Dysthymic, dysfunctional, disgusted

Sooo, ya know how I was on an even keel when I wrote earlier prior to the shrink appointment?

Yeah, about that.

Got through the appointment. I’m not sure if it’s the telepsychiatry thing with the delay in speaking or because she is foreign or what, but trying to explain my issues to her is like climbing up a hill coated in Astroglide while wearing flip flops.

“You want to hurt yourself, you are suicidal?”

“No, during my period, I just feel like I should die, then once it’s over, I am fine.”

“So you are depressed?”

“No, I feel fine this week, last week, I had this menstrual dysphoria thing going on…”

“So you aren’t depressed…Why do you have so much trouble with your menstrual cycle?”

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

Then I tried to explain the panic and paranoia and she wanted examples of what sets it all off. So I mentioned the article about Google having this “tattoo” design that stores your passwords and such…And it turned into this big, “You think the government is going to put a tattoo on you against your will?”

Bloody hell, woman, speak English!

Finally came to an accord. She is prescribing a very low dose of Seroquel for 7 days a month to smooth over the dysphoria/menstrual issues. Otherwise, everything is staying the same.

I just went with the truth. Once the curse ended, I was okay. That may change, it usually does once summer ends and seasonal affect kicks in. I will save the mood stabilizer change til then.

So I got to the shop per his request for my presence…And I was sailing along, feeling super tough and forward and not at all weepy or whiny…

Then slowly, I felt my mood begin to slip. A little. A little more. More still. I offered to run an errand, ya know, change of scenery. Slip. I played a peppy hair metal song that always cheers me up. More slippage. I ate lunch. Slipping…I read some funny stuff…

No dice. I ended up face down in the mood gutter. Of course, R asked why I sighed, then why I was quiet…He doesn’t want an answer, not the truth so I ignored him, changed the subject, mumbled incoherently.

Then he made a statement about people not paying him for his work, “I’m not their lapdog…” And off handedly I said, “Nor am I yours…” I really didn’t put any thought behind it, had no agenda, meant nothing snarky…It was meant to be an agreeing comment.

Instead he asked, “Is that a shot at me?”

Well, The Donor used to make constant accusations of everything out of my mouth being some sort of “shot” or “dig”, so needless to say the wording and assumption did not sit well with me. I defended myself, but my mood just went further down the drain, and he took this dismissive attitude toward me, kind of like a snort of derision, and from there…

I was quiet. Monosyllabic. (He was on a rant earlier about how his wife never shuts up and won’t listen, so I was already quite uneasy so much as whispering a single word.) I became very distant, I definitely had this silent hatred vibe going on…I just wanted out of there. I was burning alive and just needed space, to not be there, to n0t have the whole fucked up situation triggering what was already a bad state of mind.

But I toughed it out.  Though the entire time all I can think is FUCK YOU CYCLOTHYMIA, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU!

I was doing so well, even thought maybe it was time to look into classes or something…Because ya know, I had three solid mood days and that’s totally a sign of being cured. I got cocky, blaming it all on shark week, when in fact, cyclothymia doesn’t go away. The meds help manage it, but it’s always there, lurking beneath the surface, prepared to do its bipolar thing and either make you act like a drunken manic loon or a depressed human version of Eeeyore and everything in between. Shark week definitely threw me into psychotic territory but the bipolar mood swing was already there.

By the end of the day, I was grumpy, hot, and just disgusted, with myself, my brain, R, everything. Went to get my kid and she wouldn’t stop watching tv and put on her shoes. I asked nicely three times. By the fourth time the satan voice came out and I asked her if she wanted to be grounded for a week. Wrong thing to do. My mom went OFF, telling me what a grouchy strict witch I am. Whatever. I want my kid to respect me and mind me, I don’t much care if she likes me.

Came home. Had a yard full of kids in ten minutes. Said fuck it, my day sucked, how much worse can it get? Spook has Damiana spending the night. The kid (her friend) is driving me insane, she is always hungry, always wants something, always tattling on Spook, telling my floor is nasty, one of the cats pooped in the box and it stinks (poop general does smell bad, derp!)…But it’s a good exercise for me. No matter how crazy my kid makes me, it’s better than this child. Not saying she’s without good traits. Just saying, I lack the patience to deal with such a needy kid.

Now…a half hour til I can put the heathens to bed and go drink bleach.

That’s a joke. My counselor says people just don’t get my dark humor. I am inclined to agree. Plus, with the mood swings, I don’t always know what tone my voice is. I may sound angry and simply be distracted or whatever. Just existing peacefully amongst other people has become a full time job. Worrying about my moods, my vocal tone, my attention span, my wording, my humor…Jesus. Is it any wonder I am at my most happy when alone? Less pressure.

I am trying soo hard to do better, to be less harsh, to be more sociable, to be less…me.

But it sucks and if I have to accept people as drunken narcissists or braindead rednecks or whatever, but no one has to accept that I have a mood disorder…

I cannot fathom where I got an attitude about it all.

!!!!!!

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: