Lies are funny things, I think. So often we shun lies, but what if our lives are lies? I feel like mine is to a certain extent. I lie to people a lot. I tell them I'm fine when I'm not. I tell them I'm not cutting when I am. I tell them nothing is wrong when my world is falling apart. I say I'm tired when I'm really just sad. I tell people I'm not going to die, when secretly, I've been thinking about it for days. So in short, I lie. A lot.
If I was to justify my lies, I would say that I'm trying to protect myself. And not just myself, but others too. Because sometimes I think there are some things people just shouldn't know. And I know I'm right because people think I'm weird and that other people shouldn't be involved in me.
I laughed, a lot, when I was told this. And I know where it came from too. But if I'm to be honest, sitting here thinking about it, yeah it hurts a bit. In fact it hurts a bit more every time I reflect upon it. For all my apparent weirdness, I am still a human. I still have feelings. I too, want to have friends and be happy and feel like I belong. Who are these people to influence others on issues they don't understand? They must be perfect, unlike me, of course. And this is why I will continue to lie. I will continue to lie because people don't understand and they judge. So my continued tendency to lie comes from my constant need for self preservation. And the reality of the situation is, that if I'm not protecting myself then who is?
So I lie to protect myself. And in my mind I can justify this and its okay, to me. You may feel differently, but that's how I feel. So then what of people who lie to seek attention? Well, I just can't stand them. You have no right to lie. There is no reason for it. You are out to hurt people and that is not okay.
And that is the essential difference between the two. I lie to protect myself. The only person who will be hurt is me. However, the group who do the aforementioned are lying maliciously.
Lies are dangerous things. They spread like wildfire.
But who is to say the truth is any better in some cases? It too can spread like wildfire if people think its good gossip. And then its distorted into lies and people treat you like you belong in a mental asylum. And maybe I do, but that is not for you to decide when you've only heard lies. The truth has proven, on several occasions, to be just as hurtful as lies. So I don't know what to do with that. If both are equally as bad as each other, then what do you say?
I don't have the answers, so I'll not pretend that I do. But I think that my lies are the best protection I have, and as such I think I'll continue. Especially given the quality of character I encounter on a daily basis.
- Sky
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Monday, 26 March 2012
Red Sky
Today I opened up my eyes,
To see the lies that were disguised.
The sky dawned red above my head,
And I realised I didn't want to leave my bed.
The urgent whispers from below,
The thuds, the bangs, it's time to go.
I take one final look around,
Before I head down to the ground.
The urgency is greater now,
I feel the evil all around.
Now there's banging on the door,
I feel myself hit the floor.
The ensuing silence is oddly eerie,
But suddenly I see it clearly.
The door burst open with powerful force,
The man is holding a gun of course.
He points it straight down at my head,
Mummy leaps before in a haze of red.
Her lifeless body hits the floor,
As more men rush in through the door.
The screams, the howls,
The fear, the yowls.
My family is cut down all around,
And then my hands are simply bound.
They march me swiftly through the door,
I've been shaken to my core.
But I puff my chest and scream and yell,
And that is exactly where I fell.
The streets are lined with people now,
Who call and shout and I wonder how?
I feebly try to rise once more,
But once again I hit the floor.
I look up at the sky one last time,
Remembering how the wind did chime.
And in my dying moments I find,
I feel sorry for their kind.
A stout young man takes aim at my head,
I close my eyes and wish for my bed.
I hear the bang and that was all,
Oh how the red sky should suddenly fall.
Found this recently. Was a little surprised as I barely remember it, but I thought I'd share it -- just for you blog starved people out there while I fiddle with my latest post.
- Sky
Monday, 19 March 2012
Any shred of Hope Within Me, any semblance of a Chance... gone.
I keep finding that I can't articulate what is wrong inside and I find that scary. Usually I can attribute my inner pain, my emotional torment, to an event or diagnosis or even a difficult day, but none of these things are coming to mind to explain away my current state. I don't like it. I feel blind. And I can't be blind because I must be able to see.
Take away my sight and I have nothing. No defences, no protection. Nothing. I'm just vulnerable.
I've been taking roaccutane for exactly one week now. One day three my skin started drying out noticeably and its continued to worsen a little bit each day. Right now my face even hurts a little bit. I'm not happy. It's hideous. I'm taking self conscious to the next level and I'm probably going to have another little pity party while I'm at it.
I guess that really confronting thing about roaccutane thus far is how powerful it really is. I read so much about it, I thought I was prepared. But I was wrong. Nothing could have prepared me for its strength, and I'm only one week in. Now I'm not going to lie about this, I am terrified. What else is it doing to me as a type this? I acknowledge that this paranoia is unhelpful and should be avoided. But I can't help but dwell on it. My scalp is so, so sore. It itches and it hurts to brush my hair. It's like a constant sun burn. One that's going to hang around for the next six months.
But it will all be worth it. It has to be.
I just. I'm scared. More so now then I was before. This was doable before, but now, I'm not so sure. I will stick this out, I will be rid of acne, but at what cost? The possible cost of this course is killing me inside. I don't know what it will cost me and I don't think I can stand to lose anything else. No more dysfunctional organs and body parts, no more loss of friends. Not when I can count those who I want, really want, to remain close to on one hand.
But then, that's never really been my choice has it. People enjoy taking that one from me. Withdrawing and leaving me to rot. I sometimes wonder if they think about me, or if they've forgotten. Do they keep the memories? I do. They've changed, my memories have not. I remember, even if they've erased me. I'm still haunted by all the probable things I've done wrong. The people I've lost, and all because I'm too high maintenance and no fun to be around for too long.
It's all my fault really. I can't control my brain. It thinks what it wants. It demands that I share my mind with depression and I do - quite submissively sometimes. And what is my consequence? Well, I lose things.
And I can't anymore.
So who do I talk to then. Who can I trust. I don't know that I can trust anyone. Promises are made to be broken, friends bonded to be lost. It honestly seems to me that every decision/action/step in life is a matter of weighing up the costs, even if you don't realise it at the time.
In closing I will quote Effie Trinket: "may the odds be ever in your favour." Take from that what you will.
- Sky
Sunday, 11 March 2012
A Lesson in the Fragility of Life
Mum told me on Friday afternoon that the 15yo boy next door was told the other day that he only has 'a few months left' to live. Someone else said that it was only a few weeks.
Now, since this family moved in next door, we [as two families] haven't had the greatest of relationships. In fact, they haven't won many friends in the neighbourhood. The boy and I have had our fair share of run ins. They've had parties and thrown stuff over our fence, the mother was rude, the sister was even ruder, someone even called the cops on them at one of their parties once -- such lols! But despite this rough relationship, when Mum told me that he didn't have very long left, I wanted to cry.
The boy next door has several brain tumours and over the course of the past few months the doctors haven't been able to determine what caused them nor have they been able to remove them due to their placement -- not even the revered Charlie Teo was willing to operate. Over the course of the past few months, the number of tumours has increased. He's had seizures and is unsafe dosages of anti seizure medications and been through rounds of chemotherapy -- but to no avail. He is still dying.
And I feel really, really sad. Because he hasn't lived. He's had to cram his life into the precious months he's had left. What kind of a life is that? What kind of a world is this, that 15yo's are robbed of their lives? When the human genome was discovered and coded by computer for the first time just a decade ago, scientists promised such advances in medicine. Genetic cures. Things of the future. But in that ten years, they're still so far away.
The boy next door is still dying.
I guess its kind of petty now, to feel like the world hates me when I live next door to him. All the times I wished to die. Because life is important. And you must live. Because you never know when it'll be taken away from you. You never know how much time you have left until its almost too late, or really is too late. Life is just that fragile.
What I'm about to write about next seems kind of petty below everything I've just written too. But afterall, this is my life. And these things do matter to me. And, just quietly, I want to see a kind of "justice", if you like, before its too late for me. Because its better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees.
My parents and I were sitting in a food court this afternoon discussing my pulmonary hypertension. The check-up is looming now, just a month away. A month until I find out medically whether it's here to stay or not. Personally, it feels like it is, but the new cardiologist needs to make it official. And I will have some questions for him in the event that he does.
They told me that I was going to eventually develop pulmonary hypertension anyway because I was pre-dispositioned and the pill just "unmasked" it. They can't possibly know that. They haven't genetically tested me and I can tell you right now that my parents count recount a single incidence of pulmonary hypertension in our family. So tell me, where would I have gotten the mutated gene/s from then? No answers? Pretty much what I would have expected. So this is one of the questions Mr. Cardio will be being asked.
What it looks like, to me and me non-medically trained brain, is that they simply went too far with the pill. But you know, it wasn't suss at all that my lungs weren't coping. Because a few months off the pill set everything right, well not this time! So again, pretty much tells you that this isn't genetic. Meaning: it is the fault of the doctors, or even perhaps the fault of the companies the manufacture the pill [pending proper research into a list of official side effects].
So I've had a sit down with Google and consulted a number of articles and I have the following to report:
That's fantastic! I go back to the doctor/s time and time again and explain to them what I'm feeling and what's happening, the my breath and is short, I labour up stairs and they look at me and say "we'll give the pill a few months of rest". And then we start it again when my breathing returns to normal and then stop it again when it goes bad. FOR FOUR AND A HALF TO FIVE YEARS. Given that hypertension also known as blood pressure is a listed side effect of the pill, you would have thought one of my many, many doctors would have thought, early on: maybe this isn't right.
But no. This time the damage was done. This time I have a permanent cough. This time any kind of physical activity stresses my lungs. This time sport is a no no. This time I'm sick.
I just feel like someone has to wear the blame. Because I did the right thing. Everything warns you to notify your doctor immediately if you are experiencing side effects. And I did that. Every time! But no one really did anything. No one really looked into it. It only even got looked into by chance. If I wasn't being investigated for having polycystic ovaries [which I don't have despite my initial diagnosis by a specialist who told me to keep taking the pill] I would still be in the above outlined cycle. Can you imagine the damage then?! Pulmonary hypertension can be fatal.
Fatal.
Life is fragile. 15yo boys are dying of brain tumours and doctors are negligent. Fantastic, isn't it.
And this week I've decided it's time to start my six months of roaccutane. I feel like if I keep putting it off then I'll never do it and the things it promises just make me so excited and I want that so bad. Something just needs to go right. But of course, roaccutane was originally developed as a chemotherapy medicine. So it's a non-specific killer or rapidly producing cells. It will dry my skin out. I will sun burn worse than ever. It could exacerbate my depression. It could make my joints worse. It could make my lungs worse. I could even screw up my brain to a whole new level. And to be honest, with my history with medications, I would not be surprised if one or more of the above occurs.
I would be utterly devastated, if it did. But I can't stop thinking about what else could possibly go wrong. I really need this one to go smoothly.
Could life be so fair while it is so fragile?
But, amongst all this despair, I've been kind enough to myself to spare the blade for five days now. 40+ marks too late.
- Sky
Now, since this family moved in next door, we [as two families] haven't had the greatest of relationships. In fact, they haven't won many friends in the neighbourhood. The boy and I have had our fair share of run ins. They've had parties and thrown stuff over our fence, the mother was rude, the sister was even ruder, someone even called the cops on them at one of their parties once -- such lols! But despite this rough relationship, when Mum told me that he didn't have very long left, I wanted to cry.
The boy next door has several brain tumours and over the course of the past few months the doctors haven't been able to determine what caused them nor have they been able to remove them due to their placement -- not even the revered Charlie Teo was willing to operate. Over the course of the past few months, the number of tumours has increased. He's had seizures and is unsafe dosages of anti seizure medications and been through rounds of chemotherapy -- but to no avail. He is still dying.
And I feel really, really sad. Because he hasn't lived. He's had to cram his life into the precious months he's had left. What kind of a life is that? What kind of a world is this, that 15yo's are robbed of their lives? When the human genome was discovered and coded by computer for the first time just a decade ago, scientists promised such advances in medicine. Genetic cures. Things of the future. But in that ten years, they're still so far away.
The boy next door is still dying.
I guess its kind of petty now, to feel like the world hates me when I live next door to him. All the times I wished to die. Because life is important. And you must live. Because you never know when it'll be taken away from you. You never know how much time you have left until its almost too late, or really is too late. Life is just that fragile.
What I'm about to write about next seems kind of petty below everything I've just written too. But afterall, this is my life. And these things do matter to me. And, just quietly, I want to see a kind of "justice", if you like, before its too late for me. Because its better to die on one's feet than to live on one's knees.
My parents and I were sitting in a food court this afternoon discussing my pulmonary hypertension. The check-up is looming now, just a month away. A month until I find out medically whether it's here to stay or not. Personally, it feels like it is, but the new cardiologist needs to make it official. And I will have some questions for him in the event that he does.
They told me that I was going to eventually develop pulmonary hypertension anyway because I was pre-dispositioned and the pill just "unmasked" it. They can't possibly know that. They haven't genetically tested me and I can tell you right now that my parents count recount a single incidence of pulmonary hypertension in our family. So tell me, where would I have gotten the mutated gene/s from then? No answers? Pretty much what I would have expected. So this is one of the questions Mr. Cardio will be being asked.
What it looks like, to me and me non-medically trained brain, is that they simply went too far with the pill. But you know, it wasn't suss at all that my lungs weren't coping. Because a few months off the pill set everything right, well not this time! So again, pretty much tells you that this isn't genetic. Meaning: it is the fault of the doctors, or even perhaps the fault of the companies the manufacture the pill [pending proper research into a list of official side effects].
So I've had a sit down with Google and consulted a number of articles and I have the following to report:
Bradykinin lowers blood pressure by causing blood vessel dilation. Certain enzymes are capable of breaking down bradykinin ( Angiotensin Converting Enzyme, Aminopeptidase P). Progesterone can increase the levels of Aminopeptidase P (AP-P), thereby increasing the breakdown of bradykinin, which increases the risk of developing hypertension.
That's fantastic! I go back to the doctor/s time and time again and explain to them what I'm feeling and what's happening, the my breath and is short, I labour up stairs and they look at me and say "we'll give the pill a few months of rest". And then we start it again when my breathing returns to normal and then stop it again when it goes bad. FOR FOUR AND A HALF TO FIVE YEARS. Given that hypertension also known as blood pressure is a listed side effect of the pill, you would have thought one of my many, many doctors would have thought, early on: maybe this isn't right.
But no. This time the damage was done. This time I have a permanent cough. This time any kind of physical activity stresses my lungs. This time sport is a no no. This time I'm sick.
I just feel like someone has to wear the blame. Because I did the right thing. Everything warns you to notify your doctor immediately if you are experiencing side effects. And I did that. Every time! But no one really did anything. No one really looked into it. It only even got looked into by chance. If I wasn't being investigated for having polycystic ovaries [which I don't have despite my initial diagnosis by a specialist who told me to keep taking the pill] I would still be in the above outlined cycle. Can you imagine the damage then?! Pulmonary hypertension can be fatal.
Fatal.
Life is fragile. 15yo boys are dying of brain tumours and doctors are negligent. Fantastic, isn't it.
And this week I've decided it's time to start my six months of roaccutane. I feel like if I keep putting it off then I'll never do it and the things it promises just make me so excited and I want that so bad. Something just needs to go right. But of course, roaccutane was originally developed as a chemotherapy medicine. So it's a non-specific killer or rapidly producing cells. It will dry my skin out. I will sun burn worse than ever. It could exacerbate my depression. It could make my joints worse. It could make my lungs worse. I could even screw up my brain to a whole new level. And to be honest, with my history with medications, I would not be surprised if one or more of the above occurs.
I would be utterly devastated, if it did. But I can't stop thinking about what else could possibly go wrong. I really need this one to go smoothly.
Could life be so fair while it is so fragile?
But, amongst all this despair, I've been kind enough to myself to spare the blade for five days now. 40+ marks too late.
- Sky
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Same shit, different day.
I just wanted to be happy. But all I got was problems.
I'm scared of people and relationships because I always seem to get hurt (I can think of a few names I'd like to list here...). And now I feel like it's only a matter of time until I lose everything.
Yet, I want to feel something. I want someone to care. But I can't trust anymore and I feel like I'm just annoying people with my problems, because they're always the same
> Same shit, different day.
And that's what depression is, isn't it? Same shit. Different day. That poxy mental illness I copped as a result of years of bullying that ultimately lead to my fears and worries concerning relationships. And then of course, there's all that extra bullshit that holds depression's hands and cuts me down further. I cut myself. I run blades along my skin because I believe, in some perverse and sadistic way, that I'm helping myself. And I believe that. So I cut myself so much in a localised area that if often hurts to move. It often hurts to sleep. Hell, it often hurts to wear clothes. And then I'm anxious about all these things. Because, what if people found out? Could I deal with all that backlash? What if all my friends grow sick of me? What if they hate me? How come all these people have great family relationships, but when I examine mine - immediate and extended - I only find decay? I also hate me. Because I'm not good enough. 73kg is too much weight. I'm riddles with acne and a little bit scared of my one remaining treatment. I'm covered in scars. Sometimes, most of the time, I believe I'm ugly. And I must be because no one is interested. I'm imperfect. Damaged. My own body despises me. My lungs don't function normally, my heart has minute defects, my tends and ligaments torture me daily. Today I spent an hour and a half car trio shifting in my seat because I couldn't rest my patella tendons without causing myself extreme pain. No position was safe. And pain killers rarely work, and only in bordering unsafe dosages. Because the doctors who encouraged this level of use for a short time knocked out my tolerance levels and then told me all my pain was in my head.
> In my head.
Mental defects. I'm mentally defective. I'm jealous of happy people. I want that to be me. I want to feel things. I want to love. I want to trust. I want to fly. I want to be free.
> Freedom.
But I can't have that. I don't deserve it. I'm a terrible person. I'm weird. No one likes a weird person. Especially not a bad-weird person. I want so much.
> Want.
But I can't have it. I'll never have it. My insecurities bring me down every day. My jealousy impedes on my life. My bad feelings and gloom are my only constant companion. And no one understands.
> No one understands.
I can't even be helped properly because I'm too unique. And I'm costing my parents a fortune. It's money we don't really have. And they have enough problems without mine. Mental or otherwise. And this is the shit I deal with every single fucking day.
> Same shit. Different day.
Outwardly, I hold it together.
You'd really have no idea.
But inwardly... well that's why I bear these scars.
- Sky
I'm scared of people and relationships because I always seem to get hurt (I can think of a few names I'd like to list here...). And now I feel like it's only a matter of time until I lose everything.
Yet, I want to feel something. I want someone to care. But I can't trust anymore and I feel like I'm just annoying people with my problems, because they're always the same
> Same shit, different day.
And that's what depression is, isn't it? Same shit. Different day. That poxy mental illness I copped as a result of years of bullying that ultimately lead to my fears and worries concerning relationships. And then of course, there's all that extra bullshit that holds depression's hands and cuts me down further. I cut myself. I run blades along my skin because I believe, in some perverse and sadistic way, that I'm helping myself. And I believe that. So I cut myself so much in a localised area that if often hurts to move. It often hurts to sleep. Hell, it often hurts to wear clothes. And then I'm anxious about all these things. Because, what if people found out? Could I deal with all that backlash? What if all my friends grow sick of me? What if they hate me? How come all these people have great family relationships, but when I examine mine - immediate and extended - I only find decay? I also hate me. Because I'm not good enough. 73kg is too much weight. I'm riddles with acne and a little bit scared of my one remaining treatment. I'm covered in scars. Sometimes, most of the time, I believe I'm ugly. And I must be because no one is interested. I'm imperfect. Damaged. My own body despises me. My lungs don't function normally, my heart has minute defects, my tends and ligaments torture me daily. Today I spent an hour and a half car trio shifting in my seat because I couldn't rest my patella tendons without causing myself extreme pain. No position was safe. And pain killers rarely work, and only in bordering unsafe dosages. Because the doctors who encouraged this level of use for a short time knocked out my tolerance levels and then told me all my pain was in my head.
> In my head.
Mental defects. I'm mentally defective. I'm jealous of happy people. I want that to be me. I want to feel things. I want to love. I want to trust. I want to fly. I want to be free.
> Freedom.
But I can't have that. I don't deserve it. I'm a terrible person. I'm weird. No one likes a weird person. Especially not a bad-weird person. I want so much.
> Want.
But I can't have it. I'll never have it. My insecurities bring me down every day. My jealousy impedes on my life. My bad feelings and gloom are my only constant companion. And no one understands.
> No one understands.
I can't even be helped properly because I'm too unique. And I'm costing my parents a fortune. It's money we don't really have. And they have enough problems without mine. Mental or otherwise. And this is the shit I deal with every single fucking day.
> Same shit. Different day.
Outwardly, I hold it together.
You'd really have no idea.
But inwardly... well that's why I bear these scars.
- Sky
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