For those following, no the Lamictal is not working. Wednesday cannot come soon enough so I can suffer the side effects of a different medicine.
No, I'm not Satanic. Death Metal is not about Satan, it's the emotion, feeling, and soul.
Honestly, I'm not sure Satan exists as anything other than a tool of controlling the masses.
That being said; It is quite obvious that the Christian God and I are having a bit of a spat at the moment. OK, it is more like Hatfield and McCoy. He has only answered one prayer where I was able to tie the prayer to the result. At least I can pretend it was a direct result of the prayer and feel a little relieved.
I couldn't bear watching my mother in agonizing pain any longer and I threw everything at every deity I could think of... obviously falling back on my Southern Baptist upbringing, I prayed for mercy, for her pain to stop, for her to be at peace physically and mentally.
3 hours later, at 5 a.m. I was awakened by my cousin who was keeping vigil on Mom so Dad, my niece, and I could get a bit of sleep, explaining that Mom had gasped, threw her arms out straight and her eyes were rolling back in her head.
When I got in there she had the death rattle, her eyes were open but nothing was there, her mouth was open; a gaping hole with teeth now over-sized in a head with cool, pale, yellowed skin sagging from her fatless skull gasping for air every 12 seconds or so, resembling a carp thrown on the river bank.
Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring was about to end on the DVD and I had finally gotten around to waking the other two up. The four of us huddled around Mom. I had my right hand on her forehead and my left on her left forearm. Dad held her right hand, my niece, well I'm not sure where she was grabbing, but I know she was holding her, and my cousin held Mom's left hand.
I distinctly remember looking at the television, for whatever reason, and seeing the ship sailing off into the horizon. Enya's May It Be began playing and the final credits began to roll. It was a full 17 minutes from the time I gave her the medicine until I saw her take her last breath and felt her soul exit her body and go through mine to wherever it went.
Approximately 3 hours and 17 minutes after I had made that pained plea to God in a fit of just simply not knowing what else to do, Mom was at peace. She was no longer in pain physically, and no longer tortured by her own brain.
You walk a lonely road
Oh how far you are from home
Believe and you will find your way
-Darkness has fallen-
A promise lives within you now
May it be the shadow's call will fly away
May it be you journey on to light the day
When the night is overcome
You may rise to find the sun
-Darkness has come-
Believe and you will find your way.
A peaceful song with a strong message, to end a death that I will never be convinced was peaceful in any way, even with Morphine.
She had lost her 10 monthish battle with cancer, after surviving all of the struggles in her life, and suffering bipolar. I say she was bipolar simply because she exhibited the same symptoms I do, and three of the medicines she had been on for quite some time are prescribed for bipolar. Obviously she was not rapid cycling, unlike me, and she had never thought about her being bipolar herself until we had several conversations about the hell I go through just to survive. She was making connections to me that she saw in herself. Except she could be more forgiving of God. I still harbor too much anger, and too many unanswered questions.
The one thing I can say for Mom, that I cannot say for any other relative of mine*, no matter how close the DNA linkage; she was the only one who ever tried to research, talk to me, ask me questions - she was the only one who bothered trying to figure out what it is to be me. She's also the only one who accepted me for who I am, faults and strengths. Even then it took until I was in my 20's for her to see me as a human and treat me as such.
* My niece who will be reading this does not fit into this category. We are essentially twins.
Certain relatives pretend they can understand where I'm coming from, but really they are too stuck in their own psychosis and denial of said psychosis to even be bothered to know the real me, especially not in the way Mom did. To know me, understand me, is to accept me. Not to try to change me. Not to tell me I'm grieving wrong. Not to stand there and tell me I have no right to be pissed at whomever, and no right to have strong, sometimes violent reactions.
And it is not an intelligent move to get irate with me for "pushing relatives out of my life during a tough time," assume anything about how I think or feel, especially the assumption that I live in this world that I think revolves around me (again proving the lack of knowledge about me), and on top of that, tell me I'm doing everything wrong.
These relatives do not understand me, nor do they care to. They just want to control me, like I'm stupid enough to fall for emotional blackmail and mind games. I grew up with the best games around played on me. The only difference is, I learned.
I take responsibility for my own war with my own demons. Also, I admit I'm psychotic up front, and although it has gotten out of control recently, I try to get help when needed, and I certainly fight it every step of the way. I do not make excuses, although I'm sure it sounds to people like I do. I guess logical explanations, reasoning and theorizing can be taken as excuses by people who are not seriously deep thinkers.
By the way, I'm not the one who put my hands around the throat of a child in a body cast, nor am I the one who broke a mop handle on my son's back and brag about it, nor do I scare the hell out of my grand-daughter with my own rages over trivial things, nor am I the one who tries to destroy the gift given to my children. If I had children, I would nourish and nurture them, not try to destroy them.
Other relatives, those with the closest DNA links, well, I have about as much use for them as I have of a horsefly on my left butt cheek.
They have never once made any effort to understand or accept me. In fact, they helped shape who I am with their incessant criticism, thinking it was funny that they could anger a 4 year old me to the point that I just bashed my head into walls as hard as I could, but would get angry when the rage finally turned to violence against the perpetrator at the time.
The patriarch never has and probably never will attempt to see what it is I have to deal with on a daily basis inside my skull. He gets annoyingly offended if I have to get medicine from the pharmacy, and makes sure to ask if I "really need this."
I know Mom begged him often to just google "bipolar" and read up, that the answers of why I am the way I am will be there. But then again, he never has shown any regard for psychological defects. Because of my long history of mental health issues, he has long since been embarrassed of me, and ostracized me. The last time I remember him doing anything with me on his own, I was like 3, and we baked homemade apple pies together. After the onset of illness, I was useless.
To him, I'm the the defective failure he spawned. He has never figured out that my life is a minute by minute fight with myself. One with a high possibility of self-injury, suicide attempts, addictions and probably several stays in one of the finer mental institutions in the area later on in life. It's a fact that I'm only going to be able to fight this for so long before I end up being part of the revolving door of the mental health system.
My brothers? Well, they're just assholes. One takes the same route Dad does, and cannot accept anything or anyone that is different or does not fit their idealized standards of worthy human beings. The other, well, he's the one that simply saying his name to me will cause an incredibly violent, blacked-out rage.
What does all this have to do with Christmas, religion and my feud with God? Everything, really. While I can understand that people must endure trials to gain strength, how can a loving God be at all happy creating some people like me, with a substantially defective brain, and then allow them to suffer every form of abuse known to man? To allow them to fall through every single crack a person can fall through? What is the purpose?
If God doesn't allow more than that person to handle, why does he think I can handle everything I've been through, everything I'm going through, and if that's not bad enough, the wonderful flashbacks that occur when you're at your lowest point?
Also, if God is so loving and forgiving, why is Hellfire and Brimstone so often browbeaten into His followers, instead of the message I took a long time ago, which was of peace, love and tolerance for everyone. I mean, really, it is said Jesus touched lepers and publicly associated with prostitutes, never, ever, seeing them as anything other than a human soul worthy of life. Something people then and now still have problems with. As an example in current times, the Untouchables of India, and this amazing guy who gets the human soul.
Maybe I'm just incredibly angry that I got saddled with the life I got saddled with, and see no real opportunity to make anything of myself if I cannot live my dream of writing. I know I'm not happy at all about cancer, losing someone that actually cared about me, and well, all the other negative, horrific crap that goes on. It may be blasphemous and I may go to some form of Hell (which would be better than the one I'm living in here), but why is God so absent if he is supposed to be so loving and caring?
Most importantly, why would He create people knowing full well of the invisible, torturous struggles those souls would deal with, which could lead to death? In my strange world of over-thinking, that shows me that He does create defective equipment and he does allow too much weight to be put on one soul's shoulders.