Archive for September, 2015


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

I am feeling like a trainwreck. Cramps have arrived and with that comes all the body aches and muscle aches of hormonal shift. I’m awake but I feel half asleep. My motivation is nil and yet the place is a fucking biohazard zone. To top it off, I got blasted with blinding sunlight in the eyes when I took Spook to school earlier and it has gifted me with a frontal headache from hell. I’ve thought about resorting to Tylenol, see if the pain is dulled I might feel well enough to at least put the place into a state where the biohazard sign can come down. Of course, I forgot, then other shit went wrong.

I called the shrink’s office, intending to only remind them I need a paper script for my Focalin refill. Instead I gushed out how I don’t see him again til next month but I really don’t think I am doing all that well now that the cold weather is here…Nurse was very nice, said she’d talk to him, call me back. Well, I forgot I didn’t give them my cell from swapping phones with my mom and now the home phones have decided to both go absolutely useless. One just needs to charge but the charger ain’t working or the battery is just fucked. The other got wet or something and now just makes a shrieking static noise when turned on. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Now I gotta buy new phones??? Are you fucking kidding me?

Least I had twelve hours of admiring my pretty new faucet, expertly installed by R, before something else decided to break. I can’t afford a phone. Hell, if I don’t figure out a solution to this vacuum situation, all the fur and lint on the floor is gonna metastasize and form a saberteooth mutant dirt cat of doom….

I also think my left tire is going bad and ha I have no spare.

My kid has brought home blue and purple this week on her behavior chart. Bad bad bad. All for talking and it is never her fault, it’s always some other kid. I have tried to gently explain that even if they talk to her, she doesn’t have to open her mouth. Especially if it will get her in trouble. Six weeks of school and she’s had seven blues and three purples. She didn’t get this shit in pre K or Kindergarten. In fact, one of the pre K teachers we saw yesterday said she sure missed having Spook’s happy face and manners in her class every day.

WTF? How does she go from being that charming at the other schools and now in first grade with this newbie-ish teacher, she’s a demon? I shall find out during parent teacher conferences next week,I guess. If the teacher can be arsed. God knows she can’t even write a note about my kid’s behavior or any missing homework, just mark her pre report card with black marks. I fucking hate school. Even second hand it is toxic. I want to a supportive parent who is interested in her child’s education but first I gotta get a line of communication going with the woman spending six hours a day with my kid. Geesh.

The old saying “you get what you pay for” is absolute shit. I am paying $7.99 a month for Hulu (rather than seventy for basic cable) and I’ll be damned if they don’t post the one show I wanted to see. They have every other new show from the network, but not that one. Seriously? Useless fucks. Not to mention, I never had such buffering and drop out issues using a free streaming site. So I pay for crap service to not get to watch what I wanna see. That’s fucking hysterical, Hulu. Go fuck yourself.

I feel like I am gonna throw up and my lower abdomen is screeching in pain as it seems there are rabid oompa loopmas down there punching my ovaries at random intervals. I feel like shit. Once a month, every month. Not sure how menopause could be any worse than bipolar with a curse.

No, I do NOT have anything positive to say.

Well, I did have a kind of cool dream where Nightshade had surprise kittens (again) but they came out the size of two month old kittens and were frolicking about the place instead of being ya know, newborn lumps. I think this dream stems from the fact that I am still so heartbroken and lost without Abby and Arsenic. I say hi to their graves every single day at some point. They are gone but soo not forgotten. I’d sacrifice a dozen of the useless locals just to have my kitties back. They served a purpose. These dregs of humanity serve only to party and insult others. So, sure benevolent god, it makes absolute sense to let them live on and on and on yet take away my kitties who were filling my cold dead depression riddled heart with love and brief moments of joy.

I’m sure many wonder how fucked in the head one has to be to value cats over human lives but hey…Cats never caused me psychological damage and destroyed my faith. I don’t think it’s complicated or without total merit.

Now…I am gonna try to get to the cabinet for that Tylenol and hope in the twenty steps there I don’t forget or get distracted by something else fucking breaking…Feel the stabby rays of my sunshine. FEEL THEM.

Motivation Nought

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

I don’t know if it’s the rebellious streak I have or what but it seems like any time I have something to do that feels like an obligation (ya know, something I don’t particularly want to do, which in a depression, is everything) I lose focus and my motivation disappears. THAT is when I want to stay home and vegetate.

R asked me to come to the shop today to return my end of the barter for the gas and Spook’s cough medicine. Fine, he said it won’t take long, make some calls, watch the place while he does bank deposit. Not a biggie, really. Yet my motivation is MIA. I don’t feel it. He’s got that other girl, his daughter’s friend, coming in. Oddly, he isn’t paying her, his daughter is. I know, that’s fucked up. I guess she wants to help her friend and arranging for her to “earn” some money while acquiring a current reference is her way of doing it.

Oddly that was how I came to be the shop wench, wanting to try to do something and at least have a reference who could vouch that I make the effort even if I am not entirely solid and stable. In four years, I have failed a two year effort of studying for computer software and hardware repair. I can’t remember a damned thing about capacitors and resistors and their functions even if he thinks I am being obtuse. I really don’t know. That sort of thing, no matter how many times he has explained it, slips from my brain. I don’t get it. Beyond internet searches for parts and basic phone skills, I can’t do fuck all. Now, mind you, my cheapskate nature makes me excellent at net searches for the best parts at the best price, I am a master at that. (And he used to make fun of my thriftiness!) I just feel like my best effort simply isn’t good enough and I guess sometimes going there reminds me of how he has tried to help me help myself and I have failed big time.

Anyway…Yeah, he’s got her there even though he claims (and his wife confirms it) he doesn’t need her or want her but eldest daughter is milking his heart strings and paying for the service herself so he can’t say no. Whatever. She can clean. I suck at that. Even my best cleaning doesn’t pass muster with most. I guess his big issue is she has like ten mouth piercings so when she talks it’s all garbled and not good for customer interacting on the phone. One would think if she were serious about wanting a job she’d get rid of that shit. One piercing, two, ok, but ten in your mouth so it affects your speech? That’s not body modification, that is self hatred.

Another thing that’s got me feeling…um, I don’t wanna say spiteful, but kinda I wanna do the “I told you so” dance. Because Elder Daughter Psych Master’s Degree, it turns out, is counseling her friend at the place she works. First, it is a conflict of interest to counsel a friend or family member. Second, hello, confidentiality!!! Even with your dad, who then blabs to me, and maybe this girl doesn’t want everyone knowing her business. I know I sure as fuck don’t want people up in mine. Seriously, this is not professional behavior and this is why I refuse to go to that counseling place or take Spook. It’s hard to take this woman seriously when she does everything she isn’t supposed to do yet calls herself a professional. She is why many people don’t seek counseling. PRIVACY. In this small town, especially.

I suppose I could blow her world apart and report her but then I’d lose R’s friendship cos obviously it would be known who reported it. I hate being put in these situations. But hey, I knew that woman/girl was just wrong. Kind of evil, even if she means well. Don’t shove your master’s degree and good job down my throat when you can’t even manage the maturity to keep confidentiality. The patient should be the one allowed to divulge, or not. The therapist should NEVER divulge. I’m not a therapist and I sure as hell wouldn’t go around town spouting this girl’s name and telling people she is in counseling. Hell, I shouldn’t even mention it here out of tact, but damnit, I am sick of Master’s Degree being touted as the second coming when in fact she is little more than a judgmental gossip with the emotional maturity of a teenager.

But, yeah, that is why I don’t go to that counseling place and it’s the only one who accepts my insurance so…If not wanting my privacy put at risk of violation (again) makes me non compliant with treatment, so be it.

R did look at the sink late last night. I need a whole new faucet. Which the landlord should replace and yet every time his people do any work here, they make it worse or create a new problem. R said he will try to take care of it. The reason it’s so busted up is cos last time the maintenance man “fixed it” he half assed it, said he would be back, but never returned. Ass trash. See, this is what bad references from a life of up and down bipolar gets you. You don’t have much choice but to live where they will take you. Slumlordland. I like it here, don’t get me wrong. Just a little resentful I can’t do better for my kid mainly because I fucked up so much in the past it’s a permanent tarnish now. Mindfulness, my ass. Tell the world to stop focusing on the past so maybe I can do the same.

I “watched” Blindspot, which means I’d taken my a.m. meds and my brain went to Zulu hyperdrive land so I couldn’t focus and don’t remember much of the show. Damn it. I wanna scream noooo, don’t send me back to that attention deficit purgatory! I want to pay attention to things, enjoy them. As it is, I’ve been reading the same book since school started. I keep it in the car and read a few pages while waiting for my kid to emerge from the brightly colored cloud of puking shrieking monstrosities that will one day run this world. Now that it’s about to wrap up and things are getting interesting, I’ve brought it in to read at night.

I hate bipolar.

Clothes. I should do that. Though lately my pajama slobwear chic is fine with me, who do I have to impress? I could be drop dead gorgeous. Once my mood swings emerge, everyone loses interest. Think I’ve given up. Or just decided I attract vapid bums and if someone could accept me as slob chic, then that would make them worth my time.

Onward.Let’s see what joy of broken shit or mental hell this day brings me. Not pessimism. If nothing shitty happens…I will be pleasantly surprised.

Ghoul can dream.



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

I rant. I am random. Rant-dom. Meh, I didn’t have a better idea.

Thanks to a kind soul named Andrew who bestowed a gift card for my daughter’s winter clothing needs, I spent the evening with a spawn attached to my elbow scrolling through pages and pages of coats and boots and such. Everything I liked, she hated. Everything she liked, I hated. Needless to say, she chose a teal green winter coat that looks toasty and some black slouchy boots. There was enough leftover to even snatch up her Halloween costume (hope that’s okay, Andrew) so she can be Elsa (everyplace local did not have her size.) I have a happy child and I am one less stresser in the grave. Thanks again, Andrew, you are wondermous.

I broke and gave the kid her dvd player back even though she came home from school on blue. Talking in class again. Three blues and a purple in a six day span, she should be grounded til doomsday. I’m a crap mother, I guess. But seven solid hours of her literally attached to my elbow, yammering the whole time…Oh, dear god, either let me muzzle her or give me a break for caving in and returning the dvd player. I need breathing room. To my credit, I did make her clean catboxes and pick up her room, as well as denying her tons of sugary snacks. I’m not a total nitwit.

I swallow much pride earlier and went to R for a means to put gas in the car and get Spook much needed cough medicine. He handed me his credit card. I now owe him my soul (he doesn’t want my firstborn, she’s as irksome as he is and he can’t stand the competition) but the basics are met. I can go get that paperwork from her doctor now at least, get that ADHD thing underway. At this rate they’re gonna label her special ed between the behavior/focus/work issues. I refuse to believe it’s all behavioral because I am less than supermom. Something is at play. If it’s not chemical, then we’ll cross that bridge.

In what is probably an act of evil, I am almost hoping it is ADHD and pills help. Because if it requires counseling and I have to take her to that place where R’s eldest is the child psychologist, I am gonna gargle shards of glass. Seriously. Having sucky insurance, well, sucks, cos you gotta go where they take it and that’s the only game our insurance offers. Please be ADHD…Yes, I am going to hell. In a handbasket. With a bottle of cake vodka, a smoke, and both middle fingers extended. Bad attitude? No, I prefer to think of myself as having moxie.

As if I needed another expense, the keyboard on this laptop needs replaced desperately, the keys are failing. I can use an external, sure, but then why not just use the fucking desktop? Truth be told, though, as many external keyboards as I beat into death while writing…Needing one keyboard replacement in fifteen months is impressive. Just irksome when it’s a $22 you can’t spare. (And why is it so costly to replace a keyboard on a computer this old, Dell???)

So if my typos get way worse, ya know why.

R was supposed to come by and see if my sink needs an overhaul or if it’s a quick fix. I’d rather chew rawhide dog treats than ask my slumlord to do anything towards repair. People who complain get on the shit list. So I try to handle as much as I can myself, or ask others for favors. I’m gonna cook him a meal and all as compensation. He waited til 7 p.m. to cancel until tomorrow night, which irked me. He could have done it way earlier, cos ya know, I could have been in my crypt earlier. And I was looking forward to doing dishes without the water faucet shooting water under the cabinet, which is a soaking mess. Grrr.

My sister informed me the reason Orchid is sickly is because, apparently, her cats passed some sort of parasite onto him that requires a specific treatment only the vet can provide and she can’t afford to pay for it. Like I can! They totally played me, threatening to dump the cat, then after Spook gets attached and the cat needs medical care, oh, too bad, sucks to be you, Nik. Fuckers. So…It may be fundraising time again. Maybe I’ll just keep one going because catastrophe seems to love me.

It’s all so simple to others. “Get a job if you need more money.”

Okay. Who’s hiring former waitress/retail store managers who never held a job longer than a year due to being mental? Because nice an illusion as it is (Dad), you don’t just get handed a job, especially in this tiny town, because you fill out an application and an opening is there. In fact, there was a housekeeping job at a local motel and they had THIRTY applicants. For one position. So who would you personally hire? The one with a good work history or the one with a shit history but means well?

Pfft. I shoulda gone into a life of crime. Crime doesn’t pay? Neither does minimum wage. I’d make an excellent drug czar during my hostile times. “Cut off a finger a day until he pays!” Muhahhahah.

All in all…today was not great but it was one of the *better* days as of late. Which is akin to saying, “That loanshark only broke two of my fingers instead of all them, sweeet!”

I think it’s crypt time. Not because I am sleepy, well, okay, I am sleepy, but not sleep-sleepy, if that makes sense. I just want to stretch out in a cool room with one of my fluffalumps loving on me and listen to Deadly Women or Forensic Files. Yes, I know, you watch shows. I listen to them sometimes. Started ten years ago as a way to lull myself to sleep. Ya know, watch one or two, lay down, focus on what I hear while waiting for sleep…It became some sort of twisted lullabye that helps.

I’m done ranting now. You make return to your previously scheduled program.



SAD is making me MAD

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , , , , , on September 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Last night’s FML rant was posted from a phone so I didn’t really proof it or post read it. This morning I did on laptop and um, yeah, what a whiner I am. I do get too bent, as the donor used to mock. He’d tell Spook, “Tell Mommy not to get so bent.” I didn’t find it funny, because with anxiety disorder, when things pile up, you DO get bent. I don’t want to invalidate myself by letting it all build up and boil over, but maybe I should try not to let every overload short circuit my brain.

The seasonal affective is really screwing with me. I felt it coming weeks ago when the temperature started to drop and it was too cold to get up at night even to pee. Now it’s getting dark earlier, which means it’s getting cold earlier. Nighttime dark doesn’t bother me, night is supposed to be dark, and the professionals can piss off with their light therapy shit. Which btw, I went looking at these “full spectrum lights” that supposedly cure the seasonal depression and nine out of ten said, “not for use by those with bipolar”.What the fuck is that? Doctors swear by them for depression, yet bipolars shouldn’t use it? Is too much light gonna make me go manic? Cos if so, I’m gonna have a fundraiser to buy some of those lights and stack ’em like Marshall amps. (They’re not cheap when your budget is nil, at least not the “good” ones.)

It really hit me this morning that the seasonal has kicked in because the alarm (the first one, anyway) went off at 6:30 and it was still dark out. I was confused, thinking maybe I set the alarm wrong. Fuck. How can I acclimate when things are constantly changing? And truth be told, even with the depression being brought on, I am coveting the season change in hopes the anxiety will die down. Maybe I can get into the pocket of comfort I need to return to writing, which does help the depression.

I waited months to watch the new show Quantico. Started watching it this morning. Then hit pause so I could write this, cos scumbag brain has had its morning meds and is swirling in its hypomanic glory which dictates TELL THE WORLD HOW FUCKED UP YOU ARE COS GOD KNOWS, FOUR YEARS OF POSTS SAYING IT ARE NOT ENOUGH!

But, since denial is promoted in this society, I am gonna let this graphic speak for me.


I have this Chessie cat poster in my hallway, actually, minus the lettering. That cat’s teeth look like they could shred you. Coooool.

I got so bent with Spook’s episode last night, I didn’t update on my Saturday freak out. I know everyone’s been waiting in suspense to hear the rest…Ha ha ha.

Actually, I found some god-knows-how-long-this-has-been-back-in-the-fridge Mangorita and took more Xanax Saturday. Yes, I know, bad Morgue, whatever. It was worthwhile because Mrs. R did come to my door about the trip out of town. By then, I was okay. I didn’t particularly want to go, but I didn’t particularly have an excuse not to as it was to be a quick trip. Spook behaved wonderfully. I was uncomfortable but not spazzing out.

Until we got to Best Buy and the saleskid started pushing his “any computer under seven hundred dollars is crap” spiel. Then I got mouthy and Snarkasma made an appearance. I mean, really? My slave desktop cost me a hundred bucks five years ago. I am using a nine year old Dell laptop with an Acer hard drive swapped that I got for free. I paid seventy five (Actually, R paid half of that) for my Dell desktop on the bedroom. The toshiba laptop with the busted screen was free. So don’t give me this shit about cost meaning fuck all if you’re not driving the computer into the ground with endless gaming.

He started sweet talking the lady who obviously reeks of money about how he doesn’t get rewarded for pushing the pricier computers, blah blah blah. Whatever. Snarkasma doesn’t buy it.

Not to mention, back before Nardil destroyed my brain more than bipolar already had, I was in retail management. Yes, you suggestive sell. But when someone comes in, says, “This is what I want it to do, this is the price range I am willing to pay,” then you take them to what they want and shut your fucking mouth instead of forcing your personal views on the customer. I can’t stand the hard sell. It’s not simply me being poor or cheap. It’s basic respect. Don’t tell me what I want, just lead me to what I am telling you I want.

Needless to say, Snarkasma made the poor saleskid turn beet red by telling his supervisor, when he asked, that the kid had been very forcefully helpful. What? I make grown men cry, it’s my thing, apparently. And fortunately, Mrs. R was bright enough not to fall for their shit. She was however talked into the two hundred dollar Geek Squad thing. Ugh. Whatever. I don’t have seven hundred dollars to drop like that, not my business.

She took Spook and I to McDonald’s afterward, even though I told her I had no money. She bought us drinks and we shared some fries. I was not fond of the public thing but at least it wasn’t busy and I was super calm. (Xan-ita should be a food group.)

Later she beckoned me over cos she couldn’t get Windows ten to connect to the wifi at the house. I hate new shit. I hate the way Windows thinks they are “improving” things when in fact, Windows XP or 7 were basically flawless and they’re just making things worse for those of us who want a simpler interface. (Call me a relic, whatever.)

I couldn’t wait to get out of there, cos R had friends over she doesn’t like, which quashed her plans to go out for supper with him, and it was just tense…Ugh. Marriage is evil. No thanks.

So that was Saturday. I went to bed at 9 p,m. took two Restoril, and slept like the dead. I woke a few times, but for once, I woke in the morning feeling like i had actually slept.

Yesterday was non eventful aside from Spook acting out then turning into devil child. I am hoping once she is assessed for ADHD it will give some answers. Because this morning she acted like I was the best mom ever and nothing had happened. I don’t think this is a case of the kid being unhappy and secretly depressed. She doesn’t like the word no. And if she has attention deficit it explains the aggression to a tee. I am not prepared to write her off. I am not prepared to admit defeat personally, either. My job is to be her mom, not her friend.

She learned that latter part from my mother. When I tried to learn computer repair (epic fail that it was) and Mom  babysat Spook, the child got ruined. My mom is yes lady. Yes to everything cos she doesn’t want to make the child mad. It was how she raised us. Why I couldn’t wait to get out at 17. I wanted a mother, I wanted boundaries. I needed them as a kid. Instead I got slapped upside the head with them as a newbie adult.

Not to say I haven’t played a role in creating my monster. When her donor walked out, I guess I felt being mom and dad to her meant also going above and beyond to make her happy in any way I could. She turned into a spoiled brat and my mom just furthered it. My mom’s mentality is, “OH, well, if she broke her new dvd player, it was cheap. I’ll just buy her another one.” Not what I want my kid to learn.

So I am correcting my mother’s damage, as well as whatever damage done by being abandoned by a “father”, plus anything organic like ADHD while balancing such a limited budget and my own mental issues and the donor doesn’t pay a cent…I think my “bent” status is explained well.

Main thing is, it’s hard and I am still here, even in my mental train wreck state. I am TRYING.

Even if I am failing frequently. I keep trying.

And I don’t even get a lollipop.

Okay. I think I am done ranting like a mad woman. Back to Quantico. Fiction soup for the soul. Then I have to figure out how to get all the way out to the pediatrician’s office to get the ADHD paperwork for the school, cos I don’t have enough gas in the car. Maybe my sister could take me or R would let me use his car. Ugh, I hate asking for help from them. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I accept help, I have no pride when it comes to survival. But with my family and “friends” it comes with years long strings and guilt trips even if all they did was pass the salt at a meal. Hate it.

I wish I could just fly around on a broomstick.



Posted in Uncategorized on September 28, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Yeah. One of THOSE days. Fuck my life. Oddly it wasn’t so bad til I hit my limit on my kid being a defiant and antagonistic troll. By the time she screamed “stupid mother!” because I took her DVD player away for ignoring me…
I sooo fucked up having a kid. I am not strong enough for this daily constant rejection and defiance. Maybe it’s cos I ended up with ‘this’ kid who is loaded with every trait known to set me off. Perhaps it is linked to just how not well I am doing right now and she could be a dream spawn but I would still feel defeated.
I am sick of others criticizing my parenting because my virulent strain of child listens to them but not me when I am saying the same bloody thing.
I am tired of doing my best for a child who daily says she is gonna claim I abuse her so she can go live with parents who don’t make her eat gross food like pork chops.
My ass is getting kicked by the Ebola if six year olds. I am  keeping a brave front up for her because I know taking away her DVD player for calling me stupid is justified.
Does not make it easier just cos I know I am right.
I was never so naive as to think having a kid meant I would always have someone to love me. I am the adult who chose to have a child. It is my job to do the selfless love thing. Just also had no idea my mental state would deteriorate to this point where a bratty six year old is making me too exhausted to want to live.
It is not drama,not a cop out,not an excuse. It may not be how I feel ten hours from now but it is how I feel this moment.
And it is so exhausting I can only kick myself for having the hubris to think I could be a good mom.
I am Minimom.I feed clothe bathe and educate her. The minimums. I am not fun. No wonder she puts me thru Hell.
Is it the stress and depression talking? Probably.
Doesn’t mean some truth isn’t there.
My kid and I are failing each other. She is too young to know and I am too far gone to have

left to fix it.
Fuck my life.

Pseudo Functional But The Panic Is Working Fine

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , , on September 26, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Like the spineless coward panic attacks make me…I am hiding. From a phone call. I feel pathetic but my heart is hammering, my head is light, and the thought of venturing not just into the dish again but into an even bigger faster paced dish trapped in someone else’s car with Mrs. R…I’m getting shooting pains in my arm. I can barely breathe. I feel like I have done something wrong because I simply am not in the shape to go do the social butterfly bit. And because the world is not cool with mental sick days so being honest is as daunting as facing a firing squad.

So what do I do? Nothing. Hide like a wussy. I should pick up the phone, make the call, say firmly that I’m just not up for it today. I mean, what’s the downfall? I irk someone by being my flaky self?

I am normally not so spineless. The anxiety, and now the panic that had gone away for the longest time, are turning me into a basketcase. Xanax is being scoffed at. So I am in this hellish limbo, wanting to be my balls self and tell it like it is, yet feeling so fragile and ashamed for being fragile and fearful, I avoid. Avoid, avoid, avoid.

What a hypocrite I am. Blasting others for not having the balls to be honest with me while here I am hiding from a brief conversation that would result in what, being replaced by someone she likes better anyone and who can afford to buy their own lunch?

Because ya know, there’s another bad part to having “friends”. I’m always the one who can’t buy their own lunch. Or do any shopping. Or enjoy the outing because every fiber of my panic riddled central nervous system is interpreting it as an attack against me rather than, well, a pleasant outing.

This isn’t panxiety. No, I passed panxiety this morning and landed straight in ALERT ALERT PANIC PANIC zone. Why? We did the yard sale thing and I thought, hit the block sale, save on gas and stops, etc. Yet scumbag brain decided that all the traffic and people and the noise from the nearby steam show (whatever the fuck that is, something rednecky I am sure) were an assault. I was under attack. I tried to tough it out, oh, I did try. But at one point I got so overwhelmed, and my brain was short circuiting from the panic (which may have just been me not taking in enough air due to the panic) but I had to pull the car over, park, and just take a few minutes. I was beyond rattled. That wasn’t anxiety, that was pure panic.

I decided to get the fuck out of that area and maybe en route home find a couple of non crowded sales. Because while I had to rearrange my plan, I was determined not to let the psychotic panic rob me of the entire plan itself. So once out of that mayhem and in a less area, we stopped a couple of more times. It was serendipitous, too, because at one sale…I got my kid about ten new shirts and ten pairs of pants, all for five dollars. She has the winter hookup now. 25 cent each sales RULE. If I’d let the panic run me home, I’d still be sweating that bullet. So I toughed it out and now I have one less stresser to freak me out, my kid will not freeze this winter.

Still, had to come home and just chill. It was rattling. Like, nausea inducingly so. And of course the shiny happies will chirp, “But, LOOK, you did IT” then assault me with their pompoms made of unicorn fur and puppydog tails…Yeah, I did it. But I am resentful that I have to give myself pep talks and view such a normal thing as this major “I am woman, hear me roar” success. No one should have to operate from this place on a daily basis.

Having said that…THIS is why I am being a spineless wussy hiding from a phone call.Because I already had a meltdown in public today and I don’t relish another. And I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for wanting to avoid a possible trigger. I faced down the mental demons and sort of triumphed once. I don’t want to tempt fate and it doesn’t make me some weak malingerer letting her illness get the better of her.

Yet society has programmed even rebellious Snarkasma into doubting herself at every turn. I am told to take care of myself cos I can’t be  good mom if I am not well. But when I do the things that help me be well, the cognitive nazis say I am just avoiding.

The phone call I am avoiding, yes. I keep waiting for that recent Xanax to kick in and give me the courage to make a call and be honest.

Because yeah, panic disorder is that bad, is like that. You  need courage to do the most basic things because your stupid brain is interpreting every tiny thing as this debilitating assault. So it doesn’t matter what a bad ass you are most of the time. There is only *this* moment where you feel naked and vulnerable, like you’re armed with a water gun and everyone else has assault rifles.

It should be so easy as “rip the bandaid off.”

And the horrifying possibility that she could just come to my door and that’s even worse than a call and yet…

My brain is short circuiting.

There are times I actually ponder causing myself physical injury, benign but relevant to current requirements, just so I can get out of this social stuff when my mind is weak. It’s not Munchausen’s. I don’t want attention. I just don’t want that age old “Oh, come on, get out, get some fresh air, that’ll snap you right out of it!” Every. Fucking. Time. I am honest and say, “I’m just out of sorts, my mood is vile, my anxiety is hide, maybe another time?” Then comes that sunshine spewing “your needs are not important to me so do it my way” speech.

Seriously, if you want to cheer up an anxiety ridden depressive…DON’T drag them outside and insist it will fix them. Instead, offer to bring some food and a movie over and let them ride out the rough patch then maybe when they do feel stronger, they will want to go out rather than be blackmailed into it.


We all talk about the pitfalls of bipolar/anxiety. I think the self loathing it brings when we find ourselves behaving in a way contradictory to our normal personality, is one of the worst. Because in two hours, ten hours, a day…I may not even remember why I was feeling this weak and terrified. Yet at this moment, even fighting with all my might because I get that it’s distortion, it simply is what it is. It is real to me and I am terrified.

Terrified to the point of paralysis.



Supersized Happy Meal For Anxiety

Posted in anxiety disorders, biolar disorder with tags , , , , on September 26, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Anxiety has feasted upon me today, to the point of feeling foggy and scared and uncertain about every tiny thing. It’s almost like going off an anti depressant with that brain buzziness, or ya know, taking one like Lexapro or Abilify which had the same effect.Major suckage. Anxiety walked into Mickey D’s, declared itself famished, and I am its supersized Happy Meal.

Nothing catastrophic happened. There was no trigger, no underlying “well what’s on your mind that could have sparked this”. There is no logic here, nor rhyme or reason. It’s mental illness. My brain sends out mega messages of “fight or flight” and my body floods with the appropriate endorphins or whatever. It matters not that there’s no trigger. It’s a disorder because it happens this way. Every little thing set me off today. Driving. Talking to people. Interacting. I was even too squirrelly to walk across the street from the shop to a yard sale. The anxiety was that bad, the panic messages telling me I was in danger that strong. Not even Xanax was knocking it down today.

In spite of that, I still accepted an invite by Mrs R to hang out this evening. Then came the flood of their family and friends and in my current state that was as healthy as gargling Borax. R’;s eldest, Mrs Master’s Degree, saw my ankles and exclaimed, “MY god, what happened to your legs?” Um…Flea bites. Same as it’s been for oh, thirty five years now. “Well, why didn’t you get rid of the fleas?” I did. Still, one flea bite for a million others equals a hundred flea bites for me due to the fact my histamines view it as some sort of full on assault requiring them to run riot. So yeah like I’m not self conscious enough about the scabby scarred legs, I get people like that who can’t even pretend not to notice. You can go with the “she just cares” argument. Had it been anyone but her I might have been enough of a moron to believe it. The moment of richness came when she complained about an “obnoxious coworker” at the counseling center. The thing that makes this woman obnoxious? She stops by Master’s Degree’s office door and tries to talk to her every morning. And the really irksome thing- it’s the counselor I used to see, the one they, as children, saw. A wonderful woman who is not the least bit obnoxious. In fact, were you to simply exchange pleasantries then smile and politely say you needed some time to yourself, she’d have zero issue with it. Rather than do this logical thing, she of the master’s degree smiles through it then runs around telling everybody D is obnoxious.

Whereas I find her one of the most repulsive people on the planet based on personality and she has no clue that she’s even flawed because when she gets mad,  she cleans, so she’s getting therapy and everyone else is fucked up.

Why oh why do I even leave the house or attempt to be “normal”.

I stayed less than ninety minutes, especially after I mention Spook’s bad report card and yet more behavioral issues at school this week and it turned into these little digs about how “You don’t get to do whatever you want at school like you do with your mom, do you, Spook?” Um…I could buy a fucking island if I had even a penny for every time I tell my kid to be quiet. I could buy a fucking villa for every time I correct her, stand her against a wall, take her shit away, send her to her room…Fuck, I could be a Kardashian. I TRY. I just have a virulent strain of child.

As we were leaving Mrs. R mock whined, “You’re leaving already, you don’t love me anymore…”

Truth be told, by that point…I was tapped the fuck out on every level. And she asked if she decides to go out of town tomorrow to buy a new computer if I’d go with her and help her pick the best one for the best price. OMFG. NOOOO, I do not want to be prisoner in someone else’s car for fifty mile trip there, fifty miles back….Not with my anxiety. If I were manic or even in a stable place, it’d be cool, cos I wouldn’t have to drive and I could just enjoy the trip. Right now…I’d rather have a dozen root canals sans Novacaine…But stupid bitch I am, I said, yeah, sure, cool.


What I want to do tomorrow (if scumbag brain cooperates and the Hulk Happy Meal sates the anxiety) is hit the last weekend of yard sales. The town’s got some prairie bumfuck steam land engine, IDFK, shindig, so there are over 40 yard sales. I’d like to it just a couple that have Spook’s pants size listed, just to get out,do something, then die. Metaphorically. Stay inside for the rest of the weekend, no dish contact unless it’s forced on me.

On the plus side…Nervous as I was, I only had like ten ounces of this sparkling wine/juice stuff, whereas with anxiety I normally want to crawl into the bottle. It just wasn’t doing a thing. Once the stress and exhaustion set in this hard, I don’t think anything will help but the brain reboot of sleep. To my credit though, we came home at 7:30 and instead of crawling to my crypt and licking wounds…I’ve stayed in the living room, watching some “newish” show I found on Hulu. I did dishes, cleaned cat boxes, even though it took every ounce of gumption I have. I can’t believe how exhausting every tiny thing is becoming. I thought the summer was bad, but this shit…This is a whole new ball game. Dodgeball. And the balls being thrown are enormous spiked maces.

I am hoping I can just get through the first few hours of tomorrow with my mind relatively functional. I don’t wanna sit out the final yard sale weekend for six months. I don’t have much money but my kid needs pants and if I could find those cheap, it justifies the use of gas. But last week this was the plan and come Saturday morning…I couldn’t make myself go out there. No more dish, said my central nervous system. So when it even cancels out things I semi enjoy…No,Dr. Katmandu University, everything is not getting better here.

Though I did rather enjoy the season premieres of How To Get Away With Murder and Grey’s Anatomy, so I m sure that means I am totally cured.

One more episode of this show and then bedtime. Or not. I don’t know. I wanna curl up i bed and zone out. But then I feel like that’s me giving into the depression’s siren song. At which point is it okay to say you’re done for the day without it being  a cop out to avoid your mental demons?

Stick a spork in me, I’m done.