Traffic Jam Of The Brain

moo(************Disclaimer…Contained within is a rant on something I read that perhaps I took in the wrong spirit and am dead wrong about. I was still a bit offended, but to be fair, I reread it and am willing to say…My angry bone is touchy and it was a good read when you’re not feeling volatile. That and I wear halloween socks year round so I conform for no on and never have, which is why I was bullied. Those amateurs have nothing on bipolar disorder when it comes to eroding self esteem.) Anyway, apologies if my rant offends, was not meant to but if you read regularly…You know I am fresh off  the Latarda toxin so it’s quite likely I’m only operating on 4 mental cylinders as opposed to 8. Mea culpa.

The mere act of driving my kid to school is a daunting task. Traffic. Cars everywhere. I can’t just drive for myself, I have to look out for cell phone wielding morons who aren’t paying attention. It sets off this response in me that makes me feel…Like I have a bullseye painted on me. I know it’s generalized anxiety, blah blah blah, mad cow disease, hypomania, yada yada…

It just gets old when you can’t go one single day without an episode of one facet of your disorders pummeling you, reminding you, “Hey, you’re not feeling too bad for now, but we’re here and we’re not going anywhere…”

For now…Yeah, okay works as a description. It’s been nice to not be obligated to my kid or anyone else and just putter about home today. I’m not going to get out pompoms and declare it awesome to be cleaning litter boxes and determining how to vacuum after breaking both my vacs last week but…For the moment I’m not spewing venom or contemplating throat punches on those who offend me by simply breathing. Rah rah for improvements.

Just to put it out there because, meh, fuck it, I’m blogging for me, not to please the masses. If you want sunshine blown up your bloomers, this is the wrong place. I read something last night, I guess a blog by a professional therapist, and while he made some sense…To some extent it infuriated me. Yeah, we pay them to help us, NOT to slap us with moronic labels to “humor” our neuroses because we’re too weak to cope with reality. To have it implied is rude and infuriating. If that’s the opinion of a professional, then I think I’d rather have Hannibal Lecter. Least he’d give me the dignity of serving me with chianti and fava beans. I don’t think shrinks or therapists have any use for the people they supposedly trained to “help.” Sure as fuck no empathy or ability to listen without passing judgment. It’s disheartening to realize just how common that is with the  very community of professionals we count on to help us.

My only goal in life has been to please myself by doing what is right and important to me. I dress how I want. I say what I want. I listen to/watch/decorate how I want. My life has never been put on hold just to please others to any large extent. We all have our roles to play in certain situations (I mean, I wouldn’t for example like my brother in law, show up to a court hearing wearing a Marilyn Manson “God Of Fuck” t-shirt although outside court I would totally wear that.) My biggest problem has never been letting life pass me by because I’m trying to please others.

No, my life tends to pass me by because  no matter how hard I try, I can’t measure up to and perform like others as society dictates. Everyone can wear a different shoe size but we are all expected to be able to hold a job, maintain the same mood daily, never get nervous, tow the line. Well, do tell, how does one do all this when their brain is imbalanced and setting them  behind before they start? No one seems to want to address that part. Let’s puke up some sunshine and piss some rainbows, it will all be fine.

It’s not fine. There is nothing fine about being mentally ill. If our illness showed up on some blood test or scan or X Ray, no one would hold us to that same high standard because broken bones and infections and such can hinder one’s ability to function at a uniform pace. Mental illness has no such test therefore is treated like some “maybe it exists” theory. “You don’t work because you’re lazy, it’s not that you can’t work.” “You avoid crowds because it makes you uncomfortable, panic is just an excuse.”

THIS mentality is why I rant and rage. And some shit should piss you off. Complacency is the biggest flaw in humanity. “All it takes for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing.” And by acquiescing to the “rah rah, it’s all about your attitude” mentality…We are doing nothing and evil, in the form of stigma and damage to our own psyches, is winning.

Furthermore, my “negative” attitude as everyone sees it…Is actually my saving grace. When you expect the worst, you can only ever be pleasantly surprised. There is no lose there. Whereas if you are an optimist and yet keep getting proven wrong…That’s nothing but loss. So I hide behind the shield of “Everything sucks” and hope, just hope, to be proven wrong. Cautious optimism. It’s a shame how few people, especially the professionals, can grasp that concept. I getting your hopes up has resulted in so many disappointments that it’s crushed your spirit, perhaps that’s why my way works. I can only go up if I assume it will be the worst.

Now I will step down off my soapbox and talk softly. It will still sound hateful and ranty but apparently it’s part of hypomania. (What’s next, the doctor declares my desire to stab people with sporks a normal response to being smiled at due to hypomania?)

I’ve done little thus far. Watched The Night Shift and The Following. (No spoilers, but the suspense made me need a Xanax, how the fuck could Fox cancel such an awesome show????) My kitten Castiel was gaining weight and flourishing and now it seems he’s weak, skinny, and not eating. I am worried about the poor lil guy. He’s so very sweet.

My kid channeled Satan last night. It was milder than the really bad days, but wow, is she a gifted little troll. (I have no idea who she could have gotten that from.) R called to tell me that between his mistake and mine, it was actually a blessing and he repaired a TV for quite a profit. (His wife told him he had to be nicer to me and made him call me to say so, ha ha ha ha.) I finished Michael Palmer’s “The Society”. Managed care sparks the same cringe in me as the sight of maggots. Ick ick ick. I should be doing stuff. But the birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and while I’m not feeling suicidal or particularly hopeless…There is this blanket of  numb apathy, like I can see it all going on, I know the proper response is happiness and calm, but I can’t get to it. It’s behind ten layers of gauze and I peel and peel but still…Flat affect is part of hypomania. Blah blah blah. I should think it’d be called depression, not being able to feel happiness. If I wanted to be emotionally dead, I’d go back on Lithium.

But hey I still have my anger issues so I guess I’m only dead inside to the positive. I am going to pick up the Trileptal today and hope for the best. I always go into a new med with side effect dread and yet that sliver of hope that this could be “the one” to make it all come together. One thing I am going to head off before it starts is the seasonal. Around August shrink and I are going to start discussing a preemptive strike. And telling me to buy a lamp because it’s the only thing that helps seasonal is absolute idiocy. I’ve tried it. The light isn’t the problem as I actually prefer night time. But it is going to be addressed ahead of time, unlike last year when I was doing okay so the shrink at the time scheduled my for five months later and refused to discuss the seasonal because “you’re doing ok now, let’s not bring on problems that aren’t already there.” Within three months, I was meeting the emergency on call guy.

Not this year. NOPE. I defer to their judgment and get screwed every time. Only one it reflects poorly on is me, the doctors don’t get critiqued when meds fail or your cycle shifts.

Now…this traffic jam called my thoughts needs to be sorted out so I can pick a direction to go and accomplish something. Or maybe today I just say fuck it. I feel so flat, indifferent, apathetic, that it doesn’t really matter what I do. It’s not going to inject me with emotion that simply isn’t there. My happy bone is broken. My sad bone, as well. Apparently only the angry bone  is still working.

Angry bone. That just sounds so wrong.

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