Archive for July, 2015

Blood Is The New Black

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , on July 31, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I do so love giving my posts a quirky “wtf” title. Today’s is brought to you by the title of a episode of some crime show I saw on youtube. I like it.

Besides, it may end up being appropriate. My kid is playing with a glow in the dark meat cleaver I got her for Halloween years ago, thinking plastic is going to cut things up. She’s also packing her make up around in one of those velvet Crown Royal bags, which I damn well know my sister gave her because I would never pay that much for my booze. Fuck quality, give me quantity.

I broke down and showered at bedtime last night because well, it wasn’t cooled down enough and I felt icky so I mustered all my strength for the exhausting hair washing excursion. Then I took 0.5 mg Xanax and eventually fell asleep. That made 2.5 mg for the whole day (thank you dr appointment) and yet…Still took awhile to nod off. Then came the dreams. And the waking up again and again.

To add to the joy, I got water in my ear in the shower and now it won’t come out. On one hand, yay, it’s a damper on my kid’s noise. On the other, it’s like hearing everything in mono instead of stereo. Heavy metal in mono, does not want.

I feel like living dead girl. That appointment and its disappointment outcome really set me back a lot. I’d had such hope for this doctor, was being so optimistic and hopeful. See what it gets me? I felt he was dismissive yesterday, took maybe eight whole minutes with me. And no doubt the fact I had pants on and my kid was with me meant I am all cured. So frustrated. It pissed me off,  never mind the factual nature of the comment, that he said it so dismissively. “Oh, you’ll enjoy things again, you don’t stay in one mood for too long.” Yep, eight months in a depression is pretty fucking mild. I’m just dramatic.

Of course, I read about what Zoe has to deal with and feel bad for even bitching because while my care is iffy, hers is just offensive to human kind.

Thing is,it’s the norm rather than the exception. For every one who gets a good mental healthcare team, there are dozens of us being given Snoopy band aids for our gaping wounds. And yet society can’t figure out why mental health problems are so prevalent and not improving.

It should piss us all off and make us angry. We’re programed to believe that because we have a mental issue, all our anger is misplaced, unhealthy, and a byproduct of our disorders. I maintain that certain things, like lackluster mental healthcare, child abuse, animal cruelty- such things should make everyone steaming mad.

I am supposed to take the car by the shop today so R can finish putting in that stereo, he ran out of connectors last night so only two speakers are connected and it needs the dash plate replaced. I’m not feeling it, of course. I need to do dishes, finish laundry, mow the lawn. And it’s already humid as fuck and I’m having trouble breathing.(Please note on the milder days, I don’t complain, but when it gets so warm I can barely breathe and have cat hair sticking to my moist skin…I am gonna bitch incessantly cos it’s just uncomfortable.)

I did something yesterday that was very liberating. I got that five bucks from R’s stepdad for burning that disc and there was a yard sale across from where we had to get cat food…So I stopped and I’ll be damned if they didn’t have the giant two foot long wooden tiki fork and spoon you put on the wall. I’d had them once before back in the past, no clue where they went. When the donor was around, I’d commented how much I wanted them again. And he got his panties in a bunch and said nooo, those are tacky. Well, I haggled with the yard sale lady, got them for a buck each, and put them on my kitchen wall. I am tacky, fuck off. It felt like finally, I’ve been able to cut loose of all his judgments and snobbery. I mean, I’ve been doing what I want all along for the most part, but this particular act of “rebellion” felt damned good. I like what I like, who gives a damn if it’s tacky. My first husband had beer lights and mirrors and have naked beer chick posters and these awful bull horns mounted above the bed…I didn’t like it, cos it wasn’t my thing, but we agreed to disagree. The donor just felt so judgey, I felt like I had to adapt to his tastes. Now I just need a fucking spork to go with ’em 🙂 LONG LIVE TACKINESS.

It’s kind of like the idgets who make snarky comments about the rock posters on my walls. “You’re not a teenager, when are you gonna grow up?”

Never. Is never good for you? I like ’em, it’s who I’ve always been, ‘cos I love rock n roll. Yeah, I’m 42, big fucking deal. My mom is 65 and her room is a damned Elvis shrine. Not all of us want perfectly coordinated duck patterns or cow everything. My eclectic mix of used kitsch is fun for me. Who does it hurt?

It feels good. I broke free of the emotional stuff with the donor a couple of months after he was gone. Never liked him anyway, always found him snobby and fake, my gut knew he was not my kind of people. I’ve railed endlessly about his abandoning Spook and once again, that should make anyone angry. You leave your partner, you don’t abandon your own flesh and blood. But the rest…I didn’t even miss him, I was relieved once he was gone. And now…It feels like I’ve even cut loose all his judgments that made me so ill at ease and probably sparked me judging him back.

Now for the next chapter, which terrifies me. R has been bitching at me incessantly the last four years to go after the donor, mercilessly, for child support. I tried the paperwork once, but I missed a deadline and I was just a mess, so I let it slide while the depression raged. After that, it was just like, ya know, when I signed her up for public aid, they assured me if he was working, he’d be paying, they just let them go four or five years until it adds up to a certain amount. Between R and my dad nagging on me, I was rebelling and in denial that I needed to take care of it. Always hoping he’d do the right thing without a court having to tell him to.

Last week, after R bitched at me some more, I used his printer and went to the state website and printed out the papers. For the last week, they’ve been sitting there. Because I know what the donor said about his other kids. If he wasn’t paying, he had no right to see them. If he does pay, then he expects to see them. Well, after four years and all his sociopathic mind games, and my current less than stellar mind frame…I’m petrified to open that door. And I’ve already told R that he’s gonna be the go between because I absolutely cannot deal with The Donor. It’s not some petty hate thing or jealousy that he replaced me a younger more mousy model to dote on his every word. It’s because he has always played mind games, and used my condition against me, to distort things to the point I had to take notes cos I thought I was making shit up and losing my mind.

But it’s not about me, it’s about Spook and I am gonna have to put on the big girl panties and handle the paperwork soon. I don’t see how it will help much, as he’s kind of transient. He works, but he changes jobs a lot, he’s known for ditching town when life gets “too depressing”. He’s not dependable, even if it comes out of his check. If he quits that job and it takes awhile for him to find another or he leaves the state…It’s just one more can of stressful worms I avoid because I’m already so clusterfucked. No excuse, just an explanation, and one I think makes absolute sense.

Still, pen and paper are avoiding each other.I am just better without him in our lives. And besides, he’s had four years where he could have placed a call, come to the door, even mailed her a birthday gift. He has chosen not to be involved, to not even pretend to care. I kept my address and all my numbers and emails the same, so I couldn’t be accused of keeping him from contacting her. He, on the other hand, stomped on his phone the night he broke up with me with a phone call and gave no forwarding address or new number. I think he’s a sociopath. I may be uneven but I feel guilty for being shitty to people. That makes me superior to him. Not in a snotty way, just…Oh, whatever.

When I sat down to write this like, eighty minutes ago, it was supposed to be a silly vapid “let me vent” short post. Not my strong suit, writing short posts. It’s like a Billy Mays commercial…”Call in the next ten minutes to get your free shipping….BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE!”

It occurred to me last night that I sent off my disability review papers at the end of February. Now it’s basically August and not a single fucking word. I know government moves at the speed of a stone statue, but still. The waiting is interminable. Cruel, for someone with an anxiety disorder and a kid to support. Knowing this current doctor probably won’t support my claim because of his apathy and dismissal has me gnawing my nails. Figuratively, since nail biting isn’t one of my bad habits. I just want to know, yay or fucking nay. Rip that goddamn bandage off. If they cancel me out…I’m gonna fight it. Not sure how to get by in the meantime as I’d rather live in a cardboard box than have to crash on a couch at one of the parents’ house…But I see enough every day in this town, people faking injuries, drawing disability, yet spending every dime on booze, drugs, partying. It’s disgusting. I’ve made every damned effort. I mean, 22 years of fucking doctors and meds and therapists and all their stupid little methods that don’t work. I have done everything I am supposed to do. I even track it every day with this blog. I get out of the house, I try to interact with others, force myself to do things, get my kid cared for and off to school, and now I’ve even found an amazing support system here on wordpress that has helped immensely in keeping me fighting the long depression and all the med nightmares…

I will not sit idly by while others abuse the system. In fact, I’ll probably be out with the video camera,catching all these fakers and their partying. I don’t party. I haven’t had a date in four years. I don’t go to concerts even though I love music. I have a legit illness. It makes me homicidal to think of all these people who don’t and are living it up. Mood providing, if I am canceled, I’m launching all out war.

And ya know, it’s not just people on social security disability. One of the worst offenders I’ve seen is this guy that hangs out with my brother in law. Complete and utter stoner who’d pop algae cleaner tablets if told it’d get him buzzed. He was in the army, great job, great income, got to travel, had a nice car…And then he decided he didn’t like not being able to get high and play X Box when it suited him so he did this whole mental breakdown bit. He gets discharged, hefty pension every month, no effort to find work, just lives with his grandparents, spends all the money on pot, and half lives at my mom’s playing video games with brother in law. That is sickening. This is the loser who calls me or shows up at my door a few times a year either looking for an easy lay (gotta love the reverberation from manic days when I did such shit) or asking if I have any heavy duty painkillers because “Niki always has drugs.”

Correction: Niki always had anti depressants and mood stabilizers. Last prescription painkiller I had was right after Spook was born and it was just a beefed up version of ibuprofen. I have never been one for pain killers, they make me loopy. Aside from when I had all my dental problems and had to have Tylenol with codeine, I don’t even remember having strong pain killers.Just goes to show how delusional some people are.

Oh, I just got my call to put one more spoke in the anxiety cycle, from her school. On line registration is open. I pre-registered her in June. Now I have to do it again, and I don’t remember my username and password for their website. Then I’ll have to go by the school to drop off the paper. Then on the 13th is open house night and you’re supposed to have all their school supplies by then. And I have yet to get her birthday present, and cough up the money for last year’s tech fee, plus this year’s as well.

Guess I won’t be getting any decent razors again this month and will have to continue maiming my bite laden legs with the twin blade 10 cent a razor weed whackers. I’m not a princess, I swear, but it just fucking hurts…

I could probably go on some more but I won’t. I just needed a good vent and purge. Now back to my new hobby of sweating my ass off (yet my ass never gets any smaller). Much like getting my head shrunk never seems to make my mental issues shrink any smaller.

Oh, and to add to my tragedy…Diane went and road a Giraffe through a grocery without me yesterday! (Don’t ask, it’s just funny.)

 

 

Advertisements

Bitch, poe-leeze!

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , , , on July 31, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Yep, I am watching  a documentary on haunted Baltimore and it made reference to Edgar Allen Poe, the “master of the macabre” to whose poetry people still flock to enjoy.

What. The Actual. Fuck.

Given, I’m not a literary savant and all, but how does he get to be admired as a master of the macabre but my darkness is viewed as some sort of pessimistic affect? In the words of the murderous Gage Creed in Pet Semetary, NO FAIR!

I came to the conclusion today that the doctor I see is a …PSYCHE!iatrist. Because he’s gotta be fucking with me. I went in, 1.5 mg of Xanax on board because right before we had to leave, Spook decided to have a screaming me about how horribly abusive I am. My sin? Making her put her shoes on the appropriate feet. I am a fucking a monster. But, I went in, a bit calmed yet still on edge. He asks, How are you.

Now, Spook has found books and toys in the office so she sits across the room being quiet, making me look like a histrionic for all my talk about her defiance and hyperactivity. One more reason for me to feel absolutely defeated. I told him, flat out, my energy is up with the Cymbalta and my former knee pain is non existent but I’m not sleeping and I don’t enjoy anything in life.

Now, after seven months of the interrupted sleep…Suddenly, he gives a fuck. He starts asking what I’ve taken. I tell him, making a quip about how I don’t want the Trazadone cos of the hangovers and I’d prefer to avoid the Ambien as I have no desire to sleep and drive. He was quick to point out that all sleep meds cause the hangover and while Ambien causes sleepwalking, all the reports of sleep driving and such are exaggerated and untrue because people mix Ambien with booze and drugs and THAT causes the bad side effects.

Sure. Just like I was totally making it up all the times I was on their assfuck Seroquel and drove over to see my mom yet had no memory of visiting her later and did NOT use a damned bit of booze or drugs.

He has determined Restoril (however it’s spelled) is necessary because I won’t get better until I start sleeping properly. I made it clear I have no use for the morning hangovers as I even get that from Melatonin. He gave zero fucks. I suppose I should whip out the pom poms and cartwheels since finally, the sleep issue is being addressed.

That seemed to be all he wanted to do. Every time I tried to speak, he started to speak, so we kept cutting each other off. But I wasn’t done speaking, so I think he was off base and just didn’t want to listen to what I had to say. I dug my heels in and absolutely demanded something be done about the lingering depression, especially with seasonal affective around the corner.

I asked, what about Wellbutrin, it’s supposedly good for seasonal affective and you suggested it months ago.

SUDDENLY, he says absolutely not as it is contraindicated for those with high anxiety. WTF, dude?

I asked about Depakote, as dual mood stabilizer therapy has worked for me before. He says, “I absolutely won’t prescribe it to women because it causes ovarian cysts.” Um, so the shrinks prior to you doled it out no problem and suddenly it’s a no no for women? HUH?

I asked about adding an other anti depressant, an SSRI with the SNRI, just for the seasonal months. He said it’s a possibility, but for now…Let’s just raise the Cymbalta to 90mg and it can go up to 120.

LAST MONTH HE SAID 60 WAS THE MAX DOSE FOR PSYCHIATRIC TREATMENT, ANY HIGHER WAS PAIN MANAGEMENT!!!!

To add insult to injury, he told me to talk to him toward October about the seasonal since that’s when it would likely be starting up. HELLO? THE POINT IS TO HEAD IT OFF BEFORE IT FUCKING STARTS!

He ushered me out hastily and I asked, “Am I ever gonna enjoy things again?” And he flippantly says, “Yes, you will, you’re never in one mood cycle for too long.”

I BEG YOUR FUCKING PARDON, I’VE BEEN IN A DEPRESSION FOR TEN MONTHS NOW!!!!!!!!!! I’d say that’s pretty goddamned long to be in a mood cycle, especially one where I enjoy nothing, can’t keep up with daily life, and frequently want to drink bleach.

What the fuck is wrong with these doctors? I know damn well what he tells me at every appointment because I come home and fucking blog it! He suggests Wellbutrin…Nope, two months later, not viable. He says 60mg is the max dose of Cymbalta for psych treatment, higher is for pain. Nope, I took that wrong, too. He told me we’d discuss the seasonal thing long before it started. Nope, let’s wait until AFTER it starts, and btw, only treatment is light therapy, if I say otherwise, I’m mad as a hatter.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCKING FUCK.

I’ve thought, many times, over the years, that I need to take a voice recorder to every appointment because while I may be shaky at times, I am not prone to making shit up or hallucinating. I damn well know what they tell me, then next appointment, they tell me otherwise, which makes me feel like I am losing my goddamned mind even more. Yet ya know, if I did tape the session, then present them with the proof when they do their PSYCHE!iatrist bullshit, they’d label me paranoid and probably suggest hospitalization rather than admit their own assfuckery.

To say I walked out dissatisfied and pissed off is an understatement. I don’t disagree with the Cymbalta boost, especially since he’s doling it out in 30mg so I can either take sixty a.m. and 30 p.m. or I can do three split doses. That’s cool. (I am out until Monday ‘cos I tried to divide the capsules into the split dose and well, it did not go well.) This restoril (misp?) I’m not too familiar with, he says it’s a benzo for sleep and if it makes me too hungover in the morning, I can take it earlier at night. Yeah, that’s makes sense, let me take it at 7pm to avoid the morning hangover while my child marauds and plunders during my coma time.

Again, wtf are these fuckers smoking?

I’m gonna let that rant go, otherwise I won’t sleep at all.

After that particularly ass trashy dish trip, I came home and tuned it all out. Can’t get the new meds til I have money on Monday. I was deflated, to say the least, as I’d had a lot of hope for this new doc. I just get the feeling he’s doing the drive thru pill pusher thing without regard to what’s going on. Doctors think the therapists should take care of everything but the pills. I’m of the mind that if the pills aren’t working, there’s fuck all the therapist can do. To get the right mix, maybe you spend a few minutes listening to your patient and understanding why they’re having the issues they are. More knowledge about an individual could only help in hastening proper treatment. Too bad logic doesn’t apply in mental healthcare.

I lolled in deflation land for a bit. Then I started doing little things here and there, mainly cat boxes, cleaning the floor a  bit. I hit my wall and said, small goal met, time to just be disgusted with it all.

After being good for awhile, Spook started in on me again, about the time I finally started to calm down. It was like, I gotta get out of this house, get her around someone else to drive nuts or I am gonna claw my own eyes out. So I went to R’s so he could swap out my car stereo since the old one was DOA and I still had the good one from the Not So Grand Am fiasco. Pay money for a car and walk away with little more than a Pioneer stereo. Stellar.

While sitting outside, the bugs ate me alive. His wife was sociable but she was either very tired or very pissed that he was wasting his evening on my bidding. In my defense…He said he’d do it after my car broke down. That was a year ago. So pardon me, but waiting patiently for a year gives me the right to kind of jump on the chance to get it done when he’s willing.

In new feline drama…I had two missing kittens this morning, Zatar and Arsenic. Found them in my closet, buried under stuff, where crazy bitch Nightshade packed them. They’re not her kittens. At first, I thought it was some sort of feline grief response as when Brimstone died, Shady had no kittens left. Imagine my shock when digging in my closet turned up two newborn kittens and I didn’t even know she was pregnant again. It’s obvious they are very premature and none of her kittens live, anyway. Gotta wonder why she was hoarding the three month old kittens that belong to Juju in the closet when she had two newbies of her own to care for. I put her in with her noobs repeatedly and she just left them crying, came back to drag Jujus kittens off. Finally, I put her in a pet taxi so the kittens will at least be fed. Shade’s had about fifteen kittens and only two have ever survived, so I don’t hold out much hope.

I’m running a damned cathouse minus the awesome income the ones in Nevada bring in, ffs.

Now…I think it’s bedtime. I’m cooked. Cat drama, doctor assfuckery, and I still haven’t worked in a shower. Damn it. I am gonna try to sleep tonight with .25 of Xanax, nothing more. The morning hangovers suck worse than going on a week long bender with vodka. And hopefully tonight, I won’t have nightmares about Spook’s little friend J breaking in and trying to stab me in my sleep.

It’s totally normal to have dreams about being murdered by a five year old, right? Bet my doctor would say it is.

To hell with killing all the lawyers. Stupid doctors should be first.

I have a bipolar disorder AND manic depression

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

Redundant, isn’t it? Well, you know my penchant for crime documentaries. I watched a couple the last few days and for documentaries, they reek of fiction. Do they not have fact checkers. “She suffered from bipolar disorder, as well as manic depression.” No fan of the Douchebaggery Simpleton Module here, but seriously. Get your facts accurate. Manic depression IS bipolar disorder. GRRR.

Interesting one was a 20/20 I just finished where this super rich, successful businessman was given anti depressants…Except he was actually in a mixed episode and he killed his two daughters because the darkness in his head told him to. Fucked up, but it’s very real when it comes to wrongly diagnosing a bipolar person with simple depression and feeding them anti depressants alone. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. I’m not gonna go into the “mental illness as an excuse” debate. What got me was the interview with him at the end when they asked him he was still having the dark thoughts now that he was in prison for life and on Lithium. And he said, “I haven’t been depressed a day since I came to prison, best mental health care I’ve ever had. I feel fine now that I am properly medicated.”

Isn’t that a shining example of the mental healthcare system? He had to kill his kids and go to prison, simply to get a proper diagnosis and proper meds and now, in spite of being locked up, having to live with the guilt of his actions…He’s not depressed or wanting to hurt people. Does this not prove that mental illness is real to the naysayers? More interesting was that he felt the people around him enabled him to remain untreated because all they saw was how successful he was at work, how much money he made, his fancy house- they made excuses for his behavior rather than showing alarm. He has a valid point. Yes, we with mental illness are responsible for seeking treatment, but also…Once you reach a certain point of being too far gone you’re paralyzed to help yourself…You need those around you to give enough of a damn to try to help. But no way could someone rich and successful have a mental illness, nope, that’s relegated to trash bag wearing under the bridge dwellers eating out of Dumpsters.

While disparaging the show’s “facts” I did find their statistics realistic. They claim it takes ten years, and four different psychiatrists, on average, before anyone is properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder. And that mimics my reality pretty closely. Again…Anyone still think mental healthcare is so fucking peachy?

Ok, enough tv chatter. Just found it interesting.

I choked myself with meds to sleep last night. Okay, bit dramatic, it was more like .75 mg Xanax and 1 mg of Melatonin but after three days of not sleeping much or well…I felt I was due for a good night’s rest. I rested, even if it took two hours to fall asleep. I had bizarre dreams out the wazoo. Woke up a couple of times. Sat up. Took a sip of water. Thought about having a smoke. Nope. Too laden with sleepy meds. Come morning and I’m peeling cobwebs off my brain yet my anxiety receptors are dancing the fuck lambada.

In three hours, I have to see the shrink. Joy, joy. I remember when I used to look forward to seeing my doctor. Okay, it was nine years ago and she was awesome but still…Being filled with this level of dread and anxiety every month is ass trash. Because it gets interpreted as hypomania which makes the doctor focus on the mixed/manic stuff instead of seeing that the depression is still throttling me even if with a lighter grip around my throat. I think I am just gonna take Spook with me rather than deal with the hassle of dropping her at mom’s then coming back twenty minutes later and her throwing a fit when I say she has to leave. It’s just easier, especially if she behaves as well as she did last time I took her.

Of course, that’s the wild card from hell. After my post last night in which I declared her the almost perfect child…It took only one thing to bring out the screaming demon. I told her she had to sleep in her own bed and thus sparked a ninety minute crying whimper YOU’RE MEAN fit. She literally was in my face yelling at me, like I was sacrificing her to satan by making her sleep in her own bed. All that good behavior and then…Hell.

To her credit, she has some self awareness even at her age. I calmly said, “You just don’t like the word no, I’m not mean to you.”

And she said, “I like the word yes, I want to hear YES!”

Points for honesty.

When she calmed down, I did end up letting her sleep in my bed but it was for me, not her. If I put her in my bed, she usually stays asleep all night. And I needed the rest.

A concern that I have now is, because we’ve both been so tortured with allergies and itchiness this summer, I have her Benadryl a couple of times as the loratadine non drowsy is a little pricy. It knocked her out. Now she thinks she cannot sleep without Benadryl. I don’t want to turn her into that person, the one who won’t even tough it out and try before reaching for the medicine cabinet. I despise taking medicine, any time I can skip it, I do. The other day, it hit me, I’d gone 22 hours without even taking a Xanax. Not because the anxiety wasn’t there, it just wasn’t out of my capability to exist with its presence. I don’t want her getting the notion that the solution to everything comes out of a medicine cabinet though I certainly understand her equating the sleepiness from the Benadryl enabling her to sleep all night in her own bed without “the friends in my head” telling her bad things. Except no matter what I take for sleep, it actually brings out the friends in my dreams. Bah.

I’ve already got the pounding heart and sweating thing from anxiety going on but I am loathe to take Xanax considering I am still trying to wake up from the sleepy meds of last night. I know last time I did a double dose Xanax right before the appointment so by the time I went in, I was a little too sedated to be panic stricken thus seem hypomanic. Try that again. I just want it over with, having it looming overhead is oppressive. It set off every panic receptor I have. It’s only milder when for stuff like going out with friends or having to register my kid for school or even her birthday shindig next week. I just have anxiety as a constant companion. I’m sure it’s my own fault, I invited the anxiety in someway and am too lazy/weak/insert excuse here, to shake it off.

R sent me a text informing me there’s a five dollar bill waiting for me at the shop and I was like, wtf for? I didn’t do anything. But I did burn a song to disc his mom and stepdad wanted for their dance classes so I guess in gratitude, the stepdad left me a five dollar bill for my troubles. Sweet. I can feed my cats for the weekend. I didn’t do it expecting anything though, it was ten minutes out of my day. No biggie but thankies. Meh, R’s mom and stepdad always did like me a lot. It was his mother who told me I needed to run, fast, before her son could destroy my life. I respect parents who love their kids but have no illusions as to what assfucks they can be.

I didn’t shower last night and I have no desire to today, either. I think I may change my cat hair encrusted shirt and just show up in my baggy pants I wore as jammies. He needs to see the real me of current days. The one who finds it torture to shower, worse to wear clothes not slept in, the make up hoarder who’s been bothered to use make up maybe four times in the last month. This is my current reality. Let me stab you with my rays of functionality so you can declare me much better. I swear, as long as you’re not dangling from a noose before their eyes, you’re just fine.

Once this appointment and dish outing is done…I will breathe. Until them I am in this hellish holding pattern, unable to focus on anything and just watching time tick by because until it’s over…I’m a deer frozen in the headlights. And I’ve tried adjusting my attitude, viewing it differently.

Panic receptors don’t give a fuck.

 

 

 

Foot Naked

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

Yep. Foot naked is my kid’s term for bare feet. I had to laugh when I told her she didn’t need shoes on right now and she burst out, “But, I can’t have naked feet, Mommy!”

Indoors, I am fairly sure it’s not indecent to have naked feet. Ya never know though, some states have some pretty obscure laws still on the books.

Once the dish outing was completed…It’s been a fairly calm day. Spook’s been a dream child, playing in her room, no fits, few demands. Not too hit. If I could just quash the noise of people, lawn mowers, weed whackers, traffic, and put a dimmer switch on the sun…I’d be golden.

I can feel the golden moment passing. Tis how it goes with me. When I can function “normally” I go with it, but I always end up tapped out and need recovery time. I don’t get how the very thing that seems to energize others and make life worth living is the very thing that makes me a basketcase.

I’ve done fuck all today but cook myself a meal. Or well, wrap it in foil and bake it. Well, in the dish, I was running all about since R’s car was down. But I took off around noon after running the deposit to the bank for him. He fed me Taco Bell for my trouble. Only thing on their menu I can choke down are plain crunch tacos, meat and cheese ONLY. Can’t stand that stuff.

Surprisingly, I can’t even work up a good rant.

I can, however, express great anxiety. I see the shrink tomorrow afternoon. Joy, joy. Let’s see, what are my options…

If I bathe and wear clothes that don’t reek, he will make a note that I am clean and likely cured.

If I don’t gussy up, he’ll make a note that says I showed up and likely cured.

Meh, fucker. I don’t even know what to say. If I report the mixed episodes, he’s gonna go back on the Lithium thing and I want to avoid that shit like the black plague until I can’t anymore. Lamictal is fine. It’s this anti depressant bullshit that, for 8 months, has been haywire. I like the Cymbalta, it gives me energy and I haven’t been cryptifying so early as often. I don’t want to come off it but he’s made it clear 60mg is my max dose. I am also getting worried, as it hit me today…I am cheering on the start of school and all…But it also means, seven weeks until the season change. Which brings on the seasonal which never really went away from last year. For every two mild/”good” days I have, I have five that are either low or mixed. I’m hardly gonna call that “under control and optimal”.

At least he’s willing to take time to talk to me. I don’t know what good it will do, we all know if you don’t follow their expert advice you’re being non compliant.

Hey,maybe all this dish time the last couple of days will result in the bottom dropping out and I will be a complete wreck tomorrow. No, that would make sense. The one time a month I get to actually see my doctor…My mind decides to panic so the doctor thinks I’m hypomanic therefore not depressed.ASSFUCKERY.

I get so wound up prior to appointments. Will it go well? Am I gonna come out so pissed off I spew flames? Ha, kinda like my mood, never know what it will be, either.

It hit me earlier that as long as you make it to your dr appts, they seem to think that somehow means you’re high functioning. Yet if you’re so bad off you forget appointments or get the times messed up or can’t bring yourself to leave the house or even make a call…Well, that’s non compliance and you just don’t want to get better. Not, “I have a patient in that bad of shape, maybe we should dispatch a nurse or someone to assess her in person.”

I know, I know, I’m a dinosaur, remembering that time when doctors gave a fuck and would make house calls and such for a patient not doing well.

He just better damn well keep his word and DO SOMETHING with the meds to ward off that seasonal depression. If it hits me and I’m still in last year’s depression, I’d better be ordering straight jackets in black ‘cos by the holidays, I’ll be wearing them. I’m tired of mimicking emotion, faking smiles, being “funny” because it is expected. (And it’s not so easy to be funny and fun to be around with the mundanes.)

Now, don’t anyone drop dead (‘cos corpses make flies and maggots and I ain’t cleaning that shit up off my blog page) but I had a bonafide positive thought today.

Spook turns six next Friday. Which means, I have kept a kid alive for six years, and for four of those years…I’ve done it on my own. Aside from needing a sitter for a few fours or a sleepover here and there with the grandparents…I am the one who has raised her. In spite of my issues, in spite of money hardship, I have kept her alive and healthy all this time.

That’s a win I need to take and pat myself on the back for.

Of course, I’m sure the fact I haven’t lost her at the store or poisoned her with my bad cooking means I AM CURED.

It’s amazing that you’re not allowed to make one iota of progress  because then people say, “See, you’re not sick anymore.” The same idgets who watch you drown for six months in a non bathing pajama wearing swimming pool yet still say you’re not sick. There is no win  with mental illness.

I say, bring on the zombie apocalypse. I will side with the zombies and act as their brain pimp, procuring them only the smartest, tastiest brains.

Which means in  this town…They’re gonna fucking starve.

Oh My God, Look What The Cat Horked Up

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

furballYou absolutely know your day is gonna rock the casbah when…Before you’ve even scraped the cobwebs off your sleepy eyeballs your bulimic cat projectile vomits across the kitchen floor. Yep. I have two bulimic cats. They don’t cough up furballs. They just eat and eat and eat until they involuntarily puke. Thank you, Voodoo. Nothing says  I love you like cleaning up your vomit.

The second sign it’s gonna a good (sarcasm) day…R called me around 8 to tell me his car broke down and he needed help pushing it out of the road. I don’t care, god, knows he’s done the same for me more times than I can count. These are the times when I’m glad I’m from big boned hillbilly stock. I can move my own furniture, push cars, and reach the top shelf without needing a man’s help. Dad raising us girls to basically be as rough and tumble as boys might have been a good thing.

Last night was awful. The humidity hit like 71% and it was 93 degrees at six p.m. By which time, I’d been in my sauna bubble and in spite of air and fans, I was so overheated I became literally ill physically. Headache, nausea. When I went to R’s, I didn’t even jump on the Mangoritas, I nursed cold water for two hours until I acclimated to his super cool house. It’s pretty fucking miserable when it cuts into my drinking time. (Sorry, I had a Wednesday 13 song stuck in my head with that last part in the lyrics…”I’ve got…too much blood in my alcohol system…) I had to ask for Tylenol and of course, his living room has all these wide open windows with sheer curtains so the sunlight was piercing my retinas and making it all so much worse. Then he made it even more heinous by turning on a Tom Cruise movie. That idget is banished from my kingdom for his ‘mental illness is not real” Scientology ass fuck bullshit. I didn’t watch it, just laid down on the couch, closed my eyes, and tried not to hurl. Not sure if the hurl urge was the heat or Cruise.

I had one of my socially awkward moments when Lori abruptly showed up to watch The Flash reruns with us. I dunno know why, I’ve known Lori for almost 20 years, she’s awesome. I worked in her daycare as an assistant, yet socially awkward penguin always comes out, especially when not given a heads up that there will be a crowd. (Which ya know in my book, means more than two people.)

Lori is the one whose husband was killed a couple months back when he was using a chainsaw to cut a neighbor’s tree down and the saw basically went berserk and he was dead instantly. She’s still struggling being alone as they were together over thirty years. In socially awkward penguin mode, I had no clue if I was supposed to give condolences or if bringing it up would just open the wound. Then every time there was a reference to death or husband on the show, I got a little ill at ease. (She seemed fine.) I should probably buy a self help book or some shit and improve my social skills. Not that it’d do much good with my mood swings, I’d acquire all the skills, go manic,and blurt out exactly the wrong thing. Stupid bipolar.

It was still 90 degrees at ten p.m. I took my third shower of the day. Only way I can get cooled down when the humidity is so thick, moisture just glistens on your skin and you’re doing nothing but sitting or standing. I thought for sure because of my lack of sleep the night before, I’d zonk out, no spawn to disturb me. Yeah, the scumbag brain vetoed that plan. I was awake til after 11. Woke up a couple of times. Thought, I should get my ass up and do some work around the house since I was spawn free. That didn’t happen either. My give a damn and giddy up and go were definitely MIA.

Come to think of it, those fuckers have been MIA for months. They need their picture put on milk cartons.

I had to call my dad back this morning for it was too late to call last night. He wanted to know how I was handling the heat, trailer being so hot and all. Um…I’m not handling it, I’m meeelting. I answered honestly about how it was hot in here I got physically ill. And thus he launched into, “Yeah, tell me about it. Your brother and I are were out in it, mowing several lawns the size of football fields…” It’s like a competition of “who has it worse” with him, but he always win by his own decree. And ya know, logic would dictate that working out in the sun and heat would make one miserable. But I was sitting in my home and sweating to death. That’s pathetic.

Thus far, I’ve done nothing today but clean up cat hork and help push a car. Not much on the agenda, anyway, except stopping by the shop so R can go make deposit at the bank. He can use my car. I trust him more than I ever did the donor. Then I gotta go fetch my spawn.I should mow the lawn before the landlord starts gnawing on my ass but I ain’t feeling it. He’s about an asshole, anyway. The other side of the trailer park literally had toilets draining in the street, toilet paper and waste and all, cos his maintenance guys couldn’t fix sewage right. But yea, my unlidded trash cans and overgrown lawn are way worse. Public enemy number one, that’s me. I know, I make a big deal out of silly shit, but it’s just irritating that these fuckers have such idiotic priorities.

It occurs to me this must be the most boring blog on the planet. I talk too much about the weather. All I do is complain. I mean, I call it venting but apparently, the popular opinion is ‘whining’. Meh, bite me.

It has occurred to me, that even in my anhedonic depressive state…I’ve really enjoyed the swapping of comments with everyone that talks to me on here. You guys are fucking awesome. You’re the support system I always wanted. So thank you for bringing a little light into my dark corner. This, of course, means that we are all cured, because mentally ill people cannot possibly share humorous remarks. Those few bright moments of enjoyment totally outweigh all the suckiness we endure.

Much love go my Volatile Femmes. That road trip needs to happen soon, ladies!

Okay. I’m gonna work on the getting dressed thing even though I’m half tempted to just wear what I slept in. Scuzzy, perhaps. But everything I own is black and I have multiples of the same things, I doubt anyone would even notice.

One final thing. Shameless promotion of a product I adore and the more people who buy it, the less likely it is they will take it away from me.

cheezitHa ha, cheese with my whine.

 

I’m Meellllting…

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , on July 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

'I'm melting! I'm melting! and on the good rug, too!'

‘I’m melting! I’m melting! and on the good rug, too!’

Not really, as I don’t have a good rug. Still, it’s 93 degrees and in a tin box with barely functional air conditioning…Yeah, I am melting into a wicked puddle of (b)witchiness. Outdoors was even worse. I was drenched in sweat ten minutes into my dish journey. Which meant every tiny thing clinging to my skin, just from the humidity. icky icky icky. R invited me over to hang out tonight since he knows how uncomfortable my little sauna is. I’m gonna go, what the hell, couple of hours, sans spawn, in air conditioning with a Mangorita…Yep, I’m only in it for the air and Mangoritas, I am that shallow. Actually, it’s just that uncomfortable at home because anyone who reads my blog regularly knows…The dish is my trigger, I adore my safe bubble. If I am willing to venture out…It’s that bad.

I fucked up this morning when I took Spook to my room, put something on the computer for her to watch…And nodded off. For like, fifteen bloody minutes. I had the alarm set just in case, ‘cos it was trash day. Well, assfucks picked up an hour earlier today so I didn’t get it out in time. Damn damn damn. All things considered, it’s only the second time in two years I’ve fucked up and missed trash pick up. For me, that’s pretty damned spectacular. Of course, now, in light of the letter from the landlord about the trash cans requiring lids and mine have none, I’m gonna be all paranoid about getting chewed out for that since the trash will be piling up. If lids are such a big fucking deal, I don’t know why the prissy landlord doesn’t spring for the damned trash cans. Mine had lids until they melted in the stupid sunlight. Meeelting all around.

That fifteen minute power nap helped, though. I felt shitty ‘cos I hadn’t intended to do anything but loll in bed…Thankfully, she didn’t ya know, skin one of the cats or set the place on fire with her fiery temper. It still took me three hours to get out the door to do the dish thing. Mostly, with the car on E, I was waiting to hear from mom to see if she wanted me to bring Spook over cos I couldn’t afford a second trip if she called after I’d already gone out. After her berating me last night for not being able to keep gas in an eight cylinder tank..mom had the nerve to play on my guilt today and ask me if I had anything in my freezer to spare cos they’re out of food until the first. Let’s see…I have less than eight hundred a month to raise a child on, yet that house has three incomes totaling over five grand a month, and I’m asked for food? Maybe they should try using the cheap shampoo and shit that I do so I can afford to keep food in the house. Such hypocrisy. Of course, I took them something since Spook was going to be eating with them for her sleepover, but still…I think I do pretty fucking well for what I got coming in and going out. Being berated yet asked for help because I can manage income well is just fucking stupid.

I decided to try something new today and actually smiled at someone in public. He glared at me like I’d sprouted two heads. This town…My misanthropy is not without foundation. I love my fellow man, I just hate people. Seriously, for every good one I encounter, ten asstrolls come along. It’s hard to form a positive opinion  when things are so disproportionate.

I stopped by the shop to give R his smokes and AmAx back. He surprised me by buying me lunch. I didn’t ask for it, but I was grateful. Of course, I suffered, because my stomach can’t take spicy food..And it was a spicy chicken sammich he brought me. I swear the people around me think I am making up my food sensitivities or something because they all know I usually end up in stomach agony yet they keep giving me the very foods that cause it. Oh, well, I ate because I am grateful, even if my griping says otherwise. Just a good thing I don’t have fatal food allergies or these well meaning people would murder me. (To his credit, he did put some gas in my car for running his errands, so I should shut the fuck up. Too bad it’s not in my skillset.)

I had to bail the dish after two hours. The heat, my own lethargy, and the fact that I was bathed in sweat in spite of the air conditioning at the shop…Might as well be in my bubble if I’m going to be miserable all around. Thought I’d shower upon return and maybe grab another power nap. It’s too fucking hot to nap and if I shower now, I’ll be coated in sweat in five minutes. I’m waiting til the last minute so when I do go out, I will be at least semi clean and un-reeking.

In my current ALL THINGS METAL mind frame…I always loved the song “Apologize” by Onerepublic with Timbaland and the original truly is just beautiful….But I found this on youtube and it was like, a beautiful ballad with cajones…WINNNN.

In my nerdy all things science fiction mind frame…R showed me this one and I thought it was cool as hell.

In my current everything-causes-me-anxiety state..I’ve acquired a play list of piano covers of hard rock song instrumentals. For whatever reason, it soothes me. There are more good covers out there than I would have thought. Color me shocked and meeelting.

On a side note, in closing…I have decided that the amazing Andi shall be included in the Volatile Femmes posse. Because I told her she should be in the club but we don’t do anything but trade snarks and rail on idgets and she was totally down with it. Welcome aboard! I adore people who appreciate sarcastic banter. I’d rather be called a mouthy bitchbeast than have someone tell me I’m pretty. Honestly, only one of those things is believable and I’m a realist. (So bring it on, Diane, the Jeopardy music is tiring and I am waiting to be properly offended 😉 )

Melting Morgueticia out. Now someone clean up the damned rug.

 

 

Cock-a-doodle…fuck you

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , on July 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Yes, good fucking morning. I’ve been awake since 3 a.m. My brain won’t let me sleep. I got my two point five hours, apparently that’s all I get. It’s gonna be a long fucking day. And the bitch of it all is…SPOOK ACTUALLY SLEPT IN HER OWN BED THE WHOLE NIGHT. (thank you bug bites for allowing me to give her benadryl, it worked wonders for us both.) I finally get my bed to myself..And I couldn’t even sleep in it.

When I first woke at 3, I didn’t want to be awake and I had every intention of going right back to sleep. Scumbag brain had other ideas. So I got up for a bottle of water, then ended up slicing up cantaloupe without even turning the lights on. I needed food. Cantaloupe doesn’t require cooking. And I got to play with sharp thingie. I checked on Spook, ‘cos ya know, her staying down all night, and in her own bed, is worthy of alarm as it simply hasn’t happened in months. She snorkled at me (half snore, half some other sound I can’t even describe) so I went on my merry back to bed. It had cooled down so much since the day’s heatwave, I had to put on pants. Willingly! Coolness is goood for sleep.

Lay back down. Count  backwards. Picture stop signs. Sit up. Have a smoke. Take half a Xanax. Still awake at 4 a.m. An episode of Dateline I hadn’t seen came on, so I watched it. Then I declared I was ABSOLUTELY going back to sleep. It’s supposed to be 94 today which is energy draining enough, throw in the Uzi child…Rest is needed.

Scumbag brain gives zero fucks.

Three and a half hours trying to get back to sleep. Too scared to take any more pills to make me sleepy lest I not be able to get up with my kid. Little after six I said fuck it and got up. If the brain won’t shut its yap, laying there letting it piss me off even more isn’t gonna help. Thing is…Now that the sun is coming up, the birds are chirping, and my kid is about to spring to consciousness…NOW I AM GETTING SLEEPY.

fUCK, FUCK, FUCKITY FUCK.

I swear way more when I’m pissed off. That should be my worst habit.

And the spawn hath risen…from the grave…Oh, wait, that was Joan Crawford. Cool song.

I have to run by the shop today for about 15 minutes, R is buying me a pack of smokes if i package up and mail back a part that didn’t work. WILL LICK SHOES FOR SMOKES. I’d feel sad and pathetic except my cigarettes are the only things that keep me from grabbing bbq skewers and stabbing people in the eyeballs. Not out of anger, mind you. It’s anxiety.

For all the sunshine spewage about “panic attacks won’t kill you”…My biggest fear is always history repeating itself. When I was sixteen and still a fairly new driver, I was leaving school one day. And the traffic behind me was honking because I was apparently sitting at the stop sign too long. And then came the yells from fellow classmates informing me ever kindly about my lack of intelligence quotient and propensity for doing dirty deeds with sheep…(Slight dramatization.) Anyway…I started to panic. Like, blind panic. Being so inexperienced and having learned to drive with a four cylinder…I didn’t realize the power of a 350 engine and in my panic…I mashed down on the gas too hard and smashed into another car.

Only the cars got hurt, but I knew from that moment on that panic might not kill me but it could lead to serious fucking problems involving damage. My dad never did forgive me for fucking up that car he’d put so much into restoring. And of course, no one bought the panic “excuse” which was more an explanation. Fucked up everything, including my parents’ insurance, had to have high risk for me after that.

So when I say my anxiety is so bad I fear I could, in mid attack, spaz out and cause some serious harm to body and property…I mean it. I don’t think people view panic attacks in that context. They’re not harmless, not physically or psychologically. They take a toll. They inhibit normal living. There’s no “avoidance” behavior because you’re too weak to get over it. There’s logical fear learned by hard experience.

I’m starting to go off on a tangent. And now I am sleepy as hell and Spook is going a hundred miles an hour out of the gate.

Stupid stupid fucking brain.

Now I’m also hungry.

And still the birds chirp and the sun peeks out of the clouds and life goes on and…

Fuck you, life.

Thank you for visiting crankypantsbitch.com and have a wondermous day full of rainbows, sunshine, and puppies.

Or ya know, this thing.

flukeman

The fluke is out there, Scully. Muhahaha.