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I had a rage episode this morning.

It’s been such a long time since I had one, I really just didn’t know what to do. I am embarrassed, I am ashamed, I am… still very angry. I’ve been living with my major depressive disorder for such a long time now, and I thought I was passed these breaks, that I had learned enough coping mechanisms to deal with this effectively, but evidently not. Every time I think I get better… something happens to remind me that I still have to live with this part of myself.

So, I am in a lot of pain. Constantly. Three years ago, I cracked my pelvis on black ice when getting my daughter out of her car seat in front of my duplex at the time. I had a split second to decide how I was going to fall, and I chose to fall on my bottom and my back, so as not to crush my Emilie. For my effort, I got a nice crack right on my hip joint… not enough to band or cast, but enough that it caused me agonizing pain for a few days. Me being me, I only went to the hospital because my employer at the time made me. Turns out I went white as a sheet and almost passed out, and working in a warehouse environment… safety and all of that rot.

So I got a week off of work and some painkillers and was told to take it easy. Which I could not do, because I was with an emotionally abusive partner who really didn’t give two shits about my well-being, and an almost 2-year-old who had just started walking around on her own. Whether or not it healed correctly, I’m not sure. Subsequent x-rays and such have not been conclusive. The pain remains. My left hip is stiff on a good day, and on other days… like this morning… I get spasms and it’s tight and sore and it goes into my lower back and across the back of my legs and it’s debilitating. I have been offered, on numerous occasions by my doctor, a regimen for pain management and everytime I decline. Why? Mostly because opiates and their derivatives scare the shit out of me. I’ve worked in the ER enough times to be a witness to what they do to people. I have seen with the two eyes in my head what it looks like when someone receives a shot of Narcan up their nose. It’s like they come back from the dead, and I never want that to be me. I fear that outcome. There has been drug addiction and abuse in my family, and though it hasn’t happened to me, I know the possibility of it exists inside me and I refuse.

Because of this, certain members of my household just… tell me to get over it. “You’re fine, get over it.” Normally, I would. I am my mother’s daughter. I do not go to the hospital, the doctor, or any other medical professional unless it is absolutely warranted. I work through my ills on my own. This is, however, an ongoing issue. My pain seems to be exacerbated more and more recently because my mattress is getting to be in poor condition. If I wake up like I did this morning, in tears, it takes me a while to get moving but I eventually am able to get out of bed if I maneuver correctly and don’t force myself to go too quickly. This morning, I guess… for this certain individual, I wasn’t moving fast enough. He proceeded to shout at me through my door, and in a fit of irritation, I got out of bed too quickly.

My legs gave out under me and I fell forward, knocking my cauldron off of my desk and landing on it while smashing my face into my bedroom door at the same time.

Needless to say, I started to cry, and I got angry. Angry at him, angry at myself… and it escalated from there. This family member is a master at pushing my buttons. He will intentionally say and do things to me that gets my temper flaring and while on a good day I don’t rise to the occasion, pain knocks my equilibrium out of whack and instead of coping like I should, I lost it. Screaming obscenities, raging, crying, restraining myself from picking up my Keurig machine and throwing it at his head, restraining myself from throwing myself across the counter and hurting him until he stopped his verbose word vomit. He likes to have this aura of superiority above me, citing all of my failures and saying that I’m a bad mother when he is potentially one of the worst people I know.

Back in high school, before I got diagnosed with MDD, I used to self-injure. I am not ashamed of this, and most people who know me know that I did that. I used to hurt myself so I didn’t hurt other people. More often than not, it was this person I was trying not to hurt. The last time I cut myself was when I was 24. It’s been five years, I haven’t done it, I haven’t wanted to do it… but this morning, I wanted to. I really, really wanted to. I settled for pushing the tips of my stiletto nails into my palms. I didn’t break the skin, but that momentary flash of pain grounded me and I hate that. I am still thinking about it. I can’t be thinking about hurting myself. I thought I was over those behaviors. I thought I was passed them but I’m evidently not and I hate that my daughter saw me break and go off like that.

I am ashamed. But I’m angry. I am still… boiling under the surface of my skin and I know if this person says anything more to me today, my adrenaline will spike and I will lose it again. I am hoping that writing about it here will help, but we’ll see I suppose. I’m taking off of my lunch break now to go for a walk and get some air, stop by the bookstore perhaps and get some clarity. I made an appointment with my doctor for Monday, to maybe see about getting a referral back to a psychiatrist. We’ll see.

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