Archive for January, 2015

Ramble Ramble Blah Blah

Posted in biolar disorder, mental illness with tags , , , , , , on January 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

So the title is my version of the line “babble babble bitch bitch” from Marilyn Manson’s “This Is The New Shit.” Music is the one thing that resonates for me, helps when I apply it to my day to day life ass trashery. (Yes, Bex, if you read this, I owe you royalties, bill me.)

Okay, so two posts in one day…Yeah, the eeevil brain is on hyperdrive. Not like I force people to read though. It’s written vomit, avoid if you wish.

I FORCED myself into a shower (and believe me, I am not being dramatic because at this point I am so down and disenchanted with a society I can never be good enough for, why do I give a damn?). Then into the dish I went.
I knew immediately it was a mistake. R was in a bad mood. He asked why I looked down and I told him about my morning because, well, ya know, he asked and idiot I am I assume if someone asks, they want a real reply.
People really don’t. They want you to spew sunshine and rainbows while being able to embrace their own bad mood.
Every minute is ticking by like an hour.
Already he has disillusioned me more to humanity.
He is always on a rant about, “If you want to piss off a woman, comment on her weight.”
Well, sick of the sexism I said, “If you want to pick a fight with a man, tell him he’s not good in bed.”
To which he shrugged and said, “Least I get mine.”
I glared not just daggers but foot long swords. He quickly said, “I was joking.”
Um…I used to live with him. He’s not joking, he really does view women that way and his current wife will attest to it.

Soo over people.
Soo over myself. It’s self loathing day.

My kid climbed in bed with me last night and said she had a nightmare that “the cops took me away and put me in a home with no food.”
Well, entering the dish and experiencing all the triggers that come with it..now has me wondering if I should be worried my kid is going to be taken away.
Yes, I know, she’s 5 and had a bad dream. It’s not reality.
But as I daily slip and slide more and more between mania, paranoia, and desolation and I let the housework slide and I forget things and do weird things ( I grabbed for my spray can of deodorant yesterday and nearly used room deodorizer on my armpits)…
I get scared. My kid is healthy and happy, her needs are met. But I’ve known people to have their kids taken away for nothing more than someone saying the house wasn’t clean enough. And face it, cleanliness is subjective to one’s personal standards. If I can keep the dishes, laundry and cat boxes caught up…I don’t obsess over dusting and such.
Now my kid has had this nightmare, and my panic and paranoia have taken off on their own little quest to make my current shit mental state worse.
It was a dream. I mean, if I were to dream of being married to an Oompa Loompa while eating chocolate covered maggots, it wouldn’t make it a remote possibility.
But something that plays on my biggest fear- losing my kid-well…It seems I’m not that far off base in my fear.

I hate this.

Two hours. I have to paste on the “I’m not feeling like swallowing razor blades” face for two more hours.
Then I can take the weekend to recover.
Ha. Like the stress ever stops coming.

I need my brain to slow down. I think that’s my own worst enemy. My brain moves too fast for me to process and catch up and make logical choices or decisions. It’s not a cop out, either. I’m pulling in four radio stations one on frequency and I may know the words to every song playing…But I can’t think lucidly enough to make heads or tails of any of it.

Rambling On…
I served my time. I am home, back in my bubble and I like my fucking bubble, to hell with those who think it’s “mentally unhealthy.” I feel safe in my bubble. I love my bubble. I’d marry my bubble and hump its leg.
I made not that when my mental state is not good..I am relatively useless. I mean, I go through the motions, but my brain is screaming the whole time MAKE IT END MAKE IT END MAKE IT END. So I’m not bringing my A game. More like a Z game, to recycle a past post term. I made the effort. It was grueling. I wanted to primal scream every second I was there, pretending not to feel like drinking bleach.
And yeah, I do get in these mindsets where I’d almost drink bleach. A shrink would probably label it as “attention seeking suicide talk.” WRONG. It’s just that point of frustration where your own mind seems to be working against you and outside influences are following suit and no matter how hard you fight…You just can’t shake it off. It’s more self loathing than any true intent of self harm. Because being cyclothymic, I’ll swim back to the surface soon enough.

Is there a word beyond the scope of frustrating? Because this day makes the term frustrating seem rather…understated.
I survived.
Guess that’s the small victory.
Of course, I had to tempt the fates by assuming I could simply read some idle babble net sites. Thanks to Reddit, my attitude toward people is worse than it was before. I need to avoid that site like the plague, it can be far more negative than positive. But then it’s not the site’s fault I am weak in the psyche. Though I prefer not to view it as weak, but rather as having an open wound that is raw.
What got me in the biggest uproar was this bit that totally took the Marilyn Monroe quote “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best” and turned it into “an excuse to be a jerk and blame it on others.”
ONE person commented in the true text the quote was intended. ONE.
And I’m the pessimistic one?
In the context of someone with mental illness and emotional scars…I find the Monroe quote to be quite accurate. It is not a free for all to be a jerk. It is “if you can’t handle when I at rock bottom, you shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy me when I am at top.”

My misanthropy grows. Metastasizes. My self loathing becomes the blob, out of control in growth, spreading, consuming all around.

I must sound like a monster.
Oddly, I don’t care because those who’d judge me a monster for stating my honest feelings are not people I’d mesh with anyway.
Guess that’s my hypocrisy showing.
I judge someone for being only out for their own pleasure but expect not to be judged for spewing my negative experiences.
You know what this means?

I’m a lowly human.
DAMN.
I had such high hopes for being from Neptune.

Psychological Dry Socket

Posted in biolar disorder, mental illness with tags , , , , , on January 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Last night I just hit rock bottom on mood and fever pitch on anxiety. Every little thing was salt in a wound, nails on a chalkboard. I was in the depressive abyss where everything seemed hopeless, pointless, and my nerves were like frayed ropes. My cat would nuzzle me or my kid would speak and it hit me…
The only comparison that I can make is….psychological dry socket.
Now if you’ve never had dry socket after having a tooth removed, consider yourself lucky. Essentially, it means the hole they plucked the tooth from fails to clot or loses the clot leaving that bone exposed to heat, cold, food, liquids.
The literature says it’s “uncomfortable.”
They apparently are masochists because from my recollection of having dry socket on several occasions…It’s agonizing. And my only coping mechanism, because it was so all encompassing, was to sleep.

So to come to the realization that you’ve reached the point of psychological dry socket where every tiny thing is agonizing and all you can do is sleep it off…
Rock bottom is a step up.

I curled up in bed at 7:30 pm, staring at my computer screen showing Forensic Files and praying for sleep. To not think. To not be. To not feel every tiny thing like it’s filtered through a stack of Marshall amps set up for a fucking stadium concert.
And my kid, much like the rest of the world, demands a reason for being sad because she’s happy all the time and everyone else should be as well. I try to explain calmly that sometimes, people are sad, and maybe there’s no reason but they still feel sad. And that’s okay.
She doesn’t get it but she’s 5. The rest of the world has no excuse.

I got up this morning, having sold my soul to multiple people so I could aid a friend in need…Only to find an email informing me the plan has changed for third time and I am no longer needed. Thanks. I rearrange everything on your word and sorry is supposed to make it all better.
This is precisely why I am always alone and so cynical. Giving people the benefit of the doubt is going to be the death of me. I need to stop doing that and just embrace my own misanthropy. It’s more mentally healthy than constantly going out on the ledge to pull back someone who’d just as soon jump and take you with them.

Then once I got that wound licked, dealt with multiple screaming tantrums from my child who can’t understand that she can’t go to school at 7 am simply because she is ready to do so…I came home to find my sink has sprung a leak because the former handyman never fixed it right. I just turned off the water. I am in no mood for some stranger to come in and judge my crappy housekeeping. I will deal with it when I’m not in psychological dry socket land.
I still have to go to the shop and finish out my soul selling servitude. But it’s ok, that’s my norm. He sent texts and called last night and I couldn’t be bothered to reply. For once, I had just gotten to that sleepy place prior to going under completely and if I woke up enough to deal, I knew i’d be chasing my tail mentally for hours to come. Besides, if you wait until ten o clock at night to call then get pissed that there’s no answer, that makes you the asshole. Polite consideration, for fuck’s sake. The world does not revolve around him.
He missed that memo.
A lot of people around me did, apparently.

I am well aware the world doesn’t revolve around me.
So why do I blog practically every day talking about me me me?
It’s simple. Mental purge. I get gorged on the daily trials of life and eventually, I have to purge. Writing is my way of doing that.
Plus, the more comments I receive reflecting positively on my posts…The more encouraged I am to be even more open. It means a lot when my writing resonates and that is not idle lip service to garner attention for my bruised ego. All I have ever been is a writer, yearning for my words to mean something to someone other than me.
When they do…it’s a good feeling. It means under all my damage and ADD babbling…I am making sense to someone other than myself.
That is why I keep doing this blog.
To get a comment telling me that my words mimic how another is feeling, as if I am in their head…Well as much as it might help them, it helps me too. It makes me feel less loony, less alone.
Purging is not about nourishing the soul, it’s about spewing the extraneous stuff life throws at me.

But this blog, and all the positive input I get, that is what nourishes my soul. I am very grateful for it.

Now…I’m going to spend more time trying to talk myself into a much needed shower then paste on the happy face (ha ha ha, more like “fuck with me and i will stab your eyes out with a spork” face) and go deal with the petri dish of humanity. Another dive into the shallow kiddie pool while I wait for this psychological dry socket to heal.

I’ve it many times before but…There really should be novacaine for the brain.

Is This The Way You Get To Hell?

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , , on January 29, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

My kid is rocking out to “Is this the way you get to hell” by stitched up Heart. I am an awesome influence. Hey, the song rocks. I endured the Frozen theme, I have done my time in G rated hell. Bring on the metal.

I want whiskey. Actually, any alcohol I can choke down.
It is the only thing that makes my brain stop spinning.
It sounds like a lame ass excuse to be a drunk and yet…It is my truth. My brain just moves so fast I can’t keep up. I am overwhelmed without any outward triggers. This is all my own mind.
When I was on higher dose Xanax or Focalin, it was a non issue.
I don’t have those now so it is an enormous issue.
My lack of focus comes off as mercurial, selective, flaky.
I hate this shit. I hate the fact I fantasize more about alcohol than romance or even lust. I just want a quiet brain. Since the professionals severed my ability to quiet my brain properly…It leaves legal stuff like booze.
And I can’t afford to pay attention so even that is unobtainable.
I fantasize anyway.

The noise in my head is agonizing.
It hinders the most basic things. It makes me irritable, depressed, hopeless.

Sick Puppies-Poison
“Here’s a pill, why don’t we take it…’cos I heard it makes everything okay.”

Sometimes, it’s not a simple snarkasm. Sometimes, it’s fact.

I am depressed today. I am anxious. My mind is on hyper drive.
I don’t need more stress and yet here I am, taking more on because I…don’t wanna be like the shallow assholes who castigated me for being less than perfect.
I had to reach out to my dad and to R for assistance. It devoured my soul and made me feel like I need a shower.
But then isn’t that my life.
I swallow my pride because I have no other options.
Then spend days loathing myself.
I made a mess of my life and this is the hand I’ve been dealt.
Thank you, cyclothymia and anxiety disorder.
I am not without blame, but you can’t get to the right place if your map is a misprint, so I’m a bit salty that I am expected to get to the right place with a faulty brain.
Of course, it’s an excuse. I get that drummed into my head at every turn.

I want a salt lick of valium and a keg of whiskey.
I want to not want that.
It’s like being in a hell and I just keep asking, “How did I get in this hand basket?”

If a pill stops the torture within my own mind…
I’m good with that.
I can live with judgment as I’ve known little else.
This daily madness where my mind spins so fast I fear my sanity is slipping away…
I’d gargle bleach and lick nine volt batteries if I thought it would make me feel well mentally.

Mental illness.
This IS the way you get to hell.

Back In The Shallow Again

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , , on January 29, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Yeah, it just hit me today when I ventured back into the dish again per R’s request for “a visit”…and I was out 15 minutes before my precarious mental state slipped closer to the precipice.
The Aerosmith song “Back In The Saddle” screeched into my head with the word “shallow” instead of saddle.
Because I am in the fucking shallow end, the kiddie pool, of life, surrounded by people that vapid and lacking in emotional intelligence.
Now, I do know myself and my moodiness. This went beyond that.
I got to the shop and R’s friend S was there. Ok, she’s nice, she visits before she goes to work sometimes. No biggie.
But then her and R got into a conversation on “whiny” people who claim they are depressed and see a doctor when they have nothing to be depressed about.

That is the most ignorant, offensive mindset I’ve come across in my lifetime behind racism and homophobia.
And oh, yes, I opened my mouth.
And it just lead to a debate of, “Oh, this is my dad, you don’t know him, he’s in decent health for his age, he still has money, he has no reason to be depressed.”
OMG, the ignorance alone made my brain nearly implode.
I’m not an expert and even if her dad is the biggest malingerer on the planet…HER mentality is exactly what is wrong with a large part of society.
Depression doesn’t give a fuck if you are healthy, rich, have everything to live for. (Robin Williams ring any bells?)
It’s an illness. And when moronic people, even if well meaning, treat it so trivially…I get bent.
I walked away.

I knew I wasn’t ready to be back in the dish again, but after opting out for three days, I felt obligated to make an effort.
God, it was a mistake.
Because no sooner than I stopped gnashing teeth over the depression debacle…
R called a customer who said they couldn’t pick up their (electronic gadget of some sort) until they got paid on the 3rd.
So he went on a tirade about people on disability being useless bags of shit who expect everyone else to support their good times.

O
M
G

So I casually said, “Ya know, I’m on disability and when you say shit like that, I get offended.”
Rather than even think he might be, ya know, behaving like a dickhead, he said, “What, you think the rest of us should support you?”

At which point my mood became rather contentious. And he made note of it. Then when I didn’t laugh at some youtube thing he found funny, he told me I was being snarky.

I am no genius. Hell, I’m not even that great of a person.
But I am nowhere near the level of vapid asshole that I am surrounded by here at every turn.

On the plus side, I’m pretty sure I made my point when I told him, “You think you need someone here to keep you company every single day, be a big boy for once.”
Yeah, well, don’t start shit, won’t be any shit.
Polite is off the table in light of the unbridled rudeness and judgment those around me can fling about and still consider themselves such great human beings.

These great people who are already telling me I am a moron for taking back in a friend who hurt my badly. Well, I look back and think of all the people I hurt with my bad choices..I was not beyond redemption and neither is my friend. It’s the last chance, because I don’t have the strength for another knife in the heart and back.
But she was there for me several times over the years when no one else was and I am simply returning the favor. It’s what you do when you’re really a decent person and a good friend.
So while all these so called good people around me are so quick to judge me “you’re just gonna get fucked over again, don’t cry to us”…
Truth be told, I still trust her over them because she damn well knows she hurt me and she learned her lesson in a way that hurt her. Those around me think they are above causing psychological pain. Awareness of flaw and willingness to own it…That counts for a lot with me.

It just hit me like an epiphany today.
The world is a giant pool.
Most people spend their entire lives wading in the shallow kiddie end, having a grand old time, cooling off.
I’ve always liked the deep end, having to bob down to touch bottom and claw my way back up, enjoying the exhilaration of the dive in, the gasp of air when you burst through the surface.
No one would judge you for where you prefer to swim in a pool.
But because emotionally, I am the deeper end, I feel judged for not being shallow enough.

And the fact that the world at large is so shallow…
Makes my soul cry a few tears.

The Inner Conflict of Anxiety

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , , on January 27, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I find myself at war with…well, myself, on a daily basis. The anxiety has metastasized to a point where I find it hard to breathe all of the time.
My kid is at school. Yay. I get a break.
My kid is at school.I sit watching the phone waiting for a call to announce her latest ailment de jour.

I wait for the mail to come with bated breath. The mail comes and I am relieved or freaked out more.(Yeah, I got tired of waiting for snail mail and looked at my power bill on line, YIKES!!!!, kinda glad I didn’t open an envelope like that or I’d be avoiding my mailbox for weeks to come to avoid another mail induced panic attack.)

The trash truck is outside. Did I remember to put out trash? Yes. Oh, wait, better check. So I check. And I check again.

Are the cats fed? Better make sure because my focus and memory are so impaired I may have fed them ten hours ago and the dishes are empty.

Were my kid’s shoes on the right feet this morning? OMG, I think I forgot to feed her breakfast. No, wait, I told her to have a pop tart. No, wait, pancakes, I fed her pancakes. Was that today? OMG, what if it wasn’t today and i sent her to school hungry and she tells them and I am on charges for being a neglectful mother?

Oh no, the cable guys are about, did my internet payment not go through and they’re cutting off my service? No, I paid that, I pay it like clockwork on the first of the month when my money comes. But what if the office people messed up or their computer credited the wrong account?

Round and round it goes, day after bloody day.
This is a sucky way to live.
Your mood lifts, you feel more stable…
But your anxiety is such that because you heard a fire truck drive by the night before, you’re terrified to leave the house lest it catch on fire and you be gone…

Anxiety is like a cancer. Even treated, it spreads.
And I am sick of it being made to be some behavioral issue.
I don’t like living this way. My own brain is my worst enemy but I can’t walk away and shun or avoid it.
So I am trapped, constantly at war, my mind a battlefield littered with the corpses of my dreams of a normal life where my brain works properly.

How I wish my mind and the anxiety receptors would call a cease fire.

Jigsaw

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , , on January 26, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

My mood is low. My anxiety is bubbling. I’m not sure if it’s a spoke in the mood cycle or just the continuing aftermath of last week’s “I’m a normal functioning person who can totally keep this pace.”
I can’t keep that pace. I am still paying the price.

I have trouble getting to sleep at night. Toss, turn, torture myself with spinning thoughts. I have Trazadone. I won’t take it. Even a tiny dose makes me useless should my kid wake up, the house catch on fire, or even waking to an alarm. I can’t handle the stuff. So nightly I either make the choice to have a drink or tough it out. I am trying to tough it out. It sucks. If one 7% alcohol drink can help ease me to sleep without nasty side effects…Why can’t the pharma companies come up with a sleepy pill to do it? Is it somehow advantageous to have a society of sleeping pill hungover zombies combined with sleep deprived stress messes?

I can’t focus. I can’t get motivated. I got my kid up and off to school. That’s the extent of today’s accomplishments. I am trying to watch my favorite shows. I can’t get interested, my mind is spinning out of control. I tried to write. Because my writing is what keeps me sane and yet…For weeks now it’s been like pulling teeth out of a struggling gator. Only the gator has dull chiclet teeth so instead of drawing blood, it just chafes my skin. I’d rather bleed and be in pain for my art than simply feel chapped and raw.
I sound nuts, don’t I? It’s a writer thing.
I need back in my pocket, that secure writing pocket where not even my own miserable mental state can intrude. I can’t get there. Maybe because I can’t seem to drop out of reality long enough. I am always with cats climbing me and a child browbeating me and friends making requests, reasonable and unreasonable. Ringing phones.
Creativity is an odd thing, it comes and goes. Writer’s block is like spending time in a body cast, full conscious yet unable to do a fucking productive thing.
But last year at this time…I was in a very dark place and still…my writing flowed like a faucet with a broken handle.
This year the mind space isn’t so dark but I am being torn in so many different directions, I can’t get all my jigsaw puzzle pieces together in a way that makes a picture.
I’m ill at ease in my own skin. It’s like wearing shoes that are too tight and every step hurts and you want to take off the shoes but…they’re super glued to your feet. No escape.

So day after day I sit and look at this thousand piece jigsaw puzzle that comprises my life…And I know what the picture should be but the pieces don’t seem to fit. And even if they do fit, my chaotic mind can’t focus enough to even find the corner pieces and work from there.
The shrink says it’s all anxiety.
Once upon a time, I’d have bought that.
But after that near death reaction I had to an MAOI back in 2000 that left my brain basically an omelet…
This is something more. This is literally mental chaos. It affects every aspect of my life. And it is a daily form of torture and the professionals won’t even hear me out, let alone help me. So does it matter if the other meds are helping if I still have an issue this big mucking up my day to day life?

I tried ginko biloba.
Memory may have been better, but focus…
The only thing over the last 15 years that made a dent was Focalin.
But because I don’t fit some textbook ADHD diagnoses and am not a teenager…The doctor won’t even entertain a notion other than “anxiety”.

I am beyond frustrated.
I am sick of sorting through jigsaw puzzle pieces. I’m not even sure the pieces are all for the same puzzle.
It’s enough to make me miss the agony of last week’s bruised rib. Which still smarts but is much better.
Physical pain people can allow leeway for.
But if you have scrambled eggs for brains…
You’re on your own and people are merciless in judging you for being so “flaky”.

My posts are proof enough of how disorganized my brain is. It’s not a deliberate attempt to be random and incoherent.
This is what I live with day to day.

And it sucks.
And sometimes…I feel like I am the only one who has this problem because no one will talk about it.
Perhaps the worst part is…I have the medical documentation to prove that reaction to the MAOI really did do brain damage…And my file is so thick doctors can’t be bothered to read more than the highlights of the last couple of years.
I’m screwed.
To think it would take one tiny dose of Focalin to make it all better…and I am talking to walls.

Ever seen the movie Misery, read the book? After the crazy fan hobbles him?
That’s how my life feels at times. Like I have been hobbled yet it’s invisible and I am still being held to the same standards as an able bodied (or minded, as this case is) person.
One of the great mysteries of the world is how I haven’t gone batshit and ended up on Deadly Women.
How much can one person take before their mind implodes?

Mental Puree

Posted in biolar disorder, mental health with tags , , , on January 25, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

The bumpy ride of the last ten days has left me feeling like my brain has been put through a juice strainer. I am pulpy juicy puree in the membrane.
Yesterday it was raw nerve endings.
Today it is bruised and raw emotions.
Issues with conscience that prior to this point, didn’t bother me in the least because I have my own skewed morality therefore I won’t share the same guilt issues with others. (Example: certain religions find homosexuality a sin yet I disagree so my guilt for being gay would be nil.) (And for the record, I’m not big on labels. I think the term “flexible” describes me best.)
But it’s nothing to do with that. This is emotional morality. There is a fine line between not judging someone and being their friend and letting them manipulate and wound you to suit their needs to the point you’re bleeding.
Where do you draw the line? And if you draw the line, how do you not feel like some ogre for doing so? It makes me doubt the whole love without conditions thing. I love my daughter, but if she attacked me with a chainsaw, my devotion would be from the other side of a prison wall. You just can’t let people chew you up and spit you out emotionally over and over. No matter how much you want to atone for your own past of making bad choices and having others bail you out…
There has to be a line in the sand at some point.
I wasn’t conflicted.
Now I am.
I know who I want to be. But it has nothing to do with who I am.
I want to be emotionally sound, fair, empathetic, compassionate, and yet wise enough not to used or taken advantage of.
Who I am…I’m a mood bitch who gets hurt and holds a grudge for awhile but eventually wants to roll the dice on the chance that humanity isn’t a total loss.
It will be my downfall for life.

Raw.
Yeah, that’s how I feel today.

And I also had an epiphany last night.
I am doing way better this year than I was at this time last year.
But I am still depressed. It’s the seasonal affect and I try to deny it and make excuses. But every night around five as soon as it gets dark and the temp drops…I become almost anxiety ridden if I do not immediately take to my bedroom and count the minutes until my daughter is asleep so I can climb under the covers. Never mind I don’t go to sleep, just toss and turn and torture myself with stressful thoughts I can’t shut off. It’s a compulsion. It’s an enveloping.
It’s depression.
And putting a positive spin on it because you’re no longer spending six day stretches in your pajamas..doesn’t change anything.
I am doing better.
But I was arrogant to think if I just denied it enough I’d be ok. I’m not okay. I am dealing.
And being cyclothymic, I will likely deal even better tomorrow.

And now…
My daughter has returned from Sunday school and is brow beating me because everyone apparently wants to know why her mom doesn’t have a job.

I really really want a mouse pad with a bulleye “bang head here” motif.