Archive for February, 2015

Depression Epiphany

Posted in depression with tags , , on February 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

My daughter was getting rather aggressive and hostile…And I quietly said, “You do not want to me with me today, I have had a very rough week.”

And she so innocently asks, “Why, Mommy? What happened? Did someone do something to you?”

And there it is.
Nothing happened.
This. Is. Depression.
I’ve known it all along, so I suppose it’s not exactly an epiphany.
But it does put things into perspective.
The world expects cause and effect. Being sad and exhausted for no reason simply isn’t acceptable.

This. Is. Depression.

Nothing happened, nothing out of the ordinary, really. Yet I feel like I was embalmed and fed something that painted my entire mind black.

I am so sick of explaining, or needing to explain, why I am sad all the time to my daughter. It’s not like I am sitting around bawling all the time. But kids are perceptive and they know when you go from being “ok” to when you are “not ok.”
When I am doing well, I play music constantly and my daughter and I dance and rock out and have a blast.
But for the last seven months, I’ve backed off of music because it seems to worsen the anxiety and honestly, I can’t handle anything that adds to that.
So a simple innocent thing for me to do with my kid has been stolen away by both depression and anxiety.
She asked, “Mommy, when are you going to feel good enough to rock out again?”
Heart wrenching doesn’t begin to cover it.

That people would think anyone would choose mental illness as a way of life, as an excuse to not cope or get disability or sympathy…is appalling to me.
And I have known people like that, so I don’t deny it goes on.
But I would give ANYTHING to never have to darken my daughter’s life with lame ass replies of, “I don’t know why I am sad, sometimes people get sad for no reason.”

This. Is. Depression.

Those who think everything in life must be triggered, must be cause/effect…are ignorant of basic facts of mental illness.
They look down on me.
I pity them. I can’t change my illness.
Ignorance can be cured with an open mind and some knowledge.

This. Is. Depression.

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Mental Omelet

Posted in biolar disorder, mental health with tags , , , , on February 27, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I was absolutely useless today. I couldn’t remember something ten seconds after it was told to me. (This seems exclusive to numbers and series of alpha/numeric) and at one point R asked, “I just told you four times, are you fucking with me?” He thinks I am exasperating, try being me. I get the feeling the next time he wants someone to eat lunch with him, he will call a trained monkey. My intelligence is definitely on the decline.
Of course, it could be exacerbated anxiety with the review and winter power bills and all. But even when the anxiety was background noise for the most part, I was still useless with short term memories of numbers and specifics. Believe it or not, getting numbers backwards on electronics parts can be fatal. To the item and the person fixing it. Which was why even that For Dummies book for computer repair certification was lost on me.
Truth be told, I couldn’t even help my kid put together a 24 piece Dora jigsaw. How am I supposed to remember where 300 screws go? Or base emitter collector, volts, amps…God, I wanted that to work out. Work for myself, fit it around my mental issues, take on what I could handle…So I NEVER have to justify my mental illness just to survive ever again. I’m two steps from doing disgusting foot fetish porn, except I’m not sure they have a fetish for those into big ugly feet. This stress is demolishing what little sanity I have left and it’s even crossed over into things I enjoy. I haven’t written in months, started reading three books and finished none. I used to do crafts. Now I just ponder doing them before I lose train of thought.
I am so disgusted. With life, with myself.
And rather than the intelligent being I once was, I now have a Denver omelet for a brain.
I’ve never felt more useless and frustrated with myself.
To add insult to injury, R’s eldest sent out a mass message about how she’s taking her kid to Frozen on Ice. I can’t buy my kid a Happy Meal. I did let her watch Frozen last night, if that counts.
GRRRR.
I know the professionals will dismiss it all as personality and anxiety, those are their lifelong go tos rather than admitting they simply don’t know why some people function highly in spite of mental illness and others struggle endlessly. No problem shoveling pills “we’re not quite sure” how they work, but if you have problems they can’t put a handy label on…obviously it’s exclusive to you as a person.

Yes, I am ranting.
Yes, I am stressed.
I think the longest stretch of uninterrupted sleep I’ve gotten this week is 3 and a half hours. Last night was awful. Between snoring company making me feel my bubble was violated (and it’s totally me, not them) and the fact my kid woke up FOUR times in a nine hour span…I am exhausted. I don’t think I’m ever reaching that deep sleep the brain needs to sort of reboot and regain its energy.
I could take a Trazadone.
And need a sitter the next day because even low doses render me a shambling drooling zombie.
If these are my choices, well, it’s gun/knife/noose territory. You’re dead no matter what choice you make.
I am frustrated.
I am scattered.
And my heart died a little today when I said something to the extent of, “I miss who I used to be before Dr. (S) scrambled my brains.”
And R said, “You are definitely not quite what you once were thanks to that man.”
Doctors are supposed to help.
They’ve done fuck all for me sans Dr. M.

Do I sound ranty and angry? I am.
And I think I have the right to be. The entire Nardil thing where my brains got scrambled was never truly addressed, it was pretty much brushed under the rug. And were it not for the fact that I don’t remember that seven day span, I’d probably have sued several people. Namely, the local hospital my stepmonster took me to, incoherent and stumbling, and they said I was exhausted and sent me home with her. It took three days for them to call the shrink and the shrink to say, “GET HER TO MY HOSPITAL NOW.”
Three days my brain scrambled further.
And no one gave it a second thought once I snapped out of the catatonia. They noticed I was flaky and forgetful and pointed it out frequently…But the connection was never made.
For me, if something isn’t happening, then an event like this occurs, and it starts happening…DUH.

I’ve spent too much time trying to be coherent and topic specific and using logic and meeting expectations in this journal.
So I’m letting the lid off the crazy and running with the rant.

Except I think…The rant has helped, but also I am getting a headache and need to not be looking at this blinding white page.

On an end note, I found a comment earlier that said, “Too bad you don’t have a donate button, or I would contribute.”
And of course the sarcastic snort because likely it was a net troll.
Then the…Whoa, if I did take donations I might actually be able to save up enough to pay for a real doctor who didn’t graduate from the university of chalupa or chihuahua, whatevs.
And finally, “Oh, hell no, this is your therapy, you will not even think of compensation of any kind for your incoherent ramblings.”

I want to think it’s integrity.
Part of me thinks that’s just how far down the rabbit hole I am, finding myself unworthy of even accepting things given freely.
But paranoid scumbag brain reminds me little is given freely, everything has a price. If I were to ever take a cent for my writing, how long before it’d cease to be my voice and I’d be forced into using douche advertising or some shit.
Integrity. Insanity.

What the hell do you want from a walking omelet?
(I wouldn’t mind a side of bacon.)

Pictures of an Unfocused Brain

Posted in mental illness with tags , , , , on February 27, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

This is what my brain is like.

index

See, somewhere in that pit is a single black ball. And I am supposed to grab only that one ball out of that whole pit. So I spend all my time searching, looking, never accomplishing anything because it all shifts around me every time I start digging and I am back to square one.

Or another analogy I found because I thought of an old game show.

money-machine

You’re broke, you need every dollar you can lay hands on, and there is your chance. All you gotta do is grab with both fists.
Except there’s a motor blowing the money up all around you in every direction and you can barely grab a single bill, let alone fill up your fists even if the money is right there.

That’s what focusing is like for me.

But on the plus side…A friend wanted my couch to avoid a DUI and I said, yeah, ok, as long as you’re not expecting good company, or well, even civilized company.
Now they are zonked out and I feel like I can’t breathe.
It was a little like this when Bex stayed but not to this extent.
I do not share space well.
I mean, I should have welcomed the company, right, maybe to avoid the mood crash? Instead, every fiber of my being screamed GO AWAY GO AWAY NOW. My mouth went its own way. Because all the counseling and shrink rapping has brainwashed me into thinking going outside my comfort zone if for my own good.
Time after time I try it.
Time after time it just presents a new problem on top of the old ones.
So I had a mood crash, got irate and snarky, and now I can’t get to sleep in my own home because I dared to step outside the comfort zone.

For the life of me, I don’t get why it’s perfectly logical to avoid certain foods that upset your stomach. But if other things set off your anxiety and moods, well, avoidance is unhealthy and you need to suck it up.
If you come out hurting either way, how is it different?
Isn’t it logical for one to want to avoid what makes them ill?

I waste so much time trying to evolve because it’s what’s expected. Fact is, I evolve more, and it sticks more, when I am doing it of my own free will as opposed to meeting some societal expectation.
Still. I try.
Not that I get any credit for effort.
But history sure has credited me for every failure.

Back to the ball pit.
Maybe I’ll fall asleep during my search for that one odd colored ball.
Or maybe I’ll gouge my brain out with a super long q-tip.
Could go either way with me.

When Life Gets Lost In The Details

Posted in mental illness with tags , , , on February 25, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I think I last bathed on Sunday. (Yes, gross, I know.) On the plus side, I am keeping the dishes done. Maybe because my subconscious feels they are more worthy of the time and attention than I feel I am.
I don’t know, I baffle myself.

I crashed so hard last night. I’m talking 5:30 pm, hiding in my bedroom crash. Just absolute bleakness like I’d been dosed with something, it came on so abruptly. And meantime, I am trying to be loving mommy and snuggle and read to my kid and she keeps asking, “Why do you look so sad, Mommy?”
That’s the million dollar question.
Nothing in my life has really changed. The usual stresses. No huge calamities. So why am I crashing into the abyss this way? If anything, as the season change nears, I should be bordering on manic.
Yet I am not, and it was the same last year. I kept waiting for the depression to lift and it was summer before it did. And I was sliding back down the rabbit hole by September. My psych clinic claims they specialize in seasonal affect disorder and yet it seems to be the one area where they have failed me the most.
And yesterday I decided to check out my current doc’s credentials. He graduated from a school in Mexico, translation of which is something to the extent of University of Chihuahua. Not to be judgmental but I can’t even say it with a straight face. My mother doctor graduated from Sarajevo.
Do Americans not go into psychiatry anymore? And no I am not racist, it’s a general observation since of all my doctors, only three were American.
And I think the answer is yes, lots of Americans go into psychiatry. They just don’t want stuck in this armpit of the midwest. That’s why we get telepsychiatry. They can’t even be bothered to drive one day a week to this miserable place.

So…Yeah. I was asleep by 7:30 last night, didn’t even eat supper. Instant my kid was down, I was too. But I kept tossing and turning and waking up. I could be a bloody grandfather clock chiming every hour the way I seem to wake up every hour. And that too is not normal, winter is usually my “sleep too much” period.
My instability has gone ever more unstable. The universe has a wicked (sucky) sense of humor.

Shower. I need to do that.
Why does it feel like such a chore?
Isn’t it enough I went out yesterday with bra and underwear and clothes I hadn’t slept in?
Of course, yesterday was a treat in itself. I was lambasted for not being good company, then asked, “How many things have you screwed up this week?” Oh and it was rubbed in my face how some stoner is now doing all the computer work that I was supposed to have trained for.
I should have skipped the tiger tattoo and gone with LOSER on my forehead. Because this is all being said by people allegedly like me.

I am submitting my disability paperwork today, after I run some print outs at the library. (I have two printers and can’t afford ink for either, cos apparently squeezing each squid is expensive for Canon and Lexmark) I am including journal entries from Feb of 13 to Feb of 15, as well as a list of all the doctors I have seen over the years and how as soon as I start to improve, the seasonal kicks in or the doctors leave.
I’m not sure how much weight it will carry but a willingness to see a doctor of their choosing should be a good indicator that I have nothing to hide except insanity. Or in this politically correct world “state of being sanity challenged.”
There is only so much I can, some things are beyond my control. Giving myself more ulcers isn’t going to change a thing. Let go and let god.
I won’t go down without a fight, though. I haven’t lost faith in myself but a steady doctor for stable care might actually help.

Hmm…Shower.
Ugh. Seems like so much work.
I got my kid dressed and out the door, isn’t that enough? And I think her shoes were even on the right feet, though I think she may have taken advantage of my morning lethargy and worn shirt with stains simply because she loves it so much.
I fed the cats.
I don’t wanna shower. What’s the point?
Um…It’s going on three days, I guess that’s the point.

It’s so bizarre because I am normally an obsessive compulsive about being clean myself. Once you go down that rabbit hole,who you are becomes a totally different being.

Details.

Something New

Posted in mental health with tags , , , , on February 24, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

The hamsters in my brain are running that squeaky wheel ragged today. Fortunately, this will be a short post.

So I decided to shake things up, try something new and different. Nothing drastic but the prozac says “take one daily.”
As I have learned, miserably, taking it at bedtime or when I wake, results in a mega crash.
So in my hard earned experience and wisdom, I thought…I will take at noon so surely when it wears off, I will be asleep, then I can take the next dose mid day.
FAIL.
Epic fail, actually.
Now I have been at this psych med thing long enough to know, it takes several weeks of patterns of taking the meds to actually make an indent.
Fine, so be it.
But it kept me from crashing until six thirty which is what, 90 mins later than the norm?
Anyone who’d call this normal is insane, more so than I am.

My brain just keeps spinning because my stability is at stake with this current review and all I hear is about people getting cut off even with legal representation…It’s terrifying. Unnerving. Crippling. I am not in denial of reality, life is brutal, sometimes truth means nothing.
Yet I live my truth every single day and the notion that someone will dispute what I know to be fact…
leaves me shivering and cowering in terror.

I want to be better, do better.
But I can’t seem to swing it with a revolving door of tv screen doctors.
Is that my fault?
I must sound insane.
I don’t think I am crazy, especially after watching multiple youtube videos on the history of mental illness and mental health care. What some of these people were put through was barbaric and sadistic. I don’t have a right to complain.
I complain only because I live the truth.
If the world were willing to put up with random abrupt mood swings, crippling depressions, and manic episodes…
I’d have no problems because stability wouldn’t be the issue.

But that isn’t how life works. If you’re not stable, there are easily thirty people applying for the same job that are.

Whats; that saying about grant me liberty…

Grant me stability or death. The world has made it clear there is no in between on this matter.

Deconstructing My Own Mental Illness (Avoid if you hate very long posts)

Posted in mental illness with tags , , , , , , on February 23, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I have issued myself a challenge. My brain has been hypomanic today. Lots of swirling thoughts, little plucking one out of the air to follow through. So I am going to attempt to write a coherent, cohesive piece trying to figure my own mental dysfunction out. Deconstruct so that I can make sense and put it back together so maybe it adds up properly.

I can remember from around age 8 (I only remember this because my sister was two at the time and that was the year she tried to ride our geriatric dog and got her face torn open) having anxiety issues. A bug would buzz by my ear, I would become convinced it was inside my head. My parents laughed at me, told me I was ridiculous. Was this the start of the anxiety or did my anxious high strung mother somehow imprint me long before that?
I don’t know.
We moved to a rural area where I was immediately singled out from age 11 for taunting and tormenting. For five years, I was constantly harassed, beat up, spit on. I started getting stress stomach aches that affected my former honor roll grades and attendance.
Did this leave a mark? Yes.
Is it mental illness?
I am more prone to think of it as some sort of post traumatic stress thing. It was groups of people who terrorized me so I became agoraphobic and scared of crowds and wide open spaces.
But that generalized anxiety was always there, and the panic attacks set in around age 13.

At age 17, I decided it was my geographical location that was making me so anxious and sad. I had a part time job, found my own place and moved out.
It wasn’t two months before my stability crumbled in spite of my determination.
Then came the spring thaw, or as its known for me, seasonal change bringing on mania. I changed to a job I knew moved too fast for me to handle, changed to an apartment I knew I couldn’t afford, started seeing a guy I wasn’t even interested in, went on shopping sprees…Hello, manic episode.
By September, I’d taken two leaves from my job after a demotion because my depression and anxiety had skyrocketed. They basically told me I could quit or be fired. So I quit. And fell into the seasonal depression.
To the point the boyfriend ditched me because I was no longer happy funny ball manic me.

What followed was periods of functionality, mania,and long periods of depression. I would have screaming fits, throw things, crawl into the bath tub or a closet and sob for hours. I’d stop bathing, stop getting dressed.
After months of this, over and over again, I realized by age 20 something was wrong.
The mental health center pushes you to see the doctor and get medicated.
I tried that when I was missing so much work and all it had done was over sedate me.
So I went in thinking, “This is just my personality, I come from a dysfunctional home, that’s all it is, I can fix myself.”
A year later, after a manic cycle followed by a months long depression in which my mom was doing my laundry for me because I couldn’t keep up with basic functions or hygiene…I broke down and agreed to the medication regime.
Winters were rough, but less so.
Spring and summers, on an anti depressant,I was manic and having a blast. Because I was diagnosed as “dysthymic” and antidepressants can spark manic episodes in bipolar.
So it went, year after year, until 2002. Over 11 jobs, 7 addresses, a mentally nomadic existence…
Once my disability was granted, I became more stable as far as residence. The highs and lows continued because I was still under the “dysthymic” diagnosis. When they started giving me Seroquel, I decompensating drastically. The next doctor took me off Xanax and gave me Seroquel for anxiety.
I became a recluse shut in for over a year.
That was when I hit the wall.
But I was so non functional, I had to beg my sister to call around and see if she could find a psych doc who’d take my insurance.

It was the best move ever made. Dr. M was amazing. She immediately diagnosed bipolar, put me on mood stabilizers, gave me a dose of Xanax that could manage the anxiety, and she was willing to run behind on her other appointments when I was having a rough time and needed more attention from her.
If I had side effects or felt the seasonal was crippling me, she would listen and make med adjustments. I had trouble sleeping and told her I didn’t want to be drugged off my gourd, she found something that would work but not render me useless.
I told her I was having horrible luck with concentration and focus and following through…She prescribed Foculin.
Of course, she gave me samples, and within three months, I had finished three novels I’d been working on for years. I felt like a honed blade, so sharp, so capable.
The instant I couldn’t get samples or afford the Focalin it all went away.
It never made me hyper, never kept me awake, never heightened my anxiety…It just fixed the problem.

Then she left. And I found myself pregnant (if they tell you that you can’t have children, sometimes…they are wrong) and I couldn’t take meds. That began a long chapter of hormones gone wild and mental illness run amok. There were times I wanted to cut the baby out of my own belly so I could have my mind back and give it the medications that made it better.
She wasn’t a full day old when they dispatched a psych doctor to talk with me. He had some very narrow minded ideas about treatment and I told him I didn’t think his approach was right for me, I’d decline his services.
The next day, he called and said he’d reconsidered since I felt so strongly about it.
So I started seeing him. Much as he was arrogant and cocky (diet, exercise, light therapy, all meds are exactly the same) he was the first one who hit on me having bipolar two (More depressions than manic episodes) but cyclothic mood shifts during other periods that rendered me rather unreliable.
I deferred to him and took Zoloft for eight months.
Instead of getting better, I got worse. He wouldn’t even increase the dosage.
I told him I wanted off it, try Prozac or something. He refused.
We parted ways.

The next doctor was my general practitioner and I basically told him what had worked best and he was fine prescribing them. I got better. Not great, but…better.
He left his private practice to become an ER doctor.
This was followed by a period of no meds because I was so messed up, I feared phones and couldn’t even make a call. I was pretty much convinced my own family was out to get me so I couldn’t even ask them for help.

But I hit the wall and found Dr. D.
I saw her almost 2 years. She was willing to work with me, but I got the feeling at times she got frustrated with my “I’m doing Ok” then a couple of months later, “Explain to me why I can’t just cease to exist.”
She decided to rotate out.
So came Dr. V.
And she was so upbeat and positive and she too was willing to work with me, except on the attention deficit thing.
“You just have to keep trying until you find the right combination.”
I liked her.
What I didn’t like was how she would say it made her day when I was doing well. Like if I didn’t maintain, I was letting her down and making her sad.
I would have stayed with her but she left for some sort of months long sabbatical right as summer ended and the seasonal began for me.
I was left to see Dr. S as emergent care.
He was unwilling(and still is) to address the lack of focus as anything more than anxiety. I disagree, only because it was once treated with great success. Insurance won’t pay for Foculin which would be a hardship on me and yet one I’d be willing to face if it meant such drastic improvement in one aspect of my condition.
I would have gone back to Dr. V once she returned except she had weeks of waiting list and I needed help NOW.
So Dr. S it is.

Much as one can open up to a doctor on a tv screen for the allotted five minutes.

That is my history.
And I have often wondered, when the doctors of the last 9 years have gotten irked with the way meds quit on me, if all the years of being misdiagnosed and given the wrong medications (12 anti depressants, if memory serves) has resulted in them having limited success. The condition where meds stop working is called tachyphylaxis and from what I have read, it is rare but it does happen.
In my history, the only anti depressants that work (after quitting for awhile) are prozac, effexor, and cymbalta. The three nightmare withdrawal meds, worse than quitting benzos cold turkey. Tapering off doesn’t even help with those three.

I’ve seen a counselor, off and on, since age 13. I have learned valuable coping skills, received validation, and also realized…Sometimes being told by multiple people what your problems are just makes you more confused because it’s all subjective and open to interpretation.
I take great pride in how much progress I have made from the psychological aspect, as far as coping skills, stress management, and working on my problem areas.
But much as the ten minute med check regime wants to defer every other aspect to counseling…Counseling does not solve the chemical imbalances that wreaks all of the havoc on stability.
Counselors have the “treatment” plan. They identify the problem areas, and they work on one at a time. Psych docs,while most are conservative enough to work on one med at a time, don’t spend much time before determining one condition is under control, let’s treat the next. And by then, what was working on one aspect has stopped working.
Counselors will get frustrated at times, but they will keep working with you until you’ve made progress.

That’s all I want from a doctor.
It’s like hoping to find a unicorn.
I know I am a mess.
But I never asked for any of this.I wonder many times had my parents saw the signs at an early age rather than dismissing it as “teenage moodiness” if my life would have been different. It has been very different since mood stabilizers were introduced. Rather than falling down a flight of stairs, it’s more like missing three or four steps.
Not optimal but improved.
Now if only the doctor would figure out how to treat the chronic depressions that seem to sync with the seasons…
I might be golden.

Which is kind of what I think every time I have a weeks long period of stability. “Oh, wow, it’s finally over, I am cured and ready to be a productive member of society.”
And then I am down the rabbit hole.
I think being asked to vacate volunteer positions due to your instability…
Says more than my words ever could.

I refuse to think I am without value.
But unless anyone knows a job that allows you to work only when you are stable (usually two to five months) for me, allowing for anxiety attacks and stomach issues and frequent loss of focus and inevitable mistakes….
I don’t know what else I can do except keep trying.

Though with my issues…I think finding a doctor and counselor who’d stick around more than two years for a total of fifty minutes a month treatment…That would be a really good start.

Unicorns.

This is the way…the descent into the rabbit hole…cycles

Posted in biolar disorder, mental health with tags , , , on February 22, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I went to bed last night at 7:30, the instant my kid was out. I just didn’t have the will left to fight it. When the mind goes to that dark place…And I’m not talking the one that says everything sucks, blah blah blah…I am talking the one where it determines you are a waste of space, beyond hope, and should just step out in front of a speeding train because it’s all utterly hopeless.
Yeah, once you’re that far down the rabbit hole, staying awake so the thoughts can continue beating you into submission is dangerous. Because being tough, being strong, having the will to live…It’s not enough to block out the darkness. If anything should be teaching the world just how potentially fatal depression is, it would be the death of Robin Williams. The man was a comedic genius, spent his whole life making others laugh, seeming so jovial…And in the end, even though he had everything to live for, it didn’t stop the insidiousness of mental illness.
It’s said no one ever died of mental illness, just usually suicide.
When otherwise healthy well adjusted people become victim to a depression that convinces them to take their own life, I’d say that is death by mental illness.

I woke up repeatedly through the night. My skin and scalp had the bug crawling thing going on and I was digging at my flesh like scouring a crusted pan. It’s not surprising my anxiety reaches such fever pitch. My brother was out at the hospital last week with a head to toe rash and the doctors said it was anxiety induced. So that makes six people in my family, on both sides, that have/have had their battles with mental health. Yet the naysayers dispute the genetic link. It’s almost laughable that anyone could be so ignorant.
At one point, I tried to convince myself to get up and shower, maybe the warm water would wash away the bug crawling sensation. The harder I tried to force myself to do it, the further into the abyss I sank.
Sometimes it’s like that. Which was why my old counselor was a bloody sage. He was the one who told me sometimes you just have to admit you feel how you feel and go with it because fighting it will make you feel defeated and add to it.
So I just let myself feel utterly enveloped in blackness.

This morning…I’m edgy but my mood is uppish. Then again, I just took my proxac two hours ago so it hasn’t had time to outlive its half life. Maybe none of them work because my metabolism eats the medication quicker than it can remain to do any good.
I have no idea.
For the moment, I am okay. Not bouncing off walls, not clawing at my skin. Just…reticent to surviving one more day in the coal mines with mental illness.
At times, I don’t think they make a shovel big or powerful enough to dig me out of my depressive mines.

2:42 p.m.

The depression and irritibility are calling to me.
I am fighting with all I’ve got and yet…I feel it in my bones. It’s coming. Maybe not this minute but it will come.
That darkness is a lot like having a plastic bag covering your face while blindfolded. You know your hopes of survival are slim so you surrender.
I’m a rebel, I don’t wanna surrender. I want to get back on my feet, dust myself off, and give it one hell of a fight.
If only mental illness were a battle of wills rather than a battle with your own sick mind.

4:50 pm

To get a step ahead of the evening crash, I have purposely gotten my kid and myself showered and supper on early. I am loathe to “Matlock” (ya know, older people eat and go to bed so early) but if the last few nights have taught me anything…It’s that waiting at this juncture is just going to result in the inevitable blackness and self loathing.
This way…I can at least say I did a couple of successful ventures today. Dishes are done, laundry is caught up, cat boxes are clean (for some reason my kid considers it a treat to be allowed to scoop them), floors are swept and vacuumed…I have accomplished something.
Be nice if i could accomplish not having my mental state crash into the abyss.
True love and other fairytales, unicorns are real, and there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Not pessimism.
Just hard learned lessons.

5:44 p.m.

And so it begins. I am irritable, nervous, and the darkness is tugging at my mind, telling me the only safe space is in the crypt of my bedroom.
I’d be less irked if this hadn’t been going on for three years. Every day after 4 pm. If 40 mg got me through the day, then another 10, 20, 40 during evening just might be what does the trick.
But the doctors won’t increase the antidepressant because it could make me manic. Their conventional treatment and covering their own backsides may well be what is contributing to the problem.
I’d risk mania to avoid this crap every night.