Archive for August, 2015

GoFundMe: Help Me Save my Kitty’s Life

Posted in animal lovers, mental health with tags , , , , , on August 31, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms
My beautiful picture

This is Absinthe, AKA, Abby-Sin, before she got so sick.

My beautiful picture

This is Abby,after draining the abscess. She couldn’t swallow or eat for three days so she wasted away even though I was feeding her by eye dropper.

Per suggestion by a follower, I started a campaign to help fund a vet visit for Absinthe, after multiple calls to vets within a 50 mile radius all resulted in the ver batim response: “It will be close to three hundred dollars because we have to examine, treat for fleas, give her all the normal shots, as well as the antibiotic.” I tried to explain my financial predicament as a single disabled mother and inquired about charities, but alas there are none in this rural area. I even¬† pondered turning her over to the non kill shelter so she could be treated even if it meant placement elsewhere…They told me they are full of kitties and I should call the pound, which euthanizes any pet not adopted in a week.

I can’t do it, I cannot abandon Abby. She is such a sweet natured, loving kitty, she deserves every effort I can make to save her life. Anyone who donates, even fifty cents, will receive a copy of the bill of what is spent to make her healthy as well as a picture of her when she is recovered. You will also receive the coveted Spork Of Gratitude.

http://www.gofundme.com/qd34kzkc

Fifty cents, a dollar- whatever. PLEASE HELP US SAVE ABBY, MY DAUGHTER AND I LOVE HER SO MUCH, SHE IS FAMILY.

For those who you use social media and know animal lovers, put that link out there. For Absinthe, not for me. This is about her. She has fought so hard to survive when even I had lost faith…HELP OUR KITTY, PLEASE.

And since this gofundme thing is new to me, excuse any mistakes I have made. I just want to help Abby, she has been my pillow companion at bedtime for months and she deserves better than my broke ass can give her. Forget me…Think of that gorgeous calico kitty.

ūüôā

The Shrink Cycle

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , , on August 31, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

There was a major war with my kid this morning. All over a t-shirt. The one she picked was small and showed her belly when she lifted her arms, a no no at school. So I told her t change shirts. Off to bloody races we went.She screamed, bawled, called me stupid over and over. I finally found a shirt and told her to put it on. She did. Seemed like she was going to calm down. Then she ripped the shirt off, threw it at me, and burst into another round of “you’re stupid”. So I went to physically grasp her with a hand behind her back since she was leaned against her bed and what does she do? She throws her weight back against me so she lands hard against the heavy bed frame and my hand and starts screaming ‘I’M TELLING THE SCHOOL YOU ABUSED ME!”

Yeah, it was that kind of morning. Then she launched into panic about being late but she was the one still having a tantrum and I wasn’t about to take her to school like that, nor drive with her acting that way. Eventually got her there, walked her to the office just in case she was late. She wasn’t. Now I’m just waiting for protective services to show up. She had me in¬† fucking tears.

I made the mistake of going to the shop to lean on my “friend”, ya know, R,¬† the preaching “I raised three kids and they all turned out successful.” I asked for his advice. He said nothing. I asked again. Again, he said nothing but shrugged. Yet when he’s here, he’s got all sorts of ideas on how to parent “right.” What the fuck? I need some comfort and guidance, he’s got nothing. I want him to butt out, he can’t shut up.

Suffice it to say, between her, him, and up and down all night with the itchy skin and the drowning in sinus drainage…By the time I hit the shrink’s office…I burst into tears. I was just that beaten down. He asked me how things are. I asked, “You want the truth or you want the glossed over version?” He said truth. And so I started to pour it all out.

He listened. Twenty whole minutes. He suggested I get Spook in at the counseling place and they’d determine if she needs meds for the aggressive outbursts. Bad side- guess who is their staff child psychologist? If you guessed R’s know it all daughter, you win what’s behind door number two. This woman has been uber critical of me at every social event where Spook and I were there on a personal level. This is a woman who spanked her baby at four months old. But she’s got the fancy master’s degree and…Seriously, this is my option? She’s got so many anger issues of her own, it’s like taking Dahmer to be treated for cannibalism by a tribe who practices it as a lifestyle. FOR FUCK’S SAKE.

I mentioned this conflict and he said I could always ask for D, specifically, who is a counselor rather than psychologist, but there’s no guarantee I’d get her. It’s food for thought.

I told him about my lack of family support. How worn down I am and I wasn’t this bad last year in spite a ton of stuff that was going wrong in my life. He mentioned an outpatient program in another town. Yeah, ‘cos I can get a sitter, and afford to drive fifty miles a day for four weeks. It’s a lovely notion but not feasible at this time.

He raised my Cymbalta to 120 a day, left everything else the same. Even the Restoril which I explained I couldn’t really take, but that went in one ear and out the other. I mentioned the disability review and he was pretty confident that while I would have to see a doctor of their choosing, he has well documented my problems and that they won’t cut me off. Ha. He doesn’t know how the system works. Still, it’s nice to know he sides with me cos I really am in sucky shape.

THEN because it was really a thorn in my paw, I lamented all the shiny happy spewage out there regarding mental illness that results in more stigma and makes us feel worse. Like 12 Step Programs for Mental Health. Cos basically a 12 step program is admitting you’ve done something wrong. Even he agreed it’s a disservice because none of us asked for this. He made the point that if we had a VISIBLE illness, things would be very different. But only those who suffer, are with someone who suffers, or treats someone who suffers, can understand the devastating toll and just how real it is. He said it’s wrong to boil it all down to positive attitude.

By the time I left, I wanted to do a cartwheel. FINALLY a professional who saw my outrage for what it was rather than calling it pessimism. Seriously, a 12 step program for mental illness? What have we done wrong to need such a thing? Sure, our bad behaviors during certain cycles must be rectified, but it’s not like we ever set out to be evil or destructive so WHY A 12 PROGRAM FOR SOMETHING WE DIDN’T CHOOSE? It’s mind boggling how much of this shit is floating around out there. Makes me wonder how many seriously mentally ill people read how Biff and Buffy simply changed their outlook and dressed nicer and they were all cured, so the sick person killed themselves. Sound dramatic? It’s really not. Much like fat shaming, especially by those who used to be heavy, shaming the mentally ill is wrong. Most of these sunshine spewers don’t even have a long history of suffering so I imagine it was far easier for them to make some changes and come out shiny and happy.

It just angers me to have such a real battle so trivialized, and to have it out there where some depressed kid might see it, decide it’s fact rather than opinion, and give up on themselves to a drastic end result.

Aside from him setting the next appt for two months and blowing off the seasonal with the light therapy thing…It was an ok appointment. I didn’t have my list, of course, because of Spook’s fit preventing me from running to print it out. But I think crumbling before his eyes was more telling. I didn’t plan it that way, because if you cry, you’re attention seeking, unstable, too emotional. You know how we get blamed for having emotions,letting alone letting them out. Today it all just boiled over. And he didn’t lambaste me for admitting things are pretty bad.

Which just proves…Opinions are like assholes- everyone has one and they all stink. Just because it’s on the internet doesn’t make it true. Disclaimers should have to be included on shiny happy posts same as triggering posts. Cos shiny happy is skull and crossbones biohazard toxic to me and I will no longer be reading them.

If this offends any shiny happy people, too bad. I am deeply offended by you posting in mental health then deducing it all to prayer and positive attitude. We don’t have to agree but I no more expect you to read my downtrodden posts that bring you down, so I won’t feel bad for avoiding the shiny happy stuff when I am down and out.

I may write depressing things but that’s because I HAVE DEPRESSION. I may be a negative bitch, but I am okay with that.

Least it’s truthful.

Add another problem to the list

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

I suffered miserably yesterday between an excessively low mood and the aching gums and jaw. It was like having a throbbing toothache where there is no tooth. Phantom pain. I started getting the sniffles. At one point my ears ached to the point I mashed my hands over them because my kid’s loud voice was causing me physical agony. I assumed it was my mental shit, it’s always the mental shit, mentally ill people NEVER have legitimate physical causes.

Until bedtime where I really started feeling like shit. Running nose, sinus drainage, almost choking on it all. Yep. A sinus issue. Cos the allergies and bites and nervous hives weren’t enough. The stress stomach aches weren’t enough. Let’s add something else to the list. I NEVER had sinus issues a day in my life prior to the spawn’s birth which gives credence to all my bodily functions being affected by the pregnancy. I slept a little after some quality time with the tissue box. Then I woke up again and was so itchy I had to throw myself into the shower. Yet I couldn’t handle bright light so I showered by candle light. By 1 a.m. I was desperate enough to take a Melatonin. And still, I kept waking up, jaw and gums hurting, head heavy with drainage. Ugh. Can’t catch a fucking break here.

Come morning and I can barely drag my ass out of bed. My kid is already screaming at me because something didn’t go her way and it’s all my fault. Absinthe just keeps getting sicker and I’ve tried to borrow money from everyone I know to take her to the vet and they’re all broke as I am so I can’t do a fucking thing to help her. The sinus issue is still in full force this morning though the pain in my gums and jaw has moved to the other side, so it must be draining. Happy Sunday frigging morning. On the plus side, peace has been made with the spawn now that she rode out her fit and ceded that I was right about how to put her shirt on.

My dad and stepmonster stopped by yesterday. Chatted a bit. They rarely come inside anymore because my scented oil and such make her allergies act up. Wahh, sue me for doing aromatherapy. Dad was on a tear again¬† about people who don’t work. It never ends with that man. Then I mentioned the school bus thing and he snarked, “Well, what you do IF YOU ACTUALLY DID WORK?” Um…I’m about to drink bleach right now, so I might have to bump it up to industrial acid. IDFK. He just has to be so nasty, like it is gonna help me. Yet my¬† 20 year old “special ed class” brother still lives with them, no job, getting disability and playing video games all day. What the fuck. He wasn’t so special needs it kept him from going to a normal school, getting good grades, and graduating. When I quit school at sixteen, I was told I had X months to get a job or get out. Things have always been different for the siblings. It’s less jealousy and more outrage at not playing fair.

Then he mentioned something in the newspaper about “superlouse” going around the school which is resistant to ALL methods of lice treatment. Since then I have been itching and paranoid as hell, inspecting Spook’s scalp like some rabid helicopter scalp mom. Tempted to buy us both astronaut helmets.

I am aware it seems like all I do is fuss but I have been dealt a shitty few months and it’s taking a toll. That impacts my attitude and it paints me as somehow about to go over the edge. For those who have shown concern, I appreciate it. But this really is just a case of things being shitty and the seasonal coming on. If I get to the point where I am teetering on the edge, I will be emailing the femmes and butch for sage advice.

I see the doctor tomorrow. I’ve prepared (what I hope) is a concise list of my problems. Last time I did it he waved it off, wouldn’t even read it. Guess I am going to have to insist. I get so nervous and he takes it as hypomania and I just think he’s doing me a disservice. If he won’t listen to me, let him read.

And I guess that’s it for now. Day is young. Maybe I will be like¬† people who think blogging is akin to Facebook updates and post ten things a day about every tiny thing including what they had for supper. Sorry to be bitchy, but it really is irksome. If I wanted short mundane details I would use Twatter and Fuckfacebook.¬† Sadly, it’s not limited to a couple of people, it’s the way of the world these days. And it’s designed for more likes and to gain followers which comes off as super needy to me. R’s daughters are the worst at it. Every tiny detail gets written up like a post yet it amounts to being as interesting as watching paint dry. Maybe I ramble too much but 80% of each post has content more deep than “My kid went poop”.

Ahh, the familiar venom of oncoming pms. I am just getting hit from all sides. Yet it is a mystery why my posts aren’t shiny happy vomit spewage. I am a freak for having a blog tagged depression, writing about depression, and not painting it shiny.

I suck.

Fleh.

 

Welcome To My Nightmare

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

Decided I was so exhausted last night, the least I could do was attempt a good night’s sleep. I EARNED it. So I took 1mg Xanax and watched some crime shows for awhile. By which time I had showered and snacked on some mini corndogs and the nightly itchiness started up again. And everyone is like, you must have fleas in your house.Well, yeah, the cats escape through a screen, come back with fleas, do the bath and comb routine, lather rinse repeat. There are bound to be escapees. But my kid has three bites. I have at least 40. Because my histamines go mad hatter and I scratch and it just worsens. And it’s gotten to the point where anti histmamines and topicals do fuck all. It’s miserable. I dealt for ninety minutes. Xanax wasn’t knocking me out. Brilliant as I am…

I took a 3mg Melatonin.

And I slept. I woke. I slept. I DREAMT. Awful fucked up dreams. The kind that cross over into your near waking moments because the line between dream and reality is so blurred by sleep meds. I had my kid searching for Arsenic because in my dream, he had disappeared and I was so sedated I couldn’t move…And she couldn’t find the kitten and I dozed back off, more nightmares. Then she woke me and asked why I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t hear it in my gorked out state. In my dream I’d been wandering an abandoned house looking for Arsenic.

The sleeping pill hangover beckoned me back to sleep. My bladder beckoned me to wake up. I went with the bladder because as groggy as I was, the nightmares were enough.

And I went searching for Arsenic, freaking cos he wasn’t in any of his normal places and I was like, oh fuck no, not another one to bury…Then I found him in the cabinet curled up with mama cat and I breathed a sigh of utter relief.

THIS. This is why I loathe sleep meds. I don’t enjoy griping about my sleep disturbance, and yet, the price for taking sleep meds of any kind is this shit. WTF kind of trade off is that?

I used to take Melatonin, drift off, no bad dreams, wake up, no hangover. What the hell happened? Pregnancy really jacked up my brain chemicals, nothing’s been the same. I’ ve had to learn an entire new norm, which is laughable, because with bipolar and all the med changes and a defiant child…I can’t get my feet under me to determine what the new norm is.

I took Ambien at one time (doc gave me a sample pack, so hell, no, insurance wouldn’t pay) and I didn’t like it at all. I’d have these weird feelings I’d done something but then I thought maybe it was a dream…It was too disconcerting.

I think the time has come to accept that it is what it is. I’m exhausted all around so does it matter if I sleep well or not? I can sleep/wake a dozen times and be tired. Or I can take a pill, sleep deeply, but still wake/sleep a dozen times and be tired. Catch 22 is my life.

I am pretty down about the weekend. I can’t even buy my kid a 25 cent piece of gum from a machine at the store cos I don’t have that much. And while I am sooo grateful not to have to deal with her school stuff, I don’t like having no options. It doesn’t matter if I never want to out, have no reason to go out…Not being able to and feeling so helpless is the problem. I need a couple of dollars, it’s like an escape hatch. I should be thankful that R was kind enough to see to it I had gas in the car and food for my cats. Instead, my anxiety is reminding me…I can’t do anything this weekend. Surely this is personality?

My gums hurt and I have no idea why. Random yes, but still. I haven’t been grinding them as much lately so why do they hurt? Instead of that stress response, I’ve returned to the finger rubbing I did while pregnant and unmedicated, which caused some sort of big sort of fluid filled cyst on my finger. It got so big and I was so self conscious, but I met the hand surgeon and he was an ass so I said NOPE. I named my cyst Enrique and learned to live with him. Six years later, he’s gone away on his own which means all those big needles my general doc used trying to drain it…were pointless. Joy, joy. I kinda miss Enrique now.

I sound like I’ve been smoking crack, I know. I am struggling to break through the surface of the groggy pill hangover. This shit sucks when I could have a glass or two of wine at night, sleep well, and have no hangover. Their acceptable methods SUCK cos they don’t work well. Not for me, anyway.

I’ve had my Saturday morning call from my dad. Carrying on about people who don’t work, of course. Bah. Pretzel gut is already attacking even though I have no cause or option to leave the lot all weekend. Just more housework cos it never fucking ends.

Fleh.

Oh and the hives begin…Probably because my dad said “we’ll stop by ‘sometime’ this weekend.” Which means I have to wear pants and be on the lookout so not caught off guard and paste on the “I don’t want to stab you with a spork” face…

I have a job. I work. It’s called mental illness and surviving with it makes us all hard working badass mofos.

Stick a spork in me, I am done

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , , on August 29, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Oh how I would love to say it was a beautiful day filled with sunshine and frolicking puppies. Alas…My tolerance threshold hit the wall and my anxiety broke through the glass ceiling. I nearly vomited when it came time to go pick up my kid. Two weeks and the daily trauma has me ready to homeschool her. And yeah, I know all about “occupational therapy” and facing that which scares you most, blah blah blah. I am facing it. The cost is just so high, the thought of doing this daily for nine months makes me want to sign myself into a looney bin. Preemptive strike ‘cos if I am this shredded and worn down and becoming physically ill two weeks in…I’m gonna be a basketcase in a month.

And the insult to injury is I Mapquested two different routes from our address directly to the school’s address and because of ONE DIFFERENT TURN, our address is 1.8 miles. The school does not take that turn into consideration, only the shortest distance using side streets, and that puts it right at 1.3 to the bus stop. If they came to our door, we would be golden. Stupid asshole motherfuckers. That’s dirty pool. It feels discriminatory, too, for parents with limited income and have trouble affording the drop off and pick up routine.¬† I always thought riding the school bus was a right of any student to ensure their attendance. I mean, does she get an excused absence if I can’t put gas in the car to take her? Nope. They can refuse to transport her yet if I can’t get her there due to being low income, then she’s truant and it comes down on me. I want to present the superintendent with my Mapquest findings and earful but at the moment…I am so clusterfucked in the brain I can barely verbalize a full sentence before the frustration takes over and the swear words and growling start coming out.

Oh and I also asked if I drove her to a different bus stop nearest to us but still in their 1.5 mile requirement, would she be allowed to ride. Nope. They take home address only into consideration. Charming, eh?

So I am drained and aching and bruised in every way. My kid came after me again with her fists, then got so mad, she actually picked up Arsenic and was going to hurl him at me because she’d already hurled what she had in hand. Needless to say I took a hard line and sent her to her room. I can barely stand this behavior, I am doing EVERYTHING the so called experts and other “I’m a super parent, your kid would NEVER treat me that way!” lines spewed at me and it’s to no avail. There are moments she just seems possessed. She is also so manipulative, it’s creepy. She play slapped my arm earlier, so I slapped her arm back. But she shifted position so I lightly landed my hand on her side and she starts screaming bloody murder and bawling and being soooo injured…So I go to tickle her and just like a light switch, the tears stop, the laughter begins. I’ve almost started hoping for it to be a chemical imbalance of some sort because if this a preview of what her personality is going to imprint as…I may as well concede defeat and send her to reform school.

I know, I know, drama much. I’m just so exhausted…She is exhausting, her school’s bullshit is draining, and this neverending dance with my own metal stuff is embalming. I breathed such a big sigh of relief once we got home today because now I have two blissful days of not having to be beholden to her schedule and forced to wear the mask of “I’m ok” and deal with the pick up trauma…

Come Sunday night I will be wound for sound. I have to drop her off in the morning, then go to my shrink appointment. At which I will be truthful and say, “I am better than I was. I was running on 2 cylinders now I am at four. Which leaves four more cylinders not running at all.” And all he will hear is “better” and what is the fucking point? And when I mention not even his sleeping pills keep me asleep all night, he’ll want to jack up the doseage and turn me into a zombie. They medicate us to the gills so even if the mental shit is not making us function lowly, the meds are. More than once as of late I’ve pondered just saying fuck the meds, turn to a life of crime or some shit, stop jumping through these pointless flaming hoops. It’s a sad day when doing everything you’re supposed to be doing still results in you making zero progress. Hamster wheel of life, mental illness is.

I found a huge lump on Absinthe’s neck. It wasn’t there yesterday when I was flea combing her. Overnight she grew a little cat conjoined twin head. Pretty sure it’s an abscess but I have 2o cents to my name so all I can do is keep using a warm compress to shrink it down and ease her discomfort. After losing so many kitties, I am truly freaking out. I used some Google-Fu for info and just reading all the comments on pet forums about “if you can’t afford a vet visit, you’re not fit to own a pet.” So I guess people who can’t afford insurance should just die cos they’re not fit to live, either.

The cruelty of the human race sickens me daily and I cannot put a shiny happy spin on it. In fact, if anyone can, I don’t want to know that person because they are seriously fucked in the head. I watched some crime show and in the youtube comments, someone made a comment about a murdered 17 year old girl who was absolutely gorgeous, “Her eyes look retarted.” Um…Who is the hindered one there? Seriously, to leave such a comment on a true story where that girl’s family can see it…MONSTERS are real, they just wear skin and look perfectly benign.

And okay, if blowing it off as “inane, consider the source” helps you sleep at night…Whatever.

But how about a youtube clip about a FOUR MONTH OLD BABY DYING BECAUSE OF INJURIES CAUSED WHEN HER MOTHER ALLOWED HER BOYFRIEND TO HAVE SEX WITH THE INFANT?   Do tell me what positive spin could ever be put on that to make it less horrendous? To be part of the same species as someone who could do such a thing makes me hate my humanity.

Am I picking out the bad things and leaving out the good? Nope. This is just what I’ve encountered this week from reading on line. “News” is a synonym for “gonna make you want to slit your wrists”.

You want some sunshine? Hmm…I’ve renamed my kid’s cat Fetish, or Feet-ish for short. Why? Because she kept renaming it and I got flustered and said, “Oh for pete’s sake, I’m just gonna call him Feet!” Then it morphed into Feet-ish and for me, Fetish. But yeah, Feet it is.

More sunshine? Well, I’ve not murdered anyone or myself with a spork this week, that’s always a plus.

I am well aware I am being bitchy but that’s just how much the last week has taken out of me. I’m climbing a molasses hill in six inch stilettos here. It’s okay to be frustrated, to have a chip on your shoulder. Some things just plain suck.

And then a few things don’t. Like Arsenic laying on me right now catnapping so contently. Like finding a new show I really liked and am sorry there were only ten episodes available. Like next week is supposed to be in the nineties everyday which means I’m gonna be marinating in sweat but it could delay the bubbling undercurrent of seasonal depression that the cooler temps bring…

I can spew all the good things. It doesn’t change the bad things. If anything, it makes me pretty damned sad that the bad outweighs the good. So why would I want to be reminded of the imbalance by deluding myself with shiny thoughts?

All I can do is trudge along, and hope along the way my stiletto punctures the jugular of a few trolls.

Now…A couple of parting lines heard on TV that made me tee hee the tiniest bit.

“She didn’t get the death penalty because the devil wasn’t ready to have someone more evil than him in Hell.”

“Should I slip into something more appropriate, like, say, a coffin?”

Keep calm and…I am so sick of seeing those shirts, all the teachers had them on today. I wanna change it up…

PANIC PANIC PANIC FUCK THE CALM THE SKY IS FALLING!

Purge complete. The roller coaster has returned to the station, you may safely unhook your seatbelt and disembark to the right…Oh, wait, the left, I get things confused, so sor-SPLAT!!!!!!

This is directionally challenged bipolar people with ADD do not make good roller coaster operators. Hate when that happens.

Once Upon A Time…A True Story About Mental Illness

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

Niki KindergartenOnce upon a time, there was a five year old named Niki. She was in Kindergarten. She loved animals, Wonderwoman, watching The Incredible Hulk and Dark Shadows. The worst thing she’d ever been through was watching her beloved dog, Snowball, pass away because an nasty neighbor poisoned him with glass for messing in their yard. It was her first experience realizing that the world was not all rainbows and that some people are plain bad. It left a mark on her heart but did not quash her spirit.

As that little girl got older, she was exposed to more ugliness from people. Still, no matter how badly she was treated for whatever petty reasons- being too tall, too chubby, having the wrong last name- she remained a bright hopeful girl who began to write short stories about cats. She loved to rollerskate in the basement with her cousin. She loved listening to music. While not as extroverted as her younger sister, and not of the blonde hair blue eyed “she’s so pretty!” variety…Niki was smart, sure of who she was, and content with her life.

That would all change, and change drastically. Still, amidst years of being bullied at school…She remained optimistic. She had hopes, dreams. She knew who she was and it didn’t matter if even her own parents found her high strung and moody and “difficult”. She stayed true to herself, even to her own detriment.

Then it all fell apart. Convinced she was indeed moody and difficult and a “weirdo” because kids told her repeatedly that she was…She sought counseling, figuring her dysfunctional home life with parents that hated each other had made her “weird.” She refused medication because, frankly, she didn’t know about mental health issues. She thought she could “fix herself” by talking and figuring out where she went wrong. Except all the things she’d been told were wrong with her were opinions by small minded rural people. There was nothing wrong with the way she dressed, looked, or the things she liked.

There was, however, something wrong with the way she go from being ecstatic and energetic and talkative and social…to falling down into a hole where she barely left her room and wanted no one around. There was something very wrong with her inexplicable anger, her agitation, her screaming only to start bawling and coil up into a panic stricken ball of shame. It kept happening, year after year. No matter how much she changed her behavior, the moods and anxieties would come regardless of how good or bad her life was going.

So she agreed to see a doctor and be medicated. And it helped, with the depressions, keeping them limited to a specific period during winter and stressful times in life. Six to nine months of the year, she’d be elated, busy at home or not at home. She had hobbies and enjoyed everything to the fullest. Until she didn’t.

It took over ten years and five doctors before she learned she was misdiagnosed and the very meds given to “help” her were in fact responsible for her “manic” episodes where she engaged in behavior that was totally at odds with her core beliefs. Mood stabilizers changed everything. No more screaming and ranting. No more crying jags. Things were clearer, more level.

Too level. And the depressions still came, and now they lasted longer, even with medications. She lost relationships, friendships, couldn’t hold a job. She lost parts of herself, the best parts, which may have been born of mania yet she missed the shiny happy part of herself. The only true answer was to stay with the medication lest she make any more mistakes to haunt her for the rest of her life.

It didn’t stop her from feeling daily like a husk of who she was. Then again, she wondered if she’d ever really known who she was, or if she was a manifestation of the mood cycles and anxieties…

****

That is my story. That cherub faced girl up there was me, as a five year old. The version of me with light still in her eyes. Maybe a lot of psychological damage was done, but the bipolar and anxiety have been the destructive things. It’s been agonizing to be cast as a mercurial flake when there is a logical explanation. It’s insulting to have that explanation dismissed.

That little girl never once thought that one day, she’d find it a chore to get out of bed and put on clothes.

That little girl never once imagined she’d become so exhausted from it all she’d lose her will to live on a daily basis.

Five year old me never knew one day she’d become prisoner to a sick mind full of fear and distorted thoughts that tainted everything she touched.

She had reason for light to be in her eyes. She had the whole future ahead of her.

I loathe that the struggle extinguished that light in me.

Some days I fight with all my might because I KNOW I can emerge from the depressive ell and live again. Other days, the fight is perfunctory and pretty much auto pilot.

I use sarcastic humor (often mistaken as pessimism) as a coping mechanism. Because I don’t know how else to handle this endless nightmare called mental illness.

I’m exhausted for being exhausted. I’m fed up being accused of not trying hard enough, not having the “right” attitude.

I’m tired of barely being able to watch a show I like because the suspense heightens my anxiety. I am filled with self loathing that my issues have kept me from taking my kid to the park, to this school activity, or even teaching her to ride a bike. My issues transfer onto her in my ability to function and it sickens me.

Five year old me was so blissfully unaware of the ugliness ahead of me.

I wish I could turn back the clock and relive that blissful ignorance. Because knowing what I know now…

I may have just stayed in my Wonder Woman Underoos, worn underpants as a hat, and not even bothered trying to live a normal life.

There is no such thing with mental illness.

Mental illness doesn’t kill you, they say.

Yet it kills your spirit. And often drives people to suicide.

So I think mental illness is a killer.

For so very long, I allowed myself to be convinced that it was all my “personality”. I was just that flawed. That flaky, that lazy, that much of a loser. You hear it day in day out, lies become a smidge of truth to a distorted mind.

Yet in the last few years, becoming active in the blogging community, reading others’ stories…The bipolar signs, cycles, anxiety issues- it’s all fairly universal. No one is exactly the same and yet…sometimes the behaviors are the same.

Now the mental health professionals would have you believe the very symptoms of bipolar they’re shoving meds at you to treat…are also part of your personality disorder.

It is my understanding personality disorders are born of genetics, personal experiences, etc. So pardon me if I cannot fathom how thousands of us, from different countries, from different income brackets, from different genetics- all end up with the exact same traits of a personality disorder. It’s just not logical to assume we all had the same experiences that warped us.

That five year old me had her blissful ignorance. My current incarnation has knowledge. I’m not sure if the trade off is worthwhile but it is what it is. And I am who I am.

I am bipolar. I have an anxiety disorder. I am mentally ill.

And I still miss my Wonder Woman Underoos.

31 Days Feels Like 31 Years

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , , on August 27, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I don’t know why that one day difference between months ending in 30 or 31 is, but for whatever reason, it makes me feel like the 31 day months are never gonna end. And okay, you could say it’s because I’m broke by week two and waiting for the check but…I’m used to being broke, it’s not new, it’s actually my birthright. And I don’t get much out of it anyway¬† between bills, kid, and cats, so I don’t think that’s it all. Frankly, I don’t know why I even care or notice. Just seems to me May, July, August- 31 days feel like 31 years.

Got my kid off to school without yelling at anyone. Though she yelled at me plenty because she was sooo tired and flailed on the floor like a fish out of water for a half hour instead of getting dressed then whined when she had to eat her cereal in a hurry. Blah. I’m not a morning person, either, and with it becoming cold so fast, I want to get out of bed even less. I did anyway, suck it up. My mom empathy is MIA. My kid has one of those personalities that just irk me. I don’t like know it alls, I don’t like people who have no grasp of what others go through but want an ambulance called when they get a hangnail. I don’t like loud people, I don’t like people who talk too much, I don’t like bossy people. And my kid has all those qualities. I try so very hard to not take it personally, to remind myself she’s just a child…But always in the back of my mind is that nagging little voice mumbling, “God, I feel sorry for whatever man or woman marries her…”

And I didn’t become so sensitive to her behaviors til this past year, and I kept blaming the depression or anxiety. She was this way last year and the year before so it’s who she is, even if I am trying to chisel away at the jagged edges so she doesn’t stab anyone or herself by being a butthead. I maintain she’s irritating, and others back me up on that. But I’m the only one it grates on and since it wasn’t such a metastasized issue last year, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say…This bipolar cycle I’ve been on for ten months has made me too irritable to even accept my own kid for who she is. I take no pride in that. I think it does demonstrate however that my doctor’s dismissiveness is way out of line because this is a MAJOR alteration in my perception and thinking.

Hell, maybe I need an anti psychotic. Not that they’ve ever done a damned bit of good other than knocking me out and making me gain weight even while living on water and saltines.

I did some busy work around the house yesterday. At the time it felt like an accomplishment. Now it just seems like, “Wow, you did three little things, you’re a lazy ass.” I was not in a great state, to be honest. The anxiety and depressive thoughts hit hard and I actually went to the shop just to hang out and not be alone with those thoughts. It didn’t help much, but it was at least a change of scenery and a buffer between me and going off the deep end believing the depressive lies. Pretty bad when I willingly go into the dish to escape being alone with myself.

I was ready for bed by 9p.m. last night. But I forced myself to get up and take a shower (only because the itchiness was making me claw at my own flesh). Once refreshed by that, I even cooked up some hamburger helper for my supper. Then I tried to sleep. Failed. Took a Melatonin. Slept, woke, slept, woke. Spook got in my bed.But hey, she’s managed three entire nights in her own bed, so I’ll take the improvement with a bit of backslide. It’s gone from so hot to so drastically cold at night, I am feeling the depressive tug more than ever. It’s the fucking cold and I try to tell the doctors that and they still insist it’s lack of sunlight. So why am I feeling it now when the sunlight’s not affected? Could it be that I just don’t fit some neat little category in a book and actually know myself?

Crazy talk.

Damnit. When I first took my meds, my brain was swirling with hypomanic thoughts and ideas what I wanted to write. But then I had to take her to school and…it’s gone. I’ve got nothing. For awhile I was writing a decent post here and there. Now I’ve returned to the land of Babylon where I just babble on and on. (Now I have the Faster Pussycat song “Babylon” stuck in my head.)

Oh, well. Babble is venting just the same. For now, courtesy of R, my cats have food and litter, I have smokes, and the sky is not falling. YET. It doesn’t help do the dishes in the sink that are taunting me nor does it give me a functional vacuum or a brain that works properly.

But amid the 31 day months where it feels interminable and nothing feels like it will ever get better…I’ll take what little comfort I can get. And having a friend who hands their credit card to you so your cats won’t starve is a pretty good comfort to have.

Even if it means I’ll probably spend the next month listening to him talk about broken stuff.

To be a troll, maybe I will reciprocate and start babbling and giggling about things I’m preoccupied with. Like lipstick and eyeliner and cute boots and leather jackets and OMG DID YOU SEE THE VAMPIRE DIARIES LAST NIGHT, I CAN’T BELIEVE ELENA IS GONE…

I doubt he’d draw the parallel. Better just take the cat food and smokes and listen like a good little girl to the latest busted item de jour. I just can’t resist being a trolls sometimes…It’s a character flaw.