TMS

Looking for Laughs

 

Over the years, when I’ve needed a lift or a charge or a jump, I’ve assigned myself homework. I’ve had all sorts of stupid assignments, from “engage with three people” to “find ten out-loud laughs.”  Those assignments are per day, by the way. Not anything completely insane like per hour.

I’m just reasonably and partially insane, not completely insane.

Engaging with three people, for me, is not too difficult if I really focus on it.  It usually means delivering Compliments or Well-Wishes (CoWWs).  #AcronymAlert

Delivering CoWWs is actually really fun once you get over the initial paralyzing social anxiety. Once you realize the person is unlikely to totally go off on you, you can relax. And when you do say something nice to the person, you will usually see pretty quickly that others enjoy hearing nice things like compliments and well-wishes. Usually you get back a lot more than it took to get it out.

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Making a New Life.

 

I’m looking for people who are going through something. But not just anything. Something significant. A shift.

Because I’m going through a shift and I need to talk about it.

And my therapist retires in two weeks.

And honestly, she was only available for an hour a week, so really, how helpful was she going to be?

But I’m going through a major shift because TMS is changing my brain.

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For All the Tired Brains.

 

Lying – not laying – on the sofa, resting the brain, looks suspiciously similar to laying on the sofa doing any number of other things that look like doing nothing.

My brain is overloaded and feels like it needs to shut down  Even though I still have lots of things I want to do.

My brain needs to take a night off. Even though I want to go out with friends and visit family and do some Zoom and draw some stuff and write some more.

But no, the diva brain is just not really having any of that. Diva brain wants to be horizontal and chill.

So me and my brain are relaxing on the sofa. Under the blankies. Under the dog.

Just doing a lot of nothing.

And it feels really good.

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The Death of Suicide

Let’s kill suicide.

Let’s kill all of it. Or at least as much as we can.

I have recently found major relief from chronic and near constant intrusive suicidal thoughts. But I will still have thoughts. And I will still have urges.

So  I still wouldn’t go into certain situations where a certain prompt, a certain look, a certain song, a certain feeling, a certain slight  could trigger an urge.

I have lots of plans in place. But plans have to be discussed. And figured out. And negotiated as circumstances change.

And negotiated in anticipation of circumstances changing.

Let’s kill suicide by talking about how to handle it when the thoughts and mages and urges rise up. Since we know they will.

We can have this conversation. It’s just about life. And how to live it.

It’s just about how to live life.

Let’s just talk about how to live life.

So we can live life.

Happy Friday Eve.

🤎 🤎 🤎

d (and bella)

Switching Tracks

 

I always knew my brain was working against me.

I didn’t know precisely how my brain was carrying out its campaign against me, but I knew for sure there was a problem.  I knew my brain was not helpful.

Even as a child, my thoughts were dark. My views of the world were morose. Any visions I had of the future were cut short by tragedy I could foresee.

In the beginning, my brain told me everything was doomed. Then, little by little, my brain told me anything I had would be ruined. Later, it told me to ruin things.

It was clear as a bell that brisk December night in my first semester of college when my brain directed me to withdraw from college immediately. I stayed awake all night until dawn, pacing from my dark college dorm room to the shared common room, where I smoked my way through boxes of Marlboro Lights.  As soon as there was a little light in the sky, I moved to the  frigid steps of the building that housed the Dean’s Office. I sat there for hours, waiting for the office staff to arrive and find my teary, tragic self looking hopeless and pathetic.

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