People-ing Is Draining

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , on January 26, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

I’ve not left the house since a quick trip to the mini mart Friday and yet, I still feel people’d out. My dad’s incessant calls then a surprise visit from a friend (to his credit, he called first) and my brother tromping into my house this morning to take my kid to church, then text messages…I am not in the mental state necessary for all of this interaction. It’s weird because I can write half a dozen posts a day, read twice that many, click, swap comments, exchange emails-none of that bothers me, it feels nourishing to my soul and psyche. But when I am forced to deal with the mental health muggles-those who do not have our magical mental disorders therefore they can’t understand it- it sucks the life out of me.

But, yeah, R visited last night and brought my birthday gift. I was fucking blown away. I asked for a $30 optical sound bar for my TV. He brought me this huge set with a sub woofer and blue tooth and it was no $30. My immediate instinct was to say, “Oh, no, this is too much, take it back.” Because that’s who I am. Cheap and I feel undeserving. But honestly, it meant a lot that he remembered even if it was a few days late. He even brought me a 12 pack of baby Mangoritas. I am grateful but hey, he’s making $17 an hour so it’s not like being nice to me is gonna break him. I just know with him, strings usually apply and I never know when they might appear. And he absolutely gives zero fucks about what state my mental health is in, if he feels he is owed, then…I do it or there is a shitstorm and I have to go into hiding to avoid the onslaught of insults.

He stayed a couple of hours, mostly yakking about Trump and stupid democrats and all the money he is making while loudly playing Angry Birds on his phone. Sitting in the living room, putting on smiles I did not feel, rolling my eyes when I was really feeling that (You ever seen those K-pop fan girls? He is like that for politics and I just…can’t.) I just do don’t do this social thing and frankly when people are always on their fucking phones, what is the bloody point? Not to mention one of the main reasons I moved from the living room to my bedroom crypt is because of the noisy fucking trains. I counted TEN of them in less than an hour last night and every time, I’d jump a little at the whistle thing. We’ve been here two years and when it is one or two trains, it’s annoying but you stop noticing. But that many trains in such a short time span emitting such noise? I just remember feeling jarred, unsafe, and hoping he’d leave soon so I could return to my safe bedroom crypt. Away from all the noise.

I finally slept. Horrible nightmares but based totally on shit that has happened with people I know so…Give me a good chase with a knife wielding maniac over backstabbing gaslighting friends any day. I kept waking up, scared to go back to sleep, but too cold to get up and get a drink or something, maybe restart my heart from ricocheting off the walls of my chest. This repeated right up til dawn and I nodded off again, only for the alarm to wake me to get my kid up for church. And I still hit snooze three times, banged on the wall to wake her, and stayed under my cover, awake, unmoving. Not ready to face another day in shitty mental space. After she left I had every intention of just curling up under the covers and pretending the world out there forgot I exist. Then my brother stomped in and my dad called and it’s like GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK. And I am still supposed to get to town to get the veggie soup I half paid for that my sister cooked and I…The thought of driving all the way to town when I just have to do it again Tuesday for my shrink appointment seems like too much fuss. It’s like, yeah, I want that soup, but it sure would be nice if like since they are gonna be in town anyway, dad and stepmom would stop and fetch it for me. They’re always reminding how many miles my car has on it, after all, saving me a trip would be both kind and wise.

Kind and wise are not words I use in reference to them. Even on the phone stepmonster was in the background listening to our call and I said something to dad about always being cold and she’s mooing in the background STOP YOUR WHINING! Then dad made a comment about me being closer to 50 than 40 and I said, what they never tell you is that even if your body is that age, in your mind you’re pretty much the same as 20 year old with more wisdom. And again that fucking cow is mooing in the background about me growing up and stop crying. HUH? I can’t make a simple statement- even a positive one- and that bitch has to butt in. Yet in the last 5 months she’s seen 6 different doctors, had upper GI, colonoscopy, a Gyno, a ton of bloodwork cos her iron is low and her diabetes numbers are off….If anyone needs to stop whining and being a big wussy, it’s her. She’s two years younger than me, for fuck’s sake. Sometimes I swear she is just competing with dad to see who is in poorer health and the sad thing is, he’s 73 and still not at the doctor’s as often as her. We have all tried to tolerate her for the last 20 some odd years but honestly, she needs a fucking mute button. I can’t have a simple phone conversation with my dad without her insulting me and I am just burned out. Shut the fuck up, you fucking redneck TRrump loving cow. Oops, sorry to bovine kind. Kinda hard for me to find an animal I dislike enough to liken her to. Maybe a maggot or a slug.

See, all this people-ing has me ready to implode. When it feels like my doors are being stormed and I am under attack, I become quite like a cornered animal ready to attack. Except I am too damn tired. And cold. Yet sweaty. I have no idea what is going on with my body anymore. But I sure as hell am not gonna run up a $20,000 insurance bill for ten different doctors and dozens of tests because I’m hormonal and can’t get comfortable in my own skin. It doesn’t matter if insurance would cover it all, it’s the fucking principle. If you’re that fucking sick, go into the hospital and shut the fuck up, you hypochondriac. See, I am giving her all the empathy and respect she gives me. Which is none.

I know the point of this should be, hey, the witch brought you some sweatshirts so you won’t freeze and R brought you that kick ass speaker rig. People care about you, shut up, Niki.

I’d give up all monies and material gain if they’d validate my mental health issues instead of treating me like I imagine them.

Yes, I got more lectures from dad about the job thing. Yep, haven’t bathed in days, house is biohazard four, I lose my shit when people crowd me even by phone, and I can’t string two coherent thoughts together. I sound like an awesome, reliable employee for sure. WTF? Oh, right, he doesn’t want to validate that my mind ain’t right because somehow that would make it about his genetic code being flawed and that only applies to the males on his side of the family. My brother ‘has problems’. I am just lazy. Well, my brother may sweep the floors 15 hours a week at a burger joint, but he’s under their gaurdianship at age 24, can barely sign his paycheck, and has the emotional IQ of a third grader. I, on the other hand, maintain a household, keep the power and water on, the car licensed and insured, I am raising a kid, caring for pets, budgeting, banking, driving in town, shopping for groceries and making sure my daughter and I both have our meds refilled on time and make doctor appointments. Who seems more capable there?

Guess that is his point, if I can manage this much, then a job would be no big deal. They never are until about a month in when I start losing my shit from the pressure. Manic-dream employee- Depressed-resign or be fired. I am in no hurry to get back on that merry go round. When I go back to work, I want it to stick. Sadly, the only things I seem any good at are ranting, writing, spelling, and sarcasm. Not a big job market for those skills.

This turned into a disjointed clusterfuck real fast.

I am going back to Fort Blankie. My mind is racing too much to find any peace but sometimes just the ritual of staring blankly at the TV can slow things down in my head. Quell the rage. Dull the anger and hatred toward cruel people. Give me more time to think up reasons why I suck and am a terrible person. The usual.

Hopefully this hormonal hell ride will pass in the next day or two and I won’t be so…vitriolic.

And pray to the sacred pegacorn my shrink appointment goes well and something is done about my med regime because the Cymbalta ain’t doing shit. Oh, how I dread that glance down at my file, pages turning, and that resigned, “Well, Niki, you have tried so many…” As if I am not painfully aware of my medication resistance.

My goal for this week: get the house cleaned up, my new sound bar set up, bathe, and oh, write a semi positive rainbow spewing post. The latter is probably gonna be the hardest thing of all to do. Debbie Downer is kind of my writing brand, positivity is going against everything I stand for.

Challenge accepted.

I Don’t Like Myself Today

Posted in depression, mental health with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 25, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

That title is just one of those things that make go ummm…. But it is how I am feeling and I have no idea why. It’s not like I took a Z-Whacker to a baby seal or robbed a bank or did anything that would spark self loathing. I just feel it. It started about 45 minutes into watching stand up comedy on youtube in an effort to bolster my sagging spirits. By 45 minutes, I was no longer even smirking at any of the comedians and I just felt like someone pricked the bubble around me and let out all the air. I can’t even find comedy funny, what is wrong with me? Now there is that itty itty rational part of my brain who says, hey, maybe your hormones dipped, or you haven’t eaten in 30 hours, you need food to get your blood sugar up. Or hey, novel idea, maybe those comedians just didn’t do it for you?

Ha ha ha. Depressive brain can kick rationality in its ass and skull and deny any plausibility.

I took my meds. I am drinking water. I ate. I still think I suck. Hell, I even snuggled a kitten and am pretty sure I still can’t fucking stand myself.

This is the part of depression people don’t really talk about. For every manic episode in which you showed no conscience for your actions, there will be depressions that you feel guilty and self hatred for no good reason. And when your mind gets bored hating you for no reason, it will dredge up the most heinous things you have ever done in your life as examples of why you’re a waste of space who doesn’t deserve to live.

Never mind you’re doing meds, therapy, changing bad habits and past behavior that contributed to your issues. NOPE. Self betterment is NO excuse to suddenly start liking yourself or feeling good about yourself. YOU STILL SUCK.

Part of me wonders if I didn’t set myself up for this mood crash by watching comedy. I tempted the fates and wanted to prove I am more than all my depressive writings and that I can be fun and funny and laugh and not be consumed by pessimism. But deep down maybe I knew it would end in self defeat thus giving me a real reason to feel like a loser other than ‘just because my brain says so’.

Self sabotage is pretty common in depression. But if that is what I did, I think I did it all wrong. I mean, if you’re wanting to feed your negative feelings and have a reason to feel sad and hopeless, wouldn’t you watch some rom-com or something so the happy ending results in your feel inept and a lost cause? Nope. I watch comedy and…end up depressed. WTF, brain?

All I can think about is bedtime. The forecast is for 6 straight days of gloom and that is so not gonna help lift my mood. Sleep is my only escape even if last night’s dream du jour involved a female street gang trying to murder me because one of their boyfriends said hi to me. (And if you think that’s not based on fact, the joke is on you, it happened. They didn’t try to kill me but they were hunting me down and my only crime was be polite and say hello to someone who said it first.) But bad dreams I can wake from.

This self hating darkness enveloped space is like 24-7 in lockdown where they leave you naked with no bedding and a drain in the floor as a bathroom and the walls and doors have been fitted so not a single drop of light can reach you. (I was watching a documentary on Alcatraz earlier, it stuck.) But I imagine this is a bit of what solitary confinement would feel like. Trapped with only your own thoughts without hope of a break or escape. Swatting all the self hating thoughts away like swarms of flies only for the self loathing to sneak in and sting you like a thousand sweat bees to remind you…you are a piece of shit.

I do not believe this, of course. I am cognizant enough to know this is a symptom of my depression.

But somnetimes what you know has zero to do with how you are feeling.

And today…I fucking hate myself and I have no fucking idea why.

I can take comfort knowing my daughter just came to me with her tablet and a word game, asking me to utilize my excellent spelling skills so she could win. And I nailed it, she got 20,000 points.

If only I could get a job that paid me for spelling well and knowing useless pop culture trivia.

Who am I kidding, I am loser no one will ever hire to even mop up at a peepshow booth.

REALLY hate the days I hate myself.

I am getting on my own nerves.

Depression: When Life Leaves You Behind

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , on January 25, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

I got an email today from someone who used to be like my sister but then things went to shit and since then it’s just been a mass of apologies and of course, me trying to keep in touch, and her basically ignoring me. And to be honest, I don’t know how to reply to this email. Because obviously her life has moved on beyond our old chats about how much it sucked to battle depression and anxiety and yet…Mine has not. When we started talking she was a teenager. I’m pushing fifty now and she’s a woman in her 30’s. Whatever bond we had seems…gone. I don’t want it to be and I surely will reply when I come up with something non depressive related to say but…It just highlights my entire life as far as friendships go. One friend I thought I would always have ended up befriending R-through my introduction- and he still interacts with R to this day but can’t even text me. Because apparently, all I do is embrace my depression and anxiety and it bums people out.

My first instinct is to apologize for being a bummer and do the requisite, “It’s all my fault, I shouldn’t wallow in my depression so much…”

But that is utter bullshit. None of us chose this. And one of the biggest backstabs on Earth is friends you bonded with because they were struggling with mental issues same as you but then, their life got back on track when the bouts lifted and stayed gone and suddenly, all the times you were there when they needed you…cannot be reciprocated. Because your condition is chronic and runs in cycles of good, better, worse, face plant in the gutter, back up…And it’s too much work to maintain the friendship when one person is seeing the good in life and the other-me- can’t see the light of day because I am so far down the rabbit hole. For me, it’s never been about abandoning ship for struggling friends just because I have a mini-remission. This is not reciprocal in my experience and it’s just fucking sad. Fine, I bring you down, don’t expect me to want to go out and have a fun time, go with someone fun. But to just shut me out entirely is cruel.

But then that is me making it about myself. For all I know maybe these people have had their own shit going on, didn’t want to confide in me, and came to realize they were just jerks and knew I wouldn’t like them anymore. Or I am a jerk, depression or not, so they don’t like me.

It’s such a clusterfuck, trying to maintain friendships when you’re trapped on this bipolar coaster from hell. And worrying about the friendships when you can’t even keep yourself bathed and your house tidy because depression is devouring you, it does get to a point where you give up trying to live ‘out there’ and retire inside your own mind.

Let’s face it. It’s great when others get the right med combo, therapist, and land on their feet. We are happy for them. But also…we’re in the review mirror, waving, and they, and life, are passing us by and moving on. And we’re just stuck in place, every fiber of our being yearning to be free of this albatross that distorts our every thought and we never seem to be the ones moving on. That has been my experience, anyway.

With winter depression, it’s even harder because you know at least 4 months of the year, even with working meds, that your mind is going to wind up in ‘bummerland’. People tell you to get out, go have some fun, stop living in your own head, and the harder you try to do this..the worse it gets because depression isn’t some foul mood you just snap out of after watching a comedy or eating ice cream. It isn’t just a case of ‘the blues’ that you can fix by putting on some nice clothes and ‘going out’ with others. Try convincing others of this, though, and you find out fast who your true friends are. And ha ha ha, it seems I don’t have any IRL.

Which honestly once I discovered the internet and realized I could interact with others without actually having to worry about bathing and being a shiny happy people, this has been my happy place. Friends I have made on line have shown me more kindness, generosity, and compassion than any person in my actual life. That has to be some sad statement about the people I have in my life. And that statement is, they either don’t believe mental illness is real, or because their problems were situational and not chronic, they just can’t have my ‘toxicity’ in their lives.

I’ve got enough toxicity in my own, so I understand that too well. Difference is, I tell the people in my life when something they do is bothering me. (Like my dad telling me on the phone today all about watching someone kill and eat goat brains, um, STOP, it may have happened but it just upsets me, STOP!) The people in my life don’t tell me when I am bringing them down, so I carry on obliviously rather than try to be more upbeat or know it’s just time to keep to myself til this dark cycle passes. The inability for others to communicate is the bane of my existence. Just like my dark humor. If you don’t tell me it offends you, I don’t know to curb it in your presence, and yes, I am willing to do that because I’m not a fucking monster. Maybe it feels a little like not being accepted for who I am but then my dad’s racist slurs and confederate flag are who he is and I am constantly in cringe mode trying to accept he is just bigoted and redneck as fuck. He sure as hell does not try to tone it down for me. And I don’t want to be like him so…Yeah, if one on one my dark humor is too much, speak up and I will just save it for the people who appreciate it. Wasting brilliant dark humor on those who don’t get it is tragic.

I know I will spring back, at some point, out of my Fort Blankie depression of the last few days. Cold weather and snow and 24-7 lockdown with my child aren’t exactly bolstering my spirit, nor are my hormonal issues and physical pain brought on by those issues. The spring and summer will come and even if my meds aren’t working, I will be in a different mental space for awhile…So why does it still feel like life is passing me by and everyone is moving on without me? And why is it suddenly bugging me when for the most part I’ve made peace with it?

Oh, right, hormonal dysphoria. Right now, not even Baby Yoda could give me the warm fuzzies. Just angry feelings of WHY DIDN’T I GET A BABY YODA FOR MY BIRTHDAY?

So much of my life is spent cycling through bipolar, depression, anxiety, and hormonal issues, I need to focus on survival mode. Social butterfly was never in my genetic make up, depression or not. I’ve always been a loner and quite content with it.

Still…much as you want to be happy for when your friends are feeling good and moving on…

It sucks that you feel left behind.

Nap And Nightmares

Posted in depression with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on January 24, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

I unintentionally took two brief naps today. I woke from both bathed in sweat and fearful.

I’d like to say it was some slasher flick horror scene that I had dreamt.

Nope.

I dreamed about being younger and when my mental state caused everything to go to shit and I ended up living with either my mom or my dad’s crew.

Fact I woke bathed in sweat but not at all overheated has to tell you just how horrific these memory/nightmares are for me.

The shrinks want to pile on Prozasin or whatever to stave off the dreams.

Except what I am dreaming is what I have had to deal with my whole life. For me ending up in homeless shelter would be less traumatizing. Even in my dreams, my parents behave the same and there is always some twist to make it worse.

I also felt shitty napping while Spook was home on a snow day but I can honestly say based on the TV programming schedule, I was never out more than 45 minutes and I had already warned her that during my monthly curse, I sleep a LOT, but should she need me, wake me up. Guilt is still heavy.

I got five texts tonight from family and friends who totally forgot my birthday this week. I don’t want to hold a grudge but my hormones are in ‘let’s swing a metal mace and bat at their skulls’ space so I pretend it wasn’t hurtful.

I have been so preoccupied trying to see the brighter side of things it gives the impression that I a suffering from “depression lite”. Onn the contrary, most of my time is spent thinking the world would be better off without me and that I am so damn tired I just want to go sleep and stay there til..the masses stop being asses.

I am finding no joy yet grasping for anything to counter balance this blackened soul version that is being perceived.

But since when I am responsible for how others perceive my writing, my feelings, my life at this time?

Things suck from the inside of my blackened mind.

Whatever rays of sunshine seep in, my mind is convinced are lights from an oncoming train.

Depressing? Negative? A downer? Hells yeah.

But welcome to reality for some of us.

Maybe next week my hormonal dysphoria will abate. Maybe the weather will be less cold and gloomy. Maybe my mind state will improve and things won’t seem so pointless.

Today is just not that day.

Now it’s nearing 9 p.m., my kid has already crashed, and I am ready to retire to Fort Blankie myself.

I wish I dreamt of machete wielding hockey mask wearing monsters.

But alas, my horror stories are based on facts within my own family, a nightmare I can never wake from.

You gotta wonder…if her reality sucks so much yet her dreams are so traumatizing she’d prefer sleep and nightmares…This woman is not having a good mental health day.

Dysphoric Doll

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , , on January 24, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

Wish I could say I felt better today than yesterday when I was breathing fiery wrath over feeling utterly ignored by everyone. That simply isn’t how depression works. Or hormones, for that matter. The ovary oompa loompas are squishing randomly and my cramps seriously fucking hurt. When you’re in pain, you don’t feel so shiny happy people.

We got more snow and they canceled school again today.

I woke in the middle of the night and could not get back to sleep so in desperation I took 50mg Trazadone. Oh, I slept 4 solid hours after that. Of course, now I feel like I am wrapped in gauze and walking into walls and my brain is in the slow lane. Add the cold and snow and cramps onto it, all I want is to curl up under Fort Blankie and stare mindlessly at TV shows I’ve watched a thousand times before. And hope maybe I sneak in a power nap before my kid comes to show me her latest creation in her Minecraft world.

I have a newsflash for the rainbow puking optimistic folks: SOME DAYS ARE JUST BLOODY GARBAGE.

And yay, I get to go tell the shrink next week that again, I am not feeling better, next med, please. But what haven’t I already tried aside from bee venom, hallucinogenic toad licking, and electro shock? The one drug I might have luck with isn’t in generic form and no way my ass trash insurance company is gonna shell out $1200 a month for it. Back on the medi go round, unless this doctor wants to throw a curveball and increase the Cymbalta one final time to max out. But I submit that 5 months and three dose increases, this isn’t my magic bullet. Which bloody sucks cos once upon a time, it was THE magic bullet, I felt so good on it.

Undoubtedly, I will also get the ‘you just need more sunlight and exercise’ spiel, because that is every doctor’s solution to seasonal depression. If you’re neurotypical and don’t experience depression any other time but winter, maybe that stuff works fine. But when you’re bipolar and your mood states swing to extremes year round the added stressor of unpredictable weather kicks your ass. And no matter how awesome doctors may be, they can’t change the weather or my body’s response to all the cold, snow, rain, sleet, gray gloom, and whatever switch is thrown come change of seasons. It’s internal and if I thought it would work, I’d find a big metal spork and start digging into my own brain to weed out the part that causes this shit.

This is so frustrating. I want so badly to feel good, to be productive, to feel hopeful.

My reality is that everything seems dark and bleak and pointless and I must wonder on an hourly basis why I even bother, I am obviously a perpetual fuck up who needs to be written off.

What the scumbag brain does not take into account is how long we’ve been doing this dance and I know it lies and distorts, so I just hang on and keep tying knots in my frayed rope and hang on some more because eventually…The mood tides will shift and even if not depression free, I tend to end up in better ‘fighting shape’ to do battle with all the lies my mind tells me.

Today is not gonna be one of those tough girl days.

No, this is gonna be, “I’m hungover from sleeping pills, my back hurts, the cramps are killing me, and I feel so utterly useless I think I should just quit writing all together because no one cares therefore I must suck at it so why bother, oh, and why bother thinking I have a future at all, hand me the funky Kool-Aid” day.

LIES LIES LIES LIES, scumbag brain.

I may not be mainstream writing material but I still have hope I will find my niche with people who appreciate scrambled eggs and tossed salad style rants with morbid humor and lots of swearing.

And if you can hold onto that hope and that defiant ‘fuck you, depression, you’re a fucking liar!” indignation…

You’re down but far from out.

I just feel so…alone. Not lonely. Alone. Like no one is pulling for me and that is where I could use some help now. Honestly, is it asking too much for the occasional comment of empathy or encouragement? It helps more than anyone can ever know. But I guess this mental dysphoria just brings out my inner needy bitch (I thought I slayed her a long time ago but she just keeps reappearing, damn whore).

(And FYI, I DO understand why many do not comment, it feels too much like socialization and sometimes you got nothing to say, so hey, I get that…One comment every other month even if just an encouraging emoji would be cool. Balance out all the spam I get from people wanting to sell me male enhancement drugs.)

Fort Blankie is calling my name. I saw this graphic on another blog and I was just like whoa, yea, exactly like that. We can’t escape our minds or our guilt. Very inspirational. Forgiving yourself knowing all your mistakes…that’s not an easy task. (And I apologize for not linking to the blog it came from, but until my brain unscrambles from Trazadone, I just…can’t remember.)

Let’s Redefine The Word Poor

Posted in anxiety, bipolar depression, depression, poverty with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 23, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

I got so offended when people kept referring to us as poor then I realized…Some people are ignorant of dictionary meanings. So lemme explain the difference between ‘struggle and cash broke’ and “true poverty’. Because even a whack job like me is bright enough not to let depression lie to me and make things seem worse than they truly are. So many have so much worse.

REDEFINING THE WORD POOR
————————————————————————————————————————————
My monthly income: $848

Monthly Expenses

Rent $400

Heat and Power- between $120 and $320 depending on season

Car insurance $47

Water bill $69

Internet and phones- $74

Gas in the car- $40

Pet supplies- $35

Household items (toilet paper, shampoo, et al) $25

That comes to $924-and I did up the heat bill to reflect this month’s bill of $235 and I did get a break with my car insurance 9 months on, 3 months off but what it boils down to is…

Too many expenses, not enough income. By societal standards, we are indeed ‘poor’. And my kid’s friends are not shy about reminding us at every turn that we are ‘poor’. We are also treated to food shaming because we qualify for food stamps, whether the deadbeat donor is paying or not. (No one is harsher on ‘wellfare people’ than my own father) and my kid gets free lunch. I drive a 2001 Chevy Lumina with over 230,000 miles on it. 98% of what we own is second hand via yardsales, auctions, and people getting rid of stuff. And I am not ashamed to admit on occasion when someone has moved out, I have gone dumpster diving just in case they got rid of anything that was still usuable.

I take further heat from all factions, it seems, for being on mental health disability. This angers me because I started working when I was 16. I always tried to work. When my mental health eroded I was basically told I could resign and get a good reference or they could fire me and it wouldn’t be such a good reference. I tried for years to get disability but it wasn’t until I had a reaction to antidepressant that left me drooling and incoherent in a psych ward for a week did my application get granted. I nearly died and I came out with great mental deficits in addition to what I started out with so to me it felt like I’d done all that I could do, I am in fact disabled. Funny how people disagree with that and put you down for it. My dad’s the worst, calling it my ‘nitwit’ pension. Over the years, I have repeatedly tried to work in whatever small capacity I could, even if it was dogwalking. Disabled does not mean shiftless and lazy. It means DISABLED. As in my conditions hinder my efforts to exist in the ‘normal’ bubble of employment where stability is a must and I have very little stability. Instead of being shamed for playing the hand I was dealt, I think people should either commend me for my efforts or keep their mouths shut. I am well aware working would mean more money and bolster self esteem and all that good stuff. Right now, I haven’t bathed in a week and am barely getting two hours uninterrupted sleep at night so it does not seem the right time to go telling employers all about how stable and reliable I am.

I am trying my hardest, and it seems like society-and my family- cannot wait to knock me down a few pegs on a daily basis. Maintaining your self esteem when it was low to begin with becomes a dire task in light of daily putdowns.

If nothing else, the donor walked out on me and my child 9 years ago and not once tried to contact to see her, even when a judge wanted him to sign off on the court ordered visitation. He ‘forgot’. I’ve been here with Spook (my daughter) from the moment of conception. I have done everything in my power to give her what she needs, some of what she wants, and plenty of love and empathy and compassion. I tell her I love her frequently (my parents never did that) and I give her lots of hugs (my parents did not do that, either) and I am always telling her, you are so smart, so funny, so creative, so pretty. Because my parents never did. I have managed to break their cycle, as a single ‘poor’ parent with a plethora of mental disorders. That should be worth something. I am not saying people should be lauded simply for caring for the kids they brought into the world, I am just saying…the donor’s 11 years older than me and has 2 other kids he didn’t help raise, didn’t support, and has no contact with and he was allegedly fine and upstanding and mentally stable. Yet he couldn’t handle the pressure of raising a child with me on limited funds. For not crumbling to pieces, for putting my child’s needs ahead of whatever was rioting in my head at the time- that takes strength of character.

And this is where ‘redefining the word poor’ comes into play.

We are pretty much always broke so we are cash poor. But when I look around and see all that we do have- roof overhead, heat, furniture, food in the fridge, tablets, computers, Tvs, clothes, our cats…I feel like a heel for saying we are poor. We aren’t rich or even well off, but we do not have it as bad as some people who don ‘t know where they will be sleeping tonight or when they’ll next be able to feed their kids a meal.

Our wealth comes from making the best of what we have and struggling through the stigma attached to ‘being poor’. Maybe all our stuff is used or off brand. Maybe the furniture has seen better days. The car has definitely seen better days but it still gets me from point A to point B. (At least until March when I have to renew my sticker and the new jackass governor jacked the fee from $105 to $152, OUCH, I don’t know how I am gonna pull that rabbit out of the empty hat.) My daughter and I are decent people, with good hearts, and we mind our own business and cause no one problems. We are richer than words can say if you take into account our gratitude for what we have even if less than ideal and unimpressive to others. We appreciate what we do have. We absolutely adore and appreciate the friends we have who have over the years helped us so generously. Cash poor but rich with gratitude for what we do have. So many people take things for granted, get pissy when denied the newest iwafflemaker or whatever Apple has released, and bemoan that they have to drive a car from last year. The horror!

Sometimes, Spook and I have our silly ‘if we won millions in the lottery’ game. I want a big house far from my family near the water, possibly in Maine or Delaware, with a moat filled with hungry gators and crocs to ward off visitors. I have fantasized since childhood about having a fridge with ice maker and water thing in the door. Heated in ground pool. A housekeeper since my depressions turn to biohazard conditions fast. Spook wants a house with the little witch hat turrets and an elevator and an escalator. I want my own skee ball lanes AND a giant ball pit. She wants a Husky dog. My dream cars would be a Dodge Hellcat or 1976 Caprice Classic. (I like old cars.) She wants a convertible. I want another pet snake since mine passed away 20 years ago. We dream and we dream sort of big, but even in our wildest fantasies…we’re down to Earth. With millions and our frugal ways, I could start up a no kill animal shelter and food programs during the summer when kids can’t get school lunch and their parents can’t buy them food…So much good could be done.

So, yes, we are cash poor.

But in the ways that matter most, we are wealthy beyond our wildest dreams.

That being said, buy me lots of cups of coffees so I can replace this laptop before it completely gives up the ghost. LOL.

Redefining the word poor is not simply to make us aware of how much we actually do have, it is to let the world know that their entire notion of what ‘poor folks’ means has nothing to do with reality. Needy is not greedy, and cash poor does not mean we live in a cardboard box.

So if you want to get politically correct, let’s call it ‘income challenged’.

And let none of us forget all that we do have and to feel grateful because our threadbare carpets or 2017 model TV might seem like a big deal and so you feel poor…Some people live in their cars, on the streets, in shelters. Some people go days without eating or rummage garbage cans for half eaten food. Some people cover up at night with newspapers on top of them and stuffed inside their clothes for insulation.

I know writing this is unlikely to draw much attention or change anything, but I feel better having gotten it off my chest. Spook’s friends calling us poor has rubbed me the wrong way for months now and I understand why. Because with everything we have, how fortunate we truly are, calling us poor is rude, insenstive, and insulting to people who truly are poor. That is what offends me.

The way the poverty stricken are treated by society should offend us all. We are all forever one bad break in life away from ending up there ourselves, in need of compassion and a handful of coins to get a cheap sandwich. Without pity or insults or looking away or looking appalled. One day that could through some twist of fate be you, your child, your grandchild, or your elderly parents.

Kindness costs nothing. I don’t know why we don’t show more of it to others.

Squirrelly Wrath

Posted in anxiety, depression, insomnia with tags , , , , , , , , on January 21, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

So, yeah, apparently today is squirrel appreciation day so what better way to pay homagen than with an adorable picture of my favorite cartoon squirrel.

I slept like shit, waking up every 90 minutes. I tried to go back to sleep after Spook was on the bus but that was a no go. Scumbag brain won’t shut the hell up, just keeps going round and round like a hamster on a squeaky wheel. After being fed Red Bull for a week straight. A tranquilizer dart for elephants couldn’t take my mind down. I’d much prefer if my brain must be so busy, it be busy at least doing productive shit. No such luck.

Still haven’t taken down the Christmas Tree. My daughter keeps bringing it up and I said, “It wouldn’t be white trash Christmas if I take it down before February, babe.” Trying to make light of my failure but honestly after the weekend’s single digit cold snap and ice and snow and sleep and rain, it has been pretty inclimate for packing stuff out to the shed. I am back to battling the ‘refill the ice cube trays’ territory. Hell, I didn’t even feed myself yesterday. Fed the kid and cats, made sure she got a bath, meanwhil I am on day 7 without one. In WANT so desperately to care and yet…I just don’t. Not in my current mental state. Seasonal depression, especially when accompanied by extreme weather, just saps out my will to live. I’ve been so depressed that I haven’t even started back watching all my fave TV shows. Which boggles my mind because when they went on hiatus, I was marking my calendar, litterally, for the return date and then at some point…I found Pluto TV and Sirius and it’s just too damned hard to focus on my favorites. It is almost like this subconcious need to shelter the things I love from my depressive state lest it too be tained with negativity.

But that’s how you know clinical depression from just feeling the blues for a couple of weeks. When your very life’s blood that you feel fuels you slips from your interest…that is clinical depression.

And I am honestly starting to worry about Spook’s behavior, too. Now maybe she has a touch of seasonal depression and come warmer weather she eill spring back to life. But the last month or so, she has stopped going to church, the day program at the church, she won’t go visit her grandpa, and now she does not want to sleep over at her grandma’s. She just goes in her room with the tablet and unless she wants fed or needs to blow up at me for something innocuous, shen stays in her room. And if I dare stand outide the door and ask if she is okay, she goes off on me some more, for ‘nagging’ her. There is no winning with this parenting gig. You do your best, they tell you it’s not good enough, you try harder, they roll their eyes at you and call you a downer…Lather, rinse, repeat. I hope it’s puberty hormones because it’s damned difficult to find a shrink who will give a depression diagnosis to anyone under 14. The thought that she could be feeling the same darkness I feel kills me, I just want to help her. And at her age, the best thing to help me was to leave me the hell alone. But I was a loner, always, and Spook was a social butterfly, least til we moved here. Don’t wanna hit any panic buttons and be histrionic helicopter mom but it does concern me.

I can’t seem to get warm today, I have chills, upset stomach, allergy sniffles. This weather is brutal. Weird thing is, it’s actually 5 degrees warmer than it’s been in 2 days and I dragged the heater out for my bedroom so I should be getting warmer, not feeling colder. I swear there is something wrong with my body’s internal thermostat. Freezing, sweating, never comfortable. Though since I turn 47 tomorrow I already know what the quacktor will say. Hormones, menopause is knocking at the door. Bloody hell, like I need more abrupt mood swings and anger and tears and feeling ill at ease in my own skin. Life just keeps giving and giving and I can’t even label it return to sender.

On one most excellent note, the boots I BOUGHT MYSELF for my birthday arrived today, 3 weeks ahead of the time table China gave. Ermagod, they are soooo beautiful and I look so badass in them. Worth every penny of $36. Buckles, straps, laces, and zippers with silver skulls…My dream boots, happy birthday to me. Friendly hint to women with larger feet ordering from Chinese vendors- order up a half or full size and if their cut off is 10.5, see if the same style is available in men’s shoes. I couldn’t risk their idea of my size 11 foot squishing into a 10.5 ladies, so I went with a 10.5 men’s and they fit beautifully. Ooh, I just love getting gifties. And honestly, it doesn’t matter if they’re pricey boots a $2 pair of earrings. Just occasionally getting something in the mail that isn’t bills or junk is wondermously happy making even if that makes me seem petty or pathetic. Hell, the biggest highlights in my life were when my name and address were published in Metal Edge magazine back in 1988 and again in 1995. Pen pals were amazing, getting the mail meant possibly hearing from a fellow music fan with whom I could discuss what Poison album was best and how grunge basically murdered heavy metal. Miss those days, that was a lot of fun. Now people are like, why would I use a pen and paper and buy a stamp when I can just email or text?

One day when the computers all go haywire, there are gonna be lazy ignorant people running around trying to remember how to read actual books and write with pen and paper. I shall laugh and point at them while utilizing my old school abilities which I kept sharp just for that judgment day of technology failure.

I am finally starting to warm up. Finally. Now to find the energy to do dishes, bathe myself, maybe take down the tree, and vacuum…But a 3 day weekend with my child, most of it spent in a post Trazadone haze, I may just need this to be do little day. Refill ice cube trays and maybe the bath thing. The rest can wait. We are only a month in to winter and I am already counting down days til spring. I want to wear tank tops again, I am sick of wearing ten extra pounds of clothes to feel warm indoors. I want yard sales, and maybe if the donor can keep a job, we could take $8 once a week and go into town to the swimming pool. I could totally do without mowing this enormous lawn with a push mower by myself, but meh, least then I can honestly tell the doctor I am exercising regularly. I just want any advantage I can get to escape this depression.

Now a couple of shout outs to these lovely ladies who could use some new readers or even a visit from old ones who thought she vanished when she went so long between posts. Yes, tribe, I am talking about the lovely Jess Melancholia, hop by her blog for a read and let her know we remember her or get to know her. The Bipolar Compass.

This is a new blogger I’ve started following and she writes about her bipolar struggles so please give her a look-see at BIPOLARMANIA.

On a more me-me-me-PAY ATTENTION TO ME note…

It would mean a lot if y’all would follow the link to my latest Ko-fi post. It’s not centered around my mental health struggles but for me, it was well written, coherent, and totally relevant in this day and age. You don’t have to sign up, you don’t have to follow or ‘buy me a cup of coffee’. I’d just like others to see that I am not all discombobulated bipolar rage and depressive misery. It’s worth the read, I am told, by a couple of friends and in the blogging world, that is high fucking praise. So, please..reading it costs you nothing but a few minutes of time but it could pay off by showing you another side to me-the writer in me who can do more than curse and rage against every tiny thing. I can, occasionally, have some deep, socially meaningful thoughts and write about them.

Redefining The Word Poor- a Ko-fi post by Morgueticiaatoms

Oh, and go feed a squirrel to show your appreciation. Or they will stab you in the eye with a hot french fry. Squirrelly wrath is a bitch, man. 🙂