Snoopy Bandages

Medication.
Therapy.
What do you do on the days when it’s like putting a Band Aid on a gaping chest wound? It just doesn’t work.
I have been trying so hard, utilizing every method learned in therapy. Do things you usually love, get out and get some sun and fresh air.
I forced myself out yesterday. Start of yard sale season, normally something that gives me a buzz. And I felt nothing but “Oh, let’s get this over with already.”
How do you combat that when even the things you love are impacted by this mental shit?
How do you convince yourself you’re not anxious when in fact, you feel terrified and can’t breathe? Oh, I’ve utilized the STOP sign thing ad nauseum. Occasionally it works. Most of the time…Not so much. (I even elaborated by assigning it a meaning SERENITY TRANQUILITY OFFER PEACE.) I printed out pictures of stop signs and put them on all bedroom walls and the ceiling. I count backwards in odd numbers from 1000 trying to center myself. I envision an old fashioned thermometer and all the red drains downward, releasing the stress. Then I start at the bottom, coloring it blue in my mind as I relax from feet upwards…I have tried everything, including having my blood chakras aligned.
So when it’s implied I somehow expect pills to cure all, I get hostile.
I am frustrated to be doing everything I am supposed to be doing yet none of it is proving fruitful.
Makes me wonder if the prozac just ain’t cutting it anymore.
Or maybe adding the focalin changed things. Then again, it wasn’t doing much before that thus the other doc increasing it then this one decreasing it. I’ve got such uneven levels by now it’s again putting a Snoopy bandage on a gushing gunshot wound.
The more I think about it, the worse it gets. The more I try to distract myself, the worse it gets.
I’ve been through the therapy/shrink “you’re just not trying hard enough” spiel. Because living in a dark joyless depressive abyss is EXACTLY what I wanted to do with my life. I CHOSE it.
Do they even know how idiotic they sound at times? Live it then talk to me, professionals.

Coping mechanisms. Cognitive behavior therapy. Talk therapy. Light therapy. Exercise.
NOTHING is helping at the moment.
I know it will pass. The gray day, this chest cold, my kid being bullied, plus all the flux of the meds…It’s no wonder I’m scrambling to get my bearings today.
Will tomorrow be any better?
I’ve found that things can suck yet if my mind frame is solid, I’m not as affected as I am when feeling fragile. And admitting fragility makes me cringe because I am actually a very rough and tumble person. I’d rather move my own furniture than ask for help. I’ve got no issue lugging around heavy tvs. I used to put boys in headlocks at school.
I’m not fragile.
Except when I am.
And it’s horrid.
Accept the things I cannot change, that line pops into my head a lot.
I can’t change the way I feel today. I’ve tried and I have hit the wall. It’s just not happening.
Rather than beat my head against a metaphoric wall…I guess I’m just going to go with the flow and ride out the storm. Again.
Which fills me with the ignorant spewage of professionals “you must not get so wrapped up in your illness that you fail to recognize the patterns and try to change them.”
Oh, sages, do tell. How do I recognize patterns if they’re ever changing? How do I even begin to get my feet under me if the ground is a neverending escalator?

I seriously question how helpful some of this therapy stuff is. Cognitive actually made me regress. Being told to suck it up, even in an elegant psychologically correct way, is not helpful. Wanting to be better and actually getting there are two different things. Telling people desire alone is going to change things is asinine. And the positive attitude vomit…
It has all just lead to me feeling even worse, like some loser who can’t do anything right. Like some whiner who simply isn’t strong enough to change.
Yet when I see how much I have grown and changed…
It reminds me the professionals get things wrong all the time. And one size does not fit all no matter what they claim.

Plus they haven’t met my family. My dad stopped by today and promptly yelled at me for not raking my yard. When I dared explain the chest cold thing, he told me he didn’t have time get sick and whine. Then his woman told my kid to quit being a sissy and stand up to the bullies.
The empathy overwhelms.
It does not motivate in the least. If anything it just makes all too aware of how I have no support system whatsoever.
And then I realize how much I am a product of my family. I will endure excrutiating pain rather than go to the hospital. How long before this results in me dismissing something as “whining” only to learn had I gotten help sooner I wouldn’t be dying.
I am doing it to my kid. Though she is a hypochondriac. I take her to the doctor and stuff, but I don’t coddle her every time she gets a bump. If she sees me spaz out, then I am going to imprint on her to spaz out.
I am trying to be different.

It’s just…how can anyone not see how much turmoil I have swirling about me. Trying to balance single motherhood, multiple mental health diagnoses, a limited income and no support system but lots of criticism…It would be too much for most people to handle, let alone someone juggling a corcucopia of mental disorders. I’m not whining. I’m not using my disorders for an excuse.
But seriously…
Cut me some fucking slack.
I’m doing everything I am supposed to be doing. I am sick of being blamed because I seem to be treatment resistant.
Least I am making a damned effort, not that those around me would ever acknowledge it.
I wanna run away from home. Take kids, cats, and just leave this fucking place. And I’ve come to terms with this shitty town. I hate it but it’s my comfy old pair of shoes. I know they’re gonna have to be replaced but…I like being comfortable.
The family though…Toxic motherfuckers. They may love me in their own way but if I were weaker, they’d have driven me to suicide as fast as the mental crap.
Getting away from them would probably be better than shock therapy.

Just gotta find a good samaritan to donate relocation funds. Oh and decide where I’d want to go. Because I am in indecisive mode, I’d need someone to tell me. Then I’d resent them for it.
Fuck.
I can’t even fantasize properly.
Mental shit even has to butt in there.

Something’s gotta give. I can’t keep putting cute little Snoopy bandages on mortal wounds. It ain’t working.
But hey, at least I am consistent in my fucked upness. The focalin is helping but now the prozac is fucking off.
Whack a fucking mole.

10 Responses to “Snoopy Bandages”

  1. Do you use a mood/sleep/symptom tracker?

    • It’s called a blog. :p

      I don’t do smart phones, aps, internet trackers…I’d just fuck them up and negate the whole point. I’ve at least pinpointed specific triggers for the worst of the paranoid anxiety, it’s a start. Maybe if my meds get leveled out it will improve. This 60mg prozac for 4 weeks then 40 for two weeks, I’m all over the map. Plus he wants to start shifting my times so I am taking all the various meds at different times to get optimal effects…Ugh. Gonna be a long hard road for awhile.

      On Sun, Apr 12, 2015 at 7:11 PM, Take a Ride on My Mood Swing wrote:

      >

  2. Oh my. I just found my double ganger! *dopple ganger?* I like the hello kitty bandaids when I spew forth fountains on blood from gaping chest wounds that no one ever seems to notice. I’m moving to the Gulf side of Florida-hurricanes be damned. Wanna come? I don’t like quick med adjustments. I went up to 80 of latuda in less than a month and the worst side effect was dementia-like memory loss. Scary fucking shit. My bedside table looks like cvs threw up all over it. Morning pills, prn pills, night pills-it’s all bullshit. Families suck ass even when they’re supporting they’re still ignorant by accident. I’d rather be alone than to continue getting ignored. Treat me like a kid then get shitty because I don’t act like an adult. Hipocracy at its finest. Let’s ride the bipolar coaster in the front seat together.

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