Archive for December, 2011

I think my counselor is crazier than I am

Posted in mental illness on December 30, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

Ya know, the sunshine spewer, who shall be known as SS for purpose of my own laziness….I think in addition to her style not being helpful to me, she is also sending utterly mixed messages and screwing my head up worse.

Last month she told me  that it’d only been two months, maybe the Donor needed more time to get his head screwed on straight.

This month, I admit I’d kinda hoped he’d at least mail his kid a Christmas gift and she tells me I am being naive.

If I am pessimistic and cuss him, then that is wrong.

If I am optimistic and try to have hope he’ll do the right thing by his daughter, I am naive.

I use maybe 20 mins of the 50 min sessions because she just does not draw me out. She’s pleasant enough,in a way that makes me want to stab her with porcupine quills, but not very helpful at all. And frankly, I’m not inclined to ask for a different therapist because all that does is get you a rep as a troublemaker. Plus, most of my bigger issues are quieted by the meds so all I have to rant about is this thing with the Donor and single parenthood and if she’s just gonna twist my head worse than it is….what is the fucking point?

God, I feel  better after talking to the job lady.

But I am only doing this as part of the program, for the most part,I’ve dealt with the husband issue. I am way happier without him and so is Spook. We happened so we could make her, and now he’s off doing his thing and we are doing our thing. GAME OVER.

I don’t need a counselor to tell me The Donor is a loser, he proved that much all on his own.

Maybe she will choke on one of her own rays of sunshine.

 

Venom Replaces Despair Rant

Posted in cyclothymia, depression with tags , , , on December 30, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

I fell asleep watching Halloween 2 last night. Surprisingly, it did not give me nightmares. I credit this to my mom, who let me watch horror movies and read Fangoria magazine from about age 7. Unfortunately, what she didn’t prepare me for was the horror of actual life. Give me the fictional psychos any day. Would rather dream of Freddy Krueger than the Donor, anyway.

It’s 5:30 am and the depressive despair of yesterday has actually been replaced by the next mood in the cyclothymia wheel. REBELLIOUS ANGER.

I’m in the mood to confront, to rage, to curse, to tell people exactly what I think of them and their cowardice. Might accomplish nothing, but speaking up always makes me feel stronger than bottling everything up. Not that I have a confrontational personality, I really like to avoid confrontation and walk away. But, I am also not spineless and when something hurts me or pisses me off, I have a tendancy to spout off. It’s almost like this compulsion within me to let my oppressors know they might have thrown a punch and made contact and knocked the wind out of me…But I’m still here, spitting out blood and spewing venom.

Ah, sweet, sweet venom. The Donor made it seem like such a bad thing. Maybe sometimes it is, if you’re going for the low blow in anger. But if you’re being honest and speaking your mind, is venom really such a bad thing? Should we all repress our own opinions that might clash with others’ just for the sake of not spewing what is perceived as venom?

Am I making any sense?

I guess the whole point of writing this is to demonstrate just how bumpy the whole cyclothymia ride is.

I can’t help but think my strong will and pit viper personality are possibly what has kept the depression monster from eating me alive. I may cycle into the “kill me now” moods, but that damn spiteful rebel in me always makes a comeback,coming out swinging and spitting self defending venom. All my life I have had an uphill battle, with people judging me based on the way I look, the things I like, the family I have. I have battled mental illness so crippling and alienating that I could have been a posterchild for “most likely to commit suicide”. I keep taking one step forward only to get pushed back five steps. Every person I trust stabs me in the back.

Through it all, I remain feisty, resentful, and fueled by my anger and self righteous belief in myself.

These mood cycles may get me down, but I never stay down, I keep getting right back up, angrier and feistier than ever before.

The Donor once referred to me as “one angry fucking bitch.”

Maybe being that angry fucking bitch is the only thing that has saved me from becoming one more mental health suicide statistic.

I just know that in spite of my flaws, I am a good mother, I am a nice woman who is pretty much broke and I still feel enough compassion to feed the stray cats outside my trailer, and I am willing to drop everything if a friend reaches out and needs a shoulder to cry on.

Emotionally wonky or not, I am a damn good person.

A good person with enough scars from the knives in her back to remain venomous but rebellious enough to keep fighting if only to say “fuck you” to the mental illness and the vile actions of others and the world in general.

See you next mood swing, where I will no doubt be blaming myself for the decline of western civilization and the Lindberg kidnapping.

1:23 pm
Ha ha, I called it. I am in a pissy mood now, and I don’t mean venomous, I mean “what is the fucking point to life anyway?”
Least I rode out the mouthy venom mood without doing any bodily harm to anyone. Eh, it’s all I’ve got.

Quagmire

Posted in depression, mental illness with tags , , on December 30, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

I have a quagmire.
I am lonely.
But I don’t really want to be around anyone.
Could someone please explain what the hell that is?
I need a friend.
All I have are guys wanting to hook up and abscond once they get what they want.
I’m simply not interested in meaningless hook ups. At all.
What I would give my spleen,kidneys, and liver for, is a good friend with a shoulder to cry on. Or just ya know, hang out, swap sarcastic barbs, and quote lines from Firefly and Red Dwarf. If only Bex weren’t in England and having her own battle with the depression monster.
If only Shane hadn’t moved away and vanished on me.
If only Ryan hadn’t severed all ties with everyone after his employee theft fiasco.
If only…
The depression has set in, usually it comes during the holidays, but this year it is coming after the fact. Whatever relief I felt at the holidays being over has been replaced with this all encompassing depression that I feel in my bones, a sense of hopelessness I cannot shake.
I’m so lonely I crave companionship.
I am so down, I know I would make bad company so the last thing I want is to put myself out there to bring others down.
Plus, I just don’t have the energy to paste on the happy face for their comfort.
I don’t get myself, how can you be lonely yet not want anyone around you? That makes no bloody sense at all.

Life is a cesspool

Posted in depression with tags , , , on December 30, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

I was reading a news story yesterday about a teenager who lost her battle to cancer 11 or so days after giving birth to the baby she refused life saving treatment to have. And while it kicked me in the gut that life can be so cruel, I had this knee jerk reaction, “Well, at least she had 11 days with her baby.”
WTF is that?
Did three years of having sunshine vomited in my proximity no matter how shitty things were finally warp my brain beyond being outraged by things that are,well, outraging?
Honestly, I have had it up to my fucking eyeballs with this optimism/best case scenario bullshit. Are we really that pathetic and passive as a society that we have come to accept atrocities and vile twists of fate with a candy coated smile and optimism laced utterings?
So, what, the guy in the POW camp is supposed to be thankful he is only BEATEN 22 HOURS A DAY INSTEAD OF 24?
And that little girl being molested by her uncle, what, should she say, WELL AT LEAST HE BUYS ME CANDY AFTERWARD?

JESUS!!!!!

Shit happens, life is not fair, bad things happen to good people, blah blah, I get it.

But when we become so jaded,so socially numb to horrid things, isn’t it basically waving the white flag and saying we’re okay with all this crap?

I could never convince The Donor that sometimes, it’s a principle. Maybe speaking your mind accomplishes nothing but you have gone on record as having the courage of your convictions and protesting what you think is wrong. Every big change throughout history has come about because one by one, people stood up and spoke out, and the tides began to turn over time. The “path of least resistance” school of thought has its place but when it’s your ONLY school of thought, passivity has won out over peace keeping.

Some things should piss you off. Some shit should make you sad and depressed. Some things are just plain wrong and deserve to be spoken out against.

I realized after reading that story yesterday and seeing how utterly futile it is to fight for your life when your fate has already been carved into the stone of time…I have good reason to be depressed and feel hopeless. For all I know I have a clump of genetically predisposed cells in my body waiting to go off like a ticking time bomb. For all I know, tomorrow is the day someone decides to drive drunk and runs me over as I cross the damn street. All my sunshine spewing talk of fate and faith…
g
o
n
e.

As of this moment in time, there is nothing, no hope, no future, nothing but misery and pain and suffering.
I feel it enveloping every part of my body, my mind, my soul, that spirit crushing despair that permeates even your bone marrow and makes every muscle ache, every emotion feel raw, every breath and step you take feel exhausting and defeating.
Part of me knows it’s part of the seasonal depression.
Part of me knows, as much as we all want to deny and ignore and gloss it over, life is nothing but a funhouse of mirrors distorting and twisting and ultimately, leading to your demise,often in unimaginably cruel ways.

Life is a cess pool, and it doesn’t matter if you put on hip waders and a mask. It still stinks, and it’s still shitty, and as defeated as I feel right now…I STILL WANT TO SCREAM FUCK YOU to whatever powers that be in the universe hand down these utterly despicable twists of fate.

Because once you become one of the head in the sand sunshine spewing steeped in denial crowd and stop screaming in outrage…they might as well shovel the dirt over you because your soul is as dead as as body could ever be.

Never stop screaming. Never stop speaking out. Never stop being pissed off when it is warranted.

Even when  every cell of your being has the albatross of depression weighing you down and making you feel like drawing one more breath is utterly pointless.

Into the abyss again

Posted in depression with tags , , , , on December 30, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

It has set in.
That post holiday seasonal affect New Year lump of hopeless depression. I have tried so hard to fight it, but certain events have just driven me further into the darkness and I find myself flailing as I fall into the abyss. I am still battling it with all my might but it seems like every step I take forward, I am taking ten steps back.
I am exhausted. With life. With being myself. With doing all this single handledly while The Donor gets away scot free. SICK SICK SICK.
Sick of knives in the back that poke out through my heart. Twice in three months someone has thrown me under the bus for their own concerns. People I trusted and cared about. People who claimed to care about me. In the end, all they cared about was saving their own asses.
I am hurt, I am pissed off, I am fucking furious and venomous.
I took the high road, and still got fucking stabbed in the damn heart and back.
Not once, but twice.
What kind of moron does that make me?
Well,I feel pretty moronic anyway.
Deep down, I know it means I am good person who apparently is surrounded by self serving assholes.

And so into the abyss I tumble, all hope being sucked out of me and replaced with nothing but the aching black emptiness of depression and desolation. If I were really a good person, then I wouldn’t keep getting fucked over, right? Obviously, this is all on me, there is something fundmentally wrong with me when all I can attract are people who want to walk all over me, use me, and discard me like trash. ALL MY FAULT.
So says the self pitying voice in my head.
The spitfire in me says it’s bullshit and that I cannot take responsibility for the gutless actions of others.

The fact that I am so divided means I am still cycling, even if not so extremely or rapidly, in spite of the mood stabilizer. If I were in the place Lithium put me in, I would be too numb to have conflicted feelings. I would feel…nothing. I did not like that, but in all honesty, I am not liking feeling every bit of pain, either. Okay, not every little bit of pain, but enough that it sucks.  Especially betrayal, that one is tough for me to swallow because I don’t understand the concept of throwing people you care about under the bus, even if it is for other people you care about. Does that even make sense? Probably not. I am emotionally compromised at the moment, so full of anger and hurt and rage and mood swingy-ness.
Maybe my biggest problem,other than this bipolar anxiety ridden hell that is me, is that I believe in telling the truth, even when it’s not pretty. Everyone else seems to think it’s fine to lie, gloss over, and repress feelings until it’s too late and everything implodes. I can in all honesty say I have ZERO respect for people who bottle things up and lie and pay lip service and lack the spine to show an ounce of respect by simply being honest.
If you think the truth is painful…
months and years of lies hurt far worse, trust me. And frankly, I am resentful of people who are so weak they WANT to be lied to to spare their egos. If you’re not grown up enough to face the truth about yourself or an opinion someone else has, then you’re not grown up yet.

I am in such a dark abyssmal place right now. I just want to crawl into a corner and assume the fetal position. I know that I can’t because I have a kid to think of, but it does not diminish the desire to say fuck it all and curl up into a ball. I keep putting faith and trust in people and they keep proving my misanthropy to be completely valid. Once you’ve lost faith in the human race, and thus in yourself, where do you have left to turn for hope? Go on, say my kid. To which I say, if I am such a loser as to keep getting fucked over, would she not be better off with a parent who isn’t such a loser?

FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I don’t like all this negativity in my head. I don’t know how to evict it. If it were that easy, antidepressant companies would go out of business.
Feeling this low is why people drink, ffs. Alcohol may ultimately be a depressant, but it also numbs, and sometimes, that’s all you got.
Only I am so broke now I don’t even have that. Joyjoy.

I hate everything right now. How could I keep so hopeful through the holiday nightmare and now come crumbling to the floor?

Oh, right. That tends to happen when someone you thought was a friend throws you under the bus to save their own ass. And lies about it.
Especially on the heels of your own husband throwing you and your kid under the bus and backing over you several times.
Maybe it’s not depression, maybe it’s justifiable despair of having been hurt to much in such a short time.

Eh whatever. I’m tired of writing about it. Into the abyss I fall for now. I’m just gonna pretend these anxiety induced hives I’m breaking out in are an allergy to well, the air.

I am not my illness

Posted in cyclothymia, depression, mental illness with tags , , on December 24, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

Mental disorders of any kind are possibly the most misunderstood of any medical condition. The general population is ignorant, and quite comfortable with that ignorance. They are all too happy to assume that the erratic mania-hostility-violent-tears-depression cycle of bipolar disorder is just someone’s personality and has nothing to do with any sort of medical condition.

Anyone with a mental disorder knows that they are far more than the sum of their illness’s symptoms. We question whether we are, of course. Our self esteem takes a beating time after time, and we lose faith in ourselves, especially when even medicated to the gills, we still go through cycles and symptoms.

Depression of the clinical variety is just as misunderstood. There is a popular “suck it up” mentality as far as depression is concerned. As if one simply has a weak character or is lazy and just needs to “snap out of it” or “Pull themselves up by the boot straps.” Depression is crippling, and it robs you of your personality, your identity, your hope, your faith, and your desire to live. Adding insult to this injury by telling a depressed person they’re just not trying hard enough is quite common and absolutely reprehensible.

Panic disorder is another popularly misconceived disorder. I get sick of being told to breathe and calm  down and oh, my personal favorite from the jokester Donor, “Don’t get so bent.” Yes, because panic attacks are utterly fun and fulfilling and I choose to have them and humiliate myself and give myself embarrassing uncomfortable physical symptoms. That’s me getting bent, ha ha ha ha.

Personally, I am sick of the ignorance, and the arrogance, of those who view mental illness either as no big deal, a character weakness, or omg, that person is a whack job.

Truth is, whether we are bipolar, schizophrenic, depressed, have anxiety disorders…we are human beings with feelings and thoughts. We have family and friends and mates and children and jobs and responsibilities. We are not some mutated lobotomized drooling monster from a B horror movie. Some of the most talented, intellectually brilliant people have suffered from some sort of mental disorder. To judge us based on having a mental illness and the accompanying symptoms is asinine, cruel, and simply based not on fact, but on fear and ignorance.

At my worst with the depression, I became a slothful shut in with no regard to personal hygiene or housekeeping or even clean laundry.  It does NOT make me a slob living in a pigsty for life.

At my manic worst, I said and did things that were really out of character for me. I would drink, I would spend money I didn’t have, I would behave in a promiscuous or flirtatious fashion. I behaved inappropriately and then I would crash into the tears and screaming phase, followed by the utterly desolate depression phase.

At my panicky worst, I puked on dates, embarrassed friends by creating a public spectacle, and proved myself to be quite unstable when facing massive amounts of stimulation and stress.

Properly medicated, I am NONE of those things. I am not psychotically paranoid. I am not a shut in. I have not lost all hope. I do not vomit on dates. I do not create public spectacles if I can help it. I am not being flirty or promiscuous nor overindulging in booze.

I am quite vivacious, quite friendly, quite able to relate to people of all ilks. I am sassy and free spirited. I am a responsible loving mother. I am creative. I am an animal lover. I love to listen to all sorts of music. I judge people based not on who they are or how they look or what station in life they stem from, but from how they treat me. I do my housework. I pay my bills. I run errands. I spend time with my kid, playing and learning. I laugh. I find joy in the little things.

Every now and again, I become hypomanic or full blown mania sets in. I still occasionally have a violent panic attack that turns me into a blubbering puking basketcase. I get angry. I get hateful. I break down sobbing and crying. I still swing between the extreme moods, though the mood stabilizer certainly has toned it down quite a bit. I can be easily distracted, a little tightly wound, a little mercurial…

But I am absolutely NOT my illness.

A lot of people will never be able to differentiate a mentally ill person’s symptoms from their identity. That is just sad, as we are so much more than our illness. We are generally good people, with noble intentions, and hearts of gold. We are wrongly judged based on things we did not ask for and have no control over, and whatever is good about us often gets lost in the mix.

It is not an optimal life. But, it is the hand I was dealt and I am playing it best I can. To allow the stigma and ignorance to silence me from talking about my issues in this blog would be akin to agreeing that my illness is something shameful that I should keep buried and hidden. I’m not gonna sit here and say I love being bipolar and take pride in it. I do not. I hate it. But, since it is probably what has created some of my better qualities because of the struggles I have had with it, I would not opt out if it were possible. For every bad trait about myself I dislike, I can find two awesome qualities that make me happy to be who I am. If I hadn’t been ostracized, labeled, and treated like a leper, I probably would not have the level of empathy I have now. It sucked and it never should have happened,to me, or anyone else, but it did, and I am stronger for it.

I think it sucks that mentally ill people are more often than not judged based on when they are at their absolute worst, while their overall goodness and many amazing traits are lost in the shuffle.

Judge me for being a bad person, judge me for looking like someone you used to know and hated, judge me for my taste in music…BUT DO NOT BASE YOUR JUDGEMENT OF ME ON SYMPTOMS OF MY ILLNESS.

I AM NOT MY ILLNESS.

Bipolar disorder equals relationship toxicity

Posted in mental illness with tags , , on December 24, 2011 by morgueticiaatoms

I have been doing a lot of thinking lately, especially since starting the internship for R at his shop.
And all I can say is that my self esteem has taken a hell of a beating.
He put in 15 years with a woman who beat the shit out of him and his kids.
He put in three years with a crazy jealous woman who framed his kids for stealing her stuff.
He’s currently married to a woman who makes him so unhappy he spends 12 hours a day at the shop or running around doing outcalls to avoid going home and claiming things are hunky dory even though his neighbors and buddies say otherwise.

The Donor put in 7 years with a woman who threw phones at his head, cheated on him, and spent all his money.
(Ok,with him, who knows what is actually true, but public record confirms they were married 7 years.)

R put in almost 2 years with me.
The Donor put in 3 years and two months.

SO HOW FUCKING BAD MUST I BE TO GET DISCARDED THAT FAST WHILE THEY KEPT THE VIOLENT TRULY HORRID ONES FOR YEARS AND YEARS?????

I am not doing so woe-is-me thing, either, it really does make me wonder.

R I can understand somewhat. My doctor was basically committing malpractice by misdiagnosing me and giving me meds that made me worse instead of better and R tried to tell me to ditch him and get a different shrink. Of course, what he didn’t understand was that I had no insurance so Dr. S was pretty much my only option based on the income I had at the time. I was also taught not to question people with alphabet soup next to their names as they are educated and I am not.

Sometimes,it feels like Dr S robbed me of 11 years of my life. It was the one time in my life I was a good girl and didn’t question authority and so I went through more hell than anyone should have to, not to mention his meds nearly killing me with the interaction.

The Donor, though, I don’t get at all. He sat here that whole time, with me asking him if I was doing better or worse off the meds, and he kept telling me I was doing better. I find it rather coincidental he stuck around for the worst of the depression and psychotic anxiety but the instant I declared I was going back on my meds…he was vapor.

It makes me question whether I will ever find a guy who will find my good qualities outweight this albatross called mental illness I have been saddled with. I take responsibility for my actions, but to say bipolar people  are in their right minds unmedicated or wrongly medicated and rapid cycling would be ignorant. I know life with me is a roller coaster ride. But to fare worse than two violent truly imbalanced women means I was so bad, my good qualities counted for nothing. Medicated or not, I am apparently just too difficult for anyone to tough it out with me. It’s definitely a kick to my already iffy self esteem.

Least R and I remained friends. Though I still give him a ton of shit about how he discarded me in favor of a line of women more wacko and evil than I ever was. Can’t say I blame him for wanting off the roller coaster ride of my moods, though. He was raising three kids alone, he didn’t need one more responsibility crushing him.

This shit with the Donor has me rather baffled. I cooked, cleaned, ran errands, kept the bills paid, didn’t spend irresponsibly, did 99% of the child care, took care of my own cats, bought him little things here and there to let him know I was thinking about him and his needs, gave him sex whenever he wanted…I apologized profusely and repeatedly for being so difficult.  I even learned to turn my illness inward more, so it manifested in me physically rather than being taken out on him.

The one thing I could not do, though, was develop the sense of humor of a 9 year old and absolve him for his every trespass.

The fact R and I remained friends, and even after all this time he is still so kind to me and we get along so well…I seriously don’t think this thing with the Donor has a whole lot to do with me. He has issues of his own, and in all honesty, I am glad I don’t have to deal with them anymore. Most of my problems can be managed with medication. His mind is just fucked.

I just think it sucks to be dumped for being bipolar. Like I chose this. Like I want this. I was never dropped for being unfaithful or spending too much or being too mean or violent. I have always been dropped for the erratic moods and psychotic anxiety and paranoia. Things that are kept to a mininum when properly medicated. And I still can’t find a guy strong enough to tough it out with me. How excrutiating must my cycling, mood swings, and depressions be when guys put in more time with women who physically abuse them?

Guess it stands to reason they loved those women but just never loved me.

It definitely kicks me in the ego on a daily basis.

But, mostly, I just feel disgusted that I keep hooking up with men who are so weak as to define me by my illness and bail out on me.

I’m  not my illness, but unfortunately, I seem to be the only person who believes it.