With a little help from my friends

Hello again, Pixie here. After my long, intensive last post I thought I would share a quick update. I spoke to my therapist (a magical creature if there ever was one) and she advised me to look into holistic based medicine with an emphasis on PTSD as opposed to being committed somewhere standardized and awful that would not actually help me. I was worried about that too as I was committed somewhere terrible once in my families state against my will for an anxiety attack (I was prescribed Xnanx back then and had run out, and happened to be in a hospital for medical reasons and had an anxiety attack so was committed. It was absolutely awful and I don’t want to be stuck anywhere like that against my will ever again.)

The problem I see with anything outpatient though is the levels of medication in my body that I have to overtake to even get a remote effect from anymore as my body built up a tolerance. Tapering never worked for me. At the same time I don’t want to be somewhere they will just shove new meds down my throat (that place gave me awful drugs for mental issues I did not even have that cause me to hear and see things….and all that is precisely what I want to avoid.)

If I could somehow be in a coma for a month and then just remove the drugs from the equation that would be fantastic but apparently everyone wants something like this and it is not a realistic option XD

So, I still need to look into inpatient holistic medicine based places with a focus on PTSD more.

Another thing we talked about is how I struggle over an obstacle so much in my life that I can’t get to the solution. If have a problem, then there is a block and I will fret and worry and overthink and not try hard enough to work on the solution due to this huge fear of failure. How when I started therapy I was in a dark forrest and then when I start to make my way to a bridge of happiness, of warmth…..it scares me and I can dip my toe in the water but then will run back kicking and screaming to the dark negative place.

I am very honest, but also can be quite insecure. Yesterday I was up all night reading Cassie’s Tumbler. Anyone following me on facebook may already know this but I saw a new post I had not previously seen. This is the post as I posted it online:

I’m TERRIFIED right now. I literally could not make up this shit if I tried. Last time I was in London a book flew out at me at a charity shop. As in it fell out of the shelf and literally landed at my feet. It was called wintergirls. Reading the back gave me chills. It was about a 2 best friends one named Cassie and one named Lia. Cassie had bulimia, Lia had anorexia. It was a quid, so I bought it. This was right when I got back after Cassie and Zak died. Reading it was evenfreakier. The Cassie in the book dies, where as eventually Lia eventually starts her recovery journey in the end. THIS GETS WEIRDER.
I couldn’t sleep last night all night. I hate facebook for deleting Cassie’s messages. I went through her tumbler for her words, her voice. I just missed her so much, you know? Then I see this. She read the same goddamn book. Found it inspirational. She included the part at the end, about Lia getting better. WTF is wrong with me? How could I have left her? Why didn’t I just book the same ticket as tedee when they were both still alive? I never should have left. I mean, look at this: http://cassieisflying-blog-blog.tumblr.com/…/finished-winte… She included this quote from the book
“Cassie had liver damage, her salivary glands were a wreck, and her stomach was distended.” Mom holds up a loose fist. “A healthy stomach is this big. It can stretch to hold about a quart. Cassie’s could hold three. Plus her stomach walls had thinned and were showing early signs of necrosis.” […] “She drank, binged, and purged for two days. […] Her esophagus ruptured. Ripped open. Boerhaave’s syndrome, usually seen in alcoholics who regularly upchuck after drinking too much. Vomiting forcefully enough can tear the esophagus. […] She was purging into the motel toilet when the rupture occurred. She was also, like I said, very, very drunk. She went into shock and died in the bathroom.” […] “Did she feel anything?” “I’m afraid she did. She died in terror and she died alone. It is an awful way to go.”’ Did you predict your own death, Cassie? Did you always know? Are you waiting for me?

…..So yeah, after that I had RUN back into the Forrest, looked for the darkest trees, found a well and wanted to jump in and drown then and there. All the pill bottles on my nightstand were looking at me. Someone I met twice who I always disliked was harassing me online, and I just felt that ice-cold sense of emptiness. I remembered a photo on Cassie’s blog: tumblr_mc8r29vqc11qjh6tbo1_1280

I worried, was she in some other dimension, waiting for me? I miss her so much, every day and just wanted the pain to stop.

But, she also posted this



And she discussed her need for creation:

“I need to create

Ever since I was little I have had a compulsive urge to create, especially through writing. I learned to read at 4 and to write soon after and there wasn’t a single second of the day until I was 11 that I wasn’t either writing books or reading books. Then I turned 11, puberty kicked in, and all creativity ceased. It’s like my body decided there were more important things to attend to, I got over-involved in social things, interactions with friends, and of course boys, and it was all fun and merry but all it did was provide a distraction. A distraction from fulfilling myself, which is to be on my own, dedicated only to myself and my own needs and CREATE. I haven’t written a story in about five years, I now only rarely write journal entries and these are fragmented and dull. My fluid, rich, poetic literary way of writing has dried up and in its place I have NOTHING.

I really hope one day I can write a book. I want to write a collection of surreal horror short stories, and a confessional book about my lifelong struggles with mental illness. The latter I could piece together by reading through my accumulated journals of years, but how would I even start trying to make sense of it all, there is so much of it! And when I die, no one will care about my journals, they will just be thrown out. I never want children, so that rules out the possibility of me bequeathing them to someone else. My kitty Ella probably won’t outlive me, and she has not yet learned to read.

I WISH I could find a method to my madness. I wish I was like Yayoi Kusama (exhibition currently on at the Tate Modern, REALLY need to see!). She is ‘mentally ill’, but she harnesses it, and she manages to successfully satisfy her innate urge to create. I don’t understand what is wrong with me, why I can’t create anymore. Something has settled itself in my brain and is blocking my pathways. I can’t even call it mere writers’ block anymore, it’s lasted so overly long.

I just want to… some day… create something, ANYTHING!!”


“I just wrote the first paragraph of my first novel.

…but I was high and don’t think I will be able to write as well when I’m not. Also I don’t have the patience or discipline to write a whole book! But I HAVE to, it is my #1 ambition in life to write a novel and see it published. I am thinking confessional literature atm, and I already know the title! After that I will move on to writing surreal horror, a collection of short stories or something.

But can I actually do it???”

Cassie creeps up a lot into my personal writing, even my first youtube vid which is in final editing stages and should be posted very shortly 🙂

Its strange. I write surreal horror/prose things too and she somehow ends up there even if I don’t intend her to be. That is something I hold onto. I WILL write my novel, and I will dedicate it to my mother, my father and to her. If I write more than one, I will dedicate that to her, too. Facebook.com deleted the long correspondence from me to her over the last years of her life when I was legally stuck in the US and I HATE FB for that, but all I can do in find new ways to keep her memory alive.

So there I was, in a well like the girl from The Ring, ready at that moment to let the darkness consume me. Luckily I have amazing friends in London. Simicat and Ant, you saved me from doing something stupid and potentially fatal that day. I was in the well, and you tossed me a rope and pulled me out. I can see the bridge again, even if I am still scared of crossing it completely.

The best thing I feel a human can do for another human is to simply be there. After Cassie and Zak died, I self-isolated. I hated myself, why should anyone remotely tolerate me? But I didn’t hate all of me. Just the bad scary nasty demon gremlin things that appeared out of the corner of my vision like those spots of black when you press hard into your eyelids. I still feel survivors guilt, the unfairness of being in a world where she is not, where Zak is not, where Igor is not.

But I am lucky. I have people who care about me and love me. OK, most of them are halfway around the world, but they are there. This one is for you:


I do truly believe our closest friends are the family we choose. Your continued love and support means so much and I hope to either visit London again one day, or if you could come see me ❤ *fingers crossed* ❤

Also shout outs to Mary who continues to post cute videos on my wall (proof that I can actually make a new friend! :)) And Nadia and Antoin, always. I miss you all loads ❤

There are other people who I am extremely grateful for but this particular blog is for those who were my anchor last night.

As I was typing this, someone offered me a ride to a meeting tomorrow as well. They reminded me how my main focus needs to be on my recovery now and I need to block toxic/negative people (like mr. dickface, as I think of him) out of my life. I obviously can’t say who they are and don’t think they will ever see this but thank you, too.

And a reminder to those who feel isolated and lonely: are you making an effort? Are you trying to reach out, even if it is tough and scary? Please try. It really is worth it. Good things do exist in this planet, you just need to pick out the diamonds from the rubble.


If we’re always
Starting over
Every brand-new morning
Then we’re always
Starting out
With the end in doubt
We can leave life for tomorrow
Or grieve all that we thought we’d do
Or make each moment new


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