Archive for November, 2011

Normal people rearrange furniture at 2am…RIGHT? (Hypomanic post)

Posted in cyclothymia with tags , , , , on November 29, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

I went to sleep around 9pm. Then woke up every hour for three hours, until at 12:30 am, I said fuck it and got up. Desperation drove me outside to raid the ash tray in my car for any smokable butts. Yes, I know, how disgusting and pathetic am I. Eh, my mom used to make me and my sister do the same thing for her pretty much every week, so I am in keeping with family tradition at least. Except I didn’t outsource like she did.
I guess my nicotine levels were rock bottom because I sucked on six different stubbed out partials like a crackhead sucking on a pipe. I’d be ashamed except it made me feel so much less cranky and more relaxed.
Then I faced the bedroom…and moved the bed around, and changed the curtains, and made the bed up fresh. Now I am watching X Files while my cat Bella yaps at me and I stare at the clock, which says 3am, and I know my kid will be waking in 2 or so hours,so why won’t my brain unwind now and let me sleep? I have two appointments today, not to mention sweating it out in hopes I have enough gas to get to them, pick up my kid, and get back home, while leaving enough gas to start the car and get to the gas station once I do get money. Oh, and it’s trash day so I will need to have that out by 9am. Then there’s the sink full of dishes, some laundry to fold, cat boxes to clean….
Welcome to hypomania, where the churning thoughts never end, the energy is frenetic, but restless and unfocused and I’d be chain smoking if I actually had any fucking cigarettes and it would probably be helping me relax and go to sleep instead of sitting here glaring at Bella because her bathing noises are deafeningly loud.
grrrrrrrr
To quote Wednesday: “I cross my fucking heart and I hope you die…”
It applies to…whoever has a cigarette now.
Wait til the next hypomanic shift, it will probably be some lyric from a weepy Barry Manilow song.
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Mini Meltdown

Posted in anxiety disorders, panic disorder with tags , , on November 29, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

Sunday night I hit a breaking point amidst the chaos of trying to use the net at the three ring circus and had a mini meltdown. It was hour six of dogs wrestling each other at my feet, and people milling about, talking to me while I tried to write, and my kid trying to get me to follow her around  only to ignore me and  leave me standing there like a moron…Then the phone rang and my dad wanted to yap at me. And one of the bummates at the circus was pacing and telling my kid no every 5 seconds even when she wasn’t doing anything wrong so she was having screaming mimis.
And I just said FUCK IT,I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE! I shut the laptop down, started packing up our gear. Then I asked my sister, “How can you stand to function in this madness?”
I was honestly ready to start yanking out clumps of my hair and jamming shit into my eardrums because it just wore my central nervous system to a frazzle.
And she kind of laughed and said, “Yeah, it gets to be too much at times, but you get used to it after awhile.”
Oh…my…god…How many times do I have to hear someone tell me “you get used to it”. This is unhealthy desensitization, like a prisoner of war settling into their existence, not because they enjoy it, but because they have no choice. It’s defeatist thinking, having to adapt to a miserable situation because you have no control or no spine to take control.
Or maybe I have some sort of mild retardation and lack the basic coping and adapting skills of the average person.
I just know I spent an hour trying to write one simple blog post while I was there, and I had to save a draft because I could not focus or function amidst that insanity.
I have little doubt my mother had a tirade about my meltdown, either. She has made a lifetime career out of telling me how selfish and intolerant I am. Yes, it’s all me, Mom, it couldn’t possibly be that you live in a fucking commune.
I swear I could use wifi during lunch rush at McDonald’s and it would be easier to focus.
As depressing as it is to come home to no net or cable, at least I can think clearly in the peace of my own home.
It’s only been a week, and already having to go to the circus is wearing me down.
But if I give up blogging, contact with others who get me, then I am undoing all the good of the meds and counseling.
I just think I am going to have to endure the circus like the petri dish.
In
small
increments.
Or my next meltdown might not be so mini and could involve the shovel.
That or shock collars for every fuckin’ person in that house.

Am I an emotional cannibal?

Posted in mental illness with tags , , , , on November 29, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

In cleaning up the bedroom, I came across a little yellow pad that hubby had when he got here from California for writing poetry. There are only four pages written upon. They talk of him being a shadow of who he used to be and how it’s “one more mistake to add to the list” and all this other dark stuff.
It’s not dated, of course, but from the first two entries to that and the last, you can see it was obviously recent.
And now I sit here, utterly depressed, teary, and pissed off.
How many times did I ask him if he still loved me? How many times did I ask if he was happy? How many times did I ask if my illness was harming him? How many times…
And the whole time he’s acting all indignant that I would dare question his honesty and loyalty, but he’s writing such things.
Reassuring me he loves me and Spook and Spook is the best thing that ever happened to us both.
That we would work things out together.
I don’t know how many times I encouraged him to start writing his poetry again.
I made sure to vanish for a couple of hours after he got home to give him time to himself so that he could create and such.
I tried so damn hard.
I even tried turning my illness inward on myself instead of venting outward on him.
To read these things…is ripping out my heart.
Am I an emotional cannibal?
Do I devour everything and everyone around me?
And if I am that horrible, why would he leave the child with me?
More to the point, why didn’t he believe I had a legitimate illness and needed help???? Why did he keep telling me I was doing better off the meds?
It’s not right when I gave him every opportunity to talk about how he really felt and he just kept lying and lying and lying.
I thought him leaving was the ultimate slap across the face.
This is beyond that.
I never gave so much of myself to anyone before, never stripped my personality down so far before to acommodate another person, never struggled so silently with my illness trying not to drag another person down…
To find out it was all for nothing…more lies upon lies…
I married the fucking devil.
Maybe it was a mistake for him, but I will NEVER say that the child we made together is a mistake.
And if that’s how he views it, then I feel absolutely no remorse for sucking the life out of him. I was returning the favor. At least I was honest about it.
We might have been mismatched but to write that it was a mistake negates the existence of that beautiful little girl we made together.
I will never forget or forgive him for this.
Call me melodramatic, tell me I’m jumping to wrong conclusions, whatever.
But lying repeatedly to my face when I was begging for the truth…then basically calling our child a mistake and deserting her…
THE DEVIL.
I may be an emotional cannibal.
But I married the fucking devil.

SADly Yours (seasonal affect disorder post)

Posted in depression, mental illness, seasonal affect disorder with tags , , on November 29, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

SAD.
How appropriate is that acronym for Season Affect Disorder.
The weather went from unseasonably warm to typical dismal wet cold November in the midwest, and my “comfortably numb” has since started its descent into “I really don’t want to be conscious for the next four months.”
My mood is as dismal and chilly as the weather outside the door.
I am faced with power bills I can’t afford to pay just to keep my kid warm. Daunting, to say the least.
I hope her donor is nice and toasty and happy with himself. So nice of him to give a damn whether his kid has warmth for the winter,or diapers for that matter. Some good man.
Oh, well, she has an emotionally wonky albeit fully capable mother.
Though the functional part of capable seems to be waning with this damn seasonal affect shit.
Funny how my desire to do anything seems to vanish as soon as it gets below fourty degrees.
Add to it the strain that having to drive across town to the Three Ring Circus (ie;mom’s) to use the wifi, and in spite of the meds and several days of feeling semi stable and  numb…I am fraying at the ends of my rope.
Which is ok, I am used to taking the frayed ends of my rope and tying knots in them to buy myself some more time of just hanging in there.
I do not like this at all. I don’t think anyone does.
Every fucking fall and winter.Rinse, lather, repeat.
The wind up doll act will continue, of course, since I have no choice. My kid trumps all else.
Thing is, I am getting sick of people trying to pep talk me about how “you CAN and WILL do it because you have to for your daughter’s sake.”
DUH.
And if mental illness were so considerate as to cooperate, there’d be no need for psych hospitals.
Everyone has a breaking point.
Hell, look at how the Donor handled the stress. He ran screaming into the night like a little sissy.
I live for my kid.
But I am not ignorant enough to think love and determination are going to cure a mental illness that has plagued me my entire life.
I am however, just stubborn and seasoned enough, to know that this is one more battle I have fought many times before and managed to come out of,scathed but kicking.
I’d be a liar if I said I don’t worry about my own psyche cracking.
I’ve been under a great deal of stress for 28 of my 38 years. It never seems to lessen. No matter how strong you are, the human mind can only take so much.
I have yet to find my breaking point.
I don’t want to find it, either, that’s one search party I won’t be dispatching.
But, the darkness in my mind this morning when I woke, and realized I was facing another long day of a toddler testing my patience, no money, no gas to go anywhere, no net, no cable, no reason to really get out of bed because at least it’s warm under the covers…I swear were it not for my insistent bladder, there would be days it would take a tow truck to get me moving. At least during winter.
That or the banshee wail of my kid.
I guess this is the part that is so hard for people who are in relationships with me. The yo-yo effect. Even medicated, I have so many disorders going on year round, you can never count on any kind of consistency with my moods and functionality.
Wusses.
They get to walk away.
This is my lot in life.
And as much as every fibre of my being wants to crawl back into the warm arms of sleep…my spite drives me to keep duking it out, with my mental illness, with dismal prospects, with everything that oppresses and stresses me.
Hubby once called me a bitter angry c*nt.
HE HAS NO IDEA.
Maybe it’s what keeps me from running like a sissy every time things get tough.
And frankly, I may be bitter and angry, but I think that vile C word applies more to a coward who would walk out on his kid(s).
FUCK YOU, Seasonal Affect Disorder.
And fuck you too, Sperm Donor.

The Darkest Side Of Depression

Posted in depression, mental illness with tags , , , , on November 27, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

First off, I am writing this post because I have BEEN THERE. I KNOW so I feel like I can speak openly about this particular subject.

For the better part of two years, I spent my life functioning in the bare mininum. I did not like my life, my reality, living in my own brain even with medication that seemed to be helping. I did not feel comfortable in my own skin. I had little hope for my future. I took a long look at my history of failures and the fact that I couldn’t even seem to forge bonds with people that didn’t live in my computer…and I started falling into a pit of despair. The Trazadone/Seroquel cocktail at bedtime would make me sleep ten to 14 hours. Sometimes, even ten hours of consciousness was too much for me to endure. So I would take another few pills.

Then  one day I woke up, realized I was being evicted from my apartment because I had been caught keeping a cat and was not keeping my living quarters tidy,by any means. I no longer had the option of denial and living in sleep to escape my torment. I had to act. Except even after I had found another place to live, I still felt the same hopelessness and lack of connection to the world, so I threw myself into my writing, putting in six hours a night, sleeping 12 hours a day, lolling about in a barely functional state of consciousness.

I eventually crawled out of the abyss and stabilized for awhile. It wasn’t until my daughter was born, though, that I realized how dismal my life had been by my own choice. She made me see that I could choose to sleep my life away and wallow in my despair. Or I could tough it out and do the best I could with however I was feeling, medicated or not. It was not easy. Every time she woke me, every part of my body just wanted to remain in bed, pull the covers over my head, and stay asleep. To deal felt too daunting, like too much, like if I even tried I would disintegrate under the pressure.

But I did it, and I kept doing it. And I got to the point where even when I could barely function outside my home amongst society due to my anxiey induced paranoia, I had taken control of my life in my own home. I was caring for my child, doing housework, and making sure the errands were run. It was functionality, and I convinced myself it was meaningful functionality. Sadly, I was so busy focusing on my child and keeping myself afloat and out of the let-me-sleep zone, I didn’t realize my marriage was disintegrating.

It wasn’t until I got back on medication, The Right Medication, that the doors on the despair began to open. I began to want to be awake at the proper hours, to do the appropriate things, to actually live life. It is all not sunshine and roses, nor will it ever be. A mental illness is like living with an albatross around your neck. You can let it drag you down, or you can keep forging ahead, trying to fight it. I am choosing to fight it, because I’ve been on the other side, watched it cost me soo much, and realized I had the power all along to make things different.

The wrong medication/doctors are as bad as none at all. If you are medicated and still using the pills and sleep as an escape, you are not being helped. You are being enabled, and possibly hurt worse than the illness is doing by itself. YOU have to pull yourself up out of that abyss. You cannot keep making excuses or allowing the misery to control you. Take your life back. It happens in small steps, but you have to take the steps. One of those steps is when you stop using the medication as a crutch to sleep your life away.

Then is the flip side. Until we, the people with mental illness, stop viewing medication as some sort of medicinal crutch the way we would view a crackhead using crack cocaine, the world at large will not stop viewing it that way either. If you had diabetes and needed insulin shots, you would not feel guilty or like a junkie for that. Well, if you have legitimate mental illnesses, taking meds for them is no different. Bipolar disorder is not something you just “learn” to control, anymore than schizophrenia is. Sometimes, anxiety disorders do not respond to retraining your brain and therefore medication is helpful. There is no shame in using the tools at your disposal to help yourself. No matter what society at large might say.

I have been on the dark side, and still have moments there. But now I see that I was enabling myself with my functional depression as much as if I’d been non functional. By not seeking treatment until things had gone way too far down the drain, I cost myself and my child a lot. Now I am back on my feet, mentally speaking, and I know it is all on me now. If the meds quit working, it is MY responsibility to tell the doctor. To speak up, to advocate for myself, to not be gladhanded and shunted aside. No one will speak up for me. I have to do it for myself. Depression can devour you.

I say it’s high time that we, the mentally ill, stand up against it and let it know we are off the menu.

The Bitter Pill

Posted in depression, mental illness, panic disorder with tags , , , , , on November 27, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

As people with mental illnesses, we all try as hard as we can to do the best we can. We do not like the limitations our disorders place on us, and the thought that they limit those we love is a soul crushing notion, no matter how realistic it is. It’s no different than having a loved one with cancer or any other serious illness. It will impact not just the patient, but those who live with and love the patient. It does not make anyone involved the bad guy, it just is what it is.
That being said, I have used every ounce of willpower in my body, medicated or not, trying to ensure that the “side effects” of my bipolar/panic disorder have minimal effects on my daughter. I get up with her,I take care of her, I play with her, I try to teach her things, I try to run errands just to get her out of the house.  Even at my worst, I was doing all of these things for her well being, even if it seemed like trying to climb uphill on a hill coated in molasses.
I am now beginning to see, though, that perhaps my year as a semi agoraphobic has had negative effects on my child. It is shredding me inside with guilt and shame.
We have been going to my mom’s a lot, due to my appointments, job searching, and of course, to use their wifi. She’s excited at first, but after an hour or two, she is reaching for me and waving bye at everyone, repeating, “Bye. Bye .Bye.” Meaning she wants to go home. She will barely eat when we are there beyond junk food and she does not like to eat when we have company. She will pull out her high chair to indicate it is supper time, then she will look at company, start waving, and repeat the mantra. “Bye. Bye. Bye.”
I think I have stunted my child’s ability to socialize beyond an hour or two.
I know she’s only two and there’s lots of time for her to come out of it.
It doesn’t diminish my guilt and shame, knowing my own neurotic behavior has somehow tainted her.
Now I am feeling stronger and more able to cope with longer trips out, and she’s still on the old routine of mommy’s “hit and run” outings  where everything is rushed and getting home as soon as possible is the only goal.
She will adapt, I am sure. And maybe she is just a homebody like I am, maybe like me, she doesn’t like to eat in front of other people or sleep in unfamiliar places. I guess maybe I am being too neurotic assuming my illness has anything to do with the quirky behavior of a 2 year old.
But to think that she takes her cues from me, and this is what my illness has resulted in her learning from me…
It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

self therapy-The Pretender

Posted in depression, mental illness, mood disorders with tags , , , , on November 26, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

When your mood is low, the professionals in mental health care will suggest you to do something to lighten or elevate your mood. For me, this usually means music or TV shows.

I think perhaps one of the best things for my mental well being/mood hubby could have ever bought for me is the box set of The Pretender on dvd. OMG, I love this show. I am into episode three of disc one, season one, and in spite of the cold gloomy rain of the day, I feel all giddy and hopeful. My head still hurts but…Jarod always did make me feel happy and give me hope that not everyone is a scum sucking dream squashing sycophant.
The premise is this:

I still remember when NBC started promoting this show in the late 90’s and I got so excited. Michael T Weiss used to play Dr. Mike Horton on Days of Our Lives, so I was already a fan. (Thank you for those hours upon hours of second hand soaps, Mom.)  The premise gave me chills. That’s how I know if I am going to connect to something or someone, is the Chill Factor. Only that which truly excites me mentally or physically or both will give me the Chill Factor. The higher the chill factor, the better. And this show,  and the character of Jarod, especially, give me a chill factor of about eleven,on a one to ten scale.
He’s like this big kid who never got to be a kid, but now he’s an adult enjoying kid stuff while still being a mature human and righting injustices. I suppose with that fictional character as my ideal man, no one would ever live up to my preconceived notions of what a real man is. But, whoever created Jarod…knew exactly what would make a lot of women tick.
I was hooked from the pilot episode. And when I say hooked, I mean, I planned my schedule around watching this show. No social activity or marital responsibility was more important than seeing what Jarod was up at each week.
And don’t go feeling all sad for me because I am well aware that it is fiction, just entertainment, but escapism is healthy and this show gives me what I crave most: a chance to step outside my own troubled world and for fourty minutes, see that other human beings in theory,at least,or Fictionland, have a strong desire to right wrongs and be decent people.
I was crestfallen when NBC canceled this show. I was ecstatic when TNT decided to do two Pretender movies. Then they lost interest and my bitterness was complete. How dare they give me something to give me so much hope then yank it away from me! Insolence!
Judging from all the old Pretender fan sites and forums, I was not alone in my devotion to this show.
I think in addition to having a nerd girl crush on Jarod, I also envy the brilliance and guts of the character. He gets justice and rights wrongs but he never actually physically harms anyone. He skirts the law,of course, but his ends justify the means. And I think that’s all I have ever wanted for myself,is a way to stand up for myself and that which I love and believe in, without going against the grain of my being,which is to not hurt others physically. But to get justice and  a bit of revenge against those who truly deserve it…not such a horrible goal.
That being said…back to fiction land.
And a word of gratitude to The Donor for buying me this box set. Best gift ever, other than Spooky.

Oh,two more reasons Jarod is my perfect man aside from being fictional…he likes Pez and drinks dr pepper.
Eh,not like I am having much luck with the non fictional guys.

But, that is my self therapy, and yes, it helps. Not every time, sometimes the abyss wins, but sometimes…Jarod, or whatever other fictional world I get lost in, wins.

I can live with that kind of therapy.