Gleaming the gamut

There was a skateboarder movie in the 80’s called Gleaming The Cube. Cheesy but I liked it.
That’s how I am feeling right now. I have been through every facet of bipolar and panic disorder over the last 12 hours.
And I was going, wtf?
Then realized…They increased my prozac. DERP. That’s going to have me wily nily for a week or two until it stabilizes.

And what is my excuse for 300 days of the year I feel this exact same gamut of mood swings?

Perhaps it is the cyclothymic shifts that forever has me in a state of flux. The increase in meds just agitate what is already there. It will level out.
Just in time for the new doctor to want to dose me with atypical antipsychotics.
Which much as I loathe the fucking things…I was actually researching shock treatment as well as this promising new “pacemaker” experiment for mental illness. If I am willing to be induced into a seizure of have my skull cut open…
What’s the worst the nasty atypicals can do?
Next Thursday.
I see the new doc in person and I need to have my shit together so I can advocate for myself.
By then I will either be manic or in one of my paranoid introverted depressive bouts where I’d agree with a lobotomy just to get out of there and back to my bubble.

I got a pack of smokes and lunch for keeping R company at the shop. I was bored out of my gourd. He’s watched Guardians of The Galaxy 5 times in the last two weeks, I am burned the fuck out. That mouthy raccoon is awesome but enough…Then at one point there like seven people there and I started having trouble breathing and my already churning pretzel gut amplified. Which made me irritable and foul tempered.
I had nothing to do but allow morons on Reddit to piss me off, then I started reading depression/such blogs and articles and research…
And it just made me want to gargle razor blades.
The notion that depression is caused by negative thought and is nothing more than making your own self feel “melancholy” deserves a shovel to the skull.

Anyway…Five hours outside the bubble did me in.
Then came a pleasant surprise. Some neighbor girls brought the crazy cat lady a little black striped kitten they’d found. Of course, I took him in. He’s tame, very sweet, purrs a lot. He came in and was so hungry he sat in the food dish so he could just keep eating. The other cats are pissed off but they’ll get over it.
I named the new one Pantera.
Yes, the last thing I need is another cat.
But I wouldn’t be me if my heart wasn’t bigger than my brain as far as cats are concerned. Those quirks others look down on are qualities I think help make me who I am. I love cats. And an 8 week old kitten that lays next to me and just purrs so happily, like I am comforting and make him feel safe…
It’s a good feeling.
Hell, it’s almost 7:30 pm and I haven’t retreated to my bedroom crypt yet. Maybe kittens are like fur covered anti depressants for me.
But then why didn’t Shade’s recent litter (one week old) do the same thing?
It’s all just a crap shoot, basically.

About the only thing all my research is teaching me is that for all the progress made in educating people on mental illness…People still don’t get it and half the professionals are just as bad, considering those with mental illness behavior cases or malingerers. Heartening. NOT.

So…I’ve been solid, paranoid, anxious to the point of stomach ache, irritable, uplifted and am sliding back down now.
Viva mental illness and all it’s glorious facets.
(And by that, I mean it can go fuck itself while drinking lye and walking into a fire.)

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