Am I dying?

There were hot spots on my bone scan.

Hot spots are places where the radioactive dye injected during a nuclear bone scan has been absorbed at a greater level than it would be by healthy normal bone.

They’re in my hips and shoulders, so, either there is bone erosion from a particularly aggressive form of arthritis, or, there is bone cancer in those joints. Either way I’m staring down the barrel of chemotherapy.

I’m waiting now, for an MRI to give the doctors a better picture of what exactly is going wrong. It’s at least two weeks until they do the scan, that makes me laugh, two weeks, two fucking weeks, and then another two weeks before they’ve finished analysis of the data and have the time to see me again, four FUCKING weeks of me wondering – how quickly am I dying?

So, I’m drunk right now. And high on prescription pain killers.

I know what I NEED to do – write a will, clean my apartment, live the things I’ve left undone until now believing that I had more time.

And I know what I WANT to do – get illegally, utterly, mindlessly high and fuck and feel and love and break and dance and and and…

But all I am doing is getting wasted and singing songs I’ve sung before to my computer, to my cat, to my poor beleaguered neighbors. Putting all the feelings that I’m feeling into other peoples words and praying for alcohol to provide an unconscious temporary respite.

Cancer. The C-word that is not the C-word that I grew up being told not to say. And if it’s there, then it’s in multiple major joints, hips and shoulders. I told my doctor that I wouldn’t live as a quadruple amputee, that I would rather die. Sane and informed, that death would be my preference to that, that if I had that surgery I would wake up screaming every day/night. Of course it’s just a possibility, it’s not a certainty, but, my primary care physician is a lot more pragmatic than my Rheumatologist and her prognosis was far more bleak. She thinks I’m dying. I feel like I’m dying.

I feel strangely at peace with the idea – I just want to know.

Am I dying?

I feel like they ought to be able to expedite an answer to that question, four goddamn fucking weeks. Hahahahaha.

Fuck everything.


How fast am I dying…

I am waiting to find out.

I have an appointment on the 4th, Independence Day, with a handful of specialists to be told the results of the latest scans and blood work. I went back into hospital and they injected me with radiation, stuck me in half a dozen machines and took photographs of my blood and bones. Then they pulled yet more blood out of my veins, over, and over, vial after vial until I felt dizzy and then sent it away for analysis.

So I’m waiting.

It might be brain cancer.

This is the strangest thing I’ve ever waited for. When will I die? Nobody knows that, not usually, but despite never knowing it before I find that now, with a potential death date hanging over my head in the minds of other people, I am anxious to find out.

What a strange thing to force a person to wait for, if I wasn’t crazy before I would be now regardless.

I talked to a psychic on Monday – not on purpose, I just came across one, and in line with my usual luck in these matters he offered his analysis unprovoked, “you will die young.” Man, tell me something that I don’t know.

We don’t even know where to begin… 

I’m drunk, but that isn’t new. My home is looking more like me, I am looking more like me, it’s been a year since I lost that job and I’m still living off my savings – actually quite an impressive feat if I pause to consider it without judgement.

Which is hard to do.

I break over and over again, in new and different ways, my diagnosis keeps evolving (increasing?) – GAD, MD, OCD, PTSD, DID, Manic Depression, until I’m scared to see the psychiatrist any more for fear of another acronym being added to the list.

But, I love mania/hypomania, if that is what it is – it’s like being high but without the risks of drugs though the come down is approximately the same, the crash the falling off a cliff. I have no idea what is wrong with me. All of them? If this is DID then it feels far different than I ever imagined it would – my “alters” are just me, but segmented parts of me, there are no separate names, wardrobes yes, attitudes and coping skills yes, but they’re still all just characteristics/pieces that I identify as parts of myself even if they’re separated into fragments. But, if I am, in fact, DID, then there is:

Strong Me – takes no shit, street-smart, confident, self-assured, extremely secure, has empathy but puts ME first, made to cope with the fragility of anxiety. Is psychologically sound but can’t maintain control of the system for long.

Defender Me – will fucking cut you if you throw that punch asshole, unemotional, the big sister of Strong Me, gives no fucks, would hide the body without feeling anything, made to intervene if physical abuse is imminent. Possibly a Sociopath?

Little Me – likes to play whether it’s coloring in or flirting, intensely sexual, takes big risks, has no regard for the future, made to have fun without fear. Has Manic-Depression.

Depressed Me – tired, sad, believes the world is fucked up beyond hope, just wants to sleep, made in response to everything else. Has Major Depressive Disorder.

Anxious Me – hyper-vigilant, paranoid, sees threats every where and will cede control to Strong Me if pushed, made to identify threats before they materialize. Has PTSD, GAD, OCD.

Alpha Me – the me who is usually in control, pragmatic, empathetic, kind, sweet, but sensible, gets the bills paid and the body showered. The me that most people see, most of the time. Has DID.

I should stop letting my alters shop online at four in the morning, because sweet merciful… my bank appreciates it I’m sure. :-/ But then, all six of us have clothes now.

Eye of the storm

I drank a bottle of wine and then didn’t sleep, it’s so uncomfortable to go from drunk to sober to hungover without the kindness of unconsciousness in the middle.

Sleep has been evading me all week. I’ve been buying home decor items and rearranging all my furniture, curating little groups of knick-knacks, hanging art up on the walls, waking up my books, fixing shelves that were broken for years. I’m making my space as ME as possible, and as organized as possible, I find it comforting to see myself reflected in my home. And you would think that all the physical activity would wear me out, leave me ready for rest, but no, instead the ideas breed more ideas until they are all buzzing around filling up my brain while I lay in the dark too exhausted put any of them into practice.

I’m embracing the madness while it has hold of me – using this time to get the place cleaner, because god knows how long it will be before this hits me again, and how messy it can get in the meantime. But it’s hard to focus on the duller tasks, or any one thing at all for very long.

At least the darkness has passed for now, I still don’t want to socialize though I feel safe here in my home, with my cat, and the cozier it becomes the less inclined I am to leave.

Suicide by Starvation

Trigger Warnings: Eating Disorder, Suicidal Ideation, Depression, Gore

The inflammation from my illness is fucking with my body dysphoria – I can’t stand the way the swelling makes my ankles look fat, hides the bones in my wrists, makes my toes touch, it disgusts me.

I am so soft on the outside it’s as if my flesh is melting off me, loose, malleable, crease-able, I’d like to slice it off with a knife, tear it away with my bare hands, reveal the self underneath. All bones and blood, let the demons fly out.

Today I drank a low-carb protein shake with skim almond milk for breakfast, and stared at my thighs for lunch, I plan to sleep for dinner. But I don’t know – my mind changes as quickly as it’s made up, I flit back and forth between “fuck everything let’s see how long we can starve” and “let’s eat a bowl of veggies with tofu! Delicious and healthy!”

I had a hypo last night and had to eat six jelly-beans to treat it, I almost didn’t eat them, I almost just went to sleep. And I found myself sitting there waiting the mandated fifteen minutes to re-test half-hoping that it wouldn’t work, that my sugar would somehow drop even lower and I’d just pass out and die. Because it wouldn’t be my fault, it’d just be the disease, nobody would blame me or feel guilty, it wouldn’t be suicide, I’d just be gone. But I ate them and it worked, so here I am.

But that little pull towards darkness hasn’t gone anywhere overnight, it’s just sublimated into a desire to starve. And I know that it’s a slow, slow way to die, just a long drawn out scream that everybody pretends not to hear until it’s too late. It’s self-harm but ribs are so much more socially acceptable than scars. And you can get so, so, thin before anybody thinks it’s a problem, so long as you cover those black circles up, so long as you act enthusiastic and full of energy, so long as you feign a little joy at being alive. Smile, just shut-up and smile.

And it feels so damn calming to be in control, to refuse, to reject, to decide. For every missed meal the disorder whispers ‘well done’ and dumps serotonin into my brain, I think about food and feel disgusted, I look at my collarbones and imagine the shadows deeper and feel resolve… (But I’m so hungry.)

(This is not healthy but) I don’t want to get better today. I want to succumb. Let it strip the flesh from me for a little while, and then maybe one day I’ll fight the battle of getting well again. (Or die…)

(This is not true but) maybe if I was thinner he wouldn’t have cheated on me.

(It hurts but) I’ve been looking at #thinspo and getting inspired.

I dropped a jeans size this week. (And it feels like a victory.)

Fuck. I need to make myself eat something.

  • Food is not my enemy
  • Food is energy and I need it to survive
  • Being thinner won’t solve all my problems
  • There are other ways to take control of my life
  • He’s a narcissistic twit and I don’t want him anyway
  • I need to eat or diabetes will kill me
  • I don’t really want to die
  • An eating disorder is not an identity



I let the kitty on top of the cabinet sniff each liquor for approval before I poured it into the glass, I added ice, lime juice and a wedge as garnish, and a sparkly swizzle stick because hey why not.

Sip. Sip. Sip.

It’s bittersweet, it’s fitting.

My body hurts and my soul hurts – too constrained by the strictures I’ve self-imposed in my quest to be ethical no matter the personal cost. I’ve always just wanted to be a good person. But… now I want to be happy too. And it turns out that you can’t manufacture happiness out of morality.

They tell me that I ought to listen to my heart, I don’t think that they’d like what she has to say…

My heart cries as one more man, who I thought was kind, safe, good, hears that I broke up with my ex and immediately tries to pick me up, even though hey this might not be the best moment and oh also, he’s engaged to another woman. My heart breaks, turns cold, hardens. I don’t even know what to say anymore. I want people to be better than they are. I want people to be more honest than they are. And they tell me that I ought to be worse than I am – in one sentence (think with your heart not your head,) and tell me I ought to be better in the next (don’t ever break anybody’s heart not even by accident, you should realize…) If I leave her will you be with me? Will you be with me tonight? The hypocrisy. God, the hypocrisy.

I’ve started eating again and my period came back this month, I guess that’s a good sign. But, in my heart? I want to cut myself just to watch myself bleed just to externalize the scream that I feel building up inside. I want to put on something slutty and go out and have an ill-advised encounter, or ten. I want to steal a car and speed until I’m caught or wrapped around a pole. I want to snort too much cocaine, drink until I puke. I want to howl at the moon. I want to self-destruct.

My feelings seem like too much for any one person to contain safely – I need to vent, I need to let out the steam, or I will melt-down. But my safety valve is stuck, gummed up with ethics, shame, and fear.

I feel like… this isn’t my body. This isn’t my life. This isn’t my choices manifest. This isn’t what was meant to be. This is the product of other people’s violence, this is the end-result of a system full of faults and cruel indifference. And that any who participate in that system should dare to pity me brings rage. I want to shout “This is Your fault, I am what You created me to be, so how fucking Dare you judge me for being who I am today!” I want to tear them all to pieces psychologically, I want to burn down the entire fucking place physically. I want to manifest some small part of the loss, sorrow, fear, rage, hurt, that fills me in the world, in this moment, I want to make them see it, I want to make them feel it. I want to destroy everything and take them all down with me.

That’s what my heart says.

Nice, isn’t it? Glad my head’s in control now? Fuckers.


I’m never really alone

I am drunk.

I am alone.

I have been singing songs in the “angry girl” genre for my (undoubtedly appreciative) neighbors in my living room.

I’ve been sleeping So Goddamn Much, but, all I want to do is get high and fuck strangers, so I suppose staying home alone drinking and sleeping is the lesser of two destructive paths.

And I can’t go screw my ex in the glory of revenge sex because I’m pretty sure he was trying to knock me up – and that’s the last goddamn thing I need on my plate.

I spent some of my day productively, creating, cleaning, and playing with the cat. But my mind is so far into the elsewhere it’s ridiculous. I forgot to take my  meds this morning and noticed 12 hours after the fact whoops.

I want to get sideways, I want to connect with somebody, I want physicality, I want to get out of my head, I want to let myself be swallowed up in a whole greater than the sum of itself. But my conscientiousness won’t let me. I am my own prison guard, my very own personal warden, self-administered straight-jacket and all. I want to climb the walls, here I scribble graffiti on my cell walls and scream bloody murder until maybe one day I break myself out from myself.

I may have Dissociative Identity Disorder, I have a fragment – my little six/seven year old self, she’s soft, weak, so, so, so sad and she needs me to protect her. And I’d never really acknowledged that she might be a symptom until I accidentally let her out in therapy. But I don’t identify with the diagnosis at all. Not even if it explains the foggy memories, the blacked out bits, the warring parts of myself that feel like jagged jig saw pieces when I suffer, arguing for primacy.

I just want to go back to sleep now.


Today all my body wanted was sleep and I couldn’t fight it, I got up to feed the cat and had to use the walls to hold myself up, dizzy, off-balance, weak-limbed, I face-planted back into the bed and slept all day long.

My neck and my hands have been aching, screaming, since I woke up and I’m forcing myself to spend a few hours awake before I succumb once more to the pull of my bed but I’m yawning and my eyes are heavy, I don’t think that I’ll last long.

I had a few good days, pain wise, and I cleaned my house – re-organised furniture, tidied up, it felt like I was reclaiming the space, making things fresh again. It felt good, but it isn’t perfect yet.

It’s a work in progress, just like I am.

I stopped eating for a week after the break-up. I just couldn’t bring myself to even look at food, I took vitamins and drank water. But today I ate one meal. And tomorrow I will try to be healthy again, wake up on time, shower, make breakfast, adopt the habits of a healthy person and fake it til I make it.

I am trying not to fall into old traps, I’m trying to be healthy, I’m trying to be ‘normal’, trying to be sane, trying to be kind to myself.

Story Time

His first question when I said “You’ve been cheating on me.” was “WHO TOLD YOU?” … and that really sets the tone for what followed. Here’s his list of excuses in chronological order.

It never happened, he’s not a cheater, we’re fine, I’m being paranoid and jealous and frankly acting a little crazy.

So. I walked away and got myself some support, and then I confronted my cheating ex with all the evidence of the lies that he’d been telling me, very loudly and in front of half a dozen of our mutual friends because when you’ve hurt me that’s how I roll baby… No more secrets, no more privacy. Also, so that they (who had witnessed various betrayals,) could chime in to call him out whenever he tried to tell me a lie during the confrontation (seriously, these boys, they are my heroes.)

Every time he ever said anything romantic to me, hooked up with me, or anything else, he was drunk and or high. And he “can’t be held responsible” for what he says when he’s drunk/high.

And so, it’s MY FAULT that I’m hurt, because I should have known better than to believe anything that he said to me while he was in that state.

And just because he ACTIVELY HID the fact that he was high from me, because he knew that I wouldn’t hook up with him if he was – I should have figured it out, so it’s still my fault.

And he never said he loved me.

Well. He did say that, and he DOES love me, he just doesn’t recall ever saying to me that he would be faithful.

But, okay, but honestly, the way he remembers that conversation is that I agreed to be monogamous to him, but that he could still fool around with other women.

And anyway, no matter what he said it really wasn’t that big of a deal, he just made out with a couple of girls while he was drunk, it meant nothing.

Well, okay, yes he did have sex with his ex girlfriend as well. But that only happened once. And they were drunk. And I “wasn’t available that night.” 

And he didn’t tell me about any of this because “I’m Crazy” and he knew that I would “Overreact just like you are right now!” And I’m controlling, and possessive, and jealous, and overly-emotional.

And anyway, in the end it doesn’t matter, because when I sober up I’m going to regret everything I’ve said to him tonight, because I’ll want him back, so I shouldn’t even keep telling him that it’s over, because “we both know” that I’ll come back to him. Because I love him.

It reminded me of this:



I told him to fuck off and I went and got a sexual health check today.

Boy bye.

He Cheated On Me

Crying. Swearing. Crying. Hurting.


Fucking fucking fucking fucker

He swore he’d never every cheat on me, because he’s been cheated on and he knows how it feels, turns out he’s been cheating on me with not one, not two, but THREE other women the entire time. He told me he loved me… guess not.

I hope one of them gives him herpes.