Archive for April, 2015

Acidic Anxiety

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , on April 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I’ve been a bundle of nerves all day. Mentally absent. I hear what goes on around me but I don’t…comprehend it. I can feel myself reaching that point where one thing, the tiniest little whisper of a breeze or a feather dropping on me…Might just push me over the edge. It is not illogical. It is hard learned experience. I can do so much and then…Crash, crash, burn.

Around two pm when I reached hour four of dish time, even though technically, I couldn’t bring myself to actually leave the shop. R wanted a lunch companion and that’s what he got. Except I refused to fetch lunch because it was an unfamiliar place crowded every day and today…I just couldn’t do it. I’d like to say I chose not to, but the bottom line is…I literally could not force myself to do something as simple as fetch a lunch from a restaurant.
It makes sense in one respect. I’ve got the school carnival thing tonight for my kid and already the stomach is in pretzels and churning with acid. The closest analogy I have to explain the anxiety induced stomach aches is…Ever watch someone pour coca cola on corroded car battery cables…And it foams and sizzles ad “eats” away at the corrosion…Well, that’s how my stomach feels 80% of the time. Antacids don’t do anything, not even the prescription ones. I drink milk. I picture stops signs. I breathe.
To no avail.
My anxiety has chosen to manifest itself physically and by all accounts, this is an inherent quality in the females on my maternal side. Breaking out in hives was the common thing with my mom and her mom. My sister gets stomach aches and throws up.
I just get slammed with a plethora of acidic panic responses. It’s awesome. NOT.

The closer it gets to time to go, the more trepidation I feel. I know it will be fine, no one is out to physically harm me, the world won’t end if I do freak out and projectile vomit on people…
Guess what?
Anxiety doesn’t give a rat’s ass about logic. It wouldn’t be a disorder if simple logic solved it.
And I know I am supposed to feel shitty because I see all the people around me and their lives are moving on and improving and some even had/have mental issues. So apparently if they can all shake it off, I am in the wrong. I don’t think positive enough. My distorted thoughts and nerve impulses are somehow a figment of my imagination or byproduct of pessimism.
It’s very difficult to keep relating to people like that because you know they’re buying into the “I’m cured” spiel and maybe it’s true for some. And those are the worst because the DO judge you for being negative and not rising above it as they did.
In some ways, “reformed” mentally ill people are worse than people simply ignorant of mental illness. Kind of like how former smokes become self righteous holier than thou types towards those who continue to smoke.
Supportiveness. That’s all I want, all I ask for. I don’t want to be enabled. Just…empathized with. Same as I can empathize with others.

I’ll get that right about the time they genetically engineer a pegasporkacorn.

For now I am tense (in spite of my daily full dose of Xanax) and the low mood has just kept tugging me under all day. I can tell I’m heading for crash crash burn land. Same as last week when I pushed myself so hard I ended up in panxietyland, too scared to even leave the house.
But bless her heart, my kid asked, “Mommy, do you really want to go tonight? Because we don’t have to…”
And the fact she could be so empathetic toward my discomfort makes me want to be ten feet tall and bulletproof and do normal things that make her happy. (Ask me later after she causes a public spectacle beside I told her “no” to something.)

I will TRY.
And that is a hell of a lot more than what I see a lot of people claiming disability do. I am making the effort. Just haven’t stuck the landing yet. And I’m not quite ready to give up on myself yet.
I am making progress on several fronts, even as I drown in the depressive ooze.
I’m down, but far from out.

I just don’t think I have the energy to shower and clean up for this shindig. I will slather on Skin So Soft, which wards off all stench, double dose the pits with antisweatypowderysmellystuff and…
I’m not good at bolstering my confidence.
But if it goes horribly awry…I will not hesitate to grab a Mangorita to bring me down off the ledge.
Fuck guilt.
I am TRYING.

Clown shoes.

Mental Ilness Is A Neverending Flu

Posted in mental illness with tags , , , , , on April 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

(Title inspired by my beloved lord and master of squirrel wrath.)

It’s true. “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, it was horrible.”
Hmm…”Makes you too sick to enjoy anything but not sick enough to want to die.”
(Latter part debatable at times.)

YESSSS, That is, in my infinite evil wisdom, what I want for every single person who doubts the validity of mental illness. 365 days of the flu with fluids spewing out both ends, entire body aching, head throbbing, fever, no appetite…

Mental illness is exactly that. Some days are the “chained to the toilet how can I have not expelled any internal organs yet” kind. Others are the tired achy kind. And the comes the “I think I am on the mend” where you’re still low on energy but compared to the worst of it…it’s all good.
Unlike the flu, mental illness never truly goes away. It’s just a daily infection of the mind that varies in severity.
And unlike flu shots, we can’t inoculate ourselves.

So yeah, yesterday. I think it was the first time in weeks I haven’t posted a single thing. Maybe because I puked up 3 or 4 posts Tuesday, maybe things are just too grim…In every way.
I’m muddling through. But the sadness of those around me grieving the loss of Bruce isn’t enough to kick depression’s ass. If anything, it’s one more point in my column of “life is fucking futile.”
None of us get out alive.
Yet when someone dies so tragically, simply doing a kind deed, it makes you realize that YOU are still alive and you should be fucking grateful and relish every moment because someone always has it worse and HOW DARE YOU BE SO SELFISH AS TO BE DEPRESSED WHEN SUCH AWFUL THINGS ARE GOING ON IN REALITY?

And zero fucks are given by depression.

I’m on this ledge. I am being a mom. I am being a friend to R. I am trying to keep my shit together even as my allergies and sinus issues have me tied to a tissue box horking up, sneezing, dripping (you’re welcome for that visual.)The pressure from the sinuses is like a cage screwed around my skull ala something from Saw. The housework has once again gotten out of control.
I haven’t bathed since..Um…Sunday. Or was it Monday?
I’m doing the depressive zombie shuffle. Going through the motions. Not entirely numb to everything yet…It’s all wrapped in this gauze and my emotions are coated in novacaine…It’s not as bad as the Lithium “apathy in a pill” was. But similar.

Me, me, me. I. I. I. I, me, I, me, I, me.
It’s all about me.
Hey, if I could live a mind that has nothing to do with me, I’d consider it winning the lottery. But as this is what I am stuck with…

I keep doing the therapy mind hoodoo tricks. “It’s sad someone died. You should feel sad. But you don’t need to let it worsen your depression.”
Depression flips this thought off with both fingers.
My depression’s worsened all on its own. This is just…tragedy reminding me that there’s no balance in the universe. Worthless people who contribute nothing live on and on and a nice guy tries to help a neighbor cut up some firewood and he dies in a freak accident…
Then comes the socially infused low self esteem: “You don’t work, you don’t contribute, so where do you get off saying that about anyone else?”
And on this one, IF I can shut out all the rude insensitive people who think mental illness is a scam, I remind myself…Okay, I am not stable enough for employment. BUT I am taking care of my child, keeping a roof over our head, making sure she gets fed and educated. I am contributing to her life by being a present parent. That’s more than some (including her sperm donor) do.

Fuck you, depression. I respect your almighty powers to distort and convince me that I should just go walk in front of a bus…But…yeah, fuckest thou.

(And yet that ball of depressive pus and misery remains, sticking his tongue out at me like a five year old on a playground.)

Why is it depression is viewed as some kind of ingratitude?
It’s not that I am ungrateful for what I do have. It’s not that I think my pain is any worse than others’.
I have an illness.
The flu, only in virulent mental form.

I am supposed to go hold R’s hand at the shop. Yet I need to bathe. My stomach is in a pretzel. I see all the nasty housework I need to do. And tonight is my kid’s spring carnival which has me petrified (not of having a panic attack, but of ya know, the bad panic attacks that result in me throwing up on people and things. Explain to me how I can
“think” my way out of vomiting? And it’s not even my own humiliation I care about, because geesh, once you’ve puked over the side of a boat on a first date…You’ve experienced the worst in humiliation.
I worry about making my kid a pariah amongst her school friends. Or worse, the narrow minded parents deciding their kid can’t play with mine because I am obviously a nutcase.
And no amount of cognitive positive bullshit spewage is going to make it better. It’s a valid fear. I’ve already got a couple of kids in the trailer park whose parents won’t let them play with my kid because they think since I had a female friend stay with me a few months, I am a lesbian thus unfit for their kids to be around.
The ignorance makes me not want them around my kid. Not to mention those are the devil girls and I don’t miss their destruction and demands at all. But seeing them run loose and my kid tries to talk to them and wants to play and they say, “Our parents won’t let us play here anymore…”
I get it. People are ignorant fucks. With that kind of mentality, I want to move a man and a woman in with me, and maybe a donkey. Let them talk about that. Cos it’s none of your fucking business.
But worse…taking it out on my five year old?
My misanthropy is based on hard evidence. It’s not pessimism or being anti social. It’s just a lifetime of encountering utterly shitty people.
And while you can be homophobic (stupid) if you want and make whatever assumptions about me you want but…when it comes down on my kid, I get stabby.
I’ve gotten off point.
Still…School carnival. Gym full of loud kids and preppy parents (Or worse, the “wrong side of town” brawlers who are training the next gen of bullies.) It’s not going to be easy for me. And frankly, every fiber of my being wants to say fuck it. BUT I have robbed my kid of so much childhood normality with my anxieties and depressions and even my sparse manic bouts…
I can fall apart afterwards. It’s ninety minutes out of the day. I will just need a LOT of Xanax.
But then guess what…
I get to turn around and do it again Tuesday, because she got this end of year party for her reading throughout the year.
And it’s all about me.
Fuck you, scumbag brain.
It knows I am unraveling and every single thing I have to force myself to do just pushes me one step closer to that edge…

I’m alive. I should be dancing a jig and sniffing flowers and using the ends of a rainbow to jump rope.

The eternal flu that is depression gives zero fucks.

Is She posting Again FFS? Death brings perspective

Posted in mental health with tags , , , , on April 29, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I wouldn’t be posting yet again because I know flood posts can be irksome…But it was not a run of the mill night.
I was absorbed watching The Flash when R called to ask me to come “hold his hand” at the shop tomorrow. Then he asked if I’d mind some company watching the rest of the show. Hey, my kid’s asleep, I have four sporks left, why not…
Unfortunately, despite of his “I won’t do that, I promise…” The show was paused four times.
Then…
His phone blew up. All three of his kids called to tell him their uncle, aka R’s best friend, had been killed. I’ve never seen R fall apart so completely, so quickly. And I understood because B (the deceased) went up against his own sister in court declaring her unfit so R should get full custody. That did not make B popular with his family but it was the right thing to do.
And his wife, L, gave me a job working daycare. (Although R was quick to point out “she gave you a chance because no one else would.” Gee, thanks. Couldn’t be that she watched me interact with his kids for two years and saw how good I was with them.
Okay, that’s petty but geesh, some stuff stings no matter how true it is.
Neither here nor there.
I knew this man. Not as well as R and he is the kids’ uncle…But he was at the shop a few weeks back, in good spirits…
And now, at 54, he’s dead.
He went to help a neighbor cut down some trees and apparently, the saw sent a limb flying so hard and fast it hit B in the neck, basically killing instantly. And his wife was right there to see it happen, to see he was gone and nothing could be done to save him.
What the actual fuck. You go to help someone out of kindness and you get dead? This is the God everyone subscribes to, because there’s some master plan, some reason for taking away decent people yet letting absolute shit stay alive…
It’s less faith and more logic.
I know some people who are just plain shitty and useless but they live on and on and on…(And sometimes, I feel like one of them, not because I am a bad person but because my best efforts never help me get better and become more than this.)

I’ve never seen R cry like that. Fall apart like that. The man is…for the most part, dead inside. Just emotionally…short circuited.
He wasn’t tonight. Especially as he fielded calls from all three of his daughters, then he called the widow to commiserate…
It was sad. It made me think, why the hell am I bitching? I’m still here.
Things can change on a dime, though.
I could step outside tomorrow and catch a bullet from one of my volatile “drank too much and got too high” neighbors.
No one can know.
And while I wasn’t really close to B (just his wife, when I worked for her)…He was fair to me even though I was essentially replacing his sister in his nieces’ lives…I didn’t dislike the man.
R kept going about how B was a saint, and I think that’s grief inflating someone a bit more than is reality…
But to my credit, I dug down deep and found the social skill (albeit sooooo uncomfortable) and empathy to be a comforting, supportive friend.

I’m not a monster, just because I have mood swings, have my scars, and feel disconnected from other people. It’s far more complicated than simply being “bad.”
I was griefstricken over the death of my kitten Yoda even though she lived only three weeks and had zero chance with that particular birth defect.
I’m not heartless. I am actually quite mushy.

Still…Selfishly…I am down to two sporks. It’s midnight so I can simply slither off to bed but…I just keep thinking about B and his wife and their kids (I used to go to movies with their middle daughter and play ball with their youngest) and I just…my heart goes out to them, no matter how hollow and pointless it is.

WHY AM I SO DEPRESSED WHEN THE BOTTOM LINE IS, I AM ALIVE AND YET SOMEONE MORE FUNCTIONAL THAN ME WITH MORE PEOPLE WHO CARE IS GONE????

It’s sadness, grief, and my own depression talking, of course. I am not important enough to be held accountable for those cruel twists of fate that lead to things like this.
I do wonder, often, why so many have died when they had so much to live for when I just keep hanging on yet making no progress that sticks…
It’s not fair.
I wanna think the fates are trying to tell me I have a purpose to serve and that’s why I am still here.
It’s…so fucked up.

Needless to say, I have to open the shop in the morning so R and his kids can grieve so I should probably make an effort to sleep. I am so sad and anxious I don’t know how easily sleep will come. Then I feel like a selfish bitchbeast because, dear god, how is the man’s wife and children feeling? They’re adults but still, he’s their dad and he’s gone.
Just…why.

It doesn’t cure my depression but it does make me want to lay claim and gratitude for all that I have rather than obsess over what I don’t have. Nothing like the death of someone else to make you realize just how lucky you are to still be breathing. Reminds me of a line from Sixx A.M.’s “Life Is Beautiful.”
“You can’t breathe until you choke
You gotta laugh when you’re the joke
There’s nothing like a funeral to make you feel alive.”

No matter how much scumbag brain tells me all is lost…
I’m still drawing breath so it ain’t over yet.
Too bad it’s hard to remember that in the throes of mental illness and its distortions.

I just…
What a tragedy. To be killed so cruelly simply by doing a friend for a neighbor…
This is why my faith wavers.
There’s good and bad, hand in hand.
And then there’s just WTF is the point of this exercise in cruelty?

I didn’t see this coming anymore than any of the family did. It’s almost…unrealistic and unable to be believed. Yet it’s real, his wife witnessed it.
That poor woman, living with those images for the rest of her life…

My mental illness isn’t going to be cured by this tragedy but…
It sure as hell does put things into perspective provided your mind is lucid enough to grasp it.

I think sadness is universal,not exclusive to fucked up brain chemistry. It’s sad when someone dies.

As it should be.

MIRACLE! Five sporks left at 7 p.m.!!!

Posted in biolar disorder, mental health with tags , , , , , on April 29, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

***Many apologies for this, I copied and pasted it from wordpad, which seemed to wipe out all the formatting and turned it into some awwwwful neverending KILLMENOW rant. Sorry.****

Extra extra, read all about! Yes, this is a looooong random rant. But ya know, can’t have blog without the bog. That’s basically what this is, a toilet for all my idiotic thoughts. But if you make it to bottom of the Cracker Jack Blog, you get a participation prize. Begin: I ventured into the petri dish and two sporks were gone within an hour. Traffic had me freaking out, the bright ass sun had my head hurting, my mind was spinning. Nearly rearended a car for no reason other than zoning out with my spinning thoughts. Then a postal truck tried to pull in front of me and I barely missed that. The dish is what sets me off the most. I have learned every coping skill I am going to learn except how to make the physical responses go away. In traffic, you don’t have two minutes to “talk” yourself off the panic ledge. Of course, in today’s nightmare de jour, it was my own fault, not by intention, just…swiss cheese brain. I have started taking my meds in varied order rather than all at once. Focalin first. Prozac second. Lamicatal third. Then Xanax. Only today I was so exhausted I didn’t want to take the xanax right off lest it make me groggier (and it only does when I am already sleepy.) So dumbass that I am, I forgot to take Xanax and it ended up biting me on the ass. I consulted my pill case and realized, FUCK, I didn’t refill it, these are stupid tic-tac-o-pin which won’t do shit. (My term for Klonopin, which seems to help everyone but me.) By the time I got home, my mind was spinning and I felt like my skeleton was trying to escape my skin. It’s as close to feeling truly insane as I’ve been. Take xanax, fifteen minutes later, I can think clearly. Because I’m not surging with anxiety impulses and having every function distorted. (Though I did try to put an ice cube tray in the microwave earlier and freeze my meatloaf,so the swiss cheese brain theory holds water.) The thing about panic is, you know you’re not going to die but the physical response can be so enormous, it affects your ability to think clearly. And that’s a dangerous place to be. You’re panicking and all your therapy learned responses fail and the logic gets overwhelmed…No one is going to let it slide when you slam into another car or walk out in front of a bus just because you were altered and in a panic. And altered is the best way to describe myself at various points today. At the shop when I took R his meatloaf, I got so dizzy I had to sit down and put my head on the desk. He kept talking, voltages and capacitor and et al and my brain was basically hearing BLAHBLAHYADAYADA. I don’t mean as in tuning out, I mean, that’s the comprehension I had. Nothing was making sense to me and the numbers alone made me go blank. Another spork bites the dust. 3 pm, I have five sporks left. Does not bode well, but hey, anything can happen. My day may go off without a further hitch. In which case I can get to work on that sporkacorn project. It was bizarre when I went to get my kid today. This grandmother who’s been picking her granddaughter up was there, and the little newborn she’d been packing at the start of the school year…is now walking and doing it quite well. WTF have I accomplished since September? Nothing. Fuck all. Two steps forward, ten steps back. Is it any wonder my family thinks I am a malingerer? My regressions are so frequent, it does look like I am not trying. Psychologically,I have made a ton of progress. I am no longer as easily buying into the depressive distortions. I am learning to cope better (most days.) I am venturing outside my comfort zone every time I go out into the dish or interact with others in the blogosphere. I am TRYING. And my only criterion for going back to work, which was what my counselor and I agreed upon, was ONE year of stability on the doctor/all conditons adequately medicated and managed. One year. And I can’t even get that right. It’s discouraging but I know I am trying my best. So Sass got me to thinking about a term for readers…And I think I shall dub my followers “Morgueticians.” Oh, come on, it’s cute, albeit in a creepifying way. I have forwarding turned on for my “socially acceptable” gmail account and I got one today from the goody two shoes addy where some James had used my account to sign up for some sort of NFL thing. WTF? Porn, maybe. But sports? UGHHH, duuude. I changed my password. Good thing it forwards or I’d have had no clue it’d been compromised. I only use it for “social” purposes like Spook’s school and such. And I resent that I need to do it. But sadly, having the word “murder” in your email addy, even if in reference to your favorite band, scares people. IDK. The Arsehole files… What R HAD to show me was some Facebook post from his baby mama denouncing child abuse. That is rich coming from a woman who had the kids taken away because she abused them. But for a borderline unaware she’s even got a problem, it’s not all that shocking or funny to me. Kinda like the Donor trashtalking people who don’t work, get food stamps, or don’t support their kids. Um, failure to support three kids…??? Unfortunately some people are too damaged to be self aware. And that’s where my misanthropy comes in. I don’t expect people to be unflawed. But the fact remains, some people simply treat others like shit. And I’m not a big enough person to make excuses for them. If they want to prove me wrong and show me it was alcohol or drug or mental illness or moment off assclownery that made them be shitty to me…Fine. If you can’t even see how you were wrong… Clown shoe yourself. That was my big epiphany earlier. I don’t think *all* people are evil. But there are some who have completely taken advantage, been cruel, rude, et al…And never an apology or change. They just get to be evil. And I’m the one in the wrong for judging them. Pardon me, but do explain on what planet it is acceptable to inflict physical or psychological harm on another for no reason and not be called on it? I’m not inflexible or judgmental. I just want a fair playing field. If I give, I should receive, vice versa. If there’s no quid pro quo and I come out of feeling like shit…I don’t need friends that fucking bad. I am crazy anxious today. I am letting my kid play outside but honestly…every fiber of my being wants to get her inside, close the door, and not worry about checking on her every two minutes when I don’t hear her babbling. I cannot transfer my issues onto her but man, it is nerve racking. Actually, it’s morphed into panxiety. I do not like this mindspace. And trying to talk myself out of it is not helping. Spam Spooge. R mentioned earlier that he liked spam. I cringed. I can handle it fried but I still remember my dad eating it cold from the can with all that slimy stuff sliding off it… Spam spooge. Ick. And in another example of people who don’t play fair on the playground… R keeps hounding me to come watch Flash with him tonight. I’ve tried to explain I have a bedtime routine that gets my kid to sleep before 9, I cannot deviate or else I will be suffering til ten or 11. Funny when it was a school night for his kid, not even having a knife in my head made him deviate from their routine. Knowing him, he will just find some sycophant to join him because he can’t be alone. Meh. After watching Arrow with him last week and him yapping thru, as well as my kid yapping thru it…I’d rather watch it alone and actually be able to comprehend what’s going on. I don’t think putting my kid’s routine first is anti social. Is it? For all my grrr feral kid rants… The boy my kid is playing with fell off the swing and scraped his knee and in spite of how bratty the kid is (threatening to shoot her) I was out there, examining, offering a band aid, antibacterial cream… I talk a good game but I’m really not that evil in my heart. It’s just my fucked up brain that brings out the evil. On a cheery note…I hear that M2 is bringing back Celebrity Deathmatch. YESSSS. I wanna see some carnage of Miley Cyrus, Justin Bieber, the Kardashians, Kanye West, Taylor Swift, the douchebag singer from Maroon 5… and all the other douchebags that pass as “talented” in this vapid age of tone deafness. (Sorry if you like them, to each their own, I doubt you’d like my knives in a blender metal.) And for the record, I did try having an open mind. There was so much gab about Taylor’s Swift’s “Shake it Off” being this feel good catchy tune. I thought it might be my next MMM Bop. (Shameful yes, but still cheers me up.) Um…NO. I made it about seventy seconds in and it was like nails on a chalkboard or someone’s junk in a blender. Ouch. Ears…bleeding…Lyrics…vaccuous…Ick ick ick. And I mean, I can admit to liking a couple of country songs so…It has to be pretty bad for me to dismiss so totally. I also did the same with Miley Cyrus’ “Party In The USA”: because some article declared NO ONE could hear it and not find it awesome. Audio ipecac. (And I even like a couple of songs by her one hit wonder dad!) Just can’t do…bubblegum mindless music. 5 p.m. and I still have 4 sporks left. Hmm. Xanax is wondermous. Like pegasporkacorns. I worry about my daughter…She is so extroverted and has such a big personality and thinks everyone is good…She will play with any kid who comes her way. And now the boy she’s calling her friend is calling her stupid and saying she has head lice, which is upsetting her, yet when I offer to make him leave, she has a fit. “I need friends, I won’t get any more if he goes away.” God, I don’t want her to be like that. It took me til I was 14 but I eventually figured out the people who were insulting to me…were not my friends and alone was definitely better. She may be five, but it just feels like a bad precedent if she feels she has to be insulted and have her feelings hurt to have friends. Fine line between childhood hijinks and bullying. For the third time in the last week…I thought about one of my worst school tormentors. The stoner douche who told me I should “smoke drugs, then you’d have a reason to be weird.” “You should do the world a favor and kill yourself.” And his piece de resistance, done during lunch hour in front of bleacher rows of other kids…He handed me a dollar and said I looked like a hooker, I should blow him like one. Absolute charmer. The girls loved him for some reason. Of course, after I looked at him and said, “You’d need a federal loan for my services…” Learning sarcasm became my superpower, no one will ever convince me it is a bad thing. And thanks to that scumbag, I got ten times stronger and more rebellious. I wouldn’t want to relive it but I doubt he has any clue just how resilient and determined his idiocy made me. He was trying to break me down and yet…He made me stronger. Joke’s on him. But hey, for all the dents in my self esteem armor, I think all of the adversity and character assasinations have made me who I am. Reminds me of the song “Fighter” by Christina Aguilera. (She’s bubblegummish, but damn, that woman has vocal range and I respect talent that isn’t auto tune.) Goes for all my failed relationships, too.They convinced me I was the monster but it takes two to make something work or fail. By never owning their side…They made me stronger. Odd how all the efforts to break me down have just reinforced me like steel on some points. I need to run to the store and I don’t wanna. Spook has friends here, she will throw a fit. And I suppose it’s nothing I couldn’t do til morning but I’d like to get change so I can send her to school with money to buy her carnival tickets ahead of time rather than standing in line. I could do it before I dro her off except…I’m not a daywalker and taking her anywhere, especially when time is crucial, is living hell. Plus, school spring pix came in and the whole package is $45. I can afford a sheet of wallet size and that’s about it. So…Pragmatist I am, I called both grandparental units and told them if they wanted anything bigger than a wallet pic, they’d need to chip in fifteen bucks each. And they agreed. Excellent, Smithers. God, I wish lightning would strike me and set my brain wiring right so I could get a good job and not have to fret every fucking penny. I miss shopping on line. I miss buying Urban Decay and Manic Panic products. I miss buying purses. I miss buying posters. I miss everything about working and feeling productive and useful except the fact that I couldn’t keep up and was always falling apart and beig left with the choice to quit or be fired. I don’t miss that. But…damn. I am so sick of worrying about every tiny thing. And sadly, I’m not good looking enough to do internet porn. I have huge feet so I couldn’t even do foot fetish porn. I haven’t ruled out the faction that for whatever reason gets off on watching women sit on balloons and popping them. I don’t get it, but if there’s a market for it and it comes between my dignity or caring for my kid… Clown shoe dignity. I don’t think the donor ever understood that being a parent means sacrifice. You don’t get to do whatever you want because it’s who you are. There are not unlimited hours to spend on the internet, or sleep ten hours, or buy your packs of cigarettes when your kid needs new shoes. You come second once you have children and that’s the way it should be. If that makes you resentful, you should have stopped at one kid, not gone on to make three and fail to support all of them. There’s a difference between self sacrifice and giving up your identity. I put my kid first, but I am not above buying myself a lipstick or bottle of nailpolish here and there. Balance. He never understood that concept. I hate talking about him because I sound bitter and yet nothing I’ve said has been anything but easily documented fact. I don’t need to name call. If you have kids and don’t support them or see them…You are a deadbeat. Period. Deadbeat parent law and all that. I’m typing and I can’t shut up… My brain is very busy today. I’ve posted three or four times already and I ain’t done yet. But it’s like if I don’t spew it onto the page it will build up in my system like poison and give me toxic shock. Must…expel…poison…thoughts. On the plus side, I am getting lots of exercise in between writing a sentence here and there when I get up every two minutes to check on my kid outside. On my list of accomplishments for today, and by that, I mean, the tiny lil goals I set so as not to overwhelm yet still feel like I followed through on something: I took R his meatloaf sammiches, as promised. I actually wore a bra. (Yes, I set the bar low, but if you have to wear a bra, then you know the relief when the fucker comes off so it’s like socially enforced boob bondage.) I wore eyeliner. I did NOT have any hormonal verbal explosions. Mainly because I’ve limited contact with people but some months I just burst into tears randomly in front of people due to horrormones. When that doesn’t happen, and I don’t channel satan…SCORE. Little things. Self conscious… I must admit to some apprehension as far as my blogging, or reading other blogs, goes. I know a lot of people who are religious or have faith, and while I am not on that page, my opinions, swearing, et al, are never intended to offend or invalidate the beliefs of others. I’m like Voltaire. I may not agree with what you say, but I will fight to the death for your right to say it. With that, I also have to be true to who I am and hope people are mature enough and open minded enough to know…The things I say, the beliefs I have, are not personal and I do not expect you to agree with me. What makes us all so unique and interesting is our varied interests and beliefs. If I wanted to hang out with Cookie Cutters, I’d become a baker. School pix… This time she actually smiled, not cheesily and not glaring. Unfortunately, the neat ponytail I’d put her hair in (and she only had to leave it be twenty minutes) was completely yanked in ten different directions so it looks unbrushed. GRRR. What concerns me is the fact that she’s not yet six and pretty much all her pictures the last two years show how she has these dark circles under her eyes. I know she rarely sleeps through the night and it takes a toll but damn. A kid shouldn’t have Sampsonite baggage under her eyes like that. I mean, I get less sleep than her and even mine aren’t that dark. I don’t want to hit the panic button but I definitely want to get her in with her pediatrician for a check up. I wanna tell that doctor none of her brilliant ideas have worked as far as getting my kid to stay asleep in her own bed. Though I am sure it will somehow be my fault. Parents get blamed for everything. It’s like the snowflakes are being absolved while the parents get persecuted. Wait, let me CBT that. Thought: I am concerned for my child so I will explain to the doctor how the sleep disturbance is still going on after two years. Feeling: Much as the child psych blamed my kids’ issues on her picking up on my mental problems, the pediatrician will find a way to make her sleep issues my fault as well. Behavior: I will take her to the doctor, explain, and hope for the best all the while knowing from experience there’s a 90% chance I will be blamed. Take that, positive thoughtmongers. Cautious optimism til death. OMG. 6p.m. and I am rebounding. Hypomania. I suddenly want to go do stuff. NOOOOOOOOOOO. The dish is eeevil. It will cost me the rest of my sporks. It’s less enthusiasm and more, “I don’t feel as shaky right now and tomorrow I may go nutso again so maybe I should do this shit and rip the band aid off.” But when I come out of the gate gung ho, it costs more than sporks. Hypomania. Hypomania. Hypomania. It’s no logical, it’s just… I don’t know what it is. And frankly, I am sick to death of analyzing every moment of my existence in an effort to be sure I’m not simply being a lousy person. I wonder why it is my self esteem is decent outside the mental shit when I am alone. Yet when others give their input, my self esteem vanishes. I don’t need them to validate my existence. So why is it so easy for them to make me doubt myself? There’s my next “self therapy” project. Sporksome…My kid saw the Encouraging Thunder award on my page and asked about it. I said it was someone’s way of saying that I write decently and they like it. And oh so snarkily she says, “Mommy, what could you write that’s decent?” Out of the mouths of babes. Now she wants her own blog. We ventured into the dish for those errands. Of course, it took two tries because as soon as we started to leave, my dad showed up. Bloody hell, do people not understand how hard it is to find some get up and go and actually go? But it wasn’t without merit. They are having major problems with my brother. Who is, guess what…on mood stabilizers, anti depressant, and anti anxiety meds. He won’t take them regularly, they haven’t been working for weeks, he’s getting borderline violent and his tele shrink won’t change a thing. Of course, my dad is still in denial of his flawed genetic line. Stepmonster was very interested in the accolades I was awarding Dr B. And it’s true, he’s spent more time with me in two appointments than all other doctors for three years. He listens, and he’s good. (I may hate him for the Latuda but time will tell, can’t get it til Friday.) So stepmonster asked if she could call the office and mention my name in an effort to get my brother switched from tele shrink to Dr. B. I said absolutely. Because when they were here the other day my brother was in one of his missed his meds moods and actually balled his fists up and glared at my kid. I threatened to put him on his ass if he didn’t move away from her and get a better attitude. He’s 20 years old, he threatens my kid, mentally ill or not,I will take his ass down. He’s choosing not take the meds so mentally ill or not, it’s his fault. He’s borderline dangerous, even taking swings at his mom and our dad. (And yeah, I remember being that way before they gave me mood stabilizers, oh what a difference a pill can make.) I didn’t like the counseling breach but the doctors…I’ve never minded. I’m open about my use of meds. All my therapy issues I tend to want to keep to myself (I mean, away from my family since they’re part of my issues.) Mid heart attack… 7:17 pm and guess what? I still have five sporks left. How did this happen? Who cares? To quote my kid, and the teletubbies, AGAIN AGAIN!!!! I am watching a rerun of X Files, an episode near and dear to me. Because back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and people still used dial up and AOL “freebie” discs I got cable internet and found this wonderful depression support chat room. I needed a chatroom name. And I had just watched this episode. Called Quagmire. And Scully’s dog is named Queequeg (RIP, lil dude.) So…I named myself KweeQuagmire. Eventually it just became Kwee. The chat room is long disbanded and only one person on Earth still calls me Kwee… But it’s a trip down a memory lane that wasn’t traumatic. If you made it this far…you win… sporky

P.S.

Yes, I got my spork count wrong. I have FOUR left. This is what happens when you have a chatty kathy doll in your ear, you write the gibberish they spew.

Bygones.yetowrite gibb

P.S,.

Award Thingie Nomination

Posted in mental health, Uncategorized with tags , , on April 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

encouraging-thunder-e1427793461525

 

Thank you, Tessa.

I’m never quite sure how to handle these blog awards other than to say thank you. So I shall just copy and paste the rules set forth in Tessa’s blog. (And for some reason when I try to link shit I mess it up and sorry, but I am TRYING.)

What you can do with Encouraging Thunder award?

  • Post it on your blog
  • Grant other bloggers with the award

What you can’t do with Encouraging Thunder award?

  • Abuse or misuse the logo
  • Claim that it’s your own handmade logo

What you should do after receiving Encouraging Thunder award:

  • Enjoy the award
  • At least gives thanks via comments and likes and or mentioning the blog who give the award.
  • Mention your purpose in blogging

Give them all love by visiting their blogs and show some appreciation 🙂

 

P.S. You do not have to accept the award. It is entirely up to you. At least this one doesn’t have a ton of questions to answer and none to make up.

My purpose in blogging…To let others going through similar things know they are NOT alone and are NOT insane. Also, I can’t afford to pay a counselor to listen to me rant so this is my therapy.

Now…Do I even know five bloggers to pass the award on to…Who won’t flip if suddenly they get more views. (Don’t want to impede on privacy, some people have changed blogs and deleted due to this issue.)
Um…How about the ones I swap comments with most and a new blast from the past.

“>”>1.) Specter

2.) Blah

3.)Sass

4.) Diane

“>5.) Imptiness

Party on and be sporksome to each other, dudes.

Cognitive Bullshit Therapy

Posted in biolar disorder, mental illness with tags , , , , , , on April 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

**** This is not meant to offend anyone CBT has worked for****

Cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) is a form of treatment that focuses on examining the relationships between thoughts, feelings and behaviors

I did CBT once for a couple of months. But it failed miserably, and actually caused me to backslide.
I think when it comes to personality disorders, dysfunctional thought patterns, low self esteem…CBT is probably fairly useful for gaining coping skills and being objective.

However when CBT is forced on someone with a legitimate mental illness and all the positive logical thought fails to regulate mood or calm anxiety…It is basically causing their self esteem to crumble. If simple positive thought and logic cured mental illness, none of us would bother with pills and therapy. No one would ever need a shrink or meds or hospitalization.
Making someone with a mental illness believe that they can “think” themselves out of a depression or manic episode or panic attacks is borderline negligent as well as defeating the purpose and cruel.

It is not that I don’t grasp the concept of CBT. I do. I have made great strides in the last few years recognizing my own moods and thought distortions. I know the depression lies, the manic episodes lie, and often how I think and feel is irrational.
I identify that.
I, however, cannot stick a spork into my brain and poke around and reroute the wiring so it gets on board with society’s plan of logic. If I could have, I’d foregone meds. One simple incident with a psych med gave me brain damage. I didn’t want that.
The ONLY reason I ever even went on psych meds was because I spent a year in therapy, a year in denial, doing what I was supposed to do, what was supposed to fix me, and even the therapists were saying, “You’ve done all you can do with regards to your behavior and thought, you need a medication to correct the imbalanced chemicals.”
I fought it that entire year. I was strong. I was determined. Nothing wrong with me but a dysfunctional upbringing and some self esteem issues (and PTSD) from being bullied at school for six years.
I could do it, no meds needed.

The lies we tell ourselves. And things like CBT encourages it.

Example:
Thought: “I have nothing to live for.”
Feeling: “I should just kill myself.”
Behavior: “I’m going to count all the pills in the place and take them all.”
Is this personality? Because on Monday you didn’t feel that way. Now you do and you believe it with every fiber of your being. And no matter how hard you focus on logic and tell yourself it’s distortion…
Mental illness doesn’t care.
It is what it is, much like you can’t wish a headache away. You have to ride it out. Today you want to die, tomorrow you may feel like Icarus flying to close to the sun.
It’s an illness for a reason.

An example where cognitive might be useful:
Thought: “Everyone is laughing at me because I am so stupid.”
Feeling: “I’m such a loser.”
Behavior: “I’m going to go home and cry.”

Now using CBT on such an incident:
Thought: “Everyone is laughing at me because I am so stupid.”
Feeling: “I am such a loser”
Behavior: “I am making myself way too important assuming people can be bothered to laugh at me, they’re probably sharing a joke or youtube clip.”

There IS a difference between negative thought and the cycle of mental illness that causes not just negative thought, but a profound belief, to your bone marrow, that it is the real deal.
Telling a suicidal person to use CBT is akin to helping them kill themselves.
If someone is depressed and CBT is forced on them…They come out worse because they fail at talking themselves out of how they feel.
If someone has anxiety attacks and are invalidated because CBT does nothing to quell the physical aspects…Again, defeats the purpose.
And thus as far as legit mental illness caused by out of whack wiring or chemicals, I call cognitive bullshit therapy.

See, I came to this conclusion all on my own. I didn’t need a therapist to guide me here. I can be my own therapist for the most part. I learned basic skills through 20 years of counseling. Now I do research. I chart my moods and anxieties with a blog. I am self aware to the nth degree.
And I know when I am being flawed and allowing my neurotic personality to steer my thoughts or when the illnesses actually have me hobbled.
The only answer to the latter is medication and allowing yourself to ride it out. Sometimes, you just have to accept you feel the way you do. No one expects you to question yourself when you feel happy.
So why must we feel so bad about ourselves and come up with explanations for feeling sad?
Sadness without any true cause is the very definition of depression.
Talking yourself out of it is asinine.
Not to say you can’t fight it.
But for every time we win the fight, there are ten times we lose the battle and I think in some ways, it’s self defeating.

So screw CBT.
I am going to stick to the best advice a therapist ever gave me, the one thing that I held onto for all these years.
“It’s okay to feel the way you do. It’s okay to let yourself feel depressed. You set one minor goal on those days, whether it’s a shower or cooking a meal. You do that much then you’ve made an effort and have earned the right to own your feelings no matter what they may be at that time.”

It takes a lot of pressure off.
Being expected to perform like a trained seal is counterproductive.
Being allow to feel your feelings…that’s therapeutic.

The Dark Side Of The Brain

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

Well, I had my meatloaf and went back to bed around 3:30 a.m. And tossed and turned until almost five. My brain was in full torture mode. Having read an article about Cobie Smulders (Robin, How I Met Your Mother) still working on season through after having been diagnosed with cancer on both ovaries…
I suddenly realize what a loser I am.
Yeah, I know, the depression lies. It lies a lot and it deserves an Oscar.
But after an hour of it pounding at my brain, keeping me awake, leading me down a very dark path of “why am I bothering, I am never going to get well and contribute to society” thoughts. You know where that takes you.
Knives. Pill Bottles. Staircases. Anything that might just make sure you NEVER have to be lied to again by the dark side of your own brain.

I eventually slept but as predicted, not long before the alarm went off. I woke to shark week cramps and a pounding headache. Take away two sporks off the bat.
My kid proved to be obstinate again, one more down.
Nine sporks and not even 8 a.m.

I could deduct sporks for the two hours of “kill yourself” thinking but I am cutting myself some slack. No one else will, ffs.

Already R is texting. “Come by if you get a chance.” “I’ve got something you gotta see.” “You won’t believe your eyes.” (How much you wanna bet his super daughter the psychologist went in and cleaned and arranged the shop thus showing what an incompetent twonk I am?)
Grrr. I have cramps and I am pissy and feeling a little stabby, truth be told. Back off.
What I responded with was, “I will bring you meatloaf sandwiches later.”
And he keeps texting, as if that is going to make me move faster.
If men had periods and cramps, I’m betting the attitude would be much more empathetic.
Or I’m just a fucking wuss, I don’t know. My self esteem is in the gutter. And I don’t know if it’s the dark side of the brain, hormones, depression, or simple disgust with myself because I know IF I could ever get stabilized I actually could make a contribution.

I have watched the Def Leppard movie “Hysteria” repeatedly and again…One armed drummer. I mean, one arm, plays drums, and I am bitching and moaning?
But he did get a special drum set up to accommodate him so he could keep doing what he’s good at and loves.
If I could find a job to be done from home with minimal petri dish contact and a loose schedule that doesn’t require constant stability…I might excel, as well.
No one will accommodate mental illness. You’re either functional or you’re a drain on society.
Yet if concessions were made and assistance given to help us find work that our illnesses do not hinder, we wouldn’t be, would we?
We’re told our brains don’t work like others. We need meds, therapy, coping skills.
Yet we are expected to perform as if nothing is wrong with us.
I don’t even know what the fuck that is.
I just know the shelf life on my desire to keep fighting is nearing. I’ve been doing all the *right* things for 20 years now and nothing ever changes as far as the bipolar and anxiety go. I kept waiting to have a kid “until I get better.”
Age 36 came and after being told, you can’t have kids, I got one.
And things got worse mentally.
I can’t seem to win no matter how hard I fight. And it’s not even about winning, it’d just be nice to stabilize enough so that I can support my child and never ever again have to convince anyone how disabling mental illness really is. Because unless you live it,you don’t fucking know.
And it does not help, at all, to have all these sunshine spewing “I beat mental illness with positive thought” types thinking their six months of depression and prozac give them the right to compare with those of us who have struggled for years and taken all the side effect ridden meds.

Hmmm…I guess I am in pissy little bitch mode today.

The barking neighbor dogs aren’t helping. I love animals, but when a dog barks constantly for 15 solid minutes and it’s ten feet from the window I’m next to…Muzzle. Please. Or buy me noise canceling headphones.
And one more reason for the dark side of the brain to take me down that black path. I am too weak to even handle the noise of daily life.
Fuck.
I hate when hormones make the mental stuff worse. It’s like being in a prison. Parole is four days away but until then…You have nothing to do but beat your head against the cell wall and try not to listen to the distortions amped up in your head.

I do not like being horrormonal.
I do not like the lies depression tells.
But then I wonder, are they rally lies or just cold hard facts? Maybe if can’t work, I should just do the world a favor and die.
I’m not quite ready to give up on myself yet.
I hope the world, and powers that be, won’t give up on me, either.
I am determined.

And I have a kitten climbing my leg trying to get onto the laptop. I feel like a cat wrestler.
Least I could make money if I wrestled gators.

Sporkage.
9 a.m. and I’ve used four of 12.
Winner winner, salmonella infested chicken dinner.