Shaken Up

Yesterday was a very bad day. This is not edited, I am not up for it right now.
Comment if you need clarification.

Trigger Warning: self harm, suicide, shitty doctors, and fatphobia (let me know if other need to be added)

I’d been told by my doctor and a neurologist to see a rheumatologist, just to rule anything out. Having migraines every day for five years, I get sent to all sorts of doctors and tried on all kinds of medications, so this wasn’t a surprise.

We saw this doctor twice. The first time was bad, the second time was a million times worse.

The first visit she went over all of my tests, said that I just have migraines all the time, and that’s it. She asked some questions about how various pressure points feel, but said she wasn’t going to test them since she was sure I didn’t have anything.

She then went on to tell me I have severe psychiatric issues and that’s probably why I have migraines. After that she described in detail her sisters illness, along with how she thinks her sister is too weak to deal with having an illness, and some people are like that. I was told I am one of those people, that I am just not a strong enough person to manage being chronically ill, so I shouldn’t expect anything of myself. I should deal with this is how my life is, and according to her I’ve always been sick, so what more did I expect? Also, I should also do an exercise program. Even if it makes my migraines worse and makes me sick, I need to get over it, because exercising is more important than being sick.

She ended by saying my gynecologist didn’t do his job right and reordered a bunch of tests done. She said when I came back she would give me a referral to a neurological center that I’ve tried to get a referral to.

A week later, after submitting to the testing, I went back.

This time, she commented on how short I cut my nails. When I told her it was from an anxiety issue I have, she proceeded to tell me I need to find other ways to deal with my anxiety, and that my migraines are from severe psychological issues. That I need to see a psychologist all the time, and not see a psychiatrist, because I should not be on any medication for these issues (which I am taking medication for).

Next came that my blood work was good, that all of my organs are in great shape, including my liver and kidneys. It seems my only real issue is my migraines, which might come from fibromyalgia, but she doesn’t think so. Again, she didn’t do any testing other than looking at my hands, and that was the extent of any physical exam.

After that was the information on how I spend my day. I was told pointedly that I need to spend more time alone, doing things for myself. One of those things needs to be intense exercise. Even if I get physically ill, I need to start something immediately. Overweight people need to work out, no matter what illnesses they have, it’s not an excuse. I need to spend even more time alone, in particular, without my pets. Having them around is just too much for me, and by being ill and having pets, I don’t think I’m abusing them but I really am. I can’t give them what they need because I’m sick, it’s not fair to them or me. Even if they’re happy and healthy, it’s not true because I am not caring for them properly. She then told me to get rid of all of my animals, I absolutely had to. We argued about this, she ignored Dianne and any mentions I made of how Dianne helps care for our pets as well. Next it was that I’m a smart girl, and I’m wasting my time trying to not feel sick from my migraines all day. I need to do things, like get a job I like, like she does, that will make me feel better. I need to stop lying around all day doing nothing. Last, even though my tests all look good, being overweight means I will need a liver transplant when I’m 40 (which is in about 6 years by the way). Every fat person in the country will need a liver transplant, and we all could avoid that if we just would do some exercise.

This was all said in a matter of fact, but very concerned and sincere way. If I tried to explain my side or that what she was saying wasn’t true, she argued and eventually changed the subject. She said she would give me the neurological referral only if I got worse.

It wasn’t until we left and were driving home that it all hit me.

On the freeway on the way home all of it kept repeating in my head. Despite everything I’ve done to accept who I am, to deal with the fact that I am sick, that I have limitations, it didn’t matter. I had never really hated myself for being fat, never felt ugly or disgusting because of it, but now I did. Now I’m going to die from being fat anyways. I’m this weak person who won’t be strong enough to have a life, and I’m making others suffer for it.

By the time we got home I had pretty much resolved to kill myself. I didn’t want to be this fat sick burden on anyone. I can’t get over how awful my head and body feel all the time. I thought we took good care of our animals, one of the few things that make me feel better, but now I’m just an abusive hoarder. I wanted to not be here anymore, or to cut myself until I didn’t hurt anymore. I couldn’t figure out a way to kill myself that I was sure would work. I was feeling worse just sitting here not doing anything about it. I can’t get better, I can’t kill myself, what is the point of me being here, giant useless burden that I am. I cried for over an hour. I didn’t want Dianne anywhere near me, or even looking at me, I felt like a disgusting fat thing. I didn’t want the dogs or cats near me, since I’m just hurting them anyways. I didn’t cut myself, I used every dumb little excuse I could think of to talk myself out of it, no matter how much better it makes me feel. I spent the night crying on an off, ate dinner even though I was too depressed to eat, and forcing myself to do anything that made me feel better, even if I felt like I didn’t deserve it. I told one friend what was going on. Now I hope that I’m telling more.

Its been 24 hours since that appointment. I still feel sick to my stomach. I still hear what was said, and I can’t make it stop. I’m trying to get back to where I was before that, where I loved my body, where I knew my animals the way people know their children, where I concentrate on getting better, not doing stupid things to make myself worse. I keep reminding myself she is a shitty doctor, I am not a shitty person. I’m not going back there (obviously), and I’m not leaving.

The Cut

Trigger warning: this post contains details and pictures about self harming. 



There’s this idea that people who self harm are all angsty teenagers looking for attention. Or that the person really just wants to commit suicide. Also, that its something we can just stop, just decide (or be told) to stop doing, and that’s it. I wish.

I wish I could be “normal” in that regard. That when something upsets me or bothers me, instead of it going straight to my core, burrowing itself inside until I let it out, that I could purge it some other way, some healthy way.

I’ve been doing this since I was 14, in various ways. I try not to, it really is a last resort. It’s also the healthiest of the things I could do that make me feel better. Some might think I’m not exploring all my options, I’ve explored plenty. I’ve done therapy, anti depressants, xanax, crying, talking, meditation, everything I can think of. When it comes down to it, there are a handful of things that make me feel better: cutting, binge drinking, and xanax (sort of). If I have to choose between fucking up my arms/legs/hips, drinking until I black out, or burying it inside xanax, only for it to still bother me once it wears off, I’m going with cutting.

There are only two things I am ever ashamed about when it comes to my cutting. The first is that although I feel better when its done, I hate the remnants. I don’t want these marks, I don’t want people to see them. I don’t like waiting for them to heal, feeling the pain while they heal. I wish I was like Wolverine and I could heal instantly. The second is that it makes me feel like a child or crazy, this is something you hear about teenagers doing, not adults, especially ones in their thirties. Or that no sane person does this, why would any sane person cut themselves when they can’t deal with crap from the world.

Me, at 24, marks on my arms

My cutting ebbs and flows. Sometimes I do it once a week, sometimes I don’t for years. When it happens its unexpected, and I try to fight it. I tried today to find someone to talk to, to cry until it didn’t hurt anymore, to think of other things, to be so distracted I didn’t keep hearing those things I read over and over. I don’t cut because of a general depression. I have triggers, one thing that will set me off until I can’t stop, or think about anything else. When I cut, its a purge, a way of physically letting out the emotions I feel. I feel drained and relaxed afterward, and usually better. If not completely better, enough to function. Whatever triggered me might still bother me later on, but for the moment I’m past it.

The healing process begins, 9/1/2012

I cut myself on the arms usually. Not because I want attention (if I haven’t made that clear already) but because its the easiest place to reach, and doesn’t brush on clothes while its healing. I’ve done other places, like my hips, because of having to be in public. I know the risk if someone see’s them and decides to be nosy, especially one of my doctors. In a sad way I’m lucky now that I’m too sick, so I don’t leave the house more than every couple weeks.

I’m not asking for help, but in all the writing I do, maybe this is a piece of understanding of where things I write come from. I don’t have an answer on how to stop, but maybe someone else will feel better when they read this that they’re not crazy, or alone, or stupid.