People’d Out

It is social feast or famine in my life. Either weeks pass without so much as a smoke signal to check my well being, then boom, I’ve got four invites to hang out in a week. For someone with anxiety who can’t process too much outside stimuli…
It’s a weird place to be. I’m good socializing once a month.
Because honestly, I am people’d out. I’d planned on spending today just vegetating since my kid’s at school then spending the night at grandma’s and for once in weeks all my housework is done. Read, watch some shows, get a decent night’s sleep, without a squirming blanket hog invading.
And R’s wife invites me over, she misses hanging out and chatting. I politely declined but I feel guilty as it’s been almost a month since we hung out. At this juncture in time, the last thing I want is more people time. And honestly, R’s neediness this week has me wanting space from him, too. (Yeah, I know, rich, coming from needy ole me.)
The catch 22 is, I spend all day alone and by this evening, I may want to socialize. It doesn’t sound possible but with rapid cycling bipolar…It’s a distinct possibility. It’s not like I’m warned about my moods, they just kind of happen.
And because today is gloomy and cold, which affects my mood severely, I may be going stir crazy later.
I just don’t know.
Making commitments is hard for me.
People don’t view it as a bipolar mood shift. Nope, they just view you as fickle and flaky. Obviously people have no clue what it’s like to be bipolar. I wish I were just fickle and flaky. This disorder wreaks havoc over everything in my life.
And I am soooo sick of the sunshine spewing “Take control of your disorder and your life” spiel.
If I could control any of this, I wouldn’t be shoveling ten pills a day in an effort to simply stay afloat. Hell, my side effects have side effects. It’s to the point where I wouldn’t know if something was wrong with my body because so much of what bothers me can be tied right back to the meds that keep me sane-ish.
This is not really choice. Meds are necessity.
And if people even knew me in the slightest, they’d know what an independent control freak I am, I would NEVER bow down and be defeated by something that were within my control.

It’s so much ass trash and clown shoes.

I think the Focalin has affected my appetite. I mean, I eat, but for three straight nights, I’ve “forgotten” supper because, well, my body wasn’t telling me I was hungry. Since I am fluffy and could stand to lose some fluff, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Just a deviation.
But hey, I’m one of those who can starve themselves for weeks and still gain weight, so I’m not seeing any silver lining. Stupid junk dna. Used to, we blamed our parents for screwing us up mentally. Now we can also blame them for sticking us with their particular blend of screwed up genetics, too.
In my fantasies, I have no mother and Alice Cooper is my dad.
Mainly because I’ve never really met a woman I’d want to be my mom. One evil real mom is enough trauma. And by evil I mean, borderline as fuck. Except she blames everyone but herself. Not admitting to the problem makes you worthy of my disdain.
I’ve gone off on a tangent.
Oh, well. isporkacorns.
Nothing really major going on so this is just written spewage, anyway.

I need to mow the lawn. Again. It’s so cold and gloomy I don’t see it happening. I think my seasonal affect thing goes to the bone marrow.
But I used to love gloomy days.
I’m telling you, whatever my spawn did in utero, she rearranged a bunch of stuff in there ‘cos everything’s different, including the mental shit. It got worse.

On a final note…I’d like to indulge my love of fictional characters and bid farewell to Dr Derek Sheppard from Grey’s Anatomy. That was a sad episode. No more McDreamy and Meredith drama.
Yes, I watch Grey’s Anatomy.
It’s not as shameful as my sister watching Jersey Shore. UGHHHH.

Now I am going to ponder putting socks on ice cold feet, and fetching a sweater, and maybe I’ll do the food thing. Because I don’t think five little pieces of pepperoni constitutes breakfast.
Bitch of it is, I’m hungry and that makes me woozy but thanks to all my pills, food makes me gag.

Life is beautiful.
If beautiful means Twisty The Clown from American Horror Story: Freak Show.
Heebie jeebie city.
This new season better not suck like that one did.
See, already thinking about the new tv season and this one’s just ending. Of course, the new season starts as my seasonal disorder kicks in so I probably shouldn’t look forward to it so much.
Meh. I’m addicted to TV. I don’t live or die by it. But it’s a needed distraction. I mean, if I am crying for McDreamy’s demise, then I’m not crying about some shit situation in my mind or life.
That’s my idea of positive thought.

And btw…Watching TV with R is as irritating as it is with my kid. He begged me to watch Arrow last night. When he’s already seen it…He’s awful. “Did you get that? Did you see that…Oh, pause, I gotta tell you the backstory…Hey, back it up, I think you missed that…”
Grrr.
But he didn’t do that last night.
No, he kept talking. And talking. About busted shit. And my kid kept talking. And it’s like, seriously, people? This is why I watch my shows alone. So I can actually WATCH them.
To further agitate my Arrow issue, I got a Hollywood Reporter email the night it aired and I opened it…AND IT WAS FILLED WITH SPOILERS.
Great, why bother watching it now that I already know what’s gonna happen. You suck, Hollywood Reporter.
(Face it, I’d have watched it no matter what ‘cos…Oh, right, I can’t give spoilers, that’d make me suck, too.)

Socks. I need socks.
Oh, just to toot my own horn (god, that phrase is so cheesy) I bathed my kid AND myself last night.
Housework and bathing in one day? OMG, that’s miraculous. Like pegacorns and isporkacorns.
And that one day of high functioning is probably going to cost me four days of recovery.
If there’s one thing about mental illness that pisses me off the most…
It’s how it makes you feel so utterly weak. Which leads to self loathing, self bullying, self judgement.
Chain reaction.
Clown shoes.
Yeah, clown shoes. It’s my new version of “fuck” that I can use around my kid without being charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor.

Socks.

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One Response to “People’d Out”

  1. One step forward, 1/2 miles back… Clown shoe brains…wanna trade? I am tired of wanting to be around people and would like some quiet time, sans everyone. Blah. I commend you on your miraculous day, and bestow upon you more than the pegacontopia-you get a bonadife gold star. ⭐️

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