Cymbalta Induced Hypomania

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.


9 Responses to “Cymbalta Induced Hypomania”

  1. Wish I could do or say something useful, but I’m as fucked as you are, so here’s a feeble *airpunch* in solidarity instead.

  2. just put pants on…don’t want to explain to the dish about the leprechauns…

  3. Ehh,,, pants are overrated, summer time ya know,,, besides anything goes anymore, lol 🙂

  4. Cymbalta Psyche dose is 90 mg and I take it at one time, not split.

    • I guess my record reflects that the 90 made me manic so the doc is just being conservative. I can’t fault him for that because at 90, I did go off the rails manic and ended up not paying my power bill for two months while buying stuff I didn’t need.
      Just hope the 60 does its thing for awhile. Any relief is welcome at this point.

  5. I Absofuckintutely love that ~ Moody Gras! Bahahaha!

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