Floater's diary
- Thread starter Floater
- Start date
Floater
Well-known member
Thank you, Llama. I curse our right wing politicians to Hell and back for cutting the funding to MH services...I wish there was something I could do to help. You deserve so much better and the system sucks for not recognizing that
I have no idea what's gonna happen but sometimes the only way to get help is to go batshit.
Cate
Long term member
I curse them too!
I really hope you can continue to keep looking after yourself & that includes eating well. I don't want you having to go batshit crazy to get the attention you need. I wish we could help!
Floater
Well-known member
I'd like to think that this is the reason, yeah
Floater
Well-known member
Me too. I'm outside, just walking around, deep in thought.I hope you can get some sleep tonight
Cate
Long term member
Your doctors have not seen you when you are feeling this way.
Suffering = suffering.
You are not weak- far from it.
Floater
Well-known member
This comes with a tw, just writing down snippets because it helps me work myself out of the fog.
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My hands were unusable for quite a while. Everything I had learned to do from eating to tyeing my shoelaces to wiping my own ass and brushing my teeth were lost to me for months, and there was a genuine fear of never being able to do those things. So my mom had to do them for me. And she'd talk about how cumbersome it was while I sat by the dining room table full of fear and pain and shame, my hands two burning animal claws, the re-growing skin tight and the nerves misfiring as if there were ants crawling all over them.
When it turned out I would regain my mobility and most of the sensation, my parents decided it would be more convenient to act as if it had never happened. I remember my grandma grabbing my wrists and whispering that my bones are like a bird's bones; was it before or after the incident? Did her dementia play some kinda role in all of it?
Anyway. I remember dad peeling me oranges and me eating the pieces off the plate with my mouth like a horse because the acid hurt my new skin. And I remember the scent and texture of petroleum gauze and how plump and swollen the new skin looked. How creeped out I was by the Christmas cards that came with the magazine from the invalid org my Mom had joined for support (aka attention), as the cards were painted by paraplegics or amputees who used their mouths or feet to paint - they reminded me of the primal, visceral fear of losing my hands.
I learned to turn to dissociation to escape the shame and horror and confusion. My Dad had an extensive collection of classical music CDs, and I was taught how to use the CD player. With my still clumsy hands I'd pry open the CD cases, carefully take out the CD using the sides of my fingers and hands (as the skin started to heal from the outside in), popped the CD onto the tray, and pressed the buttons with my knuckle (as my fingertips gave me tiny shocks of pain as the regrowing nerves got irritated). Then I'd plop myself onto the couch and let the music engulf me and paint all sorts of wondrous images into my mind. It helped me detach from the constant discomfort of my injuries.
And even as I'm writing this and KNOWING I'm right about these memories, the doubt occasionally rises. And that doubt is due to having been - for the lack of a better word - brainwashed. There's a story my parents have told me over and over again, every time something bad has happened or when I have started to wonder about my hands. In the story - I think it's all lies - it's summertime and there's a cake in the kitchen with lit candles on top. My parents claim that I was wearing a straw hat and that no one else was around except for dad who was working in the next room. And they claim that I was watching the candles and my hat caught fire and I ran to Dad who helped me. But: why would there be an unattended birthday cake on the table, how come did my scalp not burn, and why does the story get whipped out whenever I ask about traumatic things in my childhood but never in other contexts - especially not in health care?
EDIT oh yeah there's also a version where it's Christmastime so even less sense why I would wear a straw hat. And yet another where it's my sister whose hat caught fire.
.
.
My hands were unusable for quite a while. Everything I had learned to do from eating to tyeing my shoelaces to wiping my own ass and brushing my teeth were lost to me for months, and there was a genuine fear of never being able to do those things. So my mom had to do them for me. And she'd talk about how cumbersome it was while I sat by the dining room table full of fear and pain and shame, my hands two burning animal claws, the re-growing skin tight and the nerves misfiring as if there were ants crawling all over them.
When it turned out I would regain my mobility and most of the sensation, my parents decided it would be more convenient to act as if it had never happened. I remember my grandma grabbing my wrists and whispering that my bones are like a bird's bones; was it before or after the incident? Did her dementia play some kinda role in all of it?
Anyway. I remember dad peeling me oranges and me eating the pieces off the plate with my mouth like a horse because the acid hurt my new skin. And I remember the scent and texture of petroleum gauze and how plump and swollen the new skin looked. How creeped out I was by the Christmas cards that came with the magazine from the invalid org my Mom had joined for support (aka attention), as the cards were painted by paraplegics or amputees who used their mouths or feet to paint - they reminded me of the primal, visceral fear of losing my hands.
I learned to turn to dissociation to escape the shame and horror and confusion. My Dad had an extensive collection of classical music CDs, and I was taught how to use the CD player. With my still clumsy hands I'd pry open the CD cases, carefully take out the CD using the sides of my fingers and hands (as the skin started to heal from the outside in), popped the CD onto the tray, and pressed the buttons with my knuckle (as my fingertips gave me tiny shocks of pain as the regrowing nerves got irritated). Then I'd plop myself onto the couch and let the music engulf me and paint all sorts of wondrous images into my mind. It helped me detach from the constant discomfort of my injuries.
And even as I'm writing this and KNOWING I'm right about these memories, the doubt occasionally rises. And that doubt is due to having been - for the lack of a better word - brainwashed. There's a story my parents have told me over and over again, every time something bad has happened or when I have started to wonder about my hands. In the story - I think it's all lies - it's summertime and there's a cake in the kitchen with lit candles on top. My parents claim that I was wearing a straw hat and that no one else was around except for dad who was working in the next room. And they claim that I was watching the candles and my hat caught fire and I ran to Dad who helped me. But: why would there be an unattended birthday cake on the table, how come did my scalp not burn, and why does the story get whipped out whenever I ask about traumatic things in my childhood but never in other contexts - especially not in health care?
EDIT oh yeah there's also a version where it's Christmastime so even less sense why I would wear a straw hat. And yet another where it's my sister whose hat caught fire.
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