Archive for March, 2015

Dreadhead

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , on March 31, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

It is so maddening. When I get one aspect of my spectrum of disorders in hand, there’s another one to step forward and demand its time in the spotlight of destroying my sanity. My mood is okay today in spite of all the crappy stuff yesterday.

But the PANIC…Oh panxiety is devouring me.

Today I have to venture out and learn if my car is saved or doomed. That car isn’t even mine, it’s my mom’s and I can’t buy another one and…It’s just setting off terror receptors akin to being chased by Leatherface.
That anxiety ties into rapid heartbeat, paranoia, and of course, pretzel gut and severe sensitivity to outside stimuli. (I want to cover my ears childishly to block my kid’s incessant mindless chatter.)

Then there’s the whole disability review lurking every moment of every day. I have resigned myself to the fact that I can’t do anything about it. I am at their mercy and I have a bad feeling in my gut. Not that I blame them. I’ve been waiting to be cured for over twenty years now. No one could be more frustrated by my start and stop progress and regression than I myself am. This is sooo not how I saw my life turning out. Not that I have it all that bad, mind you, outside the mental stuff. It’s just…I always considered myself this fierce strong woman who could conquer anything by willpower alone.
Then the depressions kept hitting until the fierceness was gone and it hit me. I am human, I have an illness, and I can’t do a damn thing but keep trying to get better even if it seems futile.

And Thursday is the new shrink. In person. Never met him before. I don’t know if he’s gonna be like the osteo shrink from hell (“Zoloft isn’t working because you don’t want it to work” or maybe he will be indifferent or will he be open like Dr Amazing was.
I am filled with dread and hope at the same time.
I can go in there with my list, explain myself but again…One more thing I can’t control. His predisposed biases, his psych philosophy and style, his ability to listen, willingness to take more than three minutes.
Just so much up in the air right now and I am out of control. It’s making pretzel gut a daily event.
I dread facing each day no matter how solid my mood and mind seem. Because the anxiety has stepped up and taken place of that aspect.

It hit me after months of the seasonal depression…We have about six solid months of warmth and sunshine ahead. This could be my prime time, I could bounce back. It could go either way.
Then I think, oh god, six months of shrieking children running loose because the parents can’t be bothered with them. Six months of kids in the streets with bicycles paying no attention to traffic. Six months of more traffic, more noise, more people out and about. All catalysts for the anxiety.

I hate the depressions but they are generally the more manageable anxiety period. Except the last winter, for whatever reason the anxiety went rampant. Hell, there were days I wouldn’t even take a Xanax. Then Bam, suddenly I need more than my prescribed dose to keep from going off the rails. And there was no trigger.
I get so sick of that part of the doctor stuff. They insist everything has a trigger and with me, it simply doesn’t. One day I will hear a car horn honk and it will set me the fuck off into paranoid anxiety land. Another day I will have 12 kids playing in my yard and it’s barely an annoyance.
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TRIGGERS IT BECAUSE THERE IS NO TRIGGER.
Oh, sure, the classics heighten and metastasize it.
But often..It’s ninja panic. Stealthy, sneaky, from out of nowhere.
I wish it would die in a fire.

So my gut is churning and I am dreading this entire week no matter how much I try to spew sunshine and rainbows. Positive thought is as good for mental illness as prayer is for fictional illness. It may help at times but for the most part…If I could talk myself out of feeling batshit crazy, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

Blah. Meh.
The holding pattern is the worst. I just want to rip the bandage off, know one way or the other with most stuff. Is the car DOA? Is my livelihood being hacked away? Is the new doctor a douche?
It’s hell on the panxiety, feels like I am on autopilot waiting for all these answers and I am at the mercy of others to get them.

Not that I am Greenday fan but one line from “Basketcase” keeps pounding through my brain.

“Sometimes I give myself the creeps…Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me..It all keeps adding up..I think I’m cracking up…”

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So yeah, about that feeling okay thing…

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , on March 31, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Yesterday started out good. Mind frame good, anxiety manageable, no gloom cloud overhead for the first time in days.
And then it started. Ya know, reality.
I soo want that shirt: “Shit happens…usually to me.”

First, R’s car broke down on the way back from the out of town dentist, so I had to go fetch him. Going to an unfamiliar unspecified location…Yeah, panic incident number one.

Then my mood started to slide as the anxiety rose and it hit me…I forgot to take my meds this morning. (Hey, I can only get so many things right per day, I drop the ball a lot.) I had none stashed in my pill case. So the slide began. People made me paranoid and nervous. Phone made me jump. I spent much time in back smoking, farrr away from any living being.

I hit my wall by 3pm. The cats had run out of food that morning, I was worried about them being hungry. My stomach was a knotted mess so I thought stepping away, taking my meds, maybe the break would help.
And halfway to get cat food…The car sputters, goes pow, shoots smoke out the back and just dies. In the road. I managed to steer it off to the side but was still in the way and self conscious as hell and panicking.
Awesome. I called my dad (in hopes of talking to stepmonster but she was gone) and he starts yelling at me, like it’s my fault when cars have problems. Thankfully this beckoned stepmonster who’d I rather deal with anyway since she’s the one that does the auto work while he stands and grumbles about her doing it wrong. Meaning, not his way. Idget.
In a moment of random what the fuckness, I actually had two perfect strangers ask if I needed help or a phone. And I was just….floored. Because last few times I’ve had car trouble no one’s been arsed to even look my way. That nice people exist…always boggles my mind. How jaded am I?
Anyway…R and stepmonster pushed the car into a parking lot, then we went back to the shop. My kid was with stepmonster of course so while all this attempt at multiple car repair by them was going on, I had her and people bringing tvs into the shop and my kid was whining and yapping and…Yeah, that on top of my dad throwing out that it could be the timing gone out on the car thus making it fucked…
I was in panic zone. I’d spilled something on myself so I was wet and sticky. I hadn’t had my meds. I was worried about the poor hungry cats. Pretzel gut was in full effect. Meanwhile I have all these people around me telling me to chill out and not worry about it. WTF? I think calmly freaking out (oxymoron?) was an appropriate response. But to the mundanes without mental issues, it is just that simple.
So the whole time they were with my car and I awaited the death knoll…I was sweating so bad I couldn’t even have a cigarette because my palms would have made it soggy. And it was that nervous sweat that makes everything smell musty. More self consciousness thrown in with an impending sense of doom over the car. (You have a hell of a time getting around this town without a car.) And my kid was fussing about wanting to stay another night at my dad’s so like I purposely broke the car to ruin her fun.
GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

The good news is, R seems to think he knows what the problem is with the car and should be an easy fix because the part is under warranty.
Bad news is…Um, yeah, I have no wheels atm and oh yeah, about a dozen people got to witness me in huffing puffing deer in headlights panic mode. Fortunately they just thought I was very busy and in a rush. That’s how all the store clerks see me because I am always feverish to get what I need and flee back to the bubble.
Grrr.
By the time stepmom brought us home I was livid. And oddly, it wasn’t mood. I mean, I was fairly solid as far as the mood went so while irritating, car trouble isn’t the end of the world. It was the anxiety that just kicked my ass.
Rather than sink into self pity, I took a shower, regrouped for five minutes, then made cheesy bread for supper. Then I have my kid a bath, a friend stopped by, and a day filled with shit happenings seemed like par for the course. Especially the part where I slept in two hours bursts, my kid woke up screaming six times, and I wake still exhausted and running on auto pilot. Good times.
THIS is what a good mood gets me.
The difference is, when I am mentally solid and rational, I can cope, even if it’s a sweating hyperventilating panic attacked mess of coping mechanism.
On the days the mental frame is not solid…Those are the days I come flying apart and the shrapnel rains down. And I have more of those days than solid ones.

Okay. Rant done. I think.
Shall see what today brings. R is going to take time off work to go fix my car, which reminds me…he can be irksome but he really is good to me and why do I get so damned angry and petty at times?
Damn it, I can’t handle people being nice to me, it throws me off. How fifty shades of fucked up is that.

Does bipolar ever make you feel like a fraud?

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , on March 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

It’s one of those rare eclipse like events…I am NOT praying for death today. The sun is shining, I socialized a bit last night while my kid was at her grandpa’s, I had a decent night’s sleep with my bed to myself (decent as in no five year old knee to the back, but still kept waking up.) I woke before the alarm today, did the fully dressed/made up functional thing so R could go to the dentist while I mind the shop. (Which means answering an occasional callĀ and and basically torturing myself reading threads on Reddit that quash my faith in humanity.)
I’ve even smiled at people willingly. Participated in communicating with others on line and in person.

So why does it feel so fraudulent?
Or maybe that’s not the right word. It’s like a mirage, actually. I am having a rare “functional” day and I want them all to be this way but I know they won’t be…It gets you downhearted.
How many times have I met people while in a state like this or manic and they just adored me to pieces? Only to see the facade crumble away and basically run screaming into the night.
Maybe that’s why depression is just easier (as if any part of mental illness is simple). If people see you as you normally are and still stick around, they’re the real deal. People you encounter while manic or on a rare even keel just take that as your norm and to find out otherwise…It lets you know who your real friends are real fast.
I realize I don’t have many.
And it’s fine, because I am what I am and I have enough of a struggle trying to keep myself afloat. I don’t need the added stress of pasting on a happy fun ball mask to assure others I am worthy of their time.
I have a framed Marilyn Monroe quote on my wall that I pretty much live by. “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best.”
I love that.
Of course, there are the trolls who claim it’s just an excuse for behaving badly and expecting others to put up with it.
That’s rubbish. Monroe had a lot of mental issues and if taken in that context…Here was this beautiful sex symbol movie star that lit up rooms simply by walking in.
The flipside was Norma Jean, the troubled woman living inside that Hollywood created shell. And she was renowned for being difficult. So why should people be allowed to enjoy you when you’re pleasant but abandon ship when you struggle?
That’s my only point. Sure, there comes a time you have to jump off the ship to avoid going down with it. But for mentally ill people, it just seems too common to jump off the ship just because of a turbulent wave.
Take me at my best and worst or go to hell. There, I think I clarified.

This was going to be a lucid post. My brain is starting to spin, though, and I am bouncing everywhere.

It’s weird…When you spend so much of your time in a darkened room called depression…A day like this is much like waking from a coma or coming out of a drunken drugged stupor. You look around and realize the sky isn’t falling, you aren’t a lost cause, and even if a large percentage of people are assclown trollfucks…It’s not the end of the world.
If only this clarity were present in the depressive moments.

Guess that’s why I feel like a fraud at times. Weeks and weeks I will feel like I should gargle razor blades because there is no hope. Then I will go manic for a week or two. Then come down, slide back into depression, come back up.
I am confused by bipolar and I live it so I wonder if I am not expecting too much of others asking them to understand.
Which is ridiculous because when a loved one has a physical illness, people can’t wait to get more information, ask questions, be supportive.
Why is it so different for mental illness?

So…I am just going to go with whatever *this* is. Moment of lucidity, sanity, calm before the storm…
But I’ve pasted on so many fake smiles, I’m even suspicious of the real ones now.
That’s the suckiest thing about bipolar.
You can make good choices.
But what your mind tells you is a good choice can’t always be trusted to be right.

March 30th Is Bipolar Awareness Day? I did not know that

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

Apparently March 30th is indeed bipolar awareness day. I did not know this until I read this blog

I decided I’d take the questionnaire

1. What does bipolar disorder mean to you?

It means I am different whether I want to be or not and now psychologists think I have schizotypal disorder as well for thinking I am different. Fuck you bipolar.

2. What was your life like before you were diagnosed with bipolar disorder?

I was considered weird or eccentric, unreliable, irresponsible but FUN during manic runs. I didn’t know anything was wrong other than a dysfunctional home life and hellish teen years. I was just…a flake.

3. How old were you when you were diagnosed?

33. Five doctors all being told by counselors that I was bipolar and not a one of them would change the diagnosis. 2006 I got Dr Right and she finally got me on the less treacherous path with mood stabilizers.

4. How do you manage your symptoms?

Um…Meds. Actually Lamictal and Xanax are the long time ones that work, the rest are just a parade of epic fails with hellish side effects or no effect or worsening symptoms. I write, I try to get out of the house, I try to play with my kid or cats as a way to distract from the symptoms. Guess what? Bipolar doesn’t give a fuck. Managing bipolar is like taking a rabid dinosaur for a walk on a leash.

5. What is life like for you now?

Now that I know I’m LEGITIMATELY fucked up yet society still frowns upon me…Life is just the same, except now the mood swings are like missing a couple of steps as opposed to falling down the entire flight.

6. Has having bipolar disorder affected your friendships, personal life, or professional life?

I don’t know, would not being able to breathe make you dead? DUH.
When I am manic, people adore me.
When I am depressed, people avoid me.
I am bad at friendships, relationships, jobs. Anything that requires consistency, lucidity, and reliability. Which means EVERY aspect of my life is affected every day.
Some people will play the mental illness card *only* when it applies to work or things that are unpleasant and not fun. Meanwhile, they have friendships, romances, social lives, fun.
Me, on the other hand, spend six to ten months of the year too depressed to put on a bra or even bathe at times and when I am up and manic, I am so impulsive I have to keep away from any situation that would lead to a poor choice getting me in trouble.
Barrel of fuckin’ laughs.

7. How do you think society treats people with a mental illness, especially bipolar disorder?

My own family and friends treat me like I have three heads, ebola, leprosy, and the plague, but it’s all in my own mind so they shrug it off.
Society…Well, if you hide mental illness, they dismiss it as personality. If you admit to it, next thing you know you’re “that crazy person on pills.”
Ya know, the one people shield their children from with wary wide eyeballs because “she’s on meds, she may be dangerous.”
Of course society treats mentally ill people differently. It’s the social norm. Things have evolved over the years but the attitudes are much the same.

8. Have you ever felt discriminated against or looked poorly on because of bipolar disorder?

Hmmm…Most of my “romantic” relationships have ended with, “I just can’t handle the mood swings and you get depressed like this, it drags me down.”
My friendships…”You’re so fun sometimes but then you’re like this lump for so long, I cant take it.”
Jobs: “You will either show up or be fired.” So you show up, late, unbathed, bawling, and get fired anyway.
Job Interviews: “Why is your work history so spotty? Why have you not worked in so many years?”
“I am bipolar and it makes things very difficu-.”
NEXT APPLICANT THAT CAN BE RELIED ON PLEASE.
Yeah, discriminated against sounds about right. Not that I entirely blame people. I think they are assholes without empathy,but at the same time, I am lucid enough to know reliability is crucial in most situations.

9. Do you have any words of advice for people in the world suffering with bipolar disorder, or other mental illness?

FIGHT THE STIGMA. Mental illness is no different than any illness of the body and allowing it to be treated like some mutant form of the plague needs to be challenged so that it can be changed. More education, more empathy, more understanding. If society would adapt to the needs of bipolar patients, as it does to people who need wheelchairs, a chance to take their insulin, or a day off because arthritis has you immobile… Treat illnesses equally.

Four Days

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , on March 29, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

It’s funny how bipolar is portrayed on TV and in movies. They show the manic episodes, the flying high, talking too much, too much energy, too happy, argumentative, even physical outbursts…
Oddly, they do NOT show the flip side. For bipolar two it’s called life.

So yeah. I showered for the first time in four days. Well, 3.5 if you want to be technical. It’s so unlike me when I am manic or in between. I looove showers, love to feel clean. But when the depression takes over and the anxiety leaves me praying for death…It is what it is. Gross, smelly, icky, and reality.

I’ve come to the conclusion a large (ENORMOUS) part of my anxiety and exhaustion are due to my child. She has become a problem most days and I am ill equipped to handle such a willful disobedient child in my current state. Single parenthood is a job you never get to leave and when you have sleep disturbance on top of it and the child is attached to your elbow every minute of the day…
It takes a toll.
“This woman needs help” some would say.
What I need (other than a cleaning lady ‘cos I suck at that) is a method of discipline that will work with MY child. Not a million other kids. MINE. Because I have tried it all, trust me, and nothing works with her. It’s solely me she has trouble with. Every time I think I am making headway and things are improving…It takes only one visit to my mom’s and I’m right back at square one.
“Grandma lets me break my toys.”
“Grandma lets me eat the whole package of cookies.”
“Grandma doesn’t put me in time out.”
“Grandma will buy it for me.”

And she isn’t exaggerating. My mom would rather be liked than respected and as my dad said, “She’d have let you girls play with a chainsaw if it’d kept you happy.”
And having seen her let my three year old nephew play with an old metal meat grinder (“It’s doesn’t work, it’s ok” she says) I believe it.
I don’t want to keep my mom from her granddaughter. Mom means well, but as the youngest of ten kids she rarely heard the word no and it’s just how she is as a parent/grandparent.
It’s just every time Spook spends time with her, I have to do battle.
It’s not like this when she stays with Dad and stepmonster because we’re all on the same page about moderation, manners, and discipline.
Not my mother.
So what am I doing?
I’m letting my kid sleep over at her house tonight because if I don’t get a break from the constant noise and demands and mouthing back and fits…I am going to drink bleach.

I hit my wall with her yesterday. I was in between fury and tears, she just kept pushing, defying. She begged to go play outside. I said ok. Two minutes later she’s back in. “I want to be with you.” And so it went the entire time I tried to do dishes. “Can I have soap bubbles? Why is it taking so long? Is it time to go stay at Grandma’s yet?”
“No, Grandma said around three thirty tomorrow, you go when you’re told.”
“UH UH! I can go any time I want!”
I know people without my illnesses that would have probably backhanded her.
I made her sit on the couch. When she began screaming, bawling, and thrashing, I sent her to her room.
I was at wits’ end.
So when R surprised by calling by inviting us over for supper…I, who am loathe to socialize, couldn’t wait for the chance to get away from my kid. Let her go play with the granddaughter, give me some space.

She was fussy and bratty a little but once I threatened to sit her on the floor facing a wall while L got to play with the toys…She straightened up.
A glass of wine with our pasta didn’t hurt me any, no matter what the idiot professionals may say.
The kicker of the evening was when my kid kept saying a word.
And T, R’s eldest, the one with the master’s in psychology, kept correcting her.
And my snowflake of course fought valiantly. “I’m a princess, and I’m Canadian so I’m right!”
To which T says, “Well, no, Spook, you’re wrong. I have a master’s and my education means I’m right.”
OMFG. What arrogant 30 year old has an argument like that with a 5 year old over a NAME that can be pronounced several ways.
I glared and said, “To be fair, she says it the way I say it because I think it sounds funnier that way.”
Fuck off, Master’s Degree who didn’t even know where Munchausen by Proxy disorder originated from.

Came home, put the kid to bed.
Kept waking up every two hours.
Was awake for like three hours at one point. Of course, the spawn had climbed into my bed and demanded I stop pacing in the living room and come back to bed. Then she complained that I wouldn’t let her roll around and smash the kitten. Then she didn’t like the show I had on as background noise.
At this point, I’d let Leatherface babysit because I need a break even if it makes me a wussy and a bad mom.
Cripes.
Juggling this mental stuff is tough enough, and I’ve got this perpetual engine of defiance who seems to thrive on making it worse.
Manic, it’d barely phase me.
Depressed…It’s kicking my ass.
I want control of my life back. I want to get this kid under control. And I don’t mean like some perfect robot. I just want her to respect me and LISTEN and behave as well for me as she does others.
I will likely grow pegasus wings and a unicorn horn to become a pegacorn first.

Anyway…
Four days just to take a shower and it was like climbing a mountain.
TV needs to show that nasty aspect. The tears, the days of not getting dressed, the feeling like you’re beneath pond scum and that light at the end of the tunnel is a speeding train and you actually pray it will hit you…

But I guess that’s not as entertaining as happy manic funball.

And they claim to have cornered the market on reality TV.
Try my fucking reality.

Manic Depressive Mommy

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , , on March 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

***Yes,I know,it hasn’t been called manic depression in years. It is now bipolar disorder and NOT a mood disorder. Frankly,the DSM would rewrite traffic laws every year so that green lights mean slow down, red means go, and yellow means stop. They confuse and muddle everything. Proof is how borderline pretty much mimics bipolar in their diagnostic manual. Pfff. Manic depressive is a better description.
*****And no,this post is not just for bipolar moms.I can’t speak as a dad because ya know, I’m not one and won’t be arrogant enough to encompass their experience as a replica of my own. The gist is the same. Parenting with mental illness presents a whole new set of challenges.

Okay.
Perhaps the MOST infuriating thing I’ve read all week is “mentally ill people should not have kids.”
It’s an ignorant statement.
Look at Dahmer and Bundy. They had normal upbringings and still…prolific serial killers no one even suspected. Could their parents have predicted they’d be psycho/sociopaths and avoided reproduction? Hardly.
Is it difficult to be a parent with a mental illness?
Hells yeah.
But probably not for the reasons most would think.
Is it possible a mentally ill person could fall victim to a dangerous aspect of their disorder thus rendering them an ineffective or dangerous parent?
Absolutely.
Same goes for people without mental illness. Some people are shit parents. And some, try as they might, just can’t handle it. It’s not exclusive to mental illness.

My biggest thorn in the paw is that my illness does affect my daughter. She’s missed birthday parties, school events, and a lot of other normal rites of childhood because Mommy was in bad shape.
She’s also experienced manic episodes with mommy in which I let 12 kids play at our house and we had water gun fights and silly string wars and every kid in the neighborhood thought I was amazing.
She’s seen both ends of the spectrum and in between.
I don’t feel good when she asks, “Why are you sad,Mommy?”
I mean, I don’t cry in front of her short of a pet’s death. I guess even kids can sense when someone’s smiles are fake.
What can you do to explain depression to anyone? I don’t know why I am sad. Wish I did.
And the shifts between happy funball mommy and paranoid pajama mom are confusing for her, I am sure. It’s like I’m two different people.
The wonderful thing about kids is…As long as you’re not abusive…They accept you and forgive. They don’t judge you for being less than perfect.

I think perhaps the absolute WORST part of my multi diagnosis that affects my mothering most is…Anxiety disorder.
Incessant noise. I have always been sensitive to it, it puts me on edge, makes me irritable, and I literally cover my ears at times because it’s excrutiating.
It’s annoying enough to non mentally ill parents when a kid insists on yapping constantly or bouncing a ball off a wall ten thousand times.
Amplify that by a trillion.
THAT is where my parenting is affected most.
I am already on edge with traffic sounds, people yelling, children terrorizing the streets, lawnmowers, et al.
I can always find a place or way to dull that.
But a child…Especially a strong willed needy one like mine with no concept of indoor voice so your eardrums are in a perpetual state of cringing…
Yeah, that’s the hardest part. Grueling at times.
And I am starting to think it’s that strain that’s got me so exhausted by the end of the day. I only have so much to give and this child…Only child syndrome. All attention must be on her at all times. And if you dare to ask for five minutes of peace, she will go out of her way to have a fit, create a scene, and get that five minutes of attention one way or another.
DO NOT get me wrong. I love my daughter. She is why I keep fighting these disorders so hard. She is smart and funny and rubs my tummy and sings “Soft Kitty” to me when I have cramps. She’s an awesome kid.
She is also high spirited. My friend raised three daughters as a single dad and he even finds my child overbearing and hard to handle in large doses. So while my disorder may multiply things for me, it isn’t just me.
They’re so much easier as newborns and early toddlers.
Once they get that personality of their own and start indulging their sociopathic natures because they haven’t been socially conditioned otherwise…That’s the tough part.
I am supposed to teach this child what is acceptable.
She fights me at every turn.
I am getting better at consistent parenting.
But an ever changing mind frame and the anxiety that rarely dies down….
It’s a challenge times a thousand.

I don’t see how this makes me a less adequate parent than any other. Parenting is a tough gig.
My kid gets to school everyday. She has food, clean clothes, shelter, toys. She gets playdates, goes to Sunday School (provided they come get her and bring her back, cos ya know mommy’s panic disorder doesn’t do crowds.) We read. She’s already learning to write in cursive because she saw me do it and got curious. She knows she is lived and is pretty much (to my chagrin) glued to my elbow every minute she is awake.
So if I can churn out a healthy happy kid who adores me..
Remind me again why mentally ill people shouldn’t have kids?

She’s made me a better person. Taught me what real love is. No strings attached. Total devotion.
Sometimes she makes me want to go hide in the closet with noise canceling headphones.
I know non mentally ill parents who feel the same way.

Parenting, like life, is a mixed bad of the good, bad, ugly, and beautiful.
I don’t think mentally ill people are any less worthy of having kids than people who are just…well, shitty.
My kid’s sperm donor walked out almost four years ago, hasn’t contributed to her existence at all, hasn’t asked to see her. Yet he’s got a job in management and everyone thinks he’s this saint while I am the bad guy. (Yeah, he sells it that good.)
Personally, I think he’s the one who shouldn’t have had kids. This is his third he’s basically stopped supporting or seeing. He’s not mentally ill.
I’ve been here the last six years, meeting my child’s needs however I can, to the best of my ability. In spite of my illnesses.

Personally, I think we should all be born sterile, then have to go get a shot to have kids when we are ready.
Any asshole can make a baby.
It takes a good person to be a real parent.

Dirty Little Confessions Of A Manic Depressive

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , , on March 27, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I got to thinking…What could I possibly write about that would be considered brave and brutally honest? What could I post that might actually paint an accurate picture of manic episodes?
Then it hit me. Prior to all the bipolar shit…It was called manic depression. And it’s a far more accurate term than this broad category of bipolar.
You’re manic. You’re depressed. Doesn’t matter which one is prevalent. The disastrous results are the same.

So…I am going to drop my modesty, humiliation, and shame and just put it out there. I think there are too many people who blame their poor choices on simply being a bad person (and frankly, the professionals seem to encourage this.) I believe in patterns of behavior. If you only behave a certain way during a manic or depressive bout…That is the illness tainting your ability to think logically. Maybe it’s a fine line between blowing off personal responsibility by blaming the illness but for me, it’s no different than someone who has a burst vessel in their brain slamming into another car in traffic. Did they choose to do it and cause the wreck? No.
And I never chose to go off the rails manic or nutsy kookoo with the depression. Compared to my brief but possible stable periods, I behave nothing like that.
So…
Dirty little confessions of manic depression.

***Mania***
I am not talking the good hypomania here. That’s generally productive and you feel good without the impulsiveness.
Full blown manic episodes mimic being drunk and high. And you feel that way even without chemical substances.

I have had sex with people I didn’t even like because I was bored and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Until the manic episode ended and I said, WTF?
I have gone on drinking binges and popped diet pills to the point of “omg,how are you not dead yet”. Yet when depressed, I don’t want to drink at all.
I have said and done things that were absolutely cruel and uncalled for.
I’ve been in one fight in my entire life(got my ass kicked) yet when transitioning from manic episodes into the weepy volatile phase…I have thrown things, hit people, yanked their hair. Given this was all fifteen years ago back before mood stabilizers were introduced, but it still haunts me.
I would quit jobs during a manic episode, not even considering the consequences because I was ten feet tall and bulletproof at the time.
I’d sink into such deep depressions and panic attacks, I’d just not show up for jobs because I was physically ill due to the mental illness and it was just less humiliating to be fired for not showing than admit I couldn’t handle it. Either way, I was gone.
I have let down people I cared about when manic. They reached out and I was flying too high with my own idiocy to be bothered.
When depressed, I have often curled up in bathtubs or closets with blankets and just sobbed for days. (Prior to having my child when I had the luxury.)
There were times the pain of being conscious was so much, I’d deliberately knock myself out on Trazadone and Serquel. If I woke up after ten hours, I’d take more. To the point of sleeping 18 hours a day seven days a week.
By comparison, when manic, I barely want to take my meds (even though I do) and I don’t want food or sleep or alone time. I want to feel alive, live in color, out loud. What I don’t realize is that I am loud, aggressive, I talk too much, too fast, and make no sense, and I am actually irritating. (Though the consensus is, I am way more tolerable manic than depressive, which says much for those around me being shallow.)
I barely consumed alcohol for the bulk of my disorder. My shrink had me on 3mg Xanax daily and it seemed to keep the anxiety demons bay. It wasn’t until the new shrink order and their bad attitude toward Xanax paraded in and plied me with Buspar, Ativan, Klonopin, Seroquel…All as helpful as a tic tac. So I fight until I get my Xanax back and I get it, but at half the dose I am used to.
It was then that the drinking started.
Throw in booze with mania…Yeah, I skipped state with a dude I met on the net, lost a decent job, and it took months for me to come down and realize…What the hell have I done? And then I hit rock bottom. He didn’t want to clean up, I did. Because once you wake up on the carpet surrounded by trash you haven’t taken out in days and spot maggots on the floor…You don’t know rock bottom.
It’s disgusting, I know. But it happened.
I called the local rehab center. They told me I had a coping problem, not an alcohol problem, and they couldn’t help me.
I had no insurance for therapy or meds because I’d lost the job.
I was…a mess.
And all I had going for me was the knowledge that I had to get my shit together and apparently, I only had myself to count on.
It started this seemingly endless cycle of months long depressions, minimal functionality, and epic manic episodes. (Until I got the right diagnosis and meds.)

I have had far few manic episodes since then. They last a week or two and I try to avoid any situation where I could make disastrous choices. Sometimes I fail, sometimes I succeed.

The biggest problem has been the depression bouts. I will go days without bathing. Wear pajamas 24-7. I’ll eat like a pig one week, forget the eat the next. I become paranoid and fearful. I barely leave the house. I am fairly convinced the world is out to psychologically damage me. Well, more than I already am. I miss social outings, school outings for my kid. I am just…out of it.
Which runs off friends and my family just sighs. “Oh, she’s doing it again.”

There is no aspect to this illness that doesn’t mess with my existence. While the proper diagnosis and meds have helped immensely…It never sticks. And it’s frustrating.
More than anything, living with the shame of your actions during both extremes is a very hard pill to swallow.
People assume it’s your personality and you did it all on purpose.
That’s as logical as saying someone who is Roofie’d deserved to be raped.
Mental illness taints everything you see, feel, perceive. Yes, you did the behavior. But not being in your right mind was a crucial factor.
Does the world take one minute to ponder this? No.
So the stigma and shame just continue.

I pick myself up again and again and keep trying.
What else am I gonna do?
I will go until I can’t anymore.
But there is a difference between existing and living.
Mental illness is like living in black and white.
Sanity is living in color.

I have regrets. I have shame. I even cringe and call myself names for some of the lows I’ve hit.
But when all is said and done…
I’ve done the hardest thing.
I’ve faced up to the behavior, owned it, shared it, and moved past it.
That’s courage and self awareness.