Archive for October, 2015

Halloweirdness FML

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

Ten months a year I wait for Halloween. Every year almost, by the time it gets here…I am in the downward spiral of seasonal depression. This year is no different and it is not just bumming me out but pissing me off.

I used to daydream of one day having a child and how fun it would be to take them trick or treating.

Now…It’s cold, gray, and raining and my kid is being a royal brat and my body aches from dish week and…I don’t give a fuck that it’s Halloween. I don’t want to take her Trick or Treating. I can barely be arsed to put on real clothes, let alone dress up. My joy has been stolen once again by that bastard depression and IT PISSES ME THE FUCK OFF.

She is pulling the Uzi rapid fire routine this morning. Ninety minutes awake, ninety minutes of constant chatter, her yelling at me, defying me, manipulating me…My dad has already called announcing their intention to visit. With it raining they will probably want to come inside and I cannot allow my biohazard four shame to be seen and judged. (Doesn’t bother me so much with R, he barely notices if my hair is on fire, let alone if my house is crawling with hybrid spidercats.) But my judgmental father and my stepmother who constantly bitches that my wax melt things aggravate her allergies so she doesn’t want to come inside…

Fuck off. Seriously. I don’t want my bubble invaded by their negativity and judgment. By anyone really. This is my sanctuary, scuzzy as it may be. No McMuggles!

So far, I’ve done fuck all but get out of bed, come to the living room rather than cryptify, and feed the cats. I can’t even be bothered to make fresh iced tea, I am choking down the stale stuff from yesterday. Most of me wishes I were still in bed with that uber comfy uber warm blankie I shall call Vanilla for it is white like vanilla ice cream. Vanilla and I are engaged. I may marry that damned blanket.  Never in my life have I owned anything so posh. Loooove at first snuggle.

Alas, I must be awake so the spawn doesn’t impale cats on forks or set the place on fire rubbing two sticks together.

I keep trying to pep talk myself into being “up”. What’s so bad about my life, really? What do I have to be depressed about? Which is the ultimate pisser of depression. It doesn’t matter if you just won the lottery, met the love of your life, or put an end of war. It just is. Dragging you down without reason. Blocking out all rays of light. Smothering you with its weight, making breathing seem exhausting. I want to shake it off. Desperately. Yet…it has embedded into my bone marrow once again. I see the shrink Monday and I am scared to even mention that I’m not all cured. Cripes, two anti depressants, a mood stabilizer, Focalin, Xanax, Restoril…I should be higher than a fucking kite. Yet that sad undertow remains, more prevalent on some days than others but I feel it just the same.

I guess I will just address the immense anxiety. I want to drop to the floor sobbing and beg for Valium. Never had it. Maybe it’s shit. But the restoril isn’t relaxing me enough at night to sleep solidly, I need something. Just not hypnotics, those are not for me. Fuck, I don’t know, I’m a bloody trainwreck. There is this part of me so sick of being “too solid” as far as the manic episodes go, I want to go off the Lamictal. Let the moods swing if it means I might reach an up patch. I know I can’t, it would be irresponsible as a parent because nothing good comes out of manic behavior…I still fantasize about even a few weeks of excess energy, social skills, and just not feeling….like this.

I think I woke every hour on the hour last night. Just like the night before. And weirdly, my kid stayed down both nights and in her own bed. So why, considering the xanax/restoril bedtime routine, can’t I sleep through? It’s been a year of this shit, and it’s exhausting. It’s not a mystery why I am tense, impatient, and grumpy. I never truly get to recharge. Hell, I’d settle for staying down four solid hours rather than spend ten hours in bed, only sleeping in seventy minute increments. And this terror/jolt thing every time I start to drift off…I haven’t had that problem since I was a child.

My brain has gone off the reservation. It’s throwing me curveballs, it’s pitching same old, same old, it’s firing rocket launchers at my nerve endings.

Robbing me of the mind frame to truly enjoy my one day of the year is the ultimate cruelty.

I am gonna go back to watching this show I just found called “Life”. Rarely does a show suck me in after one episode but this one did. Maybe if I just chill and stop putting so much pressure on myself, I will revive, reanimate, something positive. Unlikely with the Uzi fire still coming at me.

Sorry for the lack of humor in this post. I  usually try to balance out the gloom with some good snarks but…I just don’t have any right now. Depression has proven to be Snarkasma’s Kryptonite.

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Veg-cation

Posted in anxiety disorders, bipolar depression with tags , , , on October 31, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

I have hit my limit on the dish of petri, of my kid’s babbling, of my own nerve endings cannibalizing themselves…At the risk of sounding dramatic and entitled…I am exhausted. By that I mean…the mental gauge is on E. I need a brain reboot involving solid sleep (I should be so lucky between spawn and scumbag brain).

So tonight I am gonna take veg-cation. It’s like a staycation only I am going to lay like broccoli under a posh warm blanket (BEST GIFT EVER) and watch a scary movie or something mindless. I wave the white flag.

***Not responsible for any heart attacks/fainting spells/jaws breaking when they hit the floor because omg, Morgueticia said something NICE. You’ve been warned.***

I love you all, Tribe. You’ve all brought so much support and empathy into my life that I frequently feel blessed to be a part of this wordpress family. You people rock the casbah.

Now exit the blanket fort, Morgue is going off line. Well, AFK, anyway. Off line no no no, must always be connected even if not using the computer/phone/etc.

Love, sporks, and bison leprechaun burgers for all. ❤

Morgueified

Posted in anxiety disorders, bipolar disorder with tags , , , , , on October 30, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

***Kidcentric post warning. If you wanna skip it cos you don’t have kids or hate kids or like to juggle flaming toddlers as opposed to first graders…Buh-bye****

 

Yesterday was another ‘too much time in the dish day”. I was mortified. Or Morgueified,if you will. Because I couldn’t find a single second of mental peace, knowing I had to face my kid’s school function. That parenting class thing blows goats and leprechauns. Back in my school days they had cake walks and games for kids and parents to do together. So the hilarity of the class that encouraged “spending more time with your kids” while separating us from them hit me upside the head. Idgets. Not to mention the time leading up was made more traumatic because the teacher sent home three pages of homework, all math, and my kid spewed pea soup cos it’s boring. And  I was taught differently and they are doing this “ten square” method I don’t really get…We were at the shop and I had to ask R to help my six year old with her math, ffs. Sad thing is, he has a freaking degree and it took him twenty minutes to comprehend the damned New Improved method. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Spook is right, math is boring and it sucks.

Pre-torture, I took a couple of pics. I am posting these not to be narcissistic, but to demonstrate just how “deer in the headlights” I looked.

terrified morgue unamused Morgue(And if even one well meaning person says a word about how fluffy I am, I swear to pegacorn satan, I WILL hunt you down and take a shovel to your skull.I am fluffy, NOT FAT, and I don’t give a fuck about being healthy or being attractive. I’m in survival mode, lucky I managed to put on pants and remember how to drive, I was so panic stricken.)

But, twas not about me, it was Spook’s night to show off how pretty an Elsa she makes…I present…Spooky Princess Elsa.

boop elsa 15Of course, she kept tripping on it cos it was a little long, but she is an oddly proportioned child so to get things to fit on top I have to bump her up a size which results in too long sleeves or dresses she trips on.  And btw, to whatever ass trash company made the Elsa wig that alleges to be an adult size…It barely fit my six year old’s head so when sizing it, were you idgets using shrunken human skulls or what? I had a bitch of a time getting that thing on her.

Off we went, mommy in fight or flight mode yet sucking it up for the spawn’s sake. Went to the shop to meet my calm companion and since the school is just around the corner, we walked to avoid parking gridlock. The line waiting to get inside about made me hurl. All those shrieking running kids (did enjoy their costumes, though) and then there was my general discomfort having to have a calm companion, especially one with a wife, cos gossip in this town is viral and he went but looked like he was bored into a coma. His kids are well grown up now, this was a repeat for him. I was grateful to have the support though, otherwise I might have thrown up and run back for the car. I purposely took off my glasses so everything would be fuzzy and less vivid, thus lowering my being overwhelmed status. Which made me pretty much blind to see what classrooms were holding which parenting class. He made a comment about are you blind, and I said, “Yeah, I’m not wearing my glasses, duh. You’re my eyeballs tonight.” Shows how much he pays attention,didn’t even notice I wasn’t wearing my glasses. (One day I am gonna test his awareness by going to the shop without pants.)

Too panicked to really ponder what interested me, I fled into the room teaching math skills for first grade. After the homework fiasco, I obviously needed it. Beyond letting kids count objects like marbles or pieces of cereal, I understood none of it. Make them memorize their damned tables with flash cards like I did, for fuck’s sake. The saving grace was that it wasn’t too packed in the room, though R’s  bored fidgeting kind of unnerved me. (Though every time I started feel guilty for asking him to spend his rare free time to accompany me, I reminded myself of all the boring shit I have endured for his sake, and yes, back when we were together for his kids, and it’s like, fuck guilt, karma bitch.)

Next class was about rewards and validation for the kids. Ugh. They even passed out four papers of homework for the parents to do. Not to be turned in, but to give the kids a daily structure and routine. ‘Scuse me, I already have this one down pat. Home, snack, homework, then play time. BORING. I thought I might actually walk away with some new parenting Houdini trick but sadly…It was just a regurgitation of everything spew when I took Spook to that child psychologist. Bored. Bored. Bored Morgue.

This was followed by a trip to their very tiny gym filled with parental dish dwellers for a costume parade of all the grades. Hated the crowd. Loved seeing the costumes. There were two little Elvises. (Elvi?) To my surprise, my kid and only on other girl came as Elsa. (I figured there’d me a mini mob based on how many Elsa/Anna?Frozen backpacks spotted at pick up time.) One kid has the scream mask that actually had red liquid inside so it looked like he was bleeding. Two of the school staff were dressed as Dr. Who. One from the Tom Baker years of the neverending ugly ass scarf, the other as the Matt Smith bow tie nerd version. That was pretty cool. (Myself, I’d be a dalek. I can really rock that EX-TERM-I-NATE!HATE HATE HATE thing). There was a kid in a shark costume which made me dissolve into laughter and R was confused. I couldn’t explain it because it referenced this week’s episode of The Flash and he’d not seen it yet so no spoilers. But it cracked me the fuck up.

And then the crowd was braved for escape, I got my Mangoritas, and promptly came home and ripped off the body bondage known as bra, underwear,and any clothing I didn’t sleep in. I could breathe again.

So yeah, yeah, I survived, but it was pointless. I learned nothing. My kid was upset because not one single school mate complimented her Elsa costume and “they only let us have one cookie and made us play stupid math games!” Yeah, definitely sucky. My family used to come home with mega loot and cakes and pies and…I would not want to be a kid in this day and age.

This morning I am waiting on my “date” to watch American Horror Story with Bex (yes, you can “watch” shows with someone even if they live in another country.) I am taking much needed chill time. Fuck the biohazard level four that is my home. And for once,I have escaped being roped in to R’s bidding. Hope to get a call, though, cos I fixed a computer he outsourced to me yesterday and I need that cash, mommy’s getting a new keyboard for this laptop cos this one is fuuuucked. I get giddy over a new keyboard, wow, when did I become such a geek?

Monday the heating guys will show up. (Kindly benefactors exist, I did not win the lottery or rob a convenience store.) Woo hoo, heat in my bedroom for the first time in six years? It will be like Utopia. Lower heating bills would rock, too.

Off to be Morgueified by Lady Gag-Gag’s acting skills which are as good as her singing skills. They don’t exist. I’m in it for the hot goth guy in eyeliner. He’s a prick and drinks blood, but hey, no one is perfect.

Morgue, OUT.

Leprechaun Meat and Bison Balls

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , , , on October 29, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

Yes, you read that title right. Leprechaun meat. Sass and I have warped but vivid imaginations. And Bison balls…Well, when I am truly sad or bored, I visit this dude’s site and laugh until my sides hurt. He as a thing for bison meat, especially bison balls, and his take on everyday stuff slays me. The fact I am doubled over laughing and R will look at the computer screen and say, “It’s not that funny…” Um, that proves it IS funny, you’re just OLD. (Sass, go to that page and look for the comic “clowns of the 50’s versus today’s clowns”, you will appreciate it. Send me the therapy bill 😉 )

So…I crashed hard last night. I actually nodded off during Arrow. So I gotta watch that again as I remember nothing. Melatonin kicks in fast when you don’t expect it to. Up and moving today, though it dropped down to 37 degrees and I had ice on the inside of my car windows so dealing with that cold already robbed me of several sporks. Then there are the appointments (the toys for tots thing is a madhouse) and of course, tonight, where my kid gets to have fun and I have to be reminded what an incompetent parent I am. Dread doesn’t begin to cover it.

I mean, it makes me sound petty and selfish, it’s like ninety minutes out of my life to make my kid happy and let her show her friends how pretty an Elsa she makes…But I wouldn’t be hopped up even if they weren’t making parents do these classes cos that school is smallish and last year I attended a couple of events and omg, you could barely walk the halls without getting elbowed. I’m not claustrophobic but when I have no elbow room and no clear path to the nearest exit…No, no, no. BAD, very BAD. I am so twisted and tense as it is, I just wanna get it over with so my intestines will stop playing drunken Twister in my gut. And spare me the “booze is bad with meds” bit because I gauranfuckingtee I will be drinking tonight. It’s an even better buzz knowing I don’t have to pay for it. Kinda speaks volumes about R’s priorities. He’ll stand there silently if I say, “My power’s gonna be shut off if I don’t come up with X amount.”

Now if I say, “I’m out of smokes and I could use a Mangorita…”

He hands me the credit card. Priorities, man.

He called me last night around ten for a “favor”. He wanted me to look on line to find the cheapest copy of season one of The Flash and order it. Found it for less than twelve bucks, free shipping, click his paypal account, done. For that he is buying us those bar tacos today for lunch. I can click buttons for food. Hell, I can point and click for hours for free. It’s my thing. But as I told him…I never had  a computer til I lived with him and he bought one. Once I discovered the intertubes…Never having to leave home to socialize???? Hells yeah. I’d marry my computer if I could. All my friends live inside it. Well, then there’s the fact it acts as a TV, music stereo, I can look up random facts at any time, and doctor up pictures of Count Sporkula. Why would I ever return to living in the dish when I have that all in this little laptop? HIS fault, I’d never have been able to afford one back then to get myself addicted.

Shit, I have an hour til I gotta go to my appointments. I am seriously reconsidering the toys for tots thing. I only used it once, the year the donor walked out, cos I wanted to make sure Spook had Christmas. But the crowd, ugh, and then picking it all up amidst a mob next month…it’s less lazy and more like, Hey, dad usually gives us cash for Christmas, I’ll just spend that on her  instead of myself and avoid the mob scene…And that is pretty much how my kid has gotten Christmas for the last three years. Dad gives me money as my gift and I spend it all on her. I’m not skipping the heating assistance program, that is just basic necessity. And it could free up enough money to make sure I have the hundred by Dec 31 for the sticker on the car.

Speaking of said car…My mom gave me that car, told me not to worry about getting title and insurance all switched over til my nephew gets his license next year (cos it’s close to three hundred bucks to get all that done) and duh, I don’t have it. Well, now she is telling me because of the fire and all their problems, she *may* want the car back for my nephew to have cos, yeah, it’s far more important he have a car to go buy Mochachinos to stay up and game all night than it is for me to ya know, haul my kid around. What the actual fuck, Mom? Like I don’t have enough problems, now I have ten months to miraculously find two, three thousand bucks for a used car?

I know people must think I exaggerate my tales of my fucked up family, but sadly, I don’t.

Like my charming father. I wasn’t home yesterday so he stopped by the shop. Why? “I picked up your yard again…And your window screen was laying on the ground…And we aired the tires up on Spook’s bike since you couldn’t be bothered…What have you done about the heat? Is your sewer backed up because it stinks over there…You need to clean your car out, it looks like a garbage can on wheels…”

I’m 42, for fuck’s sake, and pay for my own shit for the most part so fuck off, sperm donor. If anything positive or loving ever came out of their mouths, I’d keel over.

Ok, time to do battle at finding a pair of pants that don’t have holes in the ass end. And maybe a bra…Ugh, I hate having to go out in the dish and be presentable. Bring on the fucking Muumuus. Black, of course. Maybe a skull print…No, I really don’t do skirts/dresses, my ladybits like to feel safely ensconced in pants.

I think I am done ranting.

(consults voices in head.)

Three out of five agree the rant is over.

The other two are apparently eating leprechaun meat with a side of bison balls.

Hour 17

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , on October 29, 2015 by morgueticiaatoms

In keeping with the “fuck conformity” theme..I have been awake since 3:3o a.m. and am heading into hour 17 of consciousness. Hellish consciousness. It’s weird because I’ve pulled 50 plus hours awake without feeling so…tired. It’s that frigging morning thing. If I had slept till noon, I’d still be energized for 30 more hours. But sleeping a couple of hours then waking at the crack of ass while the roosters are still snoring…My nocturnal ass is dragging.

For the first time all day, I can finally breathe. I finally calmed down enough to eat food and kill the “meds on empty stomach” nausea…I have Feet laying at my feet, tickling me with his fur. Breaaatheee. I was trying to watch Blindspot but Hulu is being a dick, as usual, so I said fuck it and am watching one of my all time ever favorite movies…”Brainscan”. Loved frigging Edward Furlong (kid Johm Connor from Terminator 2,another of my fave movies), plus the sound track kicks serious ass. Sadly, I use the desktop’s cd/dvd drive so rarely, I had to do battle with it with a nail file for five minutes just to get the tray to open. Digital media is killing me here.

Also killing me is how when good things happen…It can never simply be enjoyed or appreciated. Nope. Scumbag life has to flip me off and snark, “You really thought it was gonna be that easy? Muhahahha, I spit on your optimism.” So by the time the good thing comes to fruition…your soul is so deflated and defeated, there’s no joy, no real relief, just this crumbling to the floor in “this is a good thing but the flaming hoops I had to jump through also filled with razor wire kinda took away any true feelings of goodness…”

Such is the soundtrack of my life. It all works out in the end after having to swallow ten gallons of pride to make it so…But now I am too fucking exhausted to feel anything but…well, fucking exhausted. And my kid, well, she’s channeling Satan and pea soup after being so good because I am not stopping, dropping, and rolling on her command. Methinks I have created the worst monster ever (Stranglestein, a friend dubbed her, after I related a story about her tying one of the cats to the doorknob with a shoestring). She has come home with outstanding colors for over a week for her behavior at school so I rewarded her with a playdate at Grandma’s tonight. And once she gets back she is an absolute jerk, and still asking, “What else do I get for being good?”  I know I suck as a disciplinarian but this “gimme stuff” thing comes from me letting her have too much contact with my mom and sister. They are about to get their phone turned off due to lack of money yet last weekend, they spent over fifty bucks buying my kid toys, take out, and ice cream so she expects me to let bills and food go for the fun stuff. Gimme this, gimme that, to quote the Alice Cooper song. Brattenstein is what I should name her.

I am demanding my badge of courage. I made TWO trips to Walfuckingmart today (don’t ask) and frankly..It makes me miss the agony of root canals. Total anxiety/paranoia trigger going to that place. Superstores SUCK. If I wanted to walk that much, I’d go to the fucking mall. (Well, we don’t have one here so I’d have to say, I’d go to the mall 40 miles away if I had gas in the car and trusted the bald tires wouldn’t blow out on the interstate.) I used to love Wal-Mart when it was the smaller size store and not three miles outside town. Now…ugh, can I just  be skewered on a spit, please? Less painful.

9:29 p.m.

Think I have soothed the savage beast called my child. Maybe now I can truly breathe. I don’t think anyone can truly understand the challenge presented when an introverted parent has an extroverted child. I don’t want to quash who she is, god knows, I had enough of that forced on me all in the name of conformity. I just also don’t think every waking hour with her should have me ready to yank out tufts of someone else’s hair. It’s karma, man. My best friend Kristel and I spent most of Kindergarten at the quiet table and now…it’s biting me on the ass with my own child doing the same chatty Kathy routine. Except these days, failure to conform results in some sort of psychiatric diagnosis because the school can’t be bothered with a high spirited child.

I am still wondering why the fuck I am still conscious. Around six p.m. I was ready to drop face first into a pillow. Now that it is “time” for bed…Nope, scumbag brain screams WAKEY WAKEY EGGS AND BAke-EY, BIATCH! Shiaat. Truth be told, today did NOT work out at all the way I’d planned. All those fiery barbwire hoops to jump through while selling my soul the devil for something good to work out…At one point everything was going sooo wrong, I sat outside the shop on the WET step which gave me a wet, cold butt, and held my head in my hands. Because ya know, enough stuff goes wrong all at once and your past bites you on the ass after twenty years, you start believing that little voice telling you what a loser you are and you don’t deserve kindness or anything good…Ya get beaten down and ya gotta kind crash and burn before you can rise up again. I’d planned on being at the shop an hour max, waiting for R to get his shit together so we could do our barter thing…

I was still there til five mins before my kid got out of school. On three hours of sleep. Paranoid and freaking out BECAUSE I HEARD SIRENS SOMEWHERE IN TOWN AND WHAT IF IT’S MY HOUSE BURNING DOWN???? Almost seven solid hours in the dish, everything going wrong, anxiety screeching at me…Amazing I didn’t grab a shovel and start bashing in skulls. (Not that the desire wasn’t there, panic makes me veeeryyy eeevil.)  Of course, the sunshine spewers will say “But you survived it!” They deserve a shovel to the skull cos for every time I do survive…There are two times I fail miserably, burn more bridges, and have the past gnawing on my ass cheek for twenty years. Rxcuse me if I don’t agree that panic attacks are harmless.

On a very depressing note…We have all these stray cats that linger outside the shop cos, well, yeah, we’re mooshy dumbasses who feed them so of course they stick around…This black and white one I called “Kitticus” kept walking the road. And I shrieked, “Get out of the road, Kiticus, you’re gonna get hit!” He scurried to the curb and all…Then about 20 mins later R and I went out for a smoke and we were wandering the sidewalk as we puffed…And I saw a black and white blob in the center of the road…It was Kiticus..Splat. Someone just ran him down, splatter and all. R couldn’t even look and I was tearing up and freaking out…I told him, we have to get him out of the road and R…well, he was more squeamish than me and said he couldn’t look…So even though it brought flashbacks from burying Abby and Arsenic…I got a scrap towel from my car and moved Kiticus’ body into the grass so he wouldn’t get smashed again and again. The blood was fresh and he was still warm and I was just like, OMFG, HOW MANY DEAD CATS AM I REQUIRED TO DEAL WITH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE? Never mind he was feral. He ate our food we bought but wouldn’t let us touch him. Still…That kind of death…No one deserves, not even a rabid rat. My soul bled a little.

It’s just who I am. Last week, there was a dead possum in the road when I took my kid to school. On the way back, I actually stopped in the road, got that towel, and moved the dead possum to the grass because it was too agonizing to think of more cars smashing him. And I know all too well those things are not nice critters but still…For all my misanthropy, gore, and “fuck you” attitude…It was a living creature that met a violent death and I simply couldn’t leave it there to be further mangled. Call me mooshy or nuts or whatever but…I’m an animal person and even in death, the nastiest ones deserve a modicum of consideration. I mean, I’m the one who lived in a slumhouse and a possum got into the stairwell and I DEMANDED the landlord use a live trap to humanely capture it and free it even if it had pink demon eyes and looked like it wanted to claw out my eyeballs and eat my spleen. THIS IS WHO I AM.

And ya know, considering how mooshy I am about animals…The fact I was tough enough to get Kitticus’s body out of the road when R couldn’t even bring himself to glance that way…Kind of says a lot about what kind of person I am. Am I flawed? Yep. Am I dysfunctional? Hell to the yeah. But to me animals are such innocent creatures, I feel obligated to at least make sure they are not mangled further. If I were saintly, I’d make sure they got a proper burial, but alas…I don’t walk on water. If I could, I’d be making my own wine instead of kissing R’s ass for Mangoritas.

Is that offensive to religious people? Hmmm…I am in hour 19 now so my give a damn is fading fast.

Tomorrow I have appointments to sign my kid up for Toys For Tots and LiHeap assistance with the winter power bill. None of which jazzes me up. Then there is Spooks school monster bash. The kids get to go play games for an hour in their costumes. The parents have to rotate through four 15 minute “parenting academy courses.”  That is fucking stupid beyond words. I told R I wouldn’t ask him to go with me due to that factor…Much to my surprise he said he would LOVE to go to the parenting classes and troll them. I’m in, it sounds funny as hell. By the time it happens…I will probably be shuffling for any receptacle to throw up into. Crowds just set me off. Because most of these parents are assholes or stoner assholes and I don’t blend so it’s always so awkward. FYI, I am NOT gonna become a space waste case of booze and drugs so I blend. If the therapy powers that be find this wrong…Fuck ’em with barb wire dildos.

My brain is starting to beep like a cell phone on low power so maybe it is bedtime.

I really had no intention for this to be such a long banal rant. Road to hell is paved with good intenti0ns.

It was brought to my attention that R has been less of a dick lately and I knew why cos he gossips about every detail of his life like a chick…His wife had cut him off from sexy fun time for over a year then last week she donned something silky and got frisky…So yea, duh, he’s not as stressed and asshole-ish. It will last a few days and he will revert to form. I will relish the volume being turned down on doucheyness but I won’t be getting whiplash when she closes lady town for him another year thus he takes it out on me.

End note: To my credit, I showered TWICE today. Given the second shower involved curling up on the shower floor basking in the scalding hot water but…I smell all Irish Springy and accomplished. Tis a seemingly meaningless thing.,,til you’ve spent 11 months in a depression.

I climbed Mount fucking Olympus, bitches.

And now I am gonna climb Mr. Sandman and try to get some sleep. AFTER I watch Arrow. Priorities, man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Manic Or Happy, that is the question

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

I get depression. I get baseline.  I get anhedonia.

The manic/hypomanic shit…still confuses me.

I had a spell of euphoria last night. Like being drunk, but without the drunkenness. Talking fast and too much, oblivious to all the shitty things in my life, completely unburdened by my normal social anxiety. And it didn’t go without comment.

So…happy or manic? I don’t think I can differentiate anymore. What I can differentiate is that I am SICK of being accused of being drunk or on drugs when the mania hits and I become Ms. Social Butterfly for a few hours. The short duration is what indicates hypomania as opposed to full blown mania. I don’t think the doctors factor in the “mild” and “brief” episodes. That Douchebaggery Simpleton Manual says to be manic you have to be high as a kite for weeks at a time for it to be true mania. I think they’re full of shit, but I do have attitude problems. So I am told. Frankly, in my mind, being counseled by people who don’t live this shit offends me and boggles my mind as much as a priest who’s taken a vow of celibacy giving sex advice.

*sigh*

Tis 4:20 a.m. and here I am, awake. I didn’t intend to be. But I rolled over in bed at 3:30 and heard this yooowwwwl of protest and realized…Ooops, sorry, Feet, I didn’t mean to lay on top of you but then, don’t sleep under the pillow…My kid was absent from my bed for the first time in weeks so of course, deviation, mommy must panic and rush to her room to make sure aliens haven’t abducted her or she hasn’t managed to strangle herself in the bedsheets.

So I said fuck it and just stayed up. I promised R I’d come to the shop first thing this morning so he could run to the bank and fix some money matter with a customer and he’s gonna do my bidding as well so…I shall stay up, peeling the cobwebs off my brain, so maybe by that time I can claim to be truly conscious. I wanna watch The Flash, anyway. Waiting for the Xanax and Restoril groggy headachy aftermath to die down a bit. (This is why I loathe sleep meds.) Crazy that I can basically get Restoril through insurance for a buck something but I’d rather spend three bucks on a bottle of Melatonin cos it kicks in faster and doesn’t come with “hangovers”. When my penny pinching ass chooses to spend more money than I have to…shows how well the Restoril works.

The school is having some “monster bash” thing Thursday night, my kid is groveling for me to take her. I couldn’t do it last year, my anxiety just wouldn’t permit it and they don’t let you have liquid courage (booze) on school grounds so…I flaked and felt shitty for weeks. I mean, the kids get to wear their costumes while the parents are forced to go to PARENTING CLASSES FOR AN HOUR. What the fuck! When I was in elementary school, we got to dress up and do cake walks with our parental units. I don’t see the benefit in me facing my sheer panic terror to go take boring classes while my kid has fun. Selfish? Yep. But it’s stupid.

Spook really wants to go and wear her Elsa costume, though and failing her is like, death to my soul. So I asked Mrs. R if I could “borrow” her husband as moral support against the crowd. Well, it’s R or my mother and at least he will buy me a Mangorita afterwards to calm my nerves. I still don’t want to go but I am gonna suck it up for Spook’s sake. I detest needing a “calm” buddy for outings, makes me feel like such an inept woman child. But all things considered…It’s needed right now. Last year for these functions Bex was here and she had the panic/social anxiety too so we were in it together.  I don’t have that now. That’s what it amounts to, not avoidance but having the mental solidity to balance the panic so I don’t spaz out. Sometimes I can do it on my own. Occasionally…I need the calm buddy thing. The therapist said it was okay to do that. For someone who is fiercely independent and misanthropic…It’s not okay. I don’t want to be that weak woman. Damn it all to hell.

After I talked to Mrs R, he looked at me quizzically and said, “She just told that is why she likes you so much, you asked if she minded me going with you and showed respect.” Well, yeah. I’m not a husband thief or out to cause drama. He is (sadly) my closest friend here and while he doesn’t get my panic, I do know at least if I throw up, he will (and has) held my hair back for me. Gotta focus on the little things. Also, in this small town, I can’t go to the store to buy booze without someone seeing me and running to tell my mother I was at a liquor store. I don’t even wanna think of the drama caused by taking another woman’s husband to a school outing with me behind the wife’s back. I like Mrs. R too much. She’s my advocate, always telling R not to piss me off cos she likes me and thinks I’ve been good for him, the shop, and her. I must be pretty awesome when the wife can handle the ex gf still being around her man. She encourages it, actually, thinks I put him in his place when she’s out of town at work. 🙂 Moi, put a man in his place? Surely you jest! I’m just a meek little thing who’d never speak up…

I lie. I make grown men cry. Usually when they are being bastards to me and have it coming. I’ve always said, I treat people the way I want to be treated. Which is, with enough respect to face me and be honest with me, even if it’s brutal and hurts my feelings. It hurts less than hearing it second hand or having it boil up and ninja me. I think that was a big bone of contention with the donor. He repressed and suppressed and smiled and “humored” me but then it would just come exploding out during a conversation about something else entirely. I don’t like that shit. If I really scare you that much, send me an email. Or go old school and write me a note. (I am famous for writing notes because apparently, no matter my mood, I have the kind of voice that always sounds bitchy and like I am “taking a tone”.)

So, yeah. R is going to go to the school thing with me so I don’t spaz, Spook will get to show her friends her Elsa costume, and while I may need three days to recover from an hour of crowded dish time…I won’t have to feel guilty for six months about failing my kid. I am grinding my teeth just thinking about it. Gonna be a “over my daily Xanax dosage” day. Which I try not to do often, mostly I fail to take the full dose when I can muddle through. Which is why I have a stockpile of like 400 0.5 Xanax pills. I don’t abuse, I just use as required. Someone once asked me why I don’t sell that shit when I could get three bucks a pill street value. Um…Well, I’m not fond of prison for one thing. Also, I’ve had a few doctors who were anti Xanax and took it away from in favor of Klonopin and Ativan, which do fuck all for me. So I hoard in case it should happen again. I won’t get blindsided again, that’s for damned sure.

Okay, here’s a question: Why do they make laptops when placing it on your lap causes it to heat up and the fans have to kick on? Kind of makes it pointless if you have to worry about frying the thing by placing it on your lap. And putting the fans on the bottom…WTF, computer people. That fan sound makes me nervous.

5  a.m. The cymbalta/ focalin hypomanic jolt is kicking in. My scalp is sort of tingling. I won;t say I am totally awake and don’t want to go back to sleep. But the cobwebs are slowly peeling away. (And there’s another question- how do I peel an onion so I can have the perfect rings they put on sammiches? Betty fucking Crocker I am not, though my meatloaf rocks the casbah. Random as fuck, that is me.)

Ya know…And it pains me to say this, cos misanthrope, hello…But I am coming to the realization (thanks to the awesomeness of the wordpress mental health blogging community) that…Not everyone sucks. Most people do, on a whole. Yet in the ten months since I actually started interacting with others on here (yeah, had the blog four years, but couldn’t work up the nerve to really “interact” with others) I have encountered so many truly nice, good people. People with empathy and humor and generosity and…souls. It’s kind of always been that way for me though. I got my first computer back in 2001 and since then, I have found that people I talk to on line are far kinder to me than the people I actually know IRL. Now, mind you, (just peruse Reddit, you will see this factoid) for every decent person on the net, there are a hundred trollfucks out to rain on your parade,blow up your floats, and devour your self esteem…

Still…I am now starting to feel shitty for making blanket statements like “people equal shit”. (Dammit, Slipknot, just had to make it catchy so it stuck with me.) I don’t see myself becoming some social butterfly wearing an “I ❤ mankind” shirt but I am starting to see the good in people again. WTF. I don’t quite know how to react to kindness, just criticism.

Spawn is awake. Her dvd player just came back on and I’d shut it off. I got a giggle when I saw the name of the dvd she was watching. Last year when she was here Bex burned an asston of stuff like Big Bang Theory and labeled them all wonky. The one Spook is watching now she labeled “Gang Bang”. Yeah, I am an awesome mom. Creating my own little whiny Sheldon. (It’s so sweet when I have cramps and Spook rubs my tummy singing “Soft Kitty.” And they say kids can’t learn things from mindless tv shows.)

Okay. Flash time. Maybe a shower? I think I last showered Sunday? IDK. It’s so fucking cold with no heat in the bathroom, I can’t seem to be arsed beyond washing myself down with a cloth and Irish Spring. (That stuff has the nicest smell, ever.) Gross, yes. Depression is a bitch. And I am hungry, I forgot to eat supper last night. Damn hypomania.

I love any form of mania.

I also fear it. Because I know how easy it is to burn bridges while manic. Maybe that’s why happy also scares me. And it also scares me when I can’t tell the difference between the two.

End rant.

 

 

When Conformity Isn’t The Best Medicine

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

Now, I don’t purposely let things go in one ear and out the other, but due to attention span and short term memory issues, I may think I read something but actually dreamt it or I may take things out of context. For this reason, I name no names (as I can’t really remember who said what or wrote what) and use no quote marks. I just seem to recall a post or comment or something about how the mentally ill should not expect the world to accommodate us, we should feel obligated to conform to the McMuggle world.

I can’t begin to say how strongly (venomously) I disagree with this mentality. Especially coming from a mental health community.

It never ceases to amaze me how the politically correct Nazis lobby against everything from jokes about mental retardation to how the use of the word “gay” in the context of scoffing at something silly as bias against the LGBT (did I miss a letter there?IDK) community. We have the Americans With Disability Act to ensure no one is rejected for a job due to their disability as long as they are qualified and able. Bathrooms and buildings have to be wheelchair accessible. People/kids with diabetes are allowed an extra break to eat a certain food if their blood sugar drops or whatever.

This is all well and good, I am not saying anything to the contrary.

BUT, and I really wish I could enlarge that a thousand times…What protection against discrimination do the mentally ill have? What accommodations are made to our illness so that we can hold jobs and function amongst people with the same expectations when we are at a disadvantage?

The answer, of course, is none. Oh, the law may say otherwise but let’s face it. People can be scum. And in all fairness…It makes more sense to hire someone with an impeccable work record as opposed to someone who has so many gaps in their history due to mental instability it could strain pasta. The problem with this is…we are never able to escape our past,never given a clean slate. We are lepers.

Conforming does not change this. Our pasts ARE held against us. No one cares if you went bankrupt due to a manic episode. No one cares that the six months you had no job, you were holed up in a crippling depression barely able to draw breath. Mental illness is the bastard child of the medical community.

So here’s a thought…Rather than have us bury ourselves in denial by conforming to unfair expectations…How about we educate society about mental illness? Ignorance can be cured. You will not sway all, but with the correct information…A difference can be made.

(Steps down off soapbox, dusts self off.)

Okay, now the reasoning behind that rant.

Since my kid was born, I have tried so very hard to adapt to what is considered “normal” , what the shrink says is “healthy”. For someone who is a night owl and hates mornings, this has been…grueling. Going to bed before 1 a.m. depresses me. Getting up before nine a.m. depresses me. But I’ve been on auto pilot for six years and the depression has gotten worse. I feel bankrupt when all is said and done. There is no me left because I’ve lost myself in this “be normal” thing.

So what is normal? Because to say that 9-5 is the norm for everyone is stupid. Why should we all be forced to keep the same schedule, including when we sleep.

My last post, I believe, was Sunday night/Monday morning when I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep so I vented. I kept trying to lay down, go back to sleep. (Not so easy with a six year old elbow in your head.) It wasn’t working. So I fought the cold, escaped the warm blankets…And stayed up. I did laundry. I watched my new shows. By five a.m. I was getting tired but it seemed pointless to risk oversleeping so she’d be late for school. I remained awake.

Ya know what? My mood was better, my patience better, my humor better, for when she got up. So much easier to be already awake at 7 a.m. than peel cobwebs off my brain just waking up. Maybe it’s part of my faulty wiring, maybe it’s circadian, I don’t know. It’s just always been like that for me. I used to work at 5:30 in the morning and I couldn’t seem to function properly getting up early. So I’d stay up all night then sleep when I got home. And it worked well.

So yeah, I stayed up all night, got her off to school, watched some shows. Felt pretty good about all the little things I’d gotten done. By 11 a.m. the anxiety over school pick up started in. So did the “omg, I am gonna be a bitch if I don’t get a little sleep” feeling.  I set the alarm, curled under the blanket, and eventually drifted off. I woke up at 1 p.m. having only slept seventy minutes, waking before the alarm, and once I shook off the cobwebs..I felt pretty damn good. Better than when I get 8 hours of sleep at night.

I was more patient with Spook. We did her homework. I played with her a bit. We ate supper, she got a bath, I gave her ice cream for being so good. (Then she decided she’d met her goodness quota and started spewing pea soup). Point is…Most days by six p.m., I’ve been up 11 hours, relentlessly pounded with anxiety and outside stresses so I often can’t bring myself to run her a bath, I throw her in the shower with me. But because I had that seventy minute nap…I wasn’t so overly taxed.

By 8 p.m. exhaustion set in and my mood crashed. I took xanax and restoril. It didn’t kick in until after 11 p.m. I slept most of the night aside from the normal wake cycle. Got up this morning.

So maybe conforming isn’t the best medicine when it goes against who you naturally are. Maybe not adhering to the so called “normal” schedule of society isn’t the answer for some of us. Making it some facet of bipolar or depression is insulting. Especially when I’ve wasted all this time trying to be something I’m really not. Maybe a few nights a week I DON’T sleep all night but nap in the morning. So what? If it energizes me more, makes me more tolerant of my child instead of so stressed, why is wrong?

FUCK CONFORMITY.

Think outside the box, color outside the lines. Stop feeling obligated to be what everyone else is. Sleep when you are tired. Be awake when you feel awake. Not everything is byproduct of bipolar.

Would I like to sleep six solid hours without waking once? Of course.

But since that’s not happening right now…Maybe this outside the box thinking and schedule is just what I need so I don’t feel stretched so thin and unable to do things I enjoy.

Now, we return to the regularly scheduled programming of anxiety and “Ugh, I gotta go deal with R.”

Can’t be helped. I am almost out of smokes and that is NOT a good thing. Heads will roll. Not in the awesome Judas Priest way, either.

So…fuck conformity, fuck sleep disturbance, fuck McMuggles and fuck normal.

Four days til Halloween, people. GIMME CANDY.

Evil needs candy, too. Pop Rocks, cream soda flavored Dum-dums, and flavored Tootsie Rolls are favored. 🙂