Wounds, Scabs, Scars

I was sitting at the shop today, doing little more than reading Reddit (like a trainwreck, I can’t look away), and I started breaking out in hives. Given, by then, I’d run three errands in the dish for R and traffic is  a trigger (things are moving too fast for me, backing out of a parking spot freaks me out)…There was no reason for me to spontaneously break out from anxiety. Yet there I was digging at my flesh, drawing blood, and feeling like I could douse myself in bleach provided it made the itching stop…

I realized that my life, my psyche, are a lot like my skin. Divided amongst fresh wounds, scabs, and old scars. I wanted to include a picture of my summer allergy legs but this laptop thing doesn’t have a card reader and I can’t find the transfer cable or be bothered to use the comp that does have a card reader…But I think it’s a fair point.

Wounds are what are happening NOW, bleeding, oozing, itching, aching, hurting, disrupting your comfort.

Scabs are wounds that are healing, crusting over, gross, but on the mend. You feel them, especially if they are reopened and blood seeps out again.

Scars are the things that remind us we have a past, be it from a surgery, my itchy marks I scratched into scars, or an experience that left an indelible mark.

At this moment, the lingering depression and anhedonia are the wound. Gaping and open, it is excrutiating.

Scabs are the resentment I feel for The Donor, not because of anything that happened between us, because I knew, even pregnant and unmedicated, I hate narcissists. That was doomed from the go and I’d have known it had I been medicated and in my right mind.  It is because for four years he’s had no desire to see his daughter, let alone contribute to her well being. It’s a scab because I knew he’d done the same thing to his other kids, but I think out of all three, he’s treated Spook the worst. As if my sins are hers. It’s unfair, evil, and immature of him. Every day I struggle to meet her basic needs while he holds a management position yet does nothing to help her BECAUSE A COURT HASN’T ORDERED HIM TO…It’s a scab to be opened and bleed and ooze and scab over again.

Scars are the remnants of things that have truly hurt you and left their mark. I realized this tonight when I ran to the gas station, a small one I frequent all the time, yet I spotted a pick up truck with the tailgate down and four young people hanging about…So I deliberately drove around and parked where I normally don’t, just to avoid passing a mini mob. Thank you, high school.

Wounds, scabs, scars. None of it keeps me from going on with my life, but it all dents my armor a bit.

I didn’t have a bad day. I was hypomanic, therefore more social than is my norm, and certainly more social than depressive bouts are. I didn’t overdo the chatty kathy thing, but I was laughing along with the appropriate things, interacting (when not buried in Reddit cute/funny pics), and it wasn’t horrid. I took my Xanax around 11 to ward off the inevitable “hit the wall” anxiety. I got a pack of smokes, gas in my car, lunch. There are friendships that are truly beneficial. Frankly, I’d rather R be there when I need someone to call at 2 a.m. to convince me not to swallow a bottle of Trazadone. But that’s not who he’s ever gonna be. He has no problem, however, buying stuff. In turn, I venture outside my safe zone and bust my ass trying to not be a downer and be pleasant to be around. If you think it’s easy to do in a depression, you don’t know depression.

Depression is rarely about anyone. It’s an ILLNESS. Much like those who have had amputations have phantom pain, which is the brain sending faulty information, the messages depression sends often have little to do with reality. They are, however, the gospel for a sick mind. So every time I manage to diss the depression and feign my way through normal human interaction…I consider it akin to climbing a mountain. Because it is for someone in a depression. Even with hypomania, your mind may be spinning and your energy may be up, but that anhedonia never really leaves. You know you’re faking the smiles and laughs even though you hate faking it and want it to be natural. You forced yourself to do it WHILE you have the energy. Hypomania, especially on a mood stabilizer, doesn’t happen often. When it does, you want to jump on it and hump its leg because your hypomania is what others feel NORMALLY.

For them it’s not hypomania, it’s not dangerous. It’s called socialization, it’s called extroverted, it’s called normal. Mentally ill people desperately want to feel normal. I don’t mean, as in sheeple, mindless followers. I mean, as in, our minds sending the right messages so we can make the right choices, have the right reactions. When hypomania happens…you go with it, you cling to it, you want to grab some super glue and attach yourself to it even though you know it won’t last. Because it’s better to have a spinning mind and too much energy and feel a little “too good” (as opposed to your stable norm) than be depressed.

I digress.

I survived. I did six hours in the dish. Because of the mid morning Xanax, it wasn’t until hour five I started to feel paranoid and unsafe. That or the hypomania and need for a break from my kid sustained me that long. Not to say it wasn’t harrowing, to an extent. I had a bout of nausea, a bout of dizziness, the panic from traffic…I survived it, of course, but my big fear is…What if I get so disoriented in traffic I cause an accident and others get hurt? The professionals and society at large don’t consider this a realistic possibility, but it’s always been my number one concern with panic attacks. I know I won’t die of a panic attack. However, that doesn’t mean I won’t blank out and respond in a way that results in a wreck. It’s not an excuse, it’s not an unrealistic fear. And a car wreck isn’t something you can shake off, it has real repercussions, in financial, insurance, et ways. Having it dismissed so easily as it is by professionals really pisses me off. If the panic were in my control, my ass would be at a Mudvayne concert in the mosh pit. It’s not exclusive to things that irk me or stress me out.

I can’t stay on topic here. Meh hypomania pretty much renders the Focalin impotent. I know I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, but I really am irked I forgot my Lamitcal to the point it set off hypomania. Hell, the Cymbalta bulk dose alone does that and it’s doctor approved.

In summation (because I really want to eat my supper…everyone eats supper at 1o p.m. right?) it wasn’t an awful day. It wasn’t puppies with rainbows coming out their arse, either. I call it one more day in the life of bipolar, one more spoke in the mood cycle. I survived it. Yay me. I think the most insulting thing was that for weeks, R and Kenny have made disparaging comments about my hair’s gray roots, my clothes being slovenly, not being made up…Yet today, my hair is dyed, I wore make up, I had on nice clothes…And no one even noticed. WTF. It’s like my damned family. Not a word to say when you do well. But they have zero problem shining a spotlight on your ever flaw. The question isn’t why I’m a misanthrope. It’s why isn’t everyone a fucking misanthrope?

Okay. I am having leftover pork chop with a baked potato filled with butter and shredded cheese. Fuck my arteries, deal with my fat ass. Then I am gonna go sleep and see what tomorrow brings. Hopefully, now that I’ve remembered my Lamictal, it brings me back down to frigging planet Earth. Everyone adores me when I am in any way manic, but they have NO idea the horrible choices that have been made during said manic episodes that have tainted my life forever. I’d rather be stable than fun.

Pegacorns.

Ha, the funny thing is…I’ve actually got R referencing pegacorns, even though he doesn’t do fuck all on line but watch stupid youtube videos.

Fuck the meek.

Pegacorns shall inherit the earth!

 

 

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5 Responses to “Wounds, Scabs, Scars”

  1. HA! And Reggie will take R out with his Spear of Death 😀 ❤

  2. “The question isn’t why I’m a misanthrope. It’s why isn’t everyone a fucking misanthrope?”

    Haha, yes! Thanks for making me smile. 🙂

  3. Your reference to wounds, scabs & scars is very accurate!! Especially from a position of an idiot savant dumb Chicka Dermatology Med Assistant like myself

    • DERMATOLOGY ASSISTANT? Do you guys do like, skin transplants so I won’t be a scar encrusted itchy trainwreck??? Oh, right, skin transplant won’t change my brain and blood that think every itchy mark is some sort of invader thus must be railed against.

      I envy you. I wish I’d had the stability to go through with my schooling and have a career. I’m not making excuses, either. When the teachers, the employers, tell you to “come back when you get your act together”…It’s so much suckage.

      Bring the Jager, I’ll buy the pizza, and we can mock our disorders in stereo 😉

      On Sat, Jul 25, 2015 at 3:08 PM, Take a Ride on My Mood Swing wrote:

      >

      • Ha! I haven’t worked at Dermatology Associates for 3 yrs due to my crazy ass hypomanic,/manic episodes breakdown, suicide attempts,,,I miss it terribly, SUX! Good Drs, patients 16+ yrs.(fucking BITCH of a mgr, though)

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