Four Days

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.

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