Archive for March, 2016

Hell Is Other People Mixed With Bipolar

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , , , , , on March 31, 2016 by morgueticiaatoms

I got this brilliant idea last night, in the wake of my depressive state and being sad about that young girl’s death, that maybe company wouldn’t be a horrible thing even if we just sat in silence. So R comes over wanting to watch Justice League Unlimited and I could not possibly give less of a fuck about Superman and Batman or cartoons but whatever…

I was expected him to be all bummed out, this girl was like a daughter to him growing up.

Couple of beers in him by then, his mood was fine. I was still in “gargle bleach” territory. Then I decided, like a genius, to vent some of my personal frustrations.

I tossed out how the child support took a huge chunk out of the food stamps and how hard it is to get by when 80% of my check goes toward bills every month, not factoring in gas and such. And when I tossed out my disability amount…

Off to the races of “self esteem assassination” we went.

He was outraged that I get “that much”. He carried on, “I work my ass off and barely make three hundred dollars more a month while you get that to sit around!”

Yeah, good thing no shovel was around or his skull would have met the sharp end.

I pointed out his wife makes ten times what he does being a professor (six figures a year) and she doesn’t contribute to any of the bills at their house cos she lives out of town during the week so maybe his poverty outrage should be directed closer to home.

Then he started in on how the cut in food stamps “doesn’t sound right” in that “I think you’re lying” tone, which irked me to the nth. Check out the paperwork, motherfucker. And I learned that the reduced amount is only good through April, then once I receive a full month child support I will be reduced to nothing.


All the while Mr. “I have ten grand sitting in one bank account to take the whole family to Hawaii one day” and “I own four cars but only drive one of them” is bitching that I get “too much” disability money and it’s not fair because he works so hard and has a degree. (And never mind, 90% of his financial stability and being able to invest and make more came from two relatives dying and leaving behind vast inheritances as well as life insurance policies.)

Hell is other people. Even without bipolar distorting your responses. With bipolar…I can barely stand to be around anyone who isn’t dealing with mental issues because everyone else is busy being a cockweasel rather than seeing…


I am trying so hard here. This is no picnic or gravy train. I can barely drag my ass out of bed these days. I can’t sleep at night without pills and keep waking up. I don’t remember the last time I showered. I forgot to pay my power bill and had to set up payments. I am a damned trainwreck here and my “support system” is all but handing me a loaded gun and telling me to do the world a favor and pull the trigger.

Defeated and deflated are an understatement.

Like I wasn’t feeling shitty enough about myself. Feeling guilty for bitching about the cut in food stamps even if it was just making the point I had all along- the child support isn’t helping, it’s setting us back. Then I have to feel bad for not working because obviously I am functioning and raising a kid so I must be perfectly fine. Let us not forget the guilt for not being able to do better for my kid than living in a trailer park and driving a death trap. (I got the title for that in the mail today, winner, winner, salmonella infested dinner.)


R also made some snark when I tried to discuss my concern about Spook’s tantrums, relating it to her definitely being my kid cos she’s “80 percent crazy”. Lovely. Followed by more, “Oh, you just need to spank her ass good, my kids would never act that way.”

If I didn’t need him to fix the death trap I’d seriously be considering a much needed distancing.

Seriously…my dad calls disability my “nitwit” pension and laughs about people stampeding on food stamp day…

My mom calls me selfish for still being depressed when obviously having a kid should cure a legit illness. I mean, all those parents with cancer had miraculous remissions due to having a kid, right? No? Fuck you.

I am just…on the edge here. Day six of my stomach rioting, and it’s just stress. I have to eat to try to avoid the lithium nausea but eating makes my stomach worse. My kid had another mini tantrum last night lashing out at me. I am trying to figure out this new insurance thing, but the doctor won’t take her until I get the insurance card from his policy and then we have to discern if they will cover psych services or any meds she may need….

I also have to find new docs for her eye care, dentist, etc…So much bullshit. And I am in no condition to handle it all right now. I am one step from calling my doctor cos the lack of focus, the inability to get up in the morning, and this total lack of hygiene thing…I am NOT doing well just because I am functioning.

Just…ass trash.

Maybe to cheer us all up….


Bad Things Happen And Life Still Goes On

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , , on March 30, 2016 by morgueticiaatoms



I managed two weeks of max stress and agitation. Now I am complete splat. Including stomach issues, headache, a complete inability to focus or enjoy anything, and a strong desire to clock watch and count hours until I can just melt away into sleep….

Oh, depression…I did not miss your crippling presence. You were always there, lingering, hovering, a black cloud over head but now that all my resources for coping have been used…You are kicking my ass. And I am too damned tired to fight you. For now.

I don’t know if it was the looming depressive splat or my fried nerves but I let my kid stay at her grandmother’s last night. I just needed quiet. My brain, literally, needed quiet. I should not have let her think she was being rewarded and that it is my failure but…Geesh, I am not superhuman. I have limits. Two mega fits from her in three days, plus all the other crap on my plate…I earned that reprieve. And she’s still grounded from her friends, her new bike, the phone…I am trying to be consistent but when you reach a point of not liking your kid cos you’re just beaten down so far…A break isn’t the worst thing you can give yourself.

I am drained. I slept but I was wakened several times. Once at 11:30 by a text from R telling me one of his eldest’s friends died, apparent overdose. That’s two of her friends that have died in less than a year of an overdose. This girl I actually knew, so it’s disturbed me to an extent. She wasn’t even 30 years old. Here I am, barely functional or desiring to function, living on and on. Yeah, fatalistic, I  have a kid to think about, I suck.

Contrary to what some think…Having a kid doesn’t cure you of depression, bipolar, anxiety, or the desire to simply cease to exist because it hurts too much to be alive, trying so hard and still failing. My kid makes me fight harder, sure. She can’t trump depression, though. It’s not a matter of what’s more important. It’s a matter of what messages my brain is sending to me. Some days it says to fight and rebel. Others, like today, it tells me how unworthy I am to still be breathing.

To add more insult to injury…I didn’t lose food stamps for Spook but they cut the amount 70%. Which means all that child support money will be going toward food rather than pet care or making my car not a death trap. Just as I feared all along. I am worse off rather than better. I am a horrible person for bitching, yeah, yeah. The system shouldn’t punish for trying to make ends meet, though.

On the plus side, it means I am probably gonna lose a lot of weight as I struggle to make sure every available cent goes toward her getting decent nutrition. Not like I eat fancy now, but I had enough to feed us both. Now…Not so much. More financial juggling will be required. First world problems. I feel like a jerk even mentioning this shit and yet…

B hings happen and life goes on.

I received the information and book where she was approved for the donor’s insurance policy. That sent me crashing down even more. Rather than simplify things, this has complicated it. It will surely mean having to communicate with him at some point. I’d rather gargle broken glass.

Meanwhile, still zero word from the lawyer about where things stand in dissolving my other tie to him. And I just wanna rip the bandage off. Be done with it. I moved on a month after he left, and five years later, still trying to rid myself of the albatross.

I’m a mess, period. Stomach hurts. Head aches. Body feels bruised. I can’t focus, can’t even enjoy my TV shows. I want to go to bed. That’s my primary thought.

No matter how many of these severe splat days I experience in my life…I never quite get used to them. Never get used to how low it takes me, how close to that dark space you can’t return from it goes…

I am trying to look around for hope, for things that are positive.

Depression eats positive for breakfast.

So I am gonna write this day off. I’m taking care of my kid. Aside from laundry to be folded, the house isn’t that bad. Fuck it. I can have a down day. Not like I get a say in the matter. Scumbag brain is on a roll with the bad mental juju.

On a final note…If you were a fan of the old show Prison Break, or a fan of the new Legends of Tomorrow, this article with star Wentworth Miller interested me a great deal. Depression doesn’t care if you’re a Hollywood celebrity. The suffering is the same. The feelings he speaks of…Depression is universal.


Oh and it’s world bipolar day or some shit so…Go make someone aware of bipolar disorder. Like it will matter. Instead, I say we throw bipolar a parade, rain on it, and blow up its fucking floats.


Give Me Novacaine

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , , , , on March 29, 2016 by morgueticiaatoms

Excellent Greenday song, but seriously…My head is throbbing, I need brain novacaine.

Had another pea soup incident with the spawn. She took off without telling me she was going to the neighbor’s and I freaked when I didn’t see her out the window so I made her come home…She went ballistic. I had to physically catch her as she ran away, put her over my shoulder (like wrestling a gator, this kid is so strong) and pack her inside, all the while she is thrashing and screaming.

It was a bad one, though not as long or bad as Saturday night’s fit. I was at wit’s end and called my dad and stepmom, mainly because I wanted them to hear how she talks to me and how not even they were calming her down.  Stepmonster asked if I wanted them to come get her, keep her a day or two…(yes, please, get this monster away from me, I am having a nervous breakdown!) But I said NO. That would be rewarding her with a sleepover and playing at their house. NOPE.

It was nice that them talking to her didn’t make much difference. Everyone has me believing I am just inept as a parent and I am telling you, I have done everything short of a straight jacket, to get this kid in line. She just loses it.

51 minutes it lasted. She threw shoes at my head. A full bottle of water. She tried to throw her dvd player. She kept clawing at me, trying to hit me when I was near, growling, screaming that I am mean and stupid…

I don’t think a non bipolar parent could have withstood it without screaming or lashing out physically. The fact I manage is a miracle. Of course, I’ve started taping her episodes because it helps me remember to not let her bait me into the mud slinging area. It also helps after the fact if I hear it and make sure I am doing the right things in an effort to defuse the situation.

And then, BAM. She came out of it. Apologized. Hugged me. We played Old Bunny (Easter form of Old Maid.) It’s why I don’t lash out when she has the fits. Once they are over, she’s back to being my civilized kid. Kinda like my bipolar episodes. Except hers are almost always instigated with the word no or too much sugar, she gets violent, and they don’t last for more than an hour or two. I am gonna call the pediatrician tomorrow for a psych referral. Three years now I have been doing what this peds doc suggested with the counseling and the parenting skills thing and taking away stuff and every fucking thing under the sea….Nothing is working. I don’t deserve to live in fear of her fits and being hit.

Of course, after three years and no problems at school, I doubt the doctor will give me a referral. I’m the problem as the child psychologist said. My kid is just reacting to my anxiety and depression making her feel insecure, unsafe, and out of control.

Such a load of fucking bullshit. I have done nothing but try to make life as stable as possible for this kid. If there’s something unstable and upsetting the balance, it’s her out of control rage fits. I am tired of being blamed for her behavior. Especially if it’s like the males in my family and taking ADHD meds can fix it. BRING ON THE PILLS BEFORE I RUN AWAY FROM HOME.

It is not a good feeling when you realize, I don’t like my child. Of course, underneath, you know you love that child and you do like them, but when they are being abusive to you in every way…How could you not dislike them at that time? It’s just logical, even for a parent.

So…she is grounded for a week. She’s sleeping now. My head hurts in spite of pain killer. I just got rid of one of my churning stomach acid tummy episodes, which indicates just how high my stress level has gone. All because I exercised discipline for improper behavior and told her she had to come home for the night.

She is NOT gonna win. NOPE.

But I am also not too arrogant to admit, I need help here, time to call in reinforcements even it’s in the form of a shrink and pills.

I did manage to make a little headway on the housework today, between her demands and fits. I am buried alive with the laundry to be washed and folded but…I got dishes done, she cleaned the cat boxes, and I vacuumed the living room. It’s something, right?

I think, IF, I can drag my ass out of bed in the morning before ten a.m. (yes, you can loosely watch your kid while dozing in and out)…I will go get my bloodwork done for the lithium level. Just take her with me. I have to grab a pizza for my sister’s birthday gift, so I will be out anyway. I want school back in session already, fuck this spring break shit.

If something isn’t done by summer vacation….I will be in a straight jacket sucking down haladol cocktails at the rubber ramada bar.

Donate or Spread the Word, PLEASE


Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on March 28, 2016 by morgueticiaatoms

Yeah, yeah, horrible Easter pun for a title. Fits, though. The last two weeks of car drama and money woes and my kid acting out and this Easter shindig…I am exhausted.

No matter how much sleep I get or how much I vegetate and avoid the dish…I can never seem to feel not exhausted.

Of course, last night I did not get much sleep at all. My kid woke up at 11 p.m., refused to go back to sleep even though I put her back to bed several times…Finally I let her sleep in my bed. She kept me awake complaining until 2 a.m. I wasn’t snuggling her enough. I didn’t love her enough. It was cold.  I had the nice blanket. I had the better pillow. The only thing that kept me from depositing her in her own bed unceremoniously was the fact I was so damned tired myself.

Her keeping me up lead to me having even more trouble waking up and I purposely skipped melatonin last night cos I knew I needed to be up early to start cooking for Easter dinner. I must have hit snooze, on two different alarms, six times, in spite of her being up at 6:30 and showing more interest in the cheap ass plastic eggs filled with cheap ass candy and toys than the nice basket with the porcelein tea set that actually cost decent money. Ungrateful. I was laying in bed, half conscious, blowing up balloons, dozing off…Trying to talk myself out of bed. My bladder was pretty insistent and yet this morning lethargy is killing me. Every. single. day. And not even getting a good night’s sleep helps.

It wasn’t this bad during the worst of winter and the seasonal depression.

Just being bipolar is exhausting.

I’d love to write a long rant and purge my spinning brain but…It’s cold and damp (yeah, we got 39 degrees and pouring rain for Easter, fuck you, Mother Nature) and I just wanna shut my brain down and get warm now that I have the spawn in bed.

There was no family drama, thankfully.

I was, however, sickened by the fact that combined from all the family and those friends of my sister’s and my nephew’s fiance’…About four hundred bucks was spent on my kid for one miserable day. (I spent about twenty bucks, and I earned every cent of that credit card purchase dealing with R’s drama.) I just…That is so excessive, so ridiculous. Mom spent all that money to get her a brand new bike, which is identical to the like new one dad has for her at his house he gave six bucks for. BUT this is Frozen and has Elsa and Anna and that’s what Spook wanted and so they sprang for the forty dollar Elsa helmet too, and two baskets and…

I think that’s when it really hit me, like slamming into a brick wall at fifty miles an hour…

My kid wants for nothing. That’s the truth. I may not be able to shower her with frivolous stuff but she gets it from all sides everywhere else. I am the one keeping her fed and sheltered and warm and clothed and educated and able to go on field trips…I am the one who has to constantly say “no” while everyone around me is telling her she can act however she wants because despite their admonishments for her to mind me…Even after a warbler like last night’s…they’re all going to bow down and treat her like some princess.

Is it any wonder she is so spoiled I can barely stand her at times. Yeah, horrible thing for a mom to say, I know. But there are just certain personality traits and behaviors I can’t stand in anyone and thanks to my mother and sister being so excessive with the frou frou gifts and candy…My kid has become a spoiled, ungrateful monster. She had zero interest for what I got her. None. Not even a thank you. Just “where’s the rest.”

It’s hard admitting your kid behaves in a way that kinda makes your skin crawl. I’ve done all I can do to get through to her and all these fucks invalidate every lesson I try to instill.

No, for all the whining about poor fatherless Spook…My kid has a damned good life.

It’s me and the cats who do without. I wear pants with holes in the ass cos I spend money on clothes for my kid to wear to school. The cats eat the six dollar gruel from the dollar store and use that cheap clay litter that hurts the paws. I pawn dvds for gas money.

It’s not woe is me. I’m an adult, I am a parent, this is what I do.

That doesn’t mean I have to like it. I mean, I am the one battling bipolar and anxiety and depression that won’t lift and the fact that so rarely does anything good happen for me, so rarely am I able to afford anything nice for myself or even something necessary like a vet visit for the cats…It’s infuriating.

And I guess most of the anger is toward myself. Because I see my sister, who didn’t do a damn thing but sleep and party even though she had a kid, for 14 years…Now she has a good job, working from home caring for our elderly mom and her roommate and cleaning for some other old woman out in the sticks…She’s got a house now. She drives her mother in laws brand new car. Has a three hundred dollar glass dragon sculpture in her sitting room.

And I am stuck here, in bipolar/anxiety/depressive hell, wanting desperately off disability and food stamps, hearing every day how lazy and useless I am…


I need to stop. It’s akin to comparing boo boo sizes. My experience is not hers and I walk in my shoes, I know I fake nothing. If sheer desire counted, I’d have three jobs and be a doctor, lawyer, and indian chief.

Still it pisses me off and makes me feel pretty despondent.

Ha, guess I had a rant in me after all. Nothing like spending time with family to make you feel completely incompetent and shitty about yourself even if they don’t say a mean word. I think being able to stick a five dollar bill inside a plastic egg for my kid to find while I  don’t have a dollar to my name is saying plenty.


Easter Bunny….Brain…Hurts

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , on March 27, 2016 by morgueticiaatoms

Well…I just finished hiding the eggs for my kid to hunt in the morning. Kinda hard finding places to put them where the cats won’t go batting them around like toys. Ugh. My head hurts. We are an hour post hell spawn tantrum and I am just…exhausted.

68 minutes. That’s how long the tantrum lasted. I know because I recorded audio the entire time. From the moment I told her it’s 7 p.m., time to come inside and stop playing with your friends for the day…Off to the psych races she went. Screaming, growling, hissing, clawing (she took some skin off my hand). I put her in her room, she beat against the door claiming I’d locked her inside. I had not. I wish I could but not lock…She went insane. I tried everything. A swat on the butt. Talking calmly. Holding her so she couldn’t thrash, as I was taught when I worked daycare. I tried tickling her. Distracting her. Drawing her attention in another direction. She kept carrying on about how she wants sandals. No connecting the dots, she was just feral. I walked away after laying down my edict “play time is over, you will lose privileges every minute this goes on”. She chased me, hit me, punched me, ripped at my shirt and pants. She threw things at me. It was like facing off with a possum. I have the recording to prove it. I am not making shit up. I am not beating this child nor am I screaming at her.

Oppositional defiance, ADHD, baby bipolar, whatever you want to call it…There is a problem here. This is the second mega bout this week. Facing a summer of this every time I try to draw a line on playtime makes me want to lock myself in the looney bin. Because while bipolar gives me a special understanding, patience, and tolerance of those who act, well, looney, even though they are good people…Ugh. NO. I can’t do 68 minute battles every night in which I can’t even escape my kid because her friends tore one of the doors off my bedroom and there’s a curtain there, I literally cannot lock her out of my room.

The good thing is…once I finally got her to calm down…She was recalcitrant and suddenly I wasn’t mean or stupid anymore, she just wanted me to feed her and tuck her in.

And as exhausting and grueling as the 68 minutes was…I have to understand. Because I see my bipolar bouts in her behavior. I am not labeling her with my disorder. I am just saying…I don’t see a bad kid in her. I see something off kilter and she acts badly, but I can’t hold it against her and dismiss her. No. Too many have done that to me during epic manic bouts when I went aggro. It’s frustrating, a little scary, but I HAVE to be understanding without condoning. Because…Bipolar. I’m not always a good person. I have adult tantrums, though not as much with the mood stabilizers. No, the worst of it is in the past but I never forget it. I feel shame, remorse, unworthy of being forgiven for all those episodes…even if I couldn’t operate on logic due to a bipolar shift and a bad doctor giving me a wrong diagnosis and wrong meds.

My kid lucked out with me for a mom in this capacity. I won’t absolve her of poor choices but I sure as hell will have the intelligence to take into consideration that faulty wiring could be at play. Next doctor appointment, I plan on asking for a referral for her to my psych. Maybe she just needs hardcore counseling, IDK. Of course, her medical care is in limbo while I wait to find out if donor’s insurance is going to allow her onto his policy which means I don’t know if I can use Medicaid for her now or if they will bill me…Fuck.

I am not looking forward to Easter aside from the food. I’m still salty at my mother for her fit about my car the other night. I took her meatloaf Thursday and she snarled, “Did you use onion? It was good but I didn’t taste any onion.” Yeah, well, I don’t use a bag of onions for  a meatloaf like her. Just so…fucking rude and ungrateful. And I get to go spend time with her and the rest of my fucked up family and all those bum friends of my sister’s and I have to get up first thing to start cooking my chicken and noodles to take….When I truthfully don’t give a damn. My mom is burning bridges with me that are not going to un burn, ya know. Now that I don’t have to kiss her ass over the whole driving her car/insurance bit…Yeah. I am pretty close to declaring myself an orphan.

I had the displeasure of some Just Energy employee knocking on my door today. Every year some new electric outfit comes around promising lower rates if you switch on the spot. Twice I have done it with other companies, only to find my power bill increase and get threatening letters and calls about early termination of a contract costing X dollars. NOPE. I told this guy I was happy with Direct Energy. He got snotty and pointed out I was being overcharged and ALL my neighbors had switched to his service and received a $25 gift card for doing so. I said, “I’ve been through this every year I’ve been here, I am staying with Direct. I may be getting hosed but at least I know it.”

And this c*nt stomps off like a child having a tantrum and snarks, “You do deserve to be hosed!” And he was even snotty when the kids tried to talk to him about having a party. He said, “OH, well, that’s just great!” with his back to them and kept stomping away.

I was flabbergasted. In fact, I was so pissed at his behavior, I looked up the number for his company, intending to turn him in for his hard sell and rudeness. Of course, no one in a supervisory capacity is there on Saturday. So if I do get a gift card from these fuckers like he claimed should have already been sent, I will be using that number to register one hell of a complaint. I don’t know his name, but I can describe him and they keep track of what employees are walking through which neighborhood. I am gonna hang him by the balls for being such a dick.

The most insulting thing is, I went to their site and they seem to have a good deal. I may have been interested in signing up HAD their employee not been so pushy, rude, and insulting. Just…unfuckingreal. He needs to be fired. My neighbors consist of meth heads, pot heads, gamers, and raise-pitbulls-to-fight types so telling me they all switched was really fucking stupid on his part. The way he behaved, I have to wonder if he got some sort of commission if he could get EVERY house to switch and I hindered his $$$. Fuck him. Hard sells don’t work for me or on me. And frankly, these companies should not be allowed to dispatch people to knock on our doors. Send us information. Let us do our research and make an informed choice. Don’t expect me to hand you my power bill on the spot cos you say to and hand me something to sign. Nope.

On a happier yet…unexpected note…I woke up to Nightshade giving birth in my bed. I didn’t even know she was pregnant. Sigh…I managed to get her into the pet taxi before she had delivered, but still…What a way to wake up. We have three babies. One is black, one is black on top, white one bottom, and the third is mostly white with black markings like a cow. They seem full term, healthy, and thus far Shady is feeding them and being a good mom. She’s had 2 out of 20 kittens survive cos she’s a lousy cat mom so we shall see….

My car still isn’t fixed. Whatever R did last night didn’t make a damn bit of difference. Of course, I think I know what the problem is based on my research and the fact my previous Grand Am had the same problem. MAF sensor gone bad. That would explain the loss of power during acceleration, the poor gas  mileage, the gas smell, all of it. Of course, R wants to hook it up to son in law’s little diagnostic code thing but having had the same problem on the same car and finding the fix on line…I don’t think we need the gizmo. Of course, I am just a dumb girl. If I had the damned money  and another mechanic, I’d fix it myself. The MAF sensor can be had for $30, swapped in under an hour, but nooo, let’s let Niki drive a death trap while we wait for some piece of shit diagnostic tool to tell us nothing is wrong with the car when there is clearly something wrong with the car.

Yeah. I’ve had 2.0 mg of Xanax today (Spook was playing with her friends for six hours, I earned every mg) and I am still stressing out. That brat talked me into letting them play in her room and she decides while I am in the bathroom…to climb inside the closet to reach for something on the shelf…And she completely caved in the closet bottom. One more thing I am gonna have to figure out how to fix. No more indoor play. She doesn’t do this destructive bit unless they are around. Least not big scale destruction. It’s like she has to go out of her way to impress them with how much she can get away with.

I feel buried alive here. But rather than focus on how that feels, I am gonna turn off my brain, watch some mindless stuff, and try to get to sleep without melatonin. This time change, and all this hot/cold weather has me struggling more than ever to get out of bed in the morning. I am oversleeping every day practically. How the hell does that even work, me becoming less functional in the morning during spring…

On a happier ending note…I attended my first yard sale today for the season. I had some change so I couldn’t get much but I spent fifty cents on a purple glass topper for a jar candle since the cats broke my mosaic one I had. THis one fits and it’s purple glass. It just felt necessary to do something “me”. Trying to find the road back to normal after a nearly two year long depressive bout.

I know one thing for sure. I am doing sooooo much better without Cymblotto. I’ve been in withdrawal for nine days with mega random brain zaps and that woozy head thing but…Oh, that stuff was not just making me more nervous, it was actually dragging my mood down, I swear. I doubt the doctor would validate that but…

Fuck ’em and feed ’em to the fish.

Onto watch a documentary about haunted asylums. Yeah, I’m dark. I have been since I was six, it just fascinates me.

And makes me ever so grateful that the one time I had to be in a psych hospital…it wasn’t one of these snake pits. The haunting actually classes the joints up, they were so bad.

Could we all just stop comparing the size of our boo-boos?

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , on March 25, 2016 by morgueticiaatoms

This post has been brewing in my head for weeks now. Finally…I think the words are going to come together coherently and cohesively.

We hear it constantly, especially those of us with mental health issues. “Be thankful for what you have.” “You could have it worse.”  “I have a mortgage and six kids, you pay rent and have one, who has it worse?” “Oh, you’re hyperventilating and feeling sad today?I have fibromyagiaverythingisbrokenomgnoonecouldfeelworsethanme.”

It’s only a slight exaggeration, face it.

The bottom line is…When things suck, they suck. It doesn’t matter if you are rich, thin, poor, obese, smart, dumb, have a lisp or are missing an arm….

Humans experience sucky things.

Life seems hell bent on invalidating anyone’s right to voice their struggle with said suckage. We are to silently embrace the suck. It could be worse.

Fuck, yeah, it could be worse.

But personally, I’m not gonna tell a POW, “Hey, at least they only hit you with the bamboo a hundred times today instead of a thousand, that’s something to be thankful for!”


It is perfectly okay to say something sucks in your life. It’s YOUR personal experience. You are not competing with someone in Cambodia who does not have enough food for the week thus your feelings are invalidated.

It sucks when bad stuff happens to others, it especially sucks when it happens to us. And the best of us have the self awareness to know, without being told repeatedly, that it could be worse.

If we scramble around comparing our broken arm to someone who’s had a limb torn off by a combine…we will NEVER feel anything but miserable.

I read too many, and write too many posts, where the writer can barely get out their feelings without feeling socially required to point out, I could have it worse, thus invalidating their own situation.

The world, and society, so obsessed with its extremes, makes zero room for balance.

I think it’s fine to say, “Okay, my booboo is small enough to be covered with a band aid but if I am out of band aids, I have the right to say, well, fuck a fancy bag, this sucks!” Sure, the dude with the lacerated hand trumps me. So does the kid who needs an organ transplant, or the family that has ten people living in one room.

Someone will always have it worse than someone else. The balance is in knowing when you’re simply venting your feelings without saying, “My despair trumps all”.

We all have various sized booboos. Our booboos all hurt to varying degrees.

So how about we cut each other, and ourselves, some slack…And agree that it’s okay to discuss our booboos without it becoming a competition of who has more suck to embrace.

We all have valid feelings. We should not be forced as a societal norm to invalidate ours, or anyone else’s.

As long as in the course of venting your booboos remain aware, and retain perspective, on how others do have it worse….

I think it’s just fine to talk about your booboos. And I even have some spare band aids if you need one. Just let me know-neon colors or Minions.


A Tale Of A Few Kitties And A Car

Posted in biolar disorder, gofundme campaign with tags , , , , on March 25, 2016 by morgueticiaatoms

sweetyswingI have revamped my fundraising campaign and I am just keeping it up until forced to take it down. This time…It’s for the cats. If that makes a difference, I will pay automotive stuff…Which means I am gonna need help with cat care.

Once winter is over,child support is sorted and regular, I don’t anticipate having this much trouble. Of course, I also didn’t expect this car to have more problems than a bunch of pregnant nuns. Probably looking at a grand easy in parts and labor, not to mention servitude to R.

So…Pass this one on. PLEASE, for the love of pegacorn.  Click that share button. Reblog. Write a big post about what a bitch I am whining for money. Because no press is bad press and it’s for the kitties.

Maybe I should just give it up but…Nah. If people can raise five grand so some girl can have her dream bedroom of pink Barbie vomit….

My cats should be able to get donations for their medical care now that Mommy has to make margaritas out of the lemon of a car she got.