(Non) Fictional Anxiety

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , on December 13, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Yesterday I started watching the series Shooter. I made it two episodes and HAD to switch to something mindless, in this case, Kevin Can Wait. I almost never ever binge watch sitcoms (outside The Middle, Superstore, Big Bang Theory,and Teachers) but Shooter took me to a suspenseful anxiety inducing place I couldn’t handle.Which, hey, is the point of a suspense thriller type show, right?Means it’s damn good. And yet…My delicate central nervous system kept ringing the panic bells because I can fathom being framed for murder and the system working against you…I’m sort of in a similar situation, minus framed from murder or government conspiracy but still….someone owns me, for all purposes, abuses that, and I end up feeling trapped as if in a prison. So maybe it makes sense this series resonated a little too much and my anxiety receptors were already on triple load, it just caused the system to crash.

I can honestly say, having suffered from panic attacks and anxiety since I was 7 years old, I’m a high strung person and maybe my mom programmed me as she, too, is high strung. But she said her mother suffered through anxiety and that was back in the 60’s prior to all this transferrence and nature versus nurture shit, so maybe it’s genetic. My sister, and my brother (who has a different mom than me and sis) also suffers anxiety. Either way, it’s always been there and it has always been pretty brutal but I noticed after 2000, when I had the reaction to Nardil that landed me a drooling catatonic mess in the psych ward for a week, my anxiety tolerance levels have gone down. Every litttle thing sets off the alarm bells. I used to think it was a combination of the Nardil reaction, then a month later my apartment building caught fire and I had to move in 3 days without a cent to my name…Very stressful and anxiety invoking. After that, I had to give up watching my beloved soap operas because waiting the weekend to find out of Stefano killed Marlena (Days of Our Lives, anyone?) was too anxiety inducing. Whereas prior to these things, I could handle some suspense without freaking. It was more “nervous-cited” as my daughter quotes from My Little Pony. Nervous but excited to find out what happens next.

After those things…It became too much. And as the years passed, it metastasized into paranoia and mistrust and a sense of impending doom that I live with daily. Some days are bearable, others (like today) make me feel like the outlet is overloading and a fire is waiting to happen. After having my daughter, my chemistry changed so much I went through months long bouts of thinking the neighbors were trying to drive me out of my mind with their barking dog tied outside. Illogical? Yep. But the rapid heartbeat, the sweating, the trembling, the sheer sense of terror…it’s all very real every time my disorder picks up another quirk, like hearing sirens and being sure my home is the one on fire. Which hey, I woke to a burning building, so it seems a pretty legit fear…

Today what sparked my anxiety, as well as my fury and disgust, wasn’t waking at 6 in the morning. It wasn’t taking the godawful Vistaril, waiting two hours for it to kick in, then still waking up three hours later. And two hours after that. Nope, that stuff is irritating but it’s become natural (and isn’t that sad that my mental health care professional doesn’t have more concern for my plight? Just sayin’.)

Today’s trigger was being beckoned by His Highness R to his ‘real’ job to wait in the parking lot and get his credit card then go get him a new phone charger. Which he didn’t want me to bring back to him, mind you, just wanted it left at the shop. Now, the place where I got the charger is directly in his path from the real job to the shop, he could have easily been in and out 5 minutes without making me drive 5 miles out of town with a car that shimmies over 30 miles an hour, not to mention using my own gas. R prides himself on being Mr. Spock, so logical, and yet the entire thing was preposterous. And it made me late getting to the shop because he ‘forgot’ he’d told me to be waiting in the parking lot for him. Not to mention for this extra effort he didn’t even offer to buy me a pack of smokes. Pardon me, but his personal cell phone has NOTHING to do with helping at the shop and it damn well could have waited and he could have done it himself.

I feel taken advantage of. Neglected. Disrespected. Am I wrong? Am I the selfish one?

At this point beind so completely under his thumb has me wishing I could just risk broken legs and get money for a different car from a fucking loan shark. This is not worth being under someone’s absolute control and manipulation. And it’s not like it’s new, I’ve been complaining for years then second guessing myself cos I am the one with mental issues and if I am gonna be honest…while I don’t reject people based on their looks or whatever…I can be pretty intolerante of their quirks (all the while expecting them to accept mine) so consider me humbled…But this whole thing was unnecessary and even Kenny said R simply doesn’t want to do anything for himself but go to his jobs and he needs to control me by having me do all these things for him even when it’d be more practical to do it himself. So the fact someone else sees it sort of the way I do means I’m not distorting or operating on hysteria or hormones…

Next Friday cannot come soon enough. I am out of this hell hole, and away from R, hopefully, for 2 weeks and hey, if he can find someone else to come be his indentured servant with empty promises and illogical demands, I’ll adjust my budget so I don’t need him for a damned thing. No one ever died without internet, right? It’s no longer worthwhile, and it is so stressing me out and setting off both anger and anxiety, I am a fuse about to burn to the end and explode the powderkeg. Fuck a different car. I’ll drive mine til it falls in the middle of the road into pieces then I will start doing a lot of walking. Being run around like a minion is too much. Maybe for a decent wage and benefits I could swallow my pride for the 4 months of stability I get every year but this has gone too far.

Feel free to comment if you think I am being a brat. I don’t mind reality checks as long as they’re fair. But the ship sailed on fairness about four years ago when I had a meltdown and he told me to stand on my own two feet so we didn’t speak for 5 months. Maybe it’s time to make the sacrifices and stand on my own two feet. And he can damn well do the same because without a minion, he’s gonna have to start doing stuff for himself just as much as I might have to give up some extras like internet.

Regaining some calm, and some self esteem, somehow seems more important than binge watching though I’d prefer to keep rotting my brain with binge watching. I learn way more from TV shows than I ever did at school. Ya know, when they aren’t triggering my “the sky is falling!” issues.


404-This is a desert,dude

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , , on December 12, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

After 3 days down the lovely cramp filled lethargy laden pre-premenstrual rabbit hole during which my biggest accomplishment was showering for the first time in days….I went to watch a video on line and instead of the usual boring “404-file not found”….I was met with, “I know you’re looking for water, but this is a desert, dude.”

And I couldn’t help it, I genuinely laughed. Out of the ordinary, and honestly, could have come out of my warped brain, considering I call my own mom dude and sarcasm is pretty much my religion. Not a bad way to start another week in the dish serving my sociopathic narcissistic master of the ‘I am going to buy you a different car”…Yeah, not a bad thing at all, starting the day with a laugh, considering the last three days of acute cramps and feeling generally like dead woman walking.

It’s like this every damn month. I have ten days of dysphoria, 4 days of the curse, and by the time my hormones settle…it’s time to do it all again. This on top of the bipolar, depression, and anxiety. I think the fact I am upright and wearing pants should be celebrated, but alas my mental health care provider treated me like little more than a naughty malingerer who will be all cured with some pill induced sleep.

Yeah, I am still salty about it.And even abstaining from alcohol, caffeine, all the bad stuff that supposedly worsens my conditions-I still feel pretty justified in my feelings for how she made me feel with her “do you want fries with that?” attitude. Maybe she’s a great person. Maybe she is so professional, she doesn’t even think a modicum of empathy or expressing support is appropriate. I just know seeing her these last few months have been some of the worst psych appointments I’ve ever had and it’s a bad fit. Yet instead of this closing the door on the subject…

I am forced, because I do have a thought disorder, to constantly second guess myself, my own motivations, and whether I am seeing things clearly or distorting them or being reactive when I should not be. Living with constant self doubt would drive a sane person over the edge. Again- I AM UPRIGHT AND WEARING PANTS, GIMME MY DAMNED TROPHY! Oh, and I didn’t sleep in the shirt or pants, either, I put on clean clothes, which should like garner a free toaster oven or something!

Of course, I jest. Because my humor, warped as it is, is the only thing the mental disorders, mental problems, bad psych experiences, and crap life in general haven’t robbed me of. (That and my tiger tattoo, though I may want to refrain from claiming that, someone could actually cut out a chunk of my flesh and take it.) Humor, dark and sarcastic much of the time, is my best coping mechanism. It’s also likely why so many different docs have decided I have this personality disorder or that, because people who don’t live sarcasm and humor of that ilk, often take the things I say seriously. Of course, I’m not gonna drink bleach just because the new Firefox Quantum moved my home button to the left side and half my add ons no longer work. I hate it, it perturbs me, but I’m saying “Oh, I could just drink bleach, it sucks so much!” NOT “Oh, this is so awful, I’m going to actually drink bleach in an effort to gain attention and yet another disorder diagnoses!” Geesh.

There’s this big part of me who just wants to quit all the psych meds, forget therapy forever, and just own what a hot mess I really am. But that version of me would prove fun but totally unstable and less than useful to my kid so I have to remain on the hamster wheel from hell. Yet I have learned so much about myself, changed so much, grown so much, I refuse to have some therapist or doctor invalidate that progress with some entirely new diagnosis just because I have some quirks. (Like finding an error code funny.)

Now that I am down the seasonal rabbit hole, best I can do is hang on, ride it out, and realize that…this,too, shall pass. And hopefully by mid Janurary when I see Dr. B, there won’t be a big scarlet A on my file from nurse doc because I decided to change back to him. She said she didn’t care either way yet it still bugs me. I’m not non compliant simply because I want a competent therapist my insurance won’t pay. If this were so important to my getting well, then my psych professionals should find a way to at least get me into their staff therapists even if on sliding scale. The fact that it’s not important enough for them to even try tells me….they just want my to have a therapist to listen to me rant so they don’t have to. That’s just lazy. Borderline negligent. A client who fully explains their legitimate distrust, for very good reasons, of a counseling center, yet is told to go through a phone book…Lazy. Because trust me, I’ve been down that road for years, always looking for an alternative, never having one because insurance won’t cover it. The suckage of life in a small rural armpit.

But for today..I’m up, wearing pants, serving my time, and I got a giggle from a 404 message. All in all, I’d say it’s not a bad start to the day.

(My sarcastic side wants to point out that the day is young and suckage could befall me, but then, I’d be accused of being negative instead of them calling it what it is-sarcastic humor.)


When Therapy Isn’t Therapeutic

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , , on December 9, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Woke in the middle of the night with racing thoughts again. The sleeping pills don’t do it, be it melatonin, vistoril, benadryl…My anxiety level, since my last appointment with doc nurse, has soared to a level that haunts my sleep. Therapy, therapy, therapy, it just keeps stampeding my brain. The fact that I explained why I am so reluctant to go to the only place that takes my insurance and her blatant dismissal of it has me irate and feeling bad about myself. If my mental healthcare professional dismisses me so easily, what hope do I have of finding another therapist that will take me seriously and do more good than harm?

Round and round my mind goes like a hamster on a wheel. A hamster hopped up on meth and cocaine.

I am pondering going to the counseling place and telling them the doc nurse said I need to be counseled so here I am, just don’t count on me opening up to anyone. Since the shift in mental health care from simply venting and learning to process shifted to the cognitive behavioral crap, I’ve found counseling a waste of my time.Having my quirks labeled (Oooh, I talked about vampires during a session and I had pink hair, I am sooo schizotypal!) or hey, I was manic and agitated so I must have histrionic personality disorder…Let us not forget symptoms of bipolar meaning to one counselor that I am DEFINITELY borderline when the therapist before her unequivocally said I am NOT.

How is any of this helpful to me? It’s confusing and it’s detrimental to my self esteem. It’s akin to telling me to go hang out with people who will insult me and invalidate my every feeling and calling it helpful.

Am I just stubborn? Prideful? Unwilling to make an effort?

I guess since my past experiences were so utterly discouraging, maybe I am wary of making the effort again. Especially since the counseling center merged with a big hospital and they’re a ‘behavioral’ health center. Maybe I need to stop drinking when the stress mounts. Maybe I shouldn’t lie so much, but hey, if I tell people I had a bad mental health day instead of lying that I had the flu, they get uneasy and hostile because mental illness isn’t real. And isn’t this behavioral center basically saying the same? That no matter our legit diagnoses of imbalance, we’re all just distorting facts and need to ‘retrain’ our brains to behave in a manner that is current with psych trends?

Honestly, last thing I want is to be labeled non compliant. I also have zero desire to expose myself, again, to an experience that proves far more negative and confusing than positive and helpful.

Because the minute I admit I’ve had bad experiences or disagree with a diagosis or a counselor’s tecnique, bam, I’m gonna get slapped with yet another personality disorder, paranoid, anti social, likely both. Why would anyone want to do that?

Best I can tell at this moment, my biggest problems are A, lack of self confidence, which in part stems from both bipolar disorder and the very treatment I’m receiving for it, and also, a defiant child who physically attacks me. Neither of which have a thing to do with my personality quirks. I will never be changing my rebellious nature, not now that I have grown enough to know I am doing it for the right reasons and not just idly to my own detriment. I am not gonna stop dyeing my hair funky colors or stop wearing black and skulls. I’m not going to stop being introverted (which,btw, there was talk about turning *that* trait into a disorder), I am not going to become a social butterfly. I have zero desire to be any of those things. I want help with what is troubling me but the entire therapy and intake process is to label me with all these personality flaws rather than help specifically with what is causing the most trouble. My green and black hair is hardly a culprit here, even if others find it freakish. (It’s about to become bright red in a few days cos, hey, I can.)

I am so envious when I read others’ posts about how helpful therapy is for them. It’s been so long for me. Probably since the 90’s when the counseling place was on the other side of town and I saw Roni, then Paul. After that, it was all downhill. I liked Denise and Debbie okay, but that last one who changed my entire diagnosis after 3 intake sessions…she did far more harm than good and it’s not simply me disagreeing with her. The therapist who left thus requiring me to see Yoyo said I was not borderline, I just had traits and many could be tied to bipolar cycles.

If their own people can’t agree on anything….I fail to see how they are going to help me. They’ve already done enough damage, pardon me if I’m not anxious for them to do more. And honestly, if I go in there with an attitude and I truly feel I cannot be open there as R’s daughter works there so she’d have access to all my session notes and she’s known for telling her daddy about clients….

Being placed in this hellish position angers me, dismays me, and frustrates me.Which is probably why not even sleeping pills can keep me down at night. I’m being haunted with the threat of being labeled non compliant if I don’t get therapy yet the only therapy available is more damaging to my psyche than no therapy.

Talk about a catch 22 from hell.

Unstable Thought Disorder

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , , on December 8, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

I heard schizophrenia referred to as a ‘thought disorder’ and it got me to thinking how misleading it is for the DSM (Dumbassery Simpleton Manual) to classify bipolar and depression as ‘mood disorders’. Because were they simply mood disorders, we would not require massive amounts of medications to balance them, nor would we need constant therapy shoved down our throats because hey, you can ‘snap out’ of a bad mood, or a bad mood can simply pass with time. When something is your constant companion and a way of life…

Seems to me that is a thought disorder indeed.

Last week my stress level reached fever pitch and my thoughts kept telling me I was coming undone, hospital straightjacket ready. I was convinced the sky was falling, the nurse doc basically assassinated my character and invalidated my very existence, and that having the landlord’s people fix my furnace would result in eviction simply because *someone* doesn’t like my standard of tidiness. I was hell bent on this all being factual because it was how I felt, how I was thinking, and it was very real at that time.

This week, however, after a bit of time away from the shop and drama and trauma…plus getting the heat fixed and surviving the packed auditorium for my daughter’s Christmas program…I know my mental stability is tenuous, at best, but my thoughts seem less disordered, less convinced of doom. I am thinking more clearly.

And while the psych professionals don’t seem to lend it much credence, I think a lot of it is every month I experience brutal menstrual dysphoria to the extent that I may as well be pregnant, the hormone overload is so extreme. That’s 10 days a month and by the time I regain equilibrium from that, I am still battling the pre-existing bipolar and anxiety thus my thoughts are often distorted, amplified, or downright wrong. This is a thought disorder.

The psychiatric community is reluctant to call bipolar and depression as such because so often, bipolar isn’t accompanied by psychosis, so we don’t hear voices or see things that aren’t there. We still perceive things incorrectly and the ebb and flow of it all isn’t simply a ‘mood disorder’. Moods can pass, shift, swing, but in rapid cycling bipolar…It’s just a constant roller coaster ride of thought disorders, never being able to trust yourself, wondering if you are always wrong or misconstruing things. The self doubt alone could drive a person mad.

Let’s not leave out the self loathing the thought disorder leads to. Going through life with a legitimate disability yet being made to feel like a lazy, weak, parasite at every turn really wrecks your self image and confidence.And for me, the constant varying opinions, diagnoses, and general attitudes of the psych professionals who are supposed to help me, are a hindrance that increases my self loathing.

I am far from perfect. I make poor choices. Some when my disordered thoughts overwhelm my common sense, some by conscious choice to simply ignore the angel on my shoulder and go with the devil on the other one telling me it’s okay to occasionally be a rebel and have a few drinks to unwind. At least I am honest about and not deluding myself. I have a coping disorder. I also have mega self esteem issues, but how am I ever going to deal with those when my psych professionals are making me feel invalidated?

So in addition to the thought disorders, there is very real anxiety disorder which mimicks the physical symptoms of a cardiac episode and honestly, it wears me down. To have a psych pro like nurse doc seem so dismissive of that really makes me question this whole ‘treatment’ thing. If they are causing more harm than good…Maybe I’d be better off just drinking myself into oblivion daily.

Or maybe that is a disordered thought brought on by frustration and healthcare professional who is simply a wrong fit for my needs.

Never knowing for sure which is fact is a bitch.

Are you suicidal, ask the Psychiatric Professionals

Posted in mental health with tags , , , , on December 4, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

No trigger intended…

But it’s a legitimate question our psych professionals ask us…Most of, I am betting, are truthful 85% of the time…The other 15%…being suicidal is very different from simply being so exhausted you want to cease to exist.

There have been times in my life when I was so down, so desperate, so in need of peace…Yes, I was suicidal and maybe it was more than ideation. Maybe in those dark moments I formulated a plan.

More often, though, there was no will to live. Just a will to sleep, to not feel anxious, to not be depressed, to not feel like the demands of others were pulling me limb from limb…Thus the desire to simply cease to exist was prevalent.

The psych professionals don’t seem to grasp this concept as well as if you plainly say, “Yeah, I wannt kill myself.”

That is THEIR failure. Assuming simply because we don’t intend to harm ourselves that we are not in the clutches of a dire mental cycle is simply wrong. Take us seriously because we are here, trying to bare our souls, and admit…we don’t know how much more we can’t take before we simply break.

Ignoring us (as my psych nurse/doc/indian chief, whatever she is, does) is bordering on malpractice. Of course, I don’t want to be hospitalized, and of course, I don’t want to hurt myself…I live for my child, my cats, my love of music, TV, books, writing….There ARE things out there I still love and enjoy.

BUT if my psychiatric state prohibits me from enjoying said things, let alone valuing them…Yeah, wanting to cease to exist is just as serious as suicidal ideation.

I’ve reached out so many times only to be swatted away (my perception, likely not their intent, but same result)…if someone says “I want to curl up on a ball and not live anymore” it SHOULD be as alarming as someone who admits they want to harm themselves.

Yet constantly we are dismissed, dismayed, and it helps fuel whatever personality disorder issues we may have by feeding our hostility, hatred, and resentment of not being heard.

Perhaps rather than asking us if we want to harm ourselves, the more pertinent question is…DO YOU HAVE ANY DESIRE TO KEEP FIGHTING TO LIVE?

Mine is there but waning and I really think that should make my psych professional care.

Alas..it did not.

Humbled and Jumbled

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , , , on December 4, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

After Friday, the day from hell, I am finally back to a decent mental space but it’s precarious, at best. I don’t know how it can be anything else considering the demands placed on me from R and my child randomly physically attacking me for trying to set limits. I’m already juggling depression, anxiety, stress, and sleep deprivation. Yet…

My Friday appointment did not go well with nurse doc. I went in and immediately started ranting about all the strain and yeah, yeah, I know, that’s what therapy is for, not the actual professionals. Try not making me wait 6 weeks between appointments, you might know what’s going on with me and I won’t need to go on a tirade to demonstrating how close to the edge I am.

As usual, she made me feel an inch tall. I think her empathy bone is broken, honestly. There I was, pouring out my soul, admitting, yes, you busted me, I smell like booze because occasionally and I drink ritas and sometimes I even spill them and don’t bother changing my clothes…Fair enough, call me on my bullshit, I have it coming. But when I told her flat out, it’s 16 hours a week and it’s been three months and I simply cannot keep up with the demands and expectations R has. I’m simply not ready to work yet.

And in this apathy filled voice she asks, “How will you know when you are ready?”

Pretty sure when my meds work more than six months at a time and I can manage the bare minimum without ending up on a crisis hotline.

Of course, it makes me look on the wrong side, because sure, I’ve been a bad girl, mixing meds and booze, but the choice between sleep meds that knock me on my ass and give me hangovers verses being able to sleep after a couple of drinks and not having a hangover…Okay, excuses, excuses. I got called on my crap, I own it, she was right on that part.

But it’s not like I’ve ever truly taken to her. Every month since I started seeing her I end up venting about feeling so dismissed, like she is unsupportive, has no empathy….And as if to prove me right, after I’d already told her that the keyboard clacking unnerved me…she started doing it again!!!! I said I’d be fine with her writing notes or using a recorder yet she has to do the very thing that makes me freak out! Not professional. And probably not personal or intentional, she likely sees so many patients she just forgot that the clacking makes me edgy.

Oddly, it was the final straw for me, Not simply feeling ignored or chastised, but the disrespect of clacking when I’d voiced my issues with it. That was what finally gave me the balls to make an appointment with Dr. B over nurse doc. I have to wait til January 15th but it will be worth it. Though my permanent record is botched, thanks to my own idiocy of reverting back to ritas to dull the anxiety and sleep. It’s so weird because I’ve had half a bottle of whiskey in the cabinet for two months and never once drank a drop. I apparently can’t even have a drinking problem within the normal parameters.

I got the go to therapy lecture, again. I told her to find me any place else and I’d go-I explained completely why the local place is such a conflict of interest where I won’t even be able to open up. She could not have cared less. If she cared, she’d have said, “you check the phone book and I’ll ask around, too.” Instead she told me I needed to check the phone book and get some intensive therapy. Yet every time I go to therapy, it’s just insurance paying for me to vent to someone while I figure things out on my own gracelessly. What’s the fucking point? And why didn’t she suggested maybe my kid who hits me needs a therapist or doctor? Dr. B has said it before. Yet doc nurse doesn’t seem to care.

And I can sense she doesn’t consider me disabled. Some things you just know based on how someone repeatedly treats you and it’s obvious she thinks my every problem is either lack of solid sleep or I need therapy. She could have easily wrote me a note to get out of the shop for a week or so, let me get my brain back together. I should have switched back to Dr. B months ago, I always had a feeling about nurse doc. (Or whatever she actually is, a master’s degree doesn’t make you helpful to patients, I know that much.) Now my file is going to make me look like a malingerer partying loser.

I never go out. I don’t go to concerts or live shows even though I love music. Half the time I can’t work up energy to shower. I can barely wear clean clothes. I can’t keep up with housework 99% of the time. I am putting forth every inch of effort and my life basically hangs in the balance of someone who’s had their degree a year or less.

Maybe I should give her the benefit of the doubt but one thing is fore sure: I am fine being called for my bad behaviors but I have a dozen entries about my misgivings about her long before that so this is not something knee jerk “been caught being bad” reaction. If I don’t feel like they’re on my side…I guess I should just buy my own straightjacket because that’s all doc nurse did for me, is jumble my feelings so much I’m not sure if I hate myself or what. Which was what the last ‘therapist’, with 2 years experience under her belt, did when she changed my 20 plus year diagnosis after only 3 sessions. These people are supposed to help me, and they are the ones doing as much damage as the mental illness itself.

In other news…our furnace needs a new main board and chances are I will be blamed for having too much stuff and dust so I’ve not exactly broken my back to call the scumlord. I have however kicked ass for three days towards cleaning the place up. Lots left to go but today alone I rearranged the living room completely, AND managed a trip to Wal-mart. I think Mrs R’s impromptu uninvited visit the other night while he was looking at the furnace helped motivate me to clean a little lest she report me for being an unfit parent. Of course, I’ve seen her idea of filthy so I might as well give up now. My stuff is old and it ain’t ever gonna be all shiny clean. But she and him got into a yelling fight in my laundry room cos he’d been gone two weeks and he didn’t rush to her side and….He should have mentioned he was using family time to look at my furniture. I do not need people screaming at each other making me feel unwelcome in my own home, ffs. And why would they put me in that position?

I thought I’d at least get the weekend to myself then yesterday when we finally ran to the store…he calls and makes me feel shitty for leaving home because he needed to drop by and have me put some file on flash drive for him. I basically put in Friday for free (because even though I wasn’t needed, if I had tried to leave before it was time, he’d have guilt tripped me, and seriously, it’s what he does.) I’d be better off waiting tables, at least once your schedule is done, you can have a life. Not with R and his shop, even before the ‘real’ job, it was living and breathing that shop 7 days a week. I can’t be him and I can’t be what he needs me to be.

And no matter what doc nurse thinks, I’m not ready to tell people how stable and capable I am when it’s a blatant lie. And what kind of mental health professional would place a patient in a spot where they have to fake stability and lie about it? Okay, she never said that, but still, it’s how she made me feel and she’s the ONLY doctor to ever make me feel that way. Even the horrid “I’m a psychiatrist but I don’t think people need to take medication” was better at being supportive than she is. And he called me on my crap all the time and by that, I mean, he loathed giving me Xanax and constantly wanted me on clownapin. I met him halfway and cut my Xanax level in half and he could live with that.

So when even your worst has been trumped out of 20 plus doctors and therapist…it may simply be a bad fit or maybe…I won’t go there but I think it goes without saying. You should never make a depressed person feel more depressed about themselves.

As for her Vistoril…it’s not helping -put me to sleep or stay asleep but now when I get up at night to go to the bathroom, I’m all wobbly and walking into walls. A former shrink said Vistoril (however it is spelled) would not be strong enough for someone with my sleep disturbance history. She was right. If I’m getting bruises walking into walls and shit, I should at least get a buzz or six solid hours of sleep out of it.

Trintellix Side Effects SUCK

Posted in bipolar disorder, Uncategorized with tags , , , on November 30, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Lost the med lottery today. I ate first, took my Trintellix, and BAM. Stomach ache and nausea so bad I think the flu is more appealing. THIS is why people don’t want to take meds or stay on them. I missed maybe two doses and there was no withdrawal, but even after two doses missed, you go right back to the original side effects from the first months of treatment and dose increases. It’s maddening. Yet I am reluctant to give up on it because it’s kept me vertical this long, it’s doing something. I dread taking it every day, though. It’s like trying to work yourself up to go in for a root canal. It’s worse than lithium nausea ever thought of being. While I know it will pass once I get a week of solid dose built back up, but still. Two missed doses should not involve in such nasty side effects. But alas, I know, I’m the one who got so scatterbrained I forgot my meds, I brought it on myself. My fault or not, the fact is, Trintellix has been one of the harshest meds I’ve been on.

Another NUTSYFUCKINGKOOKOO side effect from this medication, which of course, the doctors deny yet the message boards are full of people experiencing it as well, is the itching. Not just my whole skin, but my scalp. It’s got me using special shampoos, checking me and my kid constantly for head lice. And that’s precisely how it feels every single day no matter how long I am on it…Like living with a headful of lice crawling around in my hair and on my scalp.

I’m out of bed and dressed and doing my prison term. I mean, at the shop. R texted yesterday about his needs. Didn’t bother asking how I am. Doesn’t care the customers are pissed off, that he’s running the business into the ground. He gives zero fucks about anyone but his own needs. And I get it, he’s been out of state for two and a half weeks, he missed Thanksgiving with his family, he’s in limbo, unsure when they’re gonna be finished with the job and come back…I get it, he’s stressed,too, and then he has to come back to all this mess at the shop. BUT he brought this on himself. We have all tried to tell him, he is too egomaniacal to listen. So he kind of made his bed and needs to lie in it. And I think I deserve a goddamn Christmas bonus for dealing with all the enraged people who cuss me, yell at me, hang up on me, slam the door on me. But he would never think to do something so thoughtful and kind.

He’s the ‘I don’t want to know about the pregnancy,labor, or birth, just give me the baby’ type. I am the “Was the pregnancy difficult? How long were you in labor? How’s the baby? Any complications post partum?” I want the whole story because I care. I can’t stop being this person and he can’t stop being that person. It’s always been a tightrope act of our personalities clashing or meshing. I just don’t know I need another thoughtless insulting person who takes me for granted in my life when my family has it covered in spades. Tis why I have the three week plan in place. Though, I’m kind of plotting bitch cos I ain’t telling him about til after he fixes our heat. (Landlord told me if I blew another $200 main board I’d have to pay for it and the lazy Hvac guys always say it’s the board or else they’d have to know something and do some work, so fuck that, I’m gonna be a devious snake and have R fix it. That can be my Christmas bonus…please don’t think I’m horrible, heat is kind of necessity.)

At least I am not alone in my views here. All his friends, and even customers, say he’s ruined the place and the reputation. Least this time I know it’s not bipolar distortion or my personality flaw. He screwed the pooch on this one.

My kid had a warbler last night. First one in days. I shouldn’t have let her have the single peanut butter cup. Sugar always sends her around the bend but I find absolute denial makes kids sneak stuff and I don’t want her feeling she has to sneak food, even junk food, so she develops some shame disorder over food. But she went off the rails about being stupid and ugly, though the timing was convenient. She’d informed me she and a bunch of other kids were playing tag more like hockey slamfest so they all got lunch and recess detentions today. I can’t very well be disciplinarian and all when my kid’s having a self confidence meltdown, right? My mom says I make stuff up about how bad Spook acts out, that I make it worse than it is, like I am out to get her or something. No, that was my mom, always so harsh on me yet clueless that she was. I am interested in my kid not becoming a sociopath, being her friend is not my job. I make nothing up, this is her behavior. If I wanted to frame job her, I’d never point out her good behaviors. Hell, if I weren’t a loving, devoted mom, I’d have done run away from home because frankly, living in fear of an 8 year old going violent on me isn’t a pleasant life. But here I am, still trying, and my mom is accusing me of making it all up. As if I have a damned thing to gain by saying Spook misbehaves when she doesn’t.

This morning was no better. She had church last night so didn’t get to sleep til 9:30, come alarm today she started yelling at me it was too early and she was tired. Maybe the late night church thing needs to be done away if she can’t manage on an hour less sleep.

I’m not gonna say I am handling things with much grace. I’m hanging by some frayed thread here (while the sensation of crawling bugs on my scalp is making me nuts, but at least the nausea has subsided). I must have wakened 4 times during the night and I only hit snooze twice today because out of the gate…my brain starts spinning and stressing and worrying. How am I gonna get Christmas and pay all the bills? The car keeps dying on me, idle is too low, what am I gonna do if it keels over? Ugh, do I have to see the apathetic psych nurse who makes me feel so shitty? Isn’t there a better med that won’t make me feel like I have year round head lice? Round and round it goes, where it stops…I wish I knew.

But hey world, I am serving my time, vertical and at least wearing clothes I didn’t sleep in. I haven’t showered in 4 days but hey, as long as I am upright….I really hate life sometimes. I hate bipolar life. And more than anything…I despise depression. It’s one of the cruelest disorders one can live with. And one you won’t find much empathy for even amongst psychiatric professionals. Joy, joy, happy, happy.

Z-whack me now, please.