Archive for May, 2015

No Dream Warriors Here

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , , , on May 31, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

From one of my favorite 80’s Bands, as well as one of my favorite horror movie Franchises. (Long live Freddy Kruuger!)

 

And so the sleep disturbance saga continues, with new twists that weren’t there prior to Latarda and Trileptal. It was one thing having trouble getting to sleep and staying asleep. Now the bizarro dreams have invaded along with a slew of other disturbing little quirks.

Last night, I retired to my crypt around nine p.m. Kid was down (finally, it’s like having a Siamese twin with a one word vocabulary MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY) and I was just needing to chill. I thought once she was down, I might revitalize and find more energy. I mean, I cooked a good spaghetti supper, we both got showers, it wasn’t an awful day, just lazy. I should have felt more alive. But I didn’t, I was tapped out. Toward ten I laid down and the scumbag brain began t0 do its tornado thought thing. I thought, I should take at least half my bedtime Xanax dose. But noo, I was being stubborn and went with the counting backward from 1000, the stop sign method, deep breathing, focusing on the Forensic Files playing in the background. (Yeah, I know, falling asleep to murder shows is creepy but that narrator has such a calming voice!)

I was in that zone where I was starting to drift off, in spurts. But I kept jolting awake, as if falling asleep would kill me. By the fifth jolt, I was pretty much on my way to dreamland. And BAM, my desktop decides to go blue screen of death and make knives in a blender noise. Instant panic and wakefulness. I shut it down, let it rest. The hard drive’s going out but I will use it til it’s death knoll. The silence killed me. I thought, I will try to drift off without background noise, give the pc a break…Ha. Didn’t happen. I got the desktop running again, put Forensic Files back on, and went back to the counting and stop sign dance. After a half hour, my heart still pounding head racing, worrying about the computer even though I’ve had it a year, it only cost $75 and I do have other options to use…I took a 0.5 Xanax. Eventually slept.

And came the dreams. Or nightmares. The Donor was in them. Trying to convince me I was the evil bitch and even though he walked out and has done nothing for Spook, he should be entitled to full custody. And I was buying into it, just like I half ass bought into all his manipulations and lies in the first place. Because he is just that good at mimicking emotion. I woke finally and was so glad Spook had climbed into my bed so I could drape a protective arm over her…I hate the fucking dreams, hate hate hate.

So I was less than amused when the spawn started poking me with a stick bright and early. When are you gonna get up, mommy. Are you gonna sleep all day mommy.Mommy mommy mommy. It wasn’t even 8:30. I just wanted to loll in bed a bit,not necessarily sleep, just loll. Bladder protested as much as the kid. then the mewling cats, so I got up. Foggy from the rough night of sleep and dreams.

Thus far, I’ve soaked some dishes, with the intent to do them at some point. Put a load of laundry in the dryer. Cleaned cat boxes. Not feeling too bad, but that’s the thing, Mornings are okay, aside from my night owl bone marrow despising the daywalker thing. Spook has a new pet, which I won’t allow in the house. It’s a worm she named Wormy. I can handle snakes, spiders, roaches..But no worms, slugs, or maggots. I can watch autopsy shows no problem. Til the maggots. I guess we all have our boundaries. The kid freaked out over a dead spider yet is petting and bonding with a worm. I guess weird is in our DNA.

I have zero plans for the day. Can’t really run around, little gas in the car. The church lady (how SNL is that?) called last night to ask if I could bring Spook today since they are all so busy, and then when I picked her up I could attend their steak luncheon. (Can’t stand steak.) It was humiliating having to admit I didn’t even have enough gas in the car for a ten mile trip so my kid could go to church. My God, I never saw my life turning out like this. All these overachieving super together twenty somethings and I’m 42 and struggling day to day…Pathetic. This was not how it was supposed to be. Of course, I never sat down and ordered mental illness from a catalog, either.

Sometimes it’s hard to take, seeing all these people younger than me, multiple kids, full time jobs, mortgages, hobbies, outings, church, et al. And I can barely manage no job, one kid, and can’t even have a social life because my brain is that fucked up. It’s not for lack of desire. To be this old and yet feel like such a child because my life is…THIS…It’s embarrassing. I also know it’s not entirely my fault. Good choices can only be made by a brain that isn’t ill. I made the choices but I wasn’t in my right mind at the time. Not an excuse or cop out, just fact. Still, no one around me cuts me any slack. Just the other day at the shop R said, “Oh, that woman can’t pick her TV up til the first when she gets her disability paycheck. Oh, I mean when they hand her money for doing nothing.”

My self esteem soars.

I have to hear shit like that every single day. Even from my own father who was on about what all he’d done in a day at his age and how I did nothing and blah blah blah. shut the fuck up. Like I don’t feel crappy enough.

Yet at the same time, I am supposed to be thankful for what I have and not complain because others have it worse.

But if I accept and am thankful for what I have, somehow that means I’m fine being mental and not being a productive member of society.

Catch 22.

This is why I like horror movies. They’re fiction. The real horror is called civilized society.

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Put On The Spot…UGHHH

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , , on May 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I don’t well when put on the spot or caught off guard. This is why I’ve always begged people to call before they stop by. Well, I just got a call a few minutes ago from a guy who only calls once or twice a year when he wants something. Of course, it’s all under the guise of “hanging out” which somehow usually involves him dropping trou and trying to prove chronic pot use doesn’t cause impotence . (Seriously, what on Earth possesses a man to drop his pants without so much as a hint there’s interest?) TMI? Oh, well.

I’ve never  been all that into this guy. I don’t dig potheads, just don’t. I don’t think they should be persecuted like cocaine dealers but I simply don’t relate to people who are stoned out of their gourd every day of the year. I require a modicum of intelligence and lucidity. It ain’t coming from this guy, which was why I lost complete interest. Unfortunately, I don’t have the heart to tell him to fuck off. He’s a friend of my brother in law’s and I have no desire to kick the hornet’s nest. My mother would go ballistic on me if I upset their pro stoner bum lifestyle. (Not my mom or sis, just her husband’s friends, every one of them.)

Instead, I keep going with, “You want to visit? I wouldn’t recommend it, I’m not in a good mental state.” I feel rude and yet…This guy ignores me but a couple of times a year when he wants something. And I’m not gonna go too graphic but he ain’t after my mind. Is he a bad person? No. Just kind of a lazy stoner. He’s 40, still lives with his grandparents, has no license or car, and basically lives to smoke dope and play video games. Not to be judgey, but he got out of this place, joined the military, had a career, made good money…And he flaked out and came back to this hell hole. It irks me because if I could ever get out of here, and support myself and my kid well enough, I’d STAY gone.It is unfathomable to me to give up a career to come back and smoke dope and play video games.

I am judgey. Oh, well. If this person treated me with a modicum of respect rather than random booty calls I might have a different attitude. Instead, even when I was doing okay and willing to hang out, I’d have to say, “Can’t, I have to do this, and pick my kid up and do that…” And he would say, I kid you not, “Oh, yeah, you’re busy doing the mom thing.” Doing the mom thing? Um…Like it’s a short term hobby? Immaturity personified.

Weird thing is, last summer, I ran into him at the smoke shop and we chatted a bit and I was in a decent place, Bex was here, and I told him he should pop by and meet her and we could all hang out. He never did call or come by. Kind of told me what he wanted didn’t involve hanging out and watching movies or listening to music with me and Bex and my kid. So I’ve copped a major attitude. And it’s not like I’m lying, I am NOT in a good place right now. I am coming off Prozac, starting another new med, I’m only two weeks into the Trileptal, my anxiety is pathological. I am in prime screaming mimi territory, to be honest.

Of course, I was caught off guard, put on the spot, and I think I gave too much truthful info which is likely going to bite me on the ass. “I just had a bad reaction to a med and kind of went off the deep end.” Not untrue. But he will tell my sister who will tell my mother and next I know I will be getting a call berating me for not snapping out of my depression because I have a kid and no wonder men can’t stand me and I am unfit mother. My mom’s off the deep end these days and this is exactly the thing she salivates over. Kind of like last July 4th when they had a cookout and I dared to have a Mangorita. OMG. One Mangorita? I am a raging drunk!

I never should have entangled myself, in any minute way, with this stoner guy. It’s all so incestuous, the way he basically lives at mom’s so he and brother in law can spend hours gaming and getting high. I shun him, he tells my sis, she tells mom, and I’ve got a shit storm no matter how you go about it. I’ll either be rude or unfit or whatever tangent momster wants to go off on.

And I am starting to fear that maybe her influence has rubbed off on me and I am too critical of my kid. Though I lean toward impatience due to the anxiety and her defiance less than any evil intent.

GRRRRRRRRRRRR. I don’t like being caught off guard. Never should have answered a call from a number I didn’t recognize. Bloody hell. Now I feel guilty, and for what? Telling the truth about my shitty mental state? Not wanting to be an orifice?  It would be one thing if ya know, like R, he just wanted to hang out, watch Dr Who or whatever. That’s the sort of thing I can handle for the most part, provided I don’t have to leave my bubble. But random booty calls…Ugh. I’m too fucking old for such immature men. And I use the term man loosely, because age is not indicative of maturity in the men here.

Sad thing is, were I in a good mental place, I could have said “Nope, not in the mood to hang out” and not felt a second’s remorse or guilt. But because I am in pathological anxiety whining simp mode…

Even doing the right thing is making me feel shitty.

Everyone keeps asking me why I don’t start “getting back out there” since the Donor’s been gone four years now. Frankly, I’m not in that space. My priorities are maturity, intelligence, and someone who doesn’t view my having a kid as “doing the mommy thing.” Just done with the shallow assholes who’d rather smoke a joint and play World of Warcraft than actually spend time having a conversation with a woman. They’re man children and they seem so prevalent in this town, my hope is dwindling. On the days I let myself have hope, and I’m not entirely sure those aren’t just hormonal spikes telling me I need to get laid because I get this super cranky when I don’t.

Now, watch. Couple weeks on the Cymbalta I will probably be raging gleeful and social. Okay, maybe that’s overstating it, but I’ve had good results with it in the past so I am hopeful…

This consistent inconsistency mental illness brings should be used a method of torture.

Psychological Sludge

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , on May 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

It’s one of *those* days. I’m not feeling much of anything except anxiety. Now that I have fulfilled my debt to R by meeting the dudes to pick up their TV, braved the dish, traffic from hell, pouring rain…I think I may be able to relax. Or at the very least breathe a little. Every movement feels like trudging uphill in sludge. Am I functioning? Yep. Am I feeling a damned bit of it? Nope. Pure auto pilot and pathological anxiety.

I can’t explain this sudden fear and anxiety when out in public. Oh, sure, I have my attitude toward the petri dish of humanity, it stresses me out, I don’t fare well under stress, et al. This is more than simple anxiety, this is almost a pathological fear. That “painted with a target and everyone has a gun” feeling. It just started in March, I’m not sure what triggered it. The doctor, of course, is very dismissive. You’d think when someone’s telling you all these symptoms and your diagnosis is “anxiety induced”, y0u might want to adjust their medication so their anxiety is better managed for the time. Nope. Just dismissal. And it’s fairly common with shrinks, they have great disdain for anxiety disorders, I think. Whereas anxiety medications are viewed as “masking” the condition, the truth is, for some of us, we need that mask just to start at the same point others normally do. Otherwise, our functionality is hindered severely.

And I was severely hindered in today’s traffic. One of the lights on the main drag was blinking, which meant eight ways of each car having to completely stop, then discerning whose turn it was go next from which direction. My kid in the back, yap yap yap, I felt like the walls were closing in on me. And trapped in traffic, door to door basically, it’s a logical feeling. I was so relieved to turn off onto a side street. Of course, my relief was short lived because my mini backseat driver let out a shriek of, “Watch out, Mommy!” For no reason other than a car was in front of us. Thank you, Spook, mommy needs help being more paranoid and nervous.

I had three bags to carry in and it felt like I was facing a marathon. Just the simple act of carrying three bags inside. Pathetic. And the house work? I can’t bring myself to face it.  Psychological sludge. One would think after a relatively slow paced week I’d be coping better and calmer. Ha. My brain has other ideas.

In a display of my evil side…I am feeling a bit of schadenfreude. There are events going on all over town and out of town and it’s pouring and ha ha ha, the dish dwellers and their normal people activities are ruined. I really am a bitch at times. Maybe because I envy their ability to live normal lives. Then again, crowded events aren’t my thing anyway so even if I were functional, it’s doubtful I’d be at those events.

MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY. MEOW MEW MEOW MEW…MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY.

Cripes, it’s like living with Sheldon from Big Bang Theory minus the OCD knock on the door.

Okay. Dish time done. I need to chill. It would probably help to take a half dose Xanax since I haven’t had any since last night. I try to do without as long as I can simply because of all the stigma and addiction bullshit attached to Xanax. And I don’t get it because I’ve seen people just as hooked on Ativan or Klonopin. Leave it to a bunch of fucktards to taint what is a very good medication for some people who need it. I know it helps me, yet the guilt and stigma attached…Sad that I’d be looked on more favorably if I were just a constant drinker.

SLUDGE SLUDGE SLUDGE.

Disturbing Sleep

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , on May 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I went off the sleeping pills/Melatonin because they overly sedated me and gave me very weird, sometimes frightening, dreams. Well, I am still off of them and prior to Latarda, my dreams had been fairly tame. I figured it would go away after the system rid itself of that toxin. But I started the trileptal and the bizarre dreams are still there. I woke up so many times last night, due to weird dreams. Maybe not as weird as the ones I had as a kid where the mustachioed meat counter guy from the grocery store was chasing me around my aunt’s sewing room with a knife…Still…A  bucket of what the fuck.

First, I dreamt of this enormous douchebag guy I went to school with. The one who tormented from me sixth grade on, telling me I should take drugs so I’d have an excuse to be weird, telling me I should do the world a favor and kill myself, oh, and then that scene in the high school gym when he offered me a dollar for a blow job because I “look like a hooker.” Yeah, pretty much the bane of my teenage existence. The one reason I vowed to never kill myself, I’d never give that prick the satisfaction. So WHY THE FUCK WAS HE IN MY DREAMS? It wasn’t sex dream, it was more like “getting to know your tormentor and realize he’s actually very damaged and decent under it all.” Again, WTF?

Then I had a dream I ran into a girl I went to school with when I was in elementary years. I haven’t seen that girl since I was ten, yet there I was having a dream where I bumped into her. I remembered her only because of her unique name. Thariscia. If dreams are some sort of subconscious thing, what is this telling me? It sure as hell isn’t “I missed an awesome childhood.” I know sometimes a dream is just a dream, means nothing, but to go from barely dreaming and having no memory to such vivid dreams I do remember…And yeah, I even had a pleasant dream the other night about hanging out with a gorgeous guy with eyeliner. It was very brief. The weirdo dreams…are long. I don’t even know.

So…First day of kid being out of school for summer. I was up by seven. Stupid bladder is more demanding than the child. I did not want to get up, my entire body ached and I was still so groggy…Maybe because I was awake until almost two a.m. Even when exhausted, I have trouble falling asleep. My gums hurt already from the teeth gnashing, which while I buy it’s a sign of anxiety, I find it fucking convenient I didn’t have it even on Latarda, it only started after the Trileptal. I am so sick of this doctor and his “there aren’t many side effects” or “there is no withdrawal.” He’s just so damned nice, it’s hard to question him, and yet the pharmacy inserts contradict everything he says. If the pharma company admits these side effects exist, the pharmacist knows, the patients know…It’s just wrong that a doctor would be so dismissive.

Starting to feel a little overwhelmed with the kid yapping and the kittens climbing me. I know inevitably my dad will darken my doorstep with a call or visit at some point. (The man makes me want to kill myself, sometimes. He’s just so gloom and doom and critical. But it’s a mystery how I got those same traits.) Oh, the teeth gnashing is driving me crazy.

Oh, I just remembered another whacko dream I had. I was at Dollar Tree and they were selling dentures on the shelf. WTF, seriously. Maybe because I’m gonna grind my teeth down and need replacements?

I have this strong desire to write yet I am still blocked. I know my stress would be lessened if I could just escape into my world of fiction. Yet…Forcing it doesn’t work. I’m trying to read a Jonathan Kellerman book but my heart and head aren’t quite in it. It’s gonna be a looong summer.

And I just remembered I’m on call today so at some point I am gonna have to put on actual clothes. Fuck. I like jammies. Good morning, pretzel gut says. I swear my innards are braided.

Breathe. Picture the STOP sign. I actually spent a bit of time the other night trying to get to sleep with the STOP sign method. Making up what the letters stand for.

Serenity. Tranquility. Offer. Peace. Stop Thinking Of Problems. I do the same thing with license plate letters.

I am coming off the Prozac, so it’s gonna be a bumpy week. In the event the shrink is right and there’s no withdrawal…It will be the first time ever for me and I will alert the world record books.

 

Icky..Okay…Um…Maybe…Good…I dunno

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , on May 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

It’s been a day without much event, yet my moods have run the gamut. (Skipping mania, of course, because that might make me feel something positive and that absolutely cannot happen.) I was icky and down this morning. Anxious. Then okay. Followed by more anxiousness (Dr appointment, three hours outside my bubble, panic alert).

Upon returning home, two minutes in the door…A call from my dad set off my stress, anger, and resentment. Then a four hour stretch of “not so bad, almost good.”It was less good mood and more a sigh of relief, school’s out, it’s the weekend, I’m broke but am beholden only to being a mom to kid and cats, I can breathe…Kid channeling satan lite. It was…manageable. She even ate what I cooked for supper without a battle.

Toward seven p.m. I was leaning towards shower and crypt but then  R called and reminded I owed him…Blah, blah, so I have to meet a customer at the shop tomorrow for them to pick up their TV. Maybe twenty minutes out of my life, whatever. I reminded him, you told my dad you’d change the oil in my car and he’s gnawing on my ass…So he said bring it over now. Not my idea of fun, and yet after my dad yelling at me because I didn’t drop everything and drive to his armpit town because oh, I didn’t have enough gas in the car to get there and somehow that makes me an ungrateful pain in his ass…R is the lesser evil. I never thought I’d say that.

My moods are so willy nilly. One day I like someone, two days later they’re like nails on a chalkboard. They want to label it borderline these days and I dispute it to the death. It all revolves around my frame of mind. And that hinges on the bipolar cycles, the seasonal affective, the level of anxiety and paranoia, whether I’m hormonal…Jebus, I gotta win the fricking mental health lottery just to have a stable day. Tell me that’s my personality and you deserve to be stabbed in the eye with the sacred spork AND throat punched. I pretty much slapped a patent on a sarcastic barb and walking away to avoid confrontation but yeah, it’s my personality making me hostile and argumentative and stabby sporky.

I was okay for the first few minutes at R’s. Then when his wife basically said hi and went to the next door neighbor’s I got a whiff that perhaps something was rotten in the state of Denmark. I asked him if I’d offended her and he said, “No, but she’s pissed off I’m changing you oil and not hers.” Um…I didn’t demand it be done this night. He deemed it so. Yet I’m in the middle of their drama, getting the evil eye. Bloody hell. When Mrs R returned, my kid was acting up (mildly) and of course, by the rules bossy professor woman has to butt in. Okay, it was in my defense and chastising my kid for being disrespectful to me, but honestly…Today really was satan lite for Spook, I can manage that. The bigger deal made of it by others, the more I suffer for it later. Just…let it go, kids are defiant little brats. I can handle a little defiance.

Needless to say, the oil has been changed in the car, I finally showered, the child is asleep, and the humidity is breaking so it’s cooling off. The doctor wanted to increase the Trileptal but I told him it’s been six months, the Prozac isnt working, I’m tired of living life like I am wearing three pairs of Latex gloves on my emotions. He said something to the extent of, “What do you want to try, you’ve tried everything.” Helpful. Factual, but not my fault, ffs. I told him I want to try to Cymbalta again. It’s an SNRI, rather than SSRI, so maybe the change will actually accomplish something. So he dropped the Lamictal to 200, kept the Trileptal at 3o0, and I am going to taper off Prozac (over three days, he claims it basically tapers itself off and there is no withdrawal, omg, what the fuck is he smoking, that is a LIE.) I am going to start the Cymbalta. Except I can’t buy my meds until Wednesday. The plus side to the Cymbalta is it actually helped with my knee pain in addition to boosting  my energy and mood. Who knows, I may just need a different chemical formula every so often. God knows what 12 years of straight anti depressants did to further fuck up my brain and its response to the compounds.

I didn’t walk out feeling optimistic, but when I told him I was facing three months with a noisy hyper kid and I am already on the edge…He signed off on a letter asking a local Y to grant my kid a scholarship for their summer camp so I might be able to focus on getting better while keeping her entertained. Of course, I now have to go out to the Y with this letter and convince them my kid is just as worthy as every other kid who needs a scholarship…It’s something that he at least recognized I’m walking a ledge here and kind of need help to avoid going over. I’m trying to find the silver lining here. Hopefully it’s not mercury.

All in all, in spite of the mood gamut..,One of the less awful days. Though I do feel shitty when I see how others who are in a more dire place mentally than I am and they’re still working, going out, shopping, et al…None of that is within my capability, not even the fun stuff. I’m just…dead inside. Even my anger is coated in gauze. But it is what it is and I am me, and I’ve done things differently my whole life so maybe my lack of interest in everything is just a subconscious way of protecting myself at a volatile time.

I am so full of shit.

BUT it’s 10:34 p.m. and I have yet to cryptify myself or truly crash into dark space. This is subject to change at any time. I get stressed when there is no trigger, my mood lifts and crashes for no reason…I am random, my mind is random, life is fucking random. I mean, why do I get this stupid disorder and yet stupid fucks like Charles Manson get groupies to follow their stark raving assholeness? Not that I want a bunch of mindless worshipers, just saying…He’s batshit and evil and he gets a fan club. I have a legit illness and I get…

Yeah, I get THIS. I have much to be grateful for but there is never going to be a day when I say something idiotic like, “Well, at least I don’t have it as bad as Joe Schmoe.” It’s not battle of the psychological torment. Mental illness is nothing to be thankful for, nor is it to be belittled. To do so is to belittle yourself and your battles, which makes you as bad as the scientologist-minded muggles that think mental illness is fiction.

I am grateful for a not awful day. I am thankful for my daughter. (One of the teachers told me today that Spook is one of the nicest kids she’s ever taught, which I think speaks volumes as to me doing right raising her for polite society). I am thankful for my fur children. I am thankful for all my used freebie computers. I am thankful for sporks and beef  jerky and menthol smokes.

I am not thankful to have mental illnesses.

They can go fuck themselves. I typed that with a smile. Does that count as a positive attitude?

Pre-Shrunk

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , on May 29, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I see the shrink in just under two hours. I am not excited. As per my usual, I was so anxious the night before I didn’t get to sleep until after 1 a.m. and I woke several times then when the alarm went off I hit snooze…It’s like moving through so much sludge. That and the fact I had only cigarette was just depressing. Pathetic but true. If I didn’t smoke, I’d be a world class flesh carver. The anxiety’s got to go somewhere.

I took care of the smokey treat thing this morning with a prompt visit to R. Not a word from him in 7 days and I didn’t exactly get the feeling I was being welcomed though I can’t recall a thing I could have done to offend. Who knows. But I got my smoke supplies and enough gas to get to the dr appointment and all I have to do is look up some parts and fetch him lunch. I can deal. Honestly, the week’s break from his drama was much needed. Just get irked how he expects me to drop everything for him yet when he doesn’t need anything from me, he’s okay to pretend I don’t exist. Narcissists.

What I am not sure I can deal with is a summer of my kid. Yesterday was…well, it wasn’t constant, it came in short bursts, but if it was a preview of my entire summer…I’m doomed. I let her play outside. She wanted her bike out. Fine. One of the training wheels came off. Now she wants them both off, only mommy doesn’t have the proper tool to remove the bolt which has rusted in place. Enter screaming mimi out in the yard. I brought her inside and made her sit on the couch and calm down. I quietly explained that I was not trying to be mean, I simply did not have a tool that would remove that bolt. She’s a kid, she wants it now, she wants it all, logic be damned.

I let her play on Neopets for awhile. She even sat on my lap and had me show her how to play some of the games. That was nice. Then her little heathen friend comes knocking. They’re not outside together sixty seconds and my kid is running back in. “I’m hungry. I’m thirsty.” I asked “Are you or is your friend demanding stuff?” She  says it’s her. I told her no. Next thing I hear is her running outside telling her friend, “Mommy said no I can’t give you food.” Brat lied right to my face. So thinking if I was the bad guy they wouldn’t blame her, I stepped outside and explained, “Hey, it’s very rude to come to someone’s house and ask for food. I would share if we had it but we simply don’t.” My kid lets out a blood curdling scream and starts yelling at me that I scared her friends off. Yeah, if they split as soon as being told no freebie food, it was all me.

My kid is so needy and desperate for friends, I swear she’d rip out her still beating heart if they demanded it. She keeps saying, “If I don’t give them things, they won’t be my friend.” It makes me furious. Those aren’t friends, those are freeloading little brats. Two years ago, I was in a good place mentally and I let her have all these kids over. On any given day I’d have ten kids in my yard. And she’d want a snack so I’d have to feed them and it was seriously putting us in a bind. Then came them destroying her stuff, busting in our doors, breaking in our window, stealing our mail…So yea, I am definitely scarred and on red alert when it comes to her “friends”. I don’t want to be that grouchy mean mom who won’t let the friends have snacks or use the bathroom and yet…Once bitten, twice shy. So all my kid’s anger comes back on me…

That was just one day.

Once I got her corralled inside, fed her, bathed her, and read to her..She went to bed without too much fight. By then, of course, I had no fight left in me. I needed a shower desperately, my legs need a weed whacker and I just..had nothing. Many times as my head would spin, I’d tell myself, “You’re awake, get up and do something, be productively miserable.” I just never could work up the will. Though I think I know now why my brain wants me in my crypt by 8pm. Sooner I lay down and start tossing and turning, sooner I can be asleep around ten or 11. I wait too long then I am tossing and turning until 1 a.m.

I made a list of what I want to talk to the doctor about. I always do that. They’re always hurried and ready with an explanation for every tiny thing. Yet no answers. Prozac, six months, still living in a fog…FFS, admit defeat. I wanna try the Cymbalta again. SNRI’s seem to do better for me during depressive bouts. Of course, I think he’s just gonna hear I’ve had no fatal reaction to the Trileptal, up it, and tell me it’s all anxiety and hypomania. I wish these shrinks could feel what it’s like to be treated so dismissively and walk out with less clarity than you went in with.

I am sweating buckets, humidity is thick. I should shower. I just don’t care. Why be pleasant looking on the outside if inside all I feel is dead and ugly? This is not me. It simply is not me. This is me when depressed for long bouts. So why isn’t he DOING something to help me? Or am I being too demanding wanting to feel better?

Ugh. Time to make the donuts. Or at least go serve time in the dish and have my morale beaten down further. For once, I just want something to go well, let me walk away feeling as if there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Kind of an oxymoron when dealing with psychiatrists.

Sensory Overload

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , , on May 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I’ve been awake an hour now. The kittens were biting my fingers demanding their gravy and crunch nom breakie, so I had to get up with them. The kid was torturing, um, playing with Pantera, so I had two whole minutes to go pee before she started in with her complaints and whining. She cut herself. I try to put a band aid on her, except she can’t find the cut now but she is still sure she’s going to lose all her blood. Then it was breakfast but she was goofing off and the cat ran off with her pancakes. The wardrobe argument was next. Not even 8 a.m. and she was yelling, “When can I go outside and play?” I told her to brush her hair, she asks, “What prize do I get if I do it myself?”

Meanwhile, Alchemy is crying because he wasn’t ready to be weaned so unless he has someone holding him or next to him, he cries. Absinthe has a cold in her eyes so I have to keep treating her, but at least she’s taking to the solid cat food finally.

Spook just keeps making noise, non stop. Nothing sensical. Just noise. Repeating the same sounds, letters, mommy, mommy, mommy. Give me this. I want that. I’ve heard Mommy twenty six times in the last hour. It’s like being poked with a stick.

The car is on E. I may have enough gas to get her to school and me to my dr appointment tomorrow. The housework remains undone. My eardrums feel like they are about to burst from too much input. I want to scream and swear and I think it may be time to get out my voodoo stress doll and stab it with enormous sewing pins.

I read a blog post about the DSM 5 and it (the DSM) gives me fucking headaches. We are all doooomed. If you don’t fit some neat little box of symptoms, which by the way, changes every single year, then you’re not getting a diagnosis and basically they’re just shoving pills at you while gathering around the water cooler and laughing about how everyone thinks they’re bipolar or depressed and we’re all just delusional losers…

What can I say. Some days I handle the sensory overload better than others. This is not starting out well. The kid is bawling that brushing her own hair makes her legs hurt.  I don’t even know what that means…

THIS. This is why people drink. Get me a fucking pill that can slow my mind and dull my sensitivity to noise enough to handle this shit called life, and I will never take another drink in my life.

It sucks to not be able to feel anything good and yet the bad stuff is in my bloodstream, making my eardrums cringe, putting my fight or flight alarm on red alert.

Meh I had a good two day run of not being a lunachick. But it was only two days so I’m not bipolar one or two, or psychotic, or maybe all my symptoms are because I smoked a joint back in 1999 or ate mac and cheese with fatal orange food coloring in it…

So tired of jumping through hoops. There is something wrong with me, and I don’t give a damn what they want to label it. It’s not my personality. I think anyone whose kid yells at them for ten solid minutes and they ignore it and it still keeps going…Yeah, that’s gonna aggravate the steeliest nerves, let alone someone who’s fight or flight response is a raw nerve.

I know I should probably just draft this because I’m showing just how erratic and nutso I can get and I will probably not be in this place a couple of hours from now but I think it’s important to show the good, the bad, the REALITY. And for those of you who are behind in reading and apologizing for not being able to keep up…Don’t worry about it, I post a lot, I know. But I’d get systemic poisoning if I didn’t vent this shit regularly.

Now…Today’s anthem…