place I've been wanting to be in for two days now.

Jesse has gathered all the sharps, shaving razors included. I have no idea where he put them. Granted, there's a million broken projectiles that could do the trick. They're just harder and messier - but not impossible.

The pretty and the morbid comfort me. It only worries Jesse. But what helps him sleep does not help me sleep. Songs, videos, about passing into the void make me less afraid of dying in my sleep.

it seems impossible to keep up on an all the healthy things a person is supposed to do when you're sick. I'm not talking about the million doctors and shrink appointments. I'm talking about the meds, the balance, the side effects, the drunken stumble from room to room that would make less educated sure that I'd been pouring a fifth a day into my bloodstream. No such luck, though, I am the worst wold's drunk, stone cold sober.

I'd say I wish I could run away from all this, but I long ago learned the futility of such a gesture. Wherever you go, there you are. Superhuman speeds do nothing in a mad dash away from yourself.

Seriously, gotta trim down the nails. SO FUCKING ANNOYING. Also these damn hiccups.

I don't feel crazy. In, in fact, feel quite sane, if not drunk off my ass from my medications. Probably means I am an insane to diagnosable levels. How's that saying go? Only the sane doubt their sanity.

There is no doubting, only a dis-attached scan of crazy-acting actions I've been doing.

Slice of life writing. Nothing to prove a point or to communicate something. Just writing for the writing.

Maybe someday Rayhawk the peace will be there with writing. Maybe I can find something worthwhile to write when all my words are not spent just treading water. Its an exciting and terrifying venture.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
posted by [personal profile] quirkytizzy at 01:08pm on 14/06/2017 under
Cutting whoring.

I'd lain down for a nap, perfectly happy, woke up and took a coffee cup outside, along with a razor blade I'd left in my purse. The razor was an afterthought, more or less being surprised that it was there to begin with.

Five minutes later, there's new blood pooling on my arms.

Ten minutes later, I am on the phone with every psychiatric unit trying to find a bed. None has one, and the two that might have been left voices mails and/or are busy lines.

I don't know what the hell to do, why it crashed so fast, or why it crashed why I was feeling just fucking fine, thank you.

Today's been a wierd as hell day. When the hell did I turn into my 15 year old self? When the hell did I get the balls to spend an hour on the phone (something that breaks me into a sweat anyways) trying to get help?

Up and down. It's annoying the hell out of Jesse, and I can't blame him one bit. This kind of shit is exhausting and exasperating to go through on a regular basis. Hell, even ***I*** feel exhausted, annoyed, and exasperated. We fight one the problem being my sedative, to which hey, if you don't mind me not sleeping for FUCKING MONTHS AT A TIME, sure, cut out the nighttime meds and let's see what a REAL manic episode looks like.

I wouldn't like it, but for the sheer force that it's being advocated, it's tempting to do just so I can say "I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO, NOW LOOK AT THIS MESS! at the end

That even line I was talking about earlier. Total fucking lie, as it turns out.

Please ring, phone. Just fucking ring.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
posted by [personal profile] quirkytizzy at 09:29am on 14/06/2017
We just got the news of a massive, massive building fire in London. I know I have a few friends there.

Are you guys okay? Sound off!
quirkytizzy: (Default)
See, when one med is causing problems (to which could be the Wellbutrin, as you said Alpha Strike) or another med, the temptation to go off ALL meds becomes great.

Sadly, it wouldn't take but a few weeks for my body to collapse on itself, as kidney and blood pressure medication do important shit - namely they keep me from dying. The psych meds allow me sleep (usually) and that's a luxury I've become accustomed to (when it happens, at least.)

Good news: I feel with-it enough that I don't think a trip to the psych ward will be necessary.

Bad news: that could change at any moment. It's really hard to plan a day around "Not crazy right now, but damn well could be an hour from now."

I've googled Wellbutrin blackouts and while most of it seems to happen while mixing alcohol, many report exactly as you and I, Alpha. No intoxicant needed - just hours of blank time in which we were performing tasks quite awake. I'd thank my lucky stars I gave up drinking decades ago, but it seems even THAT is no guarantee from medicinal fuckery.

While listening to a Lana Del Rey song (a happy song paired with a terribly depressing video), I turned and asked Jesse if creepy people - like myself - were born or if we were made. I don't really think there's an answer, outside of "genetics loads the gun, environment pulls the trigger." (Take THAT, nurture vs nature argument!)

I do know it makes me less afraid of sad things. A mixed bag, as it means I can also charge headfirst into the morbid and leave a mess of uncomfortable people littered in my wake.

Life-long lesson, that one is.

At least I can say that I am fully aware of typing this entry. I am not in a blackout. I will remember writing this. I guess, lately, that's definitely in the WIN column.
June 13th, 2017
recessional: an image of a typewriter keyboard with the words "so many monkeys, so little shakespeare" over top (personal; should be 5 new plays by now!)
thebonesofferalletters: (Mic: Keys)
quirkytizzy: (Default)
So that memory gap between writing entries turns out to have led to something far more sinister. As in, I woke up this morning at 4 AM, went to get a pack smokes, went BACK to bed - and woke up at 6 AM with cuts on my wrists.

Cuts that I do not remember making. AT ALL. Again, there had been the nebulous thought of "Hm. Cutting. Interesting." I smoked a couple of cigarettes, went to bed, woke up, and wrote this morning's LJ entry (of which I was perfectly cognizant for). I then looked down and saw red. Red that had already been seeping open for over an hour.

Shallow cuts, mind you. Very superficial, but I have no recollection of finding a sharp object, making the cuts, and then ignoring it to crawl back into the blankets.

Weirdly enough? Writing out Livejournal entries under a blackout freaks me out WAY worse than cutting during blackouts. Backwards thinking - or else the cutting freaks me out on a level that I don't want to dwell on.

Is something wrong with my meds, which are otherwise working perfectly and I don't want to fuck with at all? Early dementia? Lupus eating at my brain?

So I did what I know to do - called a friend and absconded to the ER. Their psych ward was full, as was the other place they normally send people to. A bed may open in the second ward later, which may be utilized.

My initial labs, blood and urine work, came back just fine. Normally if I go off the edge, it's because of some kind of looming infection. Not so this time. On the other hand, blood and labs don't always show brain troubles.

The thing is, I feel fine. I don't feel at all sad, despairing, hopeless, or sorrowful. I didn't feel that waking up either. I'd slept all day yesterday, waking up to go pee a few times, and woke up this morning thinking only one thing - "Damn. We're out of cigarettes. I'd better go get some."

They did dress up my wounds, though, which felt very nice. They are now wet thanks to me doing dishes. I should probably change them out.

This is wierd and pointing to a much larger problem that I don't at all want to think about.
recessional: a small blue-paisley teapot with a blue mug (Default)

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