Archive for June, 2015

Cymbalta Induced Hypomania

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

I’m out of bed. Medicated. As usual, the morning dose of Cymbalta has given me this hypomanic boost. It doesn’t last long, but it’s still a nice start to a day you’re not looking forward to. At this moment, I am feeling creative and listening to music and yet…I still don’t want to enter the dish or deal with R. After four days inside, I really should want to be around others, get out of the house. Yet I don’t. I finally got the anxiety at a comfortable volume. Now it’s gonna be turned up again and I don’t want it to be. Dealing with the dish is a part of life I have to deal with but my mental state is so much better when that forced interaction is by choice and controlled on my part. With anxiety, it’s less being a control freak and more a desperate need to be able to escape when it hits. That’s why I’ve always loathed going places with other people. Then I am at their mercy because they drove and there’s no true escape.

Also no escape is R. He habitually says shit like, “Can you pop by for an hour or so?” And then four hours later, I’m still there because he wants to have a smoke break every ten minutes, wander aimlessly “thinking” or he’s working on something and “can’t think of what he wanted me to do” at the moment. It’s frustrating as fuck. Especially when I have my kid with me or the anxiety is particularly bad. I know I’m a big grudge holder, but sometimes, I think it’s warranted. I can never forget when I got a call telling me my kid had hurt her eye at mom’s and I wanted to bolt to check on her and he had the audacity to say, “Can you go get my beer first?” Who the fuck does that without realizing what a complete ass they’re being? I should let it go but I’ve been taught well by those around me. Every misdeed of mine can be dredged up at any time. Cuts both ways.

I should just go, rip off the band aid, so to speak. What I don’t get is if he just needs parts ordered why he can’t give me the numbers and let me do it from home. So much easier for me that way, I have all his account info so there’s no need for me to actually go there other than his dislike of not having an audience to make him feel less alone. As irritating as he finds my kid and my moods, you’d think it’d be an ideal solution. As is the running joke with R and Kenny, though, logic has no place there.

I wrote six more pages last night. It’s like trudging uphill in molasses because I really am not feeling *that* necessary spark and the original draft is long gone, lost with an ass tone of my stuff when R’s basement flooded years ago. (Not that you can find anything that actually reads an old double density disk now anyway.) Other than a general idea and the main characters, I am starting from scratch. But the idea is inspired by Skid Row’s song “18 And Life” so I have an idea where I need to go. Just getting there is the challenge. I’m not in my hot zone where the words flow like so much venom spewing. Still…Writing  a little is better than not writing at all.

AND I am listening to music again. Given, I can’t do it in long spurts or play it too loud but I’m taking baby steps. And resenting that I even need to take baby steps. This mental illness shit sucks. You get better, you get worse, you sink and go under, you emerge, then do it all again. Or at least it’s like that for me. Maybe I am just a freak.

I slept last night, in spurts. Kept waking up with Absinthe curled up beside me. My sister told me she’d given me the bitchiest kitten of the bunch and can’t believe I’ve turned her into a cuddle bug. I have a way with cats. I suck with people skills. If they were just more like cats…

Right out of the gate this morning I saw a reblog where the blogger got all these comments from some troll about how “fat people should be forced to lose weight for the good of society.”

Stupid people should be shot for the good of society.

Seriously…How about you fat shamers back the fuck off? Because it’s your idea of perfection that creates a world full of people with eating disorders trying to meet some ideal that may just not be in their genetics no matter how much they starve themselves.

AND…Everyone has an opinion and they all differ. I remember watching an episode of Ghost Whisperer when the donor was still here and he said, “Look at the size of her ass!” Jennifer Love Hewitt is like a size two or size zero, for fuck’s sake. I’m like extra large and bigger in clothes, so what does that say about my ass size? There’s just no way any of us can meet the ideals of others. So let us be who we are and fuck off because if we were assholes like the fat shamers, we could find a dozen flaws about them we personally think they should change.

What day is complete without something to rant about?

I should get dressed. I don’t think I am going to. Not feeling it. Yet. Kind of like to ride out the Cymbalta high before I make any choices, otherwise I might go out with no pants and clown shoes on my feet. Mania of any sort makes you a little wacky. I suppose the fact it sets of hypomania with each dose should worry me. After months of being utterly insane…I like the boost. As long as it doesn’t turn full blown mania, I’m good. And the dr has made it clear that 60mg is as high as he is gonna take me on this anti depressant. Which is weird because I thought 90 was the therapeutic psych dose. Of course, with bipolar, it’s a tightrope act trying to find the happy medium where the med helps but doesn’t spark mania.

Tightrope act. That pretty much describes bipolar and anxiety. With my lack of coordination and balance…it’s no wonder I’m constantly falling on my face. Or it could just be that I was hypomanic and decided to try to walk the tightrope while wearing big clunky clown shoes.


Dish Triggers

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , on June 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

After three days of little dish exposure and some semblance of a return to sanity…It was shattered. R called, asking me to pop by the shop tomorrow. Suddenly my anxiety sky rockets, my mood is tainted, and I am filled with dread. This, from doing a favor for a friend. Not scary, not something I haven’t done a hundred times…Just the anticipation of going out in the dish with its noise and traffic and people triggers me. Add to it my mom and sister are both sick thus contagious so I have to take Spook with him and that annoyed His Royal Assholiness.

On the plus side, I might get a pack of smokes out of it. On the sucky side, IT’S THE FUCKING DISH AND ITS DWELLERS.

I was doing so well. Now I don’t even feel like I can breathe, let alone write or enjoy the evening. It was always this way with jobs, too. That pending expectation, my trying to do battle with my own anxiety to meet those expectations and so often failing. The only time I could sleep, truly relax, sleep, and enjoy myself, was the night before my first day off. Then the second night would signal going back the following day and the anxiety would ramp up all over again. Some things never change, no matter how much you adapt your attitude. Triggers are triggers.

Makes me so mad how avoiding foods that cause you physical pain is viewed as smart yet avoiding situations that make you physically ill is considered some sort of bad coping mechanism.

It’s not 8:30 yet and already I am sweating over tomorrow’s dish adventure. Gotta get the spawn to sleep, get cryptified myself, so I can start the process of falling asleep three hours from now. Mind you, he didn’t tell me a specific time, probably lunch so I can fetch him food, but…The anxiety doesn’t care if it’s logical. Throw in an itchy ear and nose, which thanks to my mother and her idiotic superstitions convince me someone is talking bad about me and I am about to get a call or visit that is bad…

I was doing so well. And I want to be this super badass who doesn’t let it shake me. What I want to be and what I am are very different things. This “mindfulness” and forcing yourself to “buck up” pisses me off. If I could, I would. I want to be me again, and not for a couple of months a year when the meds decide to half ass work. I want to be so stable I see my shrink every six months. I want to be on the same combo that works regardless of my outer circumstances, my anxiety, my fiances…If I can perceive it all clearly and consistently, I can make it work. It doesn’t happen that way with my plethora of dysfunction.

I will just put one foot in front of the other and muddle through. Breathe again after tomorrow, I guess. Though every day I check my mailbox waiting for that response from the disability people is one more day I’ve lived in terror rather than actually being able to focus on my well being.

I can do this. I can do this. Maybe if I write it on a chalkboard a hundred times it will imprint. Though that shit never worked in school, I still chewed gum and talked to friends.

At least I bathed today and did the dishes. It’s not much but it’s something. I’m gonna keep telling myself that, too.

A Different Mental Space

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

I am in day three of being in this place I can’t quite describe. Not depressed, not happy. Just…different. Perhaps it’s because I finally started writing again. It’s not pouring out passionately but I am forcing it out in spurts. Depending on font type and size, I either have 22 pages or 34 pages. I started on one computer, moved to the laptop, and now my page count is wily nily since the fonts are different. Whatever. 22 or 34 pages, it means I’ve been writing. It’s just not going anywhere without the passion I normally have. I guess it’s like riding a stationary bike. You get nowhere  but at least you’re doing something. And I think doing something, even if only for a couple of peaceful hours at night once my kid is down, is helping.

The sleep thing is wily nily still, even more so perhaps, now that I am staying up til 1 a.m. writing. Which means come morning, after her waking me at 1 am wanting to chat for an hour, I’m lingering in bed listlessly. I miss the days when I didn’t need sleep. I miss that part of manic episodes the most. I need me time yet I also have to be mom and finding the balance between time and energy without the mania…suckage. I don’t know how my kid does it, waking up two, three times a night, still bounding out at 7 a.m. full of energy. Meanwhile, I am lolling in bed til 9 am, ten a.m., and it makes me feel slothful even though technically, I’m not sleeping more than I was. I’m just sleeping at different times. And I’m not gonna waste a whole lot of time feeling shitty about it because school will start again soon and I will, regardless of exhaustion, drag my ass out of bed to keep her schedule. Mostly because I really don’t want to go to jail for truancy. For now…I’m just gonna go with it. Not like I’ve slept “normally” for the last two years, anyway.

On the plus side, I did fall asleep with Absinthe purring on my pillow next to my ear. I don’t know what it is that is so comforting about a purring cat. I think that was one of the happiest moments when the donor walked out. I could finally sleep with my cats again and not worry about his bitching and moaning about them climbing on him and making biscuits or sleeping on his head. The fact he wasn’t a pet person should have been the red flag from the get go. Cats are my therapy, my heroin. It’s nice to have to watch where I roll over at night because six cats are hogging bed space. And the cats kick less and don’t snore like my darling daughter.

The one thing that remains absolutely the same is my sensitivity to noise. My kid literally is glued to me all day, every day. I can’t write-she interrogates every word. I can’t read email and she wants to know who I am “talking to”. I can’t watch shows because she questions every single thing. “Why is that guy on fire?” “He lit a cigarette while doused in gasoline.” “Why is he on fire?” Lather, rinse, repeat. Ten hours of that with her sitting at my elbow would annoy anyone. For me, the constant noise is like nails on a chalkboard. I don’t think a Xanax increase is gonna change that. No, what helps is bad for me. Everything that helps, cigarettes and alcohol, are bad for me. If their magic meds worked so well, I wouldn’t need the other. I just…it’s not necessarily specific to my kid. I just get irked by chatty people.I even get irked by people who are quiet but just present. In my space. Making it hard for me to breathe, to relax, to not feel self conscious because I feel like my every facial expression is being scrutinized. (Thanks for that scar, donor.)

Fortunately, it was a quiet weekend. Dad and clan visited yesterday for about twenty minutes but they brought food for my cats so I can take that bullet. (I’m shallow but there’s gotta be a benefit to all his criticisms.) Had a ninety minute stand off with my spawn yesterday. I fixed her mac and cheese for supper per her request. She had a fit because it was the green box, not the blue box. Then she wanted extra cheese so I added some and she didn’t like that. I am so fed up with her wasting food and changing her mind from Monday to Tuesday. It may be a kid thing, but I don’t have the money to waste on her whims. So I made her sit that whole time and told her she would not be getting anything else to eat. I dug my heels in. And I won. It took all that time but she ate it. And for being such a jerk to me and calling me stupid, she got no dessert, no snacks aside from grapes. Turns out, I’m a pretty badass disciplinarian when my meds aren’t making me more mental than I already am.

The difference since quitting Trileptal has been amazing. There’s always the question if it’s just placebo effect because I didn’t like how it made me feel but with my history of med sensitivity and adverse effects…I don’t think so. I think it was just a bad med for me. Most of them are. Not my fault my body chemistry is rebellious and contrary. It’s almost like without that haze, the Cymbalta seems to be perking me up a bit. Least from an energy standpoint. I tackled ALL the laundry and got it folded, which for weeks, was an impossibility. I haven’t dusted or anything and I am sure that’s considered filthy by most but ya know what? Fuck it. Baby steps.

Need to mow the lawn. All the rain made it grow like a fungus in a dark wet place. Landlord will be on my ass before long. Which is ironic because my neighbor hasn’t mowed her lawn for two months and the other side of the trailer park has toys and trash in the road and no one over there mows or even picks up. I think I get singled out because of all the stray cats. As I’ve told them, if there are hungry cats and I have food, I am gonna feed them, sue me, it’s who I am. If it’s such a problem, get animal control to haul them off. I can’t do it.

While I am feeling less dooms day-y (yes, it’s a word), I am still not in a place where I want to go out or be around people. It’s just too stressful right now. I can’t be worried about being offensive or being mistaken for rude. I have to focus on my own progress. Which will be hindered if I spend too much time in the dish and around non supportive people. It’s not avoidance. It’s just knowing what is best for me.

I think that’s about it. I am gonna leave on this note. This is not a song or band I’d ever have been left to my own devices. But it was played during the final scene of the series finale of The Following as Hardy walked away…And it just fit the scene’s mood and since then…It’s infected me. Little obnoxious at times, but…I like it.




The Challenge Of Parenting With Depression

Posted in depression with tags , , , on June 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

The haze of depression and med changes as of late (or as is the norm) have impacted my parenting ability. She’s fed, she’s clothed, she gets affection and I read to her and play with her…But some things fall through the cracks. Like last Monday when we went out and I didn’t even notice her shirt was on inside out and her shoes were on the wrong feet. She had a well kids check up Wednesday and I was horrified when she stripped down and her socks were mismatched, stained, one inside out, her panties had a big stain on the booty. Even the bottoms of her feet were a little dirty and I scrambled to get a wet paper towel and clean her off before the doctor came in. I’d given her a shower the night before so I was aghast at how she’d gotten so dirty.

We had an impromptu lunch with Mrs R Friday. Of course, I’d let my kid dress herself and I didn’t even notice until the lunch proposal, with the playplace, was brought up, that Spook had failed to wear socks. Fortunately, I am a pack rat and carry bags of stuff in the car I forgot to take in at some point and I found her a pair that didn’t match her outfit and one ankle had a big hole in it. Slightly mortifying, but not fatal. Once we were there with the banshees running loose, Mrs. R pointed out a little toddler girl and said, “Look how dirty the bottoms of her feet are. There’s a mother who doesn’t care about her kid.”

Had I not doubled up my Xanax that day, I just might have started freaking out, burst into tears, and screamed I AM DOING THE FUCKING BEST I CAN, GET OFF MY BACK!

It’s true. When you juggle mental illness, things have a way of escaping your notice. Things others consider important, like appearance, become pretty low on your scale of importance. I’m at the point where making Nutella sandwiches is draining and yet, my kid is supposed to have every hair in place and not a smudge of ice cream on her face at any time? Yeah, it’s just not gonna happen. I fuck up. I miss things. But to my credit, she’s never spent a day in the hospital, never had stitches, never had a broken bone. I care for my child, keep her fed and warm and healthy.

What does polite society care about? The lopsided ponytail that mommy can’t get straight to save her life. The stain on the shirt mommy didn’t see because she has such a light sensitivity, she keeps the lighting at home minimal and doesn’t see things until in the light of day. Or God forbid I don’t stalk her as she comes out of the bathroom and make sure underwear and waist band aren’t all bunched together. THOSE are the sins in society’s eyes.

Never mind how hard I try. How well I have done, considering how many parents without mental illness just walk out on their kids rather than try. I don’t get credit for trying med after med and dealing with side effects, all in an effort to feel better and do better by my kid. Nope. Lopsided ponytails are a sign of abuse and the apocalypse. One of the harshest critics on the appearance matter is my own mother. “I never sent you girls out looking like a rag muffin!” Or when my kid got hair lice and I didn’t notice (because they were doing the checks at school and even they missed it) and my mom started screaming, “She has raw spots on her scalp, don’t you even care about your kid?They’re gonna take her away from you!”

I miss stuff. I admit it. I am flawed, imperfect, often apathetic or too goddamned depressed to see what’s in front of me. I get the important stuff right, or half ass right. She gets registered and put into school. Gets school pictures, goes to some of the functions provided mommy isn’t in her paranoid “can’t leave the house” state. I let her have friends over and go to playdates.

But lopsided ponytails and shoes on the wrong feet…I don’t think it makes me  a monster of a mom. I think society is so hung up on appearances that it overshadows the important stuff. Her homework gets done. We write her letters and read together. We have our own silly little games we play, catch phrases we use. I am an involved parent. I’m just not PTA soccer mom. And it’s okay. I still feel like shit when I drop the ball, of course. It’s just not the end of the world like some think it is.

I remember my pre-mom days, when I was so arrogant and snotty and judgmental. I’d see a kid in public with a snotty nose or schmutz all over their face and think, “I’d never let my kid look like that, it’s just lazy.” And for some parents, perhaps it is apathy. For me…It’s just a juggling act and I do my best. Because I’m a single mom and I don’t have a choice but to do what I can and if it’s not all perfect and pretty…So be it. Provided she doesn’t have hair ferrets (inside joke) or smell like feet…I think I am doing okay. I just have more realistic standards than others.

My mother tells me my imperfection when it comes to my kid’s appearance is going to result in Spook being teased and treated like the poor scuzzy kid. Guess what? Growing up, WE were treated like the poor scuzzy kids no matter how clean we were because our parents couldn’t afford brand name clothes, we didn’t have a “good” last name, our house was ramshackle, our cars were old. Kids are going to be judged no matter how pretty they look. My mom, of course, has a different memory of the past and somehow thinks me raising my kid in a trailer park is the kiss of death for her socially. Oddly, at my kid’s age, WE lived in a trailer.

Obviously, insanity runs in the family because my mom is mad as a hatter.

I was watching a show and this white couple adopted an African baby. The dad thought people were staring because their baby was black and he went off on them. Turned out the other parents were glaring because the baby’s hair was a mess, lopsided pigtails and frizz. And I just sat here, shaking my head. It’s one thing to look presentable. But this insistence on high fashion even for grubby handed little kids who’d just as soon shampoo with their food than eat it…It’s so asinine it’s humorous.

I also get a little uncomfortable when I hear stuff like, “I’ve never even raised my voice with my child.” I raise my voice all the time. Sometimes because she’s down the hall and half deaf.Other times because the first six times I’ve spoken softly have had zero impact and the satan voice gets shit done. There are worse things than raising your voice to a child. Besides, I can’t help it if my authoritative voice sounds like I’m channeling satan.

There’s so much pressure, even for parents without mental illness, to be some kind of wonder parents who gets everything just right. Life isn’t flawless. Life is messy and ugly and full of lopsided ponytails and ice cream smeared faces and raised voices and stained clothes.

For me, each day I am able to drag myself out of bed, tend to her needs, and get done what has to be done even though I am drowning in depression or anxiety…I consider myself wonder parent. I wish society would stop with the parent shaming. There’s an enormous difference between your kid looking a little worse for the wear or your kid being filthy, sickly, and malnourished. I’m doing my best, even if some days it’s not good enough for me. I keep trying, no matter what my failures are.

I have depression. I am a mom.

And quite honestly…my own ponytail is pretty lopsided and I simply don’t give a damn. I brushed my hair at least.



Glad, Sad, Or Mad- Out Of The Mouths Of Babes

Posted in biolar disorder, mental health with tags , , , , , on June 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Towards 11 am today my kid starts looking at me. I’m just sitting here, watching Grey’s Anatomy and she asks, “Are you glad, Mommy?” I said no. “Are you sad, Mommy?” I said no. “Are you mad, Mommy?” I said nope.


Oh, how I wish those three simple emotions were the only ones in my emotional repertoire. With bipolar, you often feel so many emotions swirling like funnel clouds, you miss the simplicity of simply feeling pissed off or sad. I tried to explain to her, “I’m not mad or sad or glad, I’m just here. Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine.”

She proceeded to insist I had to choose one of the three options. Trying to talk her out of anything is as futile as banging your head against a brick wall. But she’s turning six in August so it’s not as if she’s had a lifetime to be introduced to the emotional spectrum. Glad, sad, and mad are about her entire repertoire. Hell, it’s not easy to explain to adults. If you don’t have a mental disorder, then you don’t really get what it means when someone says, “I’m here.” It’s neither good or bad. It’s just…statement of fact. Most adults think it’s some pessimistic or grumpy response. It’s not. There are some days when you’re just apathetic or feeling level and you’re here. Period.

It’s nine p.m. I haven’t cryptified yet. Probably won’t for awhile. The spawn took a nap (which she hasn’t done since she was three) so she will be wound for sound for hours to come. Fortunately, I’m feeling this tiny hypomanic buzz rather than my normal crash into the abyss. The buzz won’t stick around but I’m gonna go with it. Maybe I will actually get the courage to read what I wrote last night. It will either be face palm and shame, or a  bunch of  “This isn’t bad, but I’m gonna rewrite this and that and tweak this and that…” Maybe.

I did dishes today. Cooked myself a decent meal. Which I’d wanted to do all week and started to do Thursday night…Only to realize all the meat I’d thawed out had spoiled because it got pushed to the back and I forgot about it. Fuck. I was mega pissed at myself, I don’t have money for that shit.

I had all those baskets of clean but unfolded laundry that were taunting me for weeks. I decided to take a different approach. I rewashed it all. BUT I did it one load at a time, and as soon as a load came out of the dryer, I folded it and put it away. I work better in little increments. Don’t get as overwhelmed. I will do another load or two tomorrow, depending on if I am feeling it. I’m cautiously optimistic here, but I am also coming off Trileptal, three weeks into the Cymbalta, which was increased twice, and now my Xanax has gone up so it would be a big mistake to think I’m solid. It’s gonna be awhile.

But last week I was pondering the proper way to cut my wrists and this week I am not, so I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say…Trileptal fucked me up.

GRRR. I wish the idgets who created Kidz Bop would choke on pointy Doritos. Pop music is bad enough. Kids singing crappy music and forcing parents to listen to their own kid sing along for hours is just cruel and unusual. Fuck waterboarding. Do this to the terrorists, they’ll tell all to escape this shit.

Spook asked earlier why I sometimes tear up when watching tv shows. “It strikes a chord.” That’s all I could say, as if she has a clue what that means. It’s weird, because my mom used to bawl all the time over TV when we were kids and my sis and I would make fun of her relentlessly for being so silly and mushy. But then my mom sobbed, I just slightly tear up during particularly poignant scenes. It’s wondermous to be able to feel something again.

All this positivity is making me throw up a little. If I thought it would stick, it’d probably be less sickening. I just know this road too damned well to take it too seriously. Meds don’t stabilize in a few days, especially when taking away one or adding one or changing dosages. This is just part of the cycle. Still…I don’t mind it.

Thing is…I can feel myself slipping. I always get that jolt of “up” for a couple of hours after taking my evening dose of Cymbalta. Oh, well. Go with it. I mean, the kid has been yapping at me all day and she’s asked at least a thousand questions. That’s gonna exhaust anyone, right? Especially when it’s the same questions and no answer you give is ever good enough. Kids really should come with mute buttons.

Actually, all humans should come with one. Including myself, so I could just hit it and avoid the foot in mouth disease I get during my moods.

Kidz Bop is just a synonym for “audio ipecac”. Wikipedia needs to put that on their page.

Creativity And Mental Illness

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , , , , on June 27, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

If you read this blog even semi regularly, then you know I’ve been in a neverending battle with a seasonal depression that won’t lift and so many med changes and reactions, I’m barely coherent. I muddle through but I’m fairly anhedonic and overwhelmed.

Add to this that I am a writer- fiction, novel length, type things and when writer’s block and a bad mental state hit simultaneously..Bad juju all around. Writing is my outlet. Blogging is mental spewage. I NEED my fiction, my world to escape to where my mental illness can’t taint me. Truth be told, though, sometimes it does taint my writing. My mental state dictates where my stories go, whether my characters remain consistent or moody, if I even follow my own loose plan of where I wanted to take it.

I reread my work and I can tell you exactly where I was in my mood cycle or anxiety cycle. If I am manic, that, too shows in my writing. It’s like torture to have the one thing I actually don’t suck at affected by my imbalances.

For weeks now I have bemoaned in this blog my frustration at the depression and anxiety, as well as the cursed writer’s block. I know if I could just lose myself in a world not my own, I might actually come out of the depression a little or if nothing else, be distracted enough not to wallow in my current mental health misery. I’ve tried. I sit down, stare at the blank page, taunted by that blinking cursor. It’s the same novel I started back in 2007 and I just keep writing hundreds of pages, blocking, starting over. My last long streak was in 2013, I wrote for eight straight months. Coincidentally, my doctor took away my anti depressant as the seasonal kicked in and I was on dual mood stabilizers. I fell apart. Yet my writing was like a virus flowing through my body and it just flowed. I want to, NEED to, finish this book. THIS one. Especially now that the Focalin is sort of helping me stay on track.

I sat down last night and faced the blank page. And nothing. Just more anger and frustration. So I said fuck it, laid down, tried to watch a crime documentary. But my mind wouldn’t slow down. I was like a woman possessed. I desperately needed to write. It hit me…Why not abandon the story consuming me and revisit an old one? It seemed pretty pointless.

By midnight, without really trying, I’d hammered out 15 pages. I don’t know if it’s drivel. I just let it flow until I hit a stopping point I was comfortable with. I will reread it today and go from there. The point is…FIFTEEN FREAKING PAGES. I thought about keeping it a short story and posting it in my blog in installments. But then I realized…Even while writing it with that in mind…I’m censoring myself. Trying not to be offensive when in fact, my writing is very offensive, laden with swearing and sex and all the dark stuff people relegate to the dregs of society. That’s who I am, that’s what I write. By trying to tame it down for public consumption I’ve betraying myself and it makes me feel shitty. I need to be true to myself.

So maybe not this blog. Maybe never any blog. I don’t know.


Needless to say, I feel pretty good today. Not great as in mood, just…like I kicked down a brick wall. Creativity is fickle though. It may stick, it may not. I accomplished something. And not even my warped mental illness riddled mind could stop me, for once.

It’s cause for hope. I may just write for me. I don’t need accolades. I don’t particularly want attention. I just love to write. This blog was more of a way to find a support system for my mental health battle, not seeking attention. I write for the love of writing. And maybe that’s as it should be. Maybe that part of myself is just for me and by sharing it, I’d be allowing my soft underbelly to be open to attack. Perhaps I’m not that brave.


I am always evolving. Who knows what is possible.



Pushing Boundaries

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , on June 27, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Ventured into the dish today. Did a trip to Aldi. (Icky.) Took R’s meal to the shop, he had me fetch smokes but he bought me some, too, so all’s good. Went by the house. Had the new wifi set up in less than  twenty minutes. (He plugged the router in but didn’t bother adding the network to the computer with the new SSID and passcode, derp.)

Mrs R caught me off guard when she announced she was taking me and Spook to McDonald’s for lunch. Middle of lunch hour, in the room with the Playplace, noise, people…Thankfully I’d had a full mg of Xanax by then. It was uncomfortable, but even before we went in…She asked, “It’s pretty crowded, are you gonna be okay?” I’ve known her four years and she’s more grasping of my anxiety thing than R is and I’ve known him almost twenty years.

I managed. Spook played. All the shrieking kids was a little much for me, kind of made polite conversation difficult. BUT I MADE IT. I was proud of myself. And relieved to get back to my bubble. But rather than flake out, I pushed my own comfort zone and survived. For every time this happens, there are ten times when projectile vomiting and sweating panting breakdowns involved. Baby steps. I  keep trying, gotta count for something.

Wasn’t til after we got back Spook started channeling Satan. Guess she could tell the Xanax was worn off after the dish trip, what better time to act out. Oh, well.

Soon it will be bedtime and I can breathe. I’ve not revived enough to want to think beyond that. I’ve been through so many med changes in such a short time, it’s amazing I’m still upright and moderately coherent. I’ve got to stop putting so much pressure on myself. Maybe this doctor doesn’t think the meds have withdrawal or aftermath but as he’s never taken them personally, he is clueless. Probably gonna need a few weeks to straighten out. If I can do a trip to Mickey D’s during lunch hour even though my give a damn is busted…There’s hope, right?

I’m gonna go with it. Maybe it will add “delusional” to my diagnosis.