Flipping Off The Script

I gave this whole “let in the light” thing a month with sheer curtains in my living room so I can stave off the seasonal depression with “light therapy”…Today I hit my tolerance wall. I put up a darker curtain to dim the oppressive blinding light and ya know what? Bam. Instantlantly my anxiety level goes down and I don’t feel so jittery and triggered. I’m also not in  the depressive abyss drinking Drano. Maybe it’s ass backwards of every case the professionals have seen before but it works for me so invalidating that fact makes them rather nasty in my eyes.

I didn’t just flip the script. I flipped it off.

I am sick of doing every little thing that is supposed to help my mental illness only to find it not only fails, it is more triggering than my own way. The place is dim, not blacked out. And speaking of which, plenty of gamers black out entire rooms so they can see the screen properly day or night, why aren’t the mental health nazis gnawing on their asses for doing things that are unhealthy? Maybe the professionals need to discern the difference between “unhealthy” and “healthy for this individual specifically.”

I have zero plans today and I am good with that. Fuck housework, fuck people, fuck errands. It’s the yearly shindig in town where people do “cruise night” on the main strip which will be gridlock. I’m not even gonna go there. Once upon a time this was an awesome deal, back when all the cars were classics from the 30’s to the 70’s. I looove classic cars, they give me girl wood. But then came the douchebags with their newer souped up rice burners and neon undercarriages and hub spinners and deafening stereos and it ceased to be about classic cars cruising. It became an excuse for spoiled brats in their teens and twenties to show off their excess income and pretend to be in the Fast and Furious. It’s quite depressing, actually. Sure, the classics still come out. But few seem to give a damn because ooooh shiny spinners and a loud stereo, aweeesome, bruh.

(Insert puking sound here.)

I am well aware that I am a complainer because yes, I have only attended a couple of the valid cruise things when I was younger because ya know, ugh, crowds and massive traffic, noooooo. Still..I might be more inspired to fight the panic were it remotely what it started out as. Seriously. In the 80’s I’d have fought the panic to the death to see Def Leppard. Now that they’ve become a middle aged Vegas lounge act making mommy ballads…Ugh, no way. Gotta be something in it for me and if you sell me a Ferrari then delivery Yugo…

Buhbye.

I supp0se most would consider a weekend with no money to spend and no plans made to be a bummer. For me, it feels like Christmas day. I spent the week doing what I was supposed to, what I had to, accepting shit no one should have to…I’ve earned a day of nothingness. It’s my reward for running the gauntlet of the week. Dealing with Uzi child is a chore, believe me. The questions never stop even after you’ve answered the same one three times. I’m not getting off scott free. Just a respite from the dish of petri trauma. Unless I choose to go out. Choice is everything with mental illness. If you have to do something when your mind is in a bad place, it can be your undoing. Given the chance and choice to do it when your mind is more solid, that makes all the difference.

I did my time in hell yesterday, anyway. My sister is still going to the laundromat trying to salvage all their mildewing fabric stuff from the fire hoses, so I said if she’d make a list, I’d go get their groceries. (Still feeling bad for not actually helping move anything, but as sis said, I had a small one to watch whereas their other friends didn’t plus I was running errands for mom and cooking for them…) A trip to Aldi, on a Friday, even with mom keeping Spook…was not my idea of fun. It’s very different buying groceries for two people as opposed to a list to feed six people. It was sweltering hot to boot, then I had to pack everything up that damned staircase…Not to be a brat but if I stay off staircases of that height, my knee problems go away. Using those kind of staircases ensure my knees will swell up and I will be in agony, seeking more MRIs to explain the issue while the doctors sees nothing on the scan and makes me feel like I am making up one more thing cos ya know, the psych docs doing it isn’t enough.

Grrr. I don’t want to feel like this grumpy lump. I want to do things willingly with an open heart and love and cheer. I fake it, force it, but it is never there naturally. Hell, were it not for this blog spewage, I doubt I’d have any true record of just how bad things have been in my head for so long because I’ve been groomed to hide it so long, so well. In  my world when someone asks, how are you…The correct answer is always OKAY. You never ever be honest, never ever admit things suck. To do so only leads to more invalidation and sometimes even people copping attitudes like you being depressed is an affront to the universe.

Because someone else always has it worse and to admit to being depressed makes you a selfish asshole. Because clinical depression is totally the same as situational. Not.

Last night was sweltering, Spook and I had to shower at 9pm just to get cooled down. All I wanted was to stop thinking and sleep and scumbag brain had other ideas in spite of melatonin. The heat was making me itchy and nauseous. Three days of ninety plus with high humidity made my husk a husk.

Today is cooler. The sun is blinding and irritating but at least my pancreas isn’t sweating. My mood is…relieved. To veg out, to regroup- it’s needed and necessary and brings a semblance of peace. Beneath this peace is a bone weary mind weary exhaustion like being awake for a week straight, dehydrated, and muscles cramped from endless walking. It may sound ridiculous but it’s the aftermath of depression and anxiety when forced to function at the same level of the mundanes.

The shocking thing isn’t when someone with mental illness has to be hospitalized.

The shocker is that so many of us live this way and don’t have to be hospitalized. This isn’t living, it’s existing and frankly, I’m not coming up with any great shakes of gratitude for that bare minimum.

How can I pursue happiness when all my energy is sucked up by merely existing and surviving?

It’s for that reason I flip off the script. I was lead to believe twenty years ago I just needed to find the right med combo and I’d be normal, get back to work, not despise drawing breath…

My attitude is dead on for someone lead to believe so many lies only to learn year after years they are exactly that. Lies. There is no remission for bipolar. There are only more cycles to come, more days to survive, more ways to grow resentful and worn down.

Had they told me that…Maybe I wouldn’t be so let down by the fact things have never really gotten and stayed better.

Therapy worked as well for me as taking tic tacs works for a fucking headache.

9 Responses to “Flipping Off The Script”

  1. I find myself wishing for you a full week “staycation” where someone agrees to watch Spook for the week and you get to stay home and do abso-fucking-lutely anything or nothing that you want. Virtual hugs all day long.

    • Going into the seasonal depression it’d be like a “starecation”. Hate that period where I am so lost I just stare off into space, it’s not really my norm. I can’t even wait ten minutes for my kid to get out of school, idle mind and all, have to take a book. Yet the cycle changes and I can’t decide what to do cos it all sucks and I just stare off into space like a lobotomized chimp.
      I want a blogger network convention where we all meet, hang out, swap horror stories, and plot our takeover of the world, muhahha.
      Oh, wait that last part is Pinky and The brain, my bad.

  2. Thank you for writing this. My thoughts exactly. The wonder is not that so many bipolarrrs aren’t in prison or the streets or hospitals. It’s the same of us are not. After two days in bed wanting to die/hating the world/my life in the world, I would gladly accept not partial but full lobotomy. But tomorrow, given my cycles, I will probably wake on the UP cycle amd write like a high functioning lunatic for four days; and then descend again into agitated depression. And it”s crazy how the cycles always feel and new and surprising and permanent. Medication has does shit. Just gets my hopes up for a few weeks. Probably all placebo feelings. Anyway, sorry for ranting on your blog. I am glad you are OKAY. Ha. This condition blows.

    • I’m on the fence on the med issues. The mood stabilizer has changed my life so drastically for the better, I wouldn’t give it up for anything. Xanax, well, yeah, I’d never leave the house if I didn’t have it. Focalin helps keep my mind from wandering.
      The anti depressants, though, I’ve been on 20 plus of every class and only four or five have ever helped and even then, for a couple of months before conking out. I am losing faith in those big time but it’s way worse without them so…catch 22
      Hey, rant away, I like input and hearing how others are coping. We are our only support system because the mundanes have no clue.

  3. I can certainly relate to faking it. I learned to lie so well that it took YEARS to figure out how to answer the simplest of questions: what do I want? My mom was THE example of martyrdom, and she taught me well through shame and blame. When I add in a mixed episode, where I can’t sort out my own mind for the love of pete, it really does make me want to tear my own head off.

    So sad to hear nothing’s helped. But then, how can therapy help when it can’t take you out of your current situation? Can I be honest, Morgue (and feel free to delete this if I overstep)? Your family life sucks shit from the asshole sewer of the world. You’ll never be whole and happy until you get the fuck out of there, full stop. You have no idea how many times I’ve sat here in blind rage while I read about what your family puts you through. It hits very, very deep with me. You’re under constant fire, constant bombardment. You’re in the fucking suburban war, dodging fucking word bullets every single fucking day. Telling you you’re gonna heal while still in the war zone is bullshit.

    Yes! I know a shrink would accuse me of running away. Let me tell you this very clearly: my life has improved DRAMATICALLY by moving away and cutting off almost all contact with my family. DRAMATICALLY. I can’t state that clearly enough. The continual stressors and triggers they threw at me kept me in a very negative cycle. I’m still healing from it, and I’ve effectively been out of it for almost 20 years. You’ve got enough on your plate dealing with Spook. And maybe (a big maybe) some of her acting out is do to her knowing how f***ing miserable you are.

    I know you don’t have the cash to up and move. I don’t have it to give to you; if I did, it would be yours. But take this away: things would be very different being OUT of the influence of your family. You would learn to feel differently. You would meet people who would treat you differently. Know that, take it with you as a slip of hope. We’ve just got to get you out of that war.

  4. This is genius:

    The shocking thing isn’t when someone with mental illness has to be hospitalized.

    The shocker is that so many of us live this way and don’t have to be hospitalized. This isn’t living, it’s existing and frankly, I’m not coming up with any great shakes of gratitude for that bare minimum.

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