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Dreams, Nightmares…Reality?

For almost two weeks now every night my sleep, or what I can get of it, has been plagued by extremely vivid and realistic dreams. To the point that when I wake up the dream world and reality are blurred together, and I don’t know where I am, and the dream feels like a memory of a true past.

These dreams are nothing compared to the nightmares that would follow… these last two nights being the worst.

I should preface this by saying I have been working 28 out of the 30/31 days of the month, so stress is most definitely a factor. And to those of you who also struggle with any form of mental illness, stress will kill you, it is possibly your most dangerous opponent.

The first dream was like the Supernatural episode “Mystery Spot,” except I was Dean, and I wasn’t being killed, I was doing the killing, and I was the victim. Throughout the night I watched myself commit suicide again, and again, and again. Never in the same way, never the same scenario, but no one was ever able to get there to save me in time thought they tried, I was always successful. The entire day following that night that nightmare was playing through my head; at work, at home, in the shower, I was constantly watching a playback of my suicides, and while the scenarios themselves occurred only in my mind, the emotional and mental toll was all too real.

Then there was last night, which I’m sure part of it was due to reading H.P. Lovecraft’s “Beyond the Wall of Sleep,” where a man from the Catskills would wake up screaming of a flaming enemy he must kill at all costs, where he would become extremely volatile until lapsing back into his “normal” hillbilly demeanor. But I digress.

Last night’s nightmare began with my being on a mission with a group of people whom I can not recall, and at first it was harmless, then another group who I remember being people I genuinely cared about and loved did everything in their power to end my life. Broken and battered I attempted to continue as if nothing happened, even going to school the next day, where I found them waiting, feigning guilt, trying to get close to me in order to finish off what they started. And the friend who was there with me, who happens to be a very close friend of mine in real life, was clueless and allowed this to happen as he watched.

I woke up this morning scared, angry, trapped, and yet hollow and depressed. Exhausted after having another night of rest eluding me.

Why is this happening to me? Why do the people I care about, and who I thought cared for me, do everything they can to make my life a living hell.  I would like to think of myself as a good person, one who strives to better the lives of those around her, but is it just a facade? Are these dreams and nightmares a way of my subconscious telling me that I’m anything but? That I will never be able to have a happy life, my fate lies in pain and torment for eternity… and if that is the case, what’s the point?

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Beginnings Part 2

Feel like I’m kinda failing at this whole blogging thing, but then again it’s hard to fail at something you had no expectations for in the first place, so lets continue!

Walking into the mental hospital was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It took some coaxing from my friends to get me out of the car, and when we got inside I couldn’t stop shaking. I felt so closed in, trapped, isolated, and I hadn’t even been checked in yet. Even though I knew this was where I needed to be, it took everything to not bolt for the door…. Little did I know it could get worse.

The next day, I’m told I have visitors, and I go out to see my roommates waiting for me. I was still out of it, but happy to see them, until they told me why they were there. All they had to say was that this would be the only time they would come see me, and that I should find another place to stay when I get out. To this day remembering makes my chest hurt, and I can’t help but wonder what I could have done different, I miss them, I miss them a lot…

I was in the hospital for a week, they kept us on a pretty regular schedule; breakfast, meds, art therapy, group therapy, lunch, individual therapy, follow up with psychiatrist, gym, and they always tried to have things for us to do, keep us interacting with each other. Board games, puzzles, art work, videos, books, they even had a computer we could use to work on CBT or DBT (will talk more on those later) therapy. I met some really great people, and we became friends quickly, spending all of our spare time together talking, playing card games, joking around, just being there for each other.

The nights though, going to my room, staring at the ceiling, feeling like reality was crushing the life from me. Knowing someday soon I would be out, and would be fighting to catch up with school, work, bills, I didn’t want to leave. And I couldn’t wait for the day I could walk out and have my freedom again. When that day came I was ecstatic… but my freedom was to be short lived.

And that’s where I’m going to have to end tonight, I will work on being more consistent with my posts, feel free to comment or question.

Blackness

Death comes from within

Rotting away the pure

A necrosis that devours

No light can withstand

 

Shattering heart

Split, spliced, sliced

A once healing organ,

now spreading filth with each beat

 

I can’t breath

Drowning in pain and numbness

Pressing on me harder and harder

With each passing moment

 

Always we return here

Back to the darkness

Back to the fear and depth

I’ll never be free

 

What is it to be free?

To know joy, loss, elation

All without the taint of illness

 

The illness that never sleeps.

The illness that never rests.

Always waiting.

Always watching.

Beginnings (pt.1)

I was in my last semester in college, mere months from getting my degree, and I was starting to believe I had finally found a family. A place and people I could call home, where I could feel comfortable enough to be myself. Cliche, I know, the point being things were pretty normal for a college kid finding her way in the world. The point being that things aren’t always what they seem.

It started pretty innocently, sleeping late, neglecting little things, what I thought as simply the stress of finals, seminar, graduation, work, just life in general. No big deal right? That’s what I thought at least.

Then I started spontaneously passing out, didn’t matter where I was, what was going on, in seconds I’d be out, and it was almost impossible to wake me up. I stopped caring about school, (which if you know me is a huge deal), work, friends, barely ate, only left my room if necessary. Still I refused to admit there was a problem, it would pass, just had to push through it. Only a few months left after all.

Next self harm returned. This is something I had started when I was 11 as a way to relieve stress, anger, and emotion in general, but more on that later. Like everything else it began small, scratches, pricks, then escalated into cutting with whatever I could find, and I began getting a sick fascination about showing others. Alienating one person in my life after another. Now this isn’t a cry for pity like it was back then, again just showing how it escalates.

My breaking point was the smallest thing, inconsequential when you think about it, one of my roommates got upset because I left my shoes downstairs, and what was left of my resolve shattered. I burst into tears and ran out of the house, drove to campus to get my phone charger from a friend’s room, hoping him or his girlfriend would be there. Luckily she was, and I remember saying I needed help, and that I thought it was time for me to go to the hospital. She called her boyfriend and he asked that we wait for him to get back and he would drive us.

I’m sorry… I’ll have to finish this tomorrow. Apparently I’m still working through everything that happened. And a lot of this is second hand information because my memory is fuzzy.