Be Gentle with Yourself

Being Gentle

So, since I have gotten some feedback I now no longer have to assume that people are perusing this. Which means I should probably have said this first, but whatever.

One of the most important things when engaging in these types of conversations, whether because you are neurodivergent or you are just trying to be a better person, is to be gentle with yourself.

1)    We were all raised in a society where neurodivergence is labeled ‘mental illness’ and therefore ‘all in your head’. Most of our first introduction in psychology is through Freud, the man who discovered conversion disorders and decided that boys all secretly wanted to do mom. That’s not a great place to start, especially since conversion disorders are one of the few actual mental illness and can be treated through talk therapy alone. Neurodivergence technically is all in my head, but in the same way that a heart attack is all in my chest. So most of our first introductions into the topic are deeply flawed.

2)    Media makes it worse. Ever since Deuce Bigalow came out everyone thinks that having Tourette’s means you have the uncontrollable urge to swear. This only occurs in about 10% of cases, and even then it isn’t every third word. Also, making fun of a frustrating condition through misinformation. Thanks guys. It’s hi-lar-ious. *note sarcasm. Comedy needs to punch up, not punch down.

Ever since Forest Fucking Gump came out everyone believes that the neurodivergent are wise and prejudice free, innocent with the eyes of the child that see our jaded world in a fresh and healing way. Bullshit. Think of being neurodivergent like being straight. You want to date the opposite sex. Guess what? Not everyone wants to date the same person you want to date, nor do you all have the same outlook on the world. People with Down’s Syndrome all have Down’s Syndrome. That’s it. Down’s Syndrome varies in severity and people with it have varying personalities. I’ve met some very nice people with it. I’ve met some total jerks.

And House. Screw House. Dr. House also harbors this weird romanticism that neurodivergents are lucky because we are outside the insanity of the structure of society or something. I tend to rage black out House’s “I wish I was crazy” moments, especially since as an addict he is neurodivergent (addiction changes the shape of the brain, which is why cravings become a thing and you never stop being an addict).

Of course, this is all ignoring how many times the neurodivergent are actually scary serial killers. Nearly everyone out there has identity dissociative disorder (which may or may not be a real thing. Research is still out. I’m going to assume it’s real, but it is super hella rare) and they have a personality that is murdering people. Criminal Minds used this trope TWICE. Seriously, we are either mystics or murders or comic relief and nothing else. 

3)    We aren’t supposed to talk about it. I have to fight with my support network to make them understand that, as a crazy person in a crazy place, I don’t have control or awareness that I am acting crazy! And that I NEED them to point it out. And when I tell them this, they usually go, “oh. That’s new. So-and-so has this and we don’t talk about it.”
*twitch twitch

How the heck are we supposed to understand the neurodivergent if we teach everyone to not talk about it? Not talking about something is the opposite of learning about it! Oh, talking about suicide is uncomfortable. SO IS FEELING SUICIDAL! We are living in a world where our emotional comfort is being placed above the safety of the people in question. Dan Savage once said, “Fuck your feelings, gay kids are dying.” I think the phrase has application here.

4)    It’s largely invisible. If you meet me in real life you will have no idea I’m bipolar until I tell you. If I’m manic I’m just a weirdo. If I’m depressed I’m probably waiting for the caffeine to kick in. We all have stories about why people are acting outside of social norms, and rarely do we attribute neurodivergence. And when we do we tend to be all judge-y. “I bet they are off their meds.”

So, as you can see, we didn’t really stand much of a chance of growing up to be people who are understanding of neurodivergence. Considering that even the label is wrong on top of all the rest, how were we supposed to figure this out?

So don’t be hard on yourself. Holding your guilt up for the world to see actually hurts the conversation. Not only does your guilt not actually improve my life but it actual distracts from the conversation, because it refocuses it on how bad you feel instead of where to go from here.

For those directly affected, same thing. I feel guilty about some of the things I’ve done, but I’ve let most of it go. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know better. And beating myself up over it doesn’t help those who were wronged and actually makes my condition worse. So there is no point.

But what is important now is that in this moment, you know. You now know that you are wrong and you now have the responsibility to change. And if you choose not to, then, and only then, are you being a terrible person with regards to this.

So be gentle with yourself as you learn. We all make mistakes but we all have the opportunity to do better next time, and as long as you are trying to do better and as long as you are learning as you go along, you are going the right way. It's okay that you aren't perfect, and it's okay to be have been wrong as long as you are willing to search for what is, if not right then at least better.

And that’s all that anyone can really ask.

What's Killing US

Last time I left off with the grandiose and radically claim that current attitudes towards mental illness are killing us. Here is my justification. Also, Trigger Warning for Suicide and Angst.

People internalize attitudes. It is why aboriginal people can be racist towards aboriginal people, why women can be mysogynists, anf why homosexuals can be homophobic. When you are raised in a culture you are immersed in the assumptions of that culture’s unwritten rules that we all ‘know’ to be true. For example: wearing a hat inside is rude. Wearing a hat at a funeral is rude. Wearing a hat into court is rude. What you may not know is that hats being rude is a Christian value, and there are many religions where wearing headgear is a sign of respect (Sikhs, Muslims and Jews are a few examples). So the claim that hats are rude is a cultural assumption that is very North American, but also found in nations that were historically established as Christian territories.

These assumptions are based on our histories, our mythologies, and our current institutions. They are re-enforced in our media, in our political system, and in our legal structure. Having them is how we build a society. But problems occur when we refuse to examine these assumptions and they become oppressive. A Canadian Muslim woman was denied the right to present a court case in Quebec because the judge deemed her headwear to be rude and demanded that this woman remove her hijab, while the woman didn’t because her hijab was how she demonstrates her faith and being forced to remove it is religious oppression.

Right now, we have a lot of assumptions about neurodivergency that are killing people.

The first time I seriously considered suicide I was in my mid teens- around 15, 16- and I had come into the possession of five feet of rope and our house had an unfinished basement, which meant exposed rafters. I fantasized quite seriously but I never followed through on anything that could be called an attempt because my little brother would have been the person to find me, and my older sister would have never forgiven me for that. That wasn’t the last time. That wasn’t the last time that year. But one thing never changed. My little brother would find me.

Then I moved out. Things got a bit better for a while until they weren’t anymore, because that is what being sick means.

When I was 21 I was severely depressed. To this day it remains my worst episode. I would go for days without sleeping and then sleep for days. I only left my room for food, and my room was tiny-maybe three and a half feet by seven feet?- and I only left the house when the food in the fridge was all gone, which took a long time because I was eating small meals once a day, and by meals I mean something out of a can because I certainly wasn’t cooking. The only people I interacted with were online and my friend Kate, which is also complicated but a story for another time. Also, Kate was an agoraphobic so she was still more of an online friend. And everyone but here thought I was a guy, probably from the states but possibly from Europe. My actually personal life was never a topic of discussion. When we were sharing details, I lied. When they wanted pictures I used ones of a guy who had a travel blog and claimed to be him. I wasn’t working and had a little bit of savings scraped together, that lasted longer than it should have because I wasn’t leaving the house, what with all the social anxiety.

I started to think about suicide a lot. This wasn’t the warning sign it should have been, because I had been flirting with suicidal thoughts since the first time I got serious about it. They’d come and go and were so familiar they were comfortable instead of terrifying. It was like having an option in an option-less world. Even if I wasn’t planning on taking it, it was nice to know it was there. I made and discarded plans with varying degrees of seriousness. The weirdest part was that I wasn’t always unhappy. I was a satire troll on this one website, which means I was a hilarious jerk who attacked opinions instead of people, and I enjoyed that immensely. Kate acted as my partner in crime and man, did we have schemes. I took over the forum so thoroughly that someone wrote me a bible and I founded a Troll Guild and was invited into the Troll Basher Guild. It was fun.

But I wasn’t okay.

I wasn’t making plans to get back at everyone, but I was in a lot of pain. Much of it was physical. I developed an unspecified form of arthritis (still unspecified) at 18 and was undiagnosed bipolar, so I lost a lot of friends and many of the people left weren’t good for me. My family, turbulent at the best of times, wasn’t giving me a lot of support. I got told to stop wallowing a lot. I didn’t handle my arthritis gracefully but I was young and damaged and losing the ability to handwrite. So whatever.

I remember I was walking somewhere. I lived in a small city, so no public transit and taxis were sketchy and expensive. Also, I don’t drive, so if I had somewhere to go I walked. I was headed to a department store, Zellers or Walmart or something. There was a four-lane highway that cut through town, busy because it was a main route and often used for trucking.

I still remember very clearly watching the cars go by as I was walking, and wondering what it would be like to step in front of one. How much would it hurt? How could I make it hurt less? How close would I have to time it to get maximum impact before they were able to slam on the brakes? Which model would get the job done?

I was obsessing. It was a hyper-focus. It’s another symptom of mine in either side of a swing. I latch onto an obsession and I can’t let go or be rational or reasonable about it. And in this case I had this deep, unyielding need to know. I don’t remember why I snapped out of it, but I do remember looking down at my feet and discovering I had crossed from the far side of the sidewalk so I was closer to the road. I was maybe an inch from stepping off the curb. I didn’t remember moving.

And that scared me.

I called Kate and made me take me to a walk in so I couldn’t run away before my appointment. I still had a small panic attack. And I was still crying because I was so terrified the doctor would tell me I was fine because that was the only thing I knew I needed. I needed someone else to tell me I wasn’t fine. The doctor was good enough. He believed me, gave me samples of an anti-depressant, and told me how to get to a psychiatric walk in. By the next week I had a job interview, a crappy psychiatrist, and a manic episode, but I wouldn’t be diagnosed bipolar for three more years.

My family doesn’t know the only reason I sought treatment was because I was suicidal. But I now know that they had been worried about me for months. They had been talking to each other about it. But not to me. No one called me. No one came to see me. And until I started walking towards the road possessed by the sound of breaking glass I thought I was fine because no one who could see that I wasn’t bothered to tell me. And as someone who is ill, I lacked the mental capacity to figure this out on my own.

I had a narrative. I was taking time off for me. I was slumming it. Wearing pyjamas all day was a way of spoiling myself. I was being frugal by not eating. Sleep was for the weak. My down moments were passing moments of emotional weakness that just proved me to be a self-centered individual who couldn’t stop wallowing in self pity, even though other people have it worse.

And that’s the thing. People who are neurodivergent are the last to notice. We have either always been like that, because we have been undiagnosed since day one or we rewrite the story so our current behavior seems like its always been, or we fall into it so gradually that the sinking from yesterday to tomorrow seems miniscule, but over the span of a month has become catastrophic. I used to joke about being bipolar, and sometimes it was because I was scared it was true, but mostly it was to justify my ‘quirks’, like how stress made me hyper (manic) and then I calmed down and was fine (depressed). So we need other people to point this out. And no one ever does because it is uncomfortable or because the other person may take it poorly or it isn’t our place.

But even after identifying the problem it doesn’t get better. Bipolar patients go off their meds all the time because they believe they are ‘cured’. Because that is what society tells us. Taking pills = being sick. Not taking pills= being cured. This is a dangerous false dichotomy. It simply isn’t true. As is not taking pills = strong. Going to Bipolar Forums is terrifying for me because of the number of people who aren’t taking medicine and are expecting to control it through will power. Being bipolar means your willpower is broken. You have failed your will check. Also, physical. You don’t will a wound to stop bleeding. You apply pressure, find a doctor, and stitch that sucker.

Or you die.

So it is up to us, the cops who arrest us over and over again (I’m 4 times more likely to be arrested) or the doctors who see is for an hour once and a while or have revived us after our latest botched suicide attempt to figure out we are sick, instead of the people who know us well enough to be worried. And when we are sick we need to get better (ie cured) instead of accepting that we are neurodivergent and it isn’t are fault. We aren’t weak. And not being able to be cured doesn’t mean that things don’t get better.

I’m lucky I was hit with arthritis first. It taught me that lesson before I was diagnosed bipolar, and it was hard enough to learn when it was a fairly common physical issue. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to sort through while trying to accept that I really do go a little crazy sometimes in a world where going crazy isn’t really a thing.

But even after all this there are more problems. I have to brow beat my support network into willing to be able to point out I’m in an episode. They’ve been taught to not talk about it their entire lives and the one thing I need is for them to mention it to be. The worst case scenario is that I don’t believe you, and if I am irrational in my disbelief then they know they are right and can take appropriate actions, like telling me I really don’t need a $200 Darth Vader plushy.

My mom believes I should be off medication because I had a bad round with something that washed me out. My dad believes I should be on medication but that I was raped* in my second year of university and if I could admit it and talk it through I would come out cured.

*I was not. I’ve told him. I’m telling you on my super over share personal blog. I’ve never been raped. I promised myself I wasn’t going to consciously lie here, because the only person I would be lying to would be me.  But my parents are both obsessed with the idea I will be/have been. They have problems.

Back to the main point. I’ve discovered I’m sick. I’m miles ahead of almost everyone else because I’m okay with being sick. This is something I want you all to know. Despite the fact that I have bad days, I’m actually kinda okay. I don’t resent this. I’m okay with being sick and I know the difference between being cured and being in remission and I know which one to aim for. And people still do not believe I am sick or that drugs will help. My older sister believes me when I am manic, but has not actually discussed what manic me needs (needs, not wants. Very different). She’s great with depressed me though, and to be fair I need to approach her and tell her what I need when high.

And once again, I’m lucky. I took philosophy in school and it saves my life over and over. Logic is more important to me than being emotionally comfortable, so when people tell me I’m manic I’m able to consciously consider if they are right and still make a reasonable judgment. So far they’ve always been right. And I logically know my parents are incorrect about my state and how I need to deal with it, though the idea that I can be fine and off meds is romantic and emotionally alluring, it is like a siren leading sailors to death.

And it is all of this, together, that is killing us. We aren’t sick. But if we are it isn’t real. And if it is we will get better. And if we don’t we are weak.

There is a TED talk about the speaker’s experiences with suicide. It’s quite powerful and I recommend it. I’ve linked it below. It’s not for those easily triggered, and the comments are worse. But I suggest going through them and see what I mean. There is a lot about suicide being self. There are a lot on how this isn’t the real story. There are a lot of comments that kill us.

Mental Illness is a Lie

The biggest problem with mental illnesses, almost all mental illnesses, is that we call them mental illnesses.

They aren’t.

Take, for example, my bipolar. When in a swing I have problems with my perception of reality, in that what has actually taken place and what I think have taken place are not nearly the same thing. I also have bizarre emotional reactions. Do you know what else can cause these symptoms?

A brain tumor.

Now I’m going to ask you to graciously take a moment to make yourself uncomfortable and think about how you react when someone tells you they are mentally ill because they have ADD or Bipolar or Depression or OCD. You don’t have to admit it out loud, but I know the world you live in because I used to live there too, and I know that everyone at some point has had these thoughts because this is how we have been trained to handle mental illnesses. Be gentle with yourself, but be honest.

That’s not really a thing. They are letting the world get the best of them. If they just tried a bit harder. They are faking it for attention. If they just talked it out with someone they would be fine. They just have to get their stuff sorted.

It doesn’t have to be these, but we’ve all had those thoughts of its either not as bad as they think or if they could just get over it. Because that is how it happens on TV, in books, in video games. But now think about what you would think if someone told you they had a brain tumor. It would likely be something like this:

Holy Shit! Are they going to be okay? Can I help? That really fucking sucks.

So why the difference? Well, brain tumors are physical. So fucking what? So is my bipolar. As is depression. As is ADD. OCD is so physical that there are studies showing correlation between having OCD and having heart defects. That’s right. OCD is related to having a heart murmur. WHERE IS YOU TV SCIENCE NOW?!

But brain tumors kill people. So do ‘mental illnesses’. An estimated twenty percent of bipolar patients commit suicide. That’s 1 in 5 bipolar patients dead because they took themselves out. This data doesn’t include the number of bipolar patients who die due to high risk behavior brought on by mania. Think about that. I’ve brought up high risk sex before. AIDS is a thing and being bipolar doesn’t make you immune to it. Getting murdered by someone you don’t know but decided to catch a ride with happens. Okay, yeah. That’s extreme. So I’ll give you a scarier thought. Bipolar people can drive. If you think manic people don’t speed then you are delusional. If you think they won’t stunt or drag race or misjudge distances or how awesome they are at driving then you didn’t read my previous entry. Bipolar people can operate heavy equipment. Bipolar people can work construction. Bipolar people can do a lot of things that require an attention span we lose in manias. So if you thought that being bipolar isn’t a serious health risk, think again. Bipolar kills. It’s just not as obvious because you can’t run a test to see what our blood mania level was.

Alright, back to the beginning. I said the problem is that we referred to almost all mental illnesses as such was a problem. What’s the exception?

Conversion disorders. Conversion disorders are were the symptoms are psychosomatic (the brain enforcing on the body) and brought on by stress. People going blind because they’ve seen too much. People losing feeling in their hands because they masturbated. All that jazz. And you know how you fix a conversion disorder? You talk it out. Because it is caused by stress and the relief of that stress makes it go away because the symptoms are brought on by the brain tricking itself, not by the brain having a physical problem. That’s a mental illness.

That isn’t what I have. I’m neurodivergent. My neurons are fucked up. I can’t think it away in the same way I can’t think away a brain tumor. I can’t overcome it through will. Being tougher isn’t going to make it better. I have a physical problem that needs physical treatment to correct. Talking will help for the same reason that talking helps brain tumor patients. But it isn’t a cure.

And claiming that what most of we neurodivergents have is a mental illness isn’t just offensive. It’s killing us.

I’m outta time, so more on that next post.

Mania as Addiction

I think the best way for people who don’t have bipolar to understand what is going on is to think of it like inverse addiction. Bipolar people are addicted to their own brains and have to take pills in order to recover from the addiction.

Part of what I base this on is that bipolar cannot be diagnosed during periods when people are using drugs or alcohol, because the symptoms are too similar. Drugs that get you high mimic manias. Being drunk shows the same loss of judgment, ecstasy mimics the energy wave. MDMA actually mimics a full bipolar swing. You get high, feel good, the high goes a way and you feel like dying and sometimes follow through on that thought.

In fact, addicts and manic bipolar patients embody a lot of the same social behaviors. Shortened attention span, loss of details, the whole flaking on commitments are the ones I’m bad for. I mean it when I promise I am going to do something. I really do. I did mean to do my assignment, finish my filing, go to so-and-so’s birthday, but my brain plays tricks. I forget over and over again. I know I forget so I’ve now started writing it down, but I forget so thoroughly that I don’t remember to check to see if there is anything I’ve forgotten. And the worst part is I forget because I get distracted. There was a song I couldn’t remember the name of, I needed to eat thirty pancakes in an hour, I planned and ran a one man marathon, there was a butterfly, the wind in my fingers feeling really cool. I sometimes forget what day it is, where I’m supposed to be. I missed a university final for this reason and was very lucky the prof knew me well enough to recognize that something else was going on, because I didn’t have my diagnosis yet.

Another big one is the loss of judgment. I have hypomanias and run my mouth off enough as it is. I cannot access how it must be for people who have true manias or severe manias. I spend money I don’t have and cannot keep track of my spending. I have telephone banking so when I know I’m manic, and knowing is as much of a battle as being, I call everyday. And everyday I have less than I calculated based on that day’s spending. When I was undiagnosed I blew four thousand dollars in a year on comic books. And not collectable comic books, or even good comic books. Just comic books. Manga specifically. Four thousand dollars in mediocre manga because of hypomania.

And the energy. Oh gods, the energy. For anyone who has seen Hot Fuzz, it’s like being Nicholas Angel. I just can’t switch off. It is like being under pressure all the time. You know when you’ve got an essay due in an hour, you aren’t finished, and you haven’t slept, so you just write. You miss sentences that connect points, you use the wrong word, you forget where you were going but don’t bother to erase because there is no time. You say things you don’t really mean to fill the page.

And that last bit is important. Being manic doesn’t make me anymore honest. People have this mistaken belief that drugs strip away layers so when you are in a vulnerable state you are more honest. That’s a load of bullshit, especially with Bipolar. When I’m manic I’m pleasure seeking. I will lie my nose off if I think it is going to help me get what I want in the short term for immediate pleasure. Really, it’s like being an addict. Anything for the next hit. The next hit just happens to be a book you’ve wanted for ages, sex with that chick standing at the bus stop, or a hundred bucks in candy. I’ve spent a hundred dollars on candy for no good reason other than I wanted candy. A lot of bipolar people have really dangerous, damaging sex with people they don’t want to have sex with under other circumstances. Being Ace means my relationship with sex is a bit more complicated than that, but even then, I’ve heard stories of asexuals suddenly being sex crazed because that’s all biology, not orientation, and then snapping out of it to have everyone doubting that they are Ace.

So, really important for you to understand: Mania is not a true representation of the person’s secret deep dark desires. It basically turns the subject into a hedonist who will do varying degrees of whatever it takes to get what they think they want.

I’m pretty lucky, all things considered. I’m Ace enough that even when I want sex I don’t want it with other people, so my bipolar will probably never lead me to an STI or unplanned pregnancy or accidently cheating on spouse. I’m unlikely to overspend to the point where I can’t ask someone to spot me a bit so I can pay rent, but I am living on peanut butter sandwiches this month to manage that, so it isn’t outside the realm of possibility. I am a control freak and have OCD tendencies when manic, which means that I don’t actually seek to get drunk or high while manic. I’m out to all my friends and they love me enough that they forgive me and at the very least understand that Manic Jim isn’t me. And I don’t like being manic.

Which is why bipolar people really are addicts. Many do. Many people love being manic, and I can understand why. There is a sweet spot where everything is just a bit better. I really do get more creative. It’s a documented fact. Senses heighten, little things make you feel great, and you get confident in a really healthy way. Unfortunately, it is a very small sweet spot and mania isn’t static. It is either escalating or decreasing at any moment, so bipolar people can’t hang there.

And going up means all the bad. And most bipolar people still feel amazing while this is happening. Spent all my money? Who cares! I’m just gonna win the lottery tomorrow! I’m dating who now? They’ll never find out if I have an orgy with all these strange guys with no teeth and weird rashes on national tv! Reality and consequences have absolutely no meaning. I’m lucky because I HATE being manic. My OCD tendencies (diagnosed, not using OCD to describe odd quirks I have) mean I’m a control freak, especially when manic, and I am aware enough to know I am out of control so I hate it. And I’m an introvert, so having my senses heighten is the worst thing in the entire world. Sound and touch are my big ones. White noise stops being white and just becomes noise, so everything is always too loud. Going out becomes an absolute nightmare. And I can’t tune it out. And touch. I become aware of the wind moving through my fingers as I walk, the way my pants are or are not touching my skin and the weight of my hair. This actually probably feeds into why I hate makeup. Can you imagine being aware of the weight of makeup on your face and not being about to not be aware? So all of these things are happening at the same time and I can’t tune any of it out.

I hate being manic and I have to acknowledge this hate as beneficial, because it means I am one of the few who don’t seek manias, either consciously or subconsciously.

Bipolar’s biggest treatment obstacle is the patients’ relationship with mania. The majority of bipolar patients take themselves off of their medication at least once without doctor approval. They do it because they feel washed out, stable, the diagnosis was obviously wrong, they are no longer creative, whatever. And then they get manic again. And then they get depressed again. And a high percent of them eventually get arrested or commit suicide. As a bipolar patient, statistically speaking, I am four times as likely to break a law that will get me arrested.

So like an addict, the behavior isn’t our fault. We are not to blame. But unlike an addict, we don’t know we’ve taken the drug again. It’s not like I go to a back alley to buy a manic episode. So I can’t tell you I’m high again. I usually find out I’m manic from a third party (my friends are AWESOME) or because I’m so manic it hurts. Literally hurts. Psychomotor agitation is a bitch (when being jittery goes from a coffee buzz to a symptom). And for me, I get bad trips. Because they are bad trips I don’t chase them. But lots of people get great trips and want that high again, so they seek it. And it isn’t hard to accidently trigger a mania, so doing it on purpose, either consciously or subconsciously, is scary easy. You don’t need money. You don’t need to find a dealer. No one can find it by searching your car. And you can’t control how much of the stuff you get. And you don’t know when it’s caught so you don’t know when you are going to get high.

So for me, this is what is going on. I’m one bipolar patient, and there are many subsets, so this isn’t the universal experience. And I’m quite lucky. I read a news article the other day of a girl with type I with psychosis, which means her manias came with paranoia and hallucinations, who stepped in front of a train.

I’m very lucky. And before I got hit with bipolar after I got hit with arthritis, which taught me something most bipolar patients don’t learn soon enough, or ever. I’m not weak and it isn’t my fault. It’s physical. I can’t think it away, and boy, with the arthritis did I try. It isn’t mind over matter and people who tell you it is are as ignorant as they are insensitive. It’s physical. It’s something I know I will live with. And it isn’t my fault. I’m not my manias, not my highs. And accepting all of this is the only way to move forward and adjust and find a real happiness.

But I will always run the risk of getting high again. And even as much as I hate manias, I will still miss that sweet spot of just feeling good, especially on bad days. Because I’m an addict. But my drug is my own brain.



I'm alive, which is good, especially considering I fell down the stairs all Home Alone Bad Guy style. My laptop broke my fall. He's alive too. (Yes, it's a he. I named him after Dr #10.) He's a MAC which might make him invincible, tg.

But as you may have guessed I am not updating my story right now. A couple of reasons why. First, I'm not well. I'm still trying to get my meds sorted but it just doesn't seem to be working because I'm reacting to everything. My hair has stopped falling out and my eyebrows have grown back (yay?), but my new meds have just as weird if not more serious side effects.

Second, I've fallen out of love with Supernatural. I think I loved what the show could have been more than I like the actual show, but the fact that season 6 was so awful and to find out that both the main actors, so the faces of the show and the people who go to cons and talk about the show, are homophobic, makes it super hard to feel good about the work they do. Also, the queerbaiting, oh, the queerbaiting. It's just really hard right now to sit down and watch the show when I know that Sam and Dean are going to end up in a soap opera style show in a few seasons and that a writer's strike and producer pressure is going to force the show to go somewhere where Kripke never wanted it and that Bobby is going to be killed off by a bad writer. I hear that Charlie is amazing but it might be too little, too late. And since I'm not watching the show I'm losing my characterization, which makes it so hard to put down the characters but I can't just watch an episode and remember who my version of Sam and Dean are.

I might(?) start something new when I am well enough to write again, but it will once again be something different. For me, a lot of what I write is about what I've been going through and processing just how dramatic my life has been. The weird part about healing is that the way you see the wound becomes different and you can't actually feel the pain it causes anymore. Oh, it still aches, but in the way a healed bone does, not a broken one, so it becomes impossible to be in the same head space.

Maybe someday I'll come back to Faustian Hopscotch, but don't expect anything. If there is demand I can tell you how I was thinking about having the story go, but I just can't find the words right now because I don't think I'm the same person I was when I started writing this.

Life is weird that way.

Also, don't go see 50 Shades of Grey. Seriously. It's a movie about grooming women to be abused and is really uneducated, dangerous, and super-light, super boring BDSM. Someone is going to die because of this movie and that makes me really sad. So please, don't go see it.

Chapter 7

Title:Faustian Hopscotch
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Supernatural-Spoilers to season 5, SG-1, to season 9, and SGA, all seasons. Also Violence, swearing, pairings, sexual content, and aliens
Disclaimer:Stargate belongs to MGM, Supernatural to the CW
Distribution: Crossposted on

Disclaimer: Not mine

Faustian Hopscotch
Chapter 7
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Chapter 6

Title:Faustian Hopscotch
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Supernatural-Spoilers to season 5, SG-1, to season 9, and SGA, all seasons. Also Violence, swearing, pairings, sexual content, and aliens
Disclaimer:Stargate belongs to MGM, Supernatural to the CW
Distribution: Crossposted on

Faustian Hopscotch
Chapter 6
Drop of a Hat
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Faustian Hopscotch Chap 5

Title:Faustian Hopscotch
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Supernatural-Spoilers to season 5, SG-1, to season 9, and SGA, all seasons. Also Violence, swearing, pairings, sexual content, and aliens
Disclaimer:Stargate belongs to MGM, Supernatural to the CW
Distribution: Crossposted on


Disclaimer: Not Mine
Faustian Hopscotch

Chapter 5

Burn This Building Down

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I think I might need one for aiding me with the wonderful tool of grammar. Any ideas how to go about aquriing one on lj?
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