blah and bruised

Another week of dish dwelling down. Combined with coming off the Latuda…I feel embalmed. Indifferent. BRUISED. Yeah, I have that a lot, where even a whisper of a fan on my skin makes it feel like I’m bruised. I can’t stand massages, at all. It’s grueling. And maybe it’s my age, maybe it’s some psychosomatic thing where I feel like life has kicked the hell out of me thus leaving me psychologically bruised and it manifests physically…Hell if I know. I know don’t like it. My kid will go to hug me a little exuberantly and it literally hurts. I don’t even know what the fuck that is other than me being hypersensitive. I’ve often linked it to the free floating anxiety, like my nerves are already on over drive and mere sensation of touch pushes it over the edge. None of my doctors have ever really acknowledged when I mention it beyond a dismissive nod. One more “non existent” issue for me, yayyy.

I did something new last night. When R beckoned, luring me with free Mangoritas…I declined, politely. And didn’t allow myself to be guilted or bullied. Spook and I were in our jammas, I was fixing my supper, and I just saw no need to upset that balance. Maybe I am pruning things, just in a way where I get to keep what benefits me and cut away what aggravates me. I always thought I saw things in shades of gray until sunshine spewing counselor informed me I see everything in black and white. I guess when it comes to how things affect me personally, I am that way. You piss me off, you are bad. You make me happy, you are good. But no one is black and white, we are all shades of gray. I guess being rejected makes me quick to reject others and vilify them. It’s something I need to work on. (And I don’t mind admitting fault and working to fix myself, I just get so fucking pissed off that everyone around me gets to be exactly the same and I’m the one who has change.)

For a brief period last night, I thought I was feeling a bit of an up spike in mood where I might not slither to the crypt and seek solace in sleep. It wasn’t to be. I was tired. Not just bone weary tired, but sleepy tired. Once that point hits, fighting it makes it worse. Time to reboot, recharge. That’s become the biggest bane of the current depression regime. I used to live for nighttime, even during my worst depressions. I’d come alive at night. Of course, then I didn’t have a kid and I could take my coma cocktail of seroquel and trazadone and sleep for twelve hours during the day thus giving me all night to function. Now the daywalker mom-and-dad-in-one gig, plus balancing all other facets of life and my disorders, has me too exhausted and dispirited to relish those hours at night where my time is mine. I once said the day I’d rather be asleep than awake doing things I love is the day I should just off myself. That day has come. Life has worn me down to the point where I crave sleep. Even if it only comes in two  hour installments.

THAT pisses me off. I don’t require a lot of sleep.I feel better the less I get, actually. But for almost four years, barely sleeping three solid hours at a time, with an active kid and all my mental issues…It’s taken a toll. I no longer have the energy to listen to my beloved music.Every moment of my day is filled with my kid’s incessant babble, barking dogs, ringing phones, yowling cats, loud motorcycles..That’s before I even leave my home. The sensory overload has cost me the very fuel that kept me alive during every other tough part of my life. Music. It got worse with that Latuda, because the anxiety ratcheted up so high there was no enjoyable noise. It was all just agonizing. I remember one day (think it was Sunday, before I quit that nasty shit) that I just got hit with this barrage of noise…my kid yapping, neighbor dogs barking, Harley’s driving through the trailer park…And I coiled up in my chair, trying to make myself small, and covered my ears with my hands because it was excrutiating. I felt like a moron doing it and yet…It was that bad.

So not only did it not help, it actually hindered and caused more problems which I now have to contend with. Forget high stakes poker. You want to really gamble, try taking some of these psych meds.

I am exhausted even though I’ve been awake barely two hours. Of course, it was a two hour journey to wakefulness with my kid deciding she wants to get up, no she wants to snuggle, no she just wants to play with the cat on my bed…And I was fading off and then suddenly she comes rushing at me MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY loud as a damned foghorn…Panic attack right out of the gate.

I have zero plans today aside from meeting the lady from her church for some personal needs pantry items. I haven’t applied in over a year and now my kid has dropped four rolls of toilet paper into the toilet this week thus putting us at a shortage…Ugh. I hate asking for things. Hate it. But it’s necessary. It means a four mile drive out of my way but…Gotta do what I gotta do. I am looking at the pile of dishes I need to wash. The laundry is piling up again. My kid has not stopped talking for a single second since she woke. Literally, she doesn’t even take a breath then complains she’s hyperventilating. I’m exhausted already.

Blah. I should do this. That. The other. But in light of the Latuda experiment from hell…I think I am going to give myself permission to do absolutely nothing today. Zone out, vegetate. I know I am supposed to pick myself up and keep busy and barf some rainbows but…That’s the new regime, I like my old counselor’s advice to set one small goal then wallow if need be. I earned some wallow time considering how many rapid cycles I’ve gone through in the last five days. I could have tapered off the Latuda but when the suicidal thoughts started…NOPE. Seriously, how fucked up is it for a drug meant to cure depression to cause you to want to die. LATARDA.

On a side note, just because it infuriated me…When I went to get my kid from my mom’s yesterday after their playdate…I got a spiel about how, “We’ve all been hungry for two days and had no food.We had nothing to feed Spook but then (roommate) ordered pizza for all of us so at least we got to eat today.”

One house. Six people. Four incomes. About six grand a month totaled. And they can’t keep food in the fridge but they can spend ten bucks on shampoo? You want me to feel guilty that you can’t manage money and prioritize? Oh, and why should I feel shitty when I don’t live there yet your roommate of 16 years does and has money and lets all of you go hungry rather than step up with some food. Seriously, the roommate is my nephew’s other grandma and she sat there that whole time with money, knowing not just everyone was hungry but her own grandson. I’m the bad guy? My mother is insane. Not to mention thirty bucks on pizza for one night would have been more wisely spent doing three days’ worth of meals. My mom says I am tight and cheap but truth is, I just prioritize. I’d rather have less than pillowy toilet paper if it means I can keep food in the fridge for a week.

It just gets old, being vilified within my own family. The support system the professionals tell me to reach out to when my mental health is fragile. Hysterical.

Now I apparently have to attend a wedding. My kid got some plastic farm animals and a collie has fallen in love with a goat and they are getting married in the barn wedding chapel. I think the llama is best man and the chicken is maid of honor.

Reception to follow at the hayride with bales of hay, bowls of kibble, and all the garbage a goat bride can eat.



2 Responses to “blah and bruised”

  1. God I feel you on the shit support from family. Not only do they not understand me, they also don’t believe me. Because the “bipolar people we know work” and I’m just a parasite. A weak being who can’t “suck it up and just live like the rest of us.” I have zero support from them. When mother and I were living through domestic violence they didn’t do anything either. It was our fault. Not one hand to help us get out so we could find our way.

    Fuck these “mental health professionals” who don’t get that. Who keep telling us to reach out as if we were the ones who did wrong.

    Ugh. With you! *gentle hug*

  2. Scootch over, I’m coming to join you.

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