Archive for May, 2017

Depressive Demon Are Doing Their Jumping Jack

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on May 30, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Since I am not religious and my demon are psychological…they cannot be exorcised. But oh how they love to get their exercise. Jumping jacks, sit ups, pull ups, squat thrusts, sprints, long distance runs…And my fractured mind is their gym.

My kid has been at my dad’s for two days. I didn’t mind until the jackass who donated genetic material to assist in my creation called to inform me they’d be keeping her a second day because she is having fun and wants to stay. If it had been left at that…Me time isn’t awful. But nooo, he and his redneck pseudo wife started prattling on about how they did this with her and took her out to eat and bought her this and they took her here and oh, they bought her better clothes and had her haircut so it’s all even now. Then that idiot woman of dad’s was in the background prattling about how Spook is playing with toy barns and becoming a little redneck….(I’d be less offended to learn she’d aligned with satan.) One thing after the other with those fuckers, pointing out every thing I cannot give her, right down to not having a dog for her.

To say I hate them violently is an understatement. Much as I despise the donor and the other faction of my life family is no better…I do believe (in a testament to my depressive altered state) I’d rather she end up with her father than ANY of my fucked up family (except my sister but then my kid would become a stoner like her uncle in law so sorry, sis, no.) I am just so sick of being insulted and run down by these people. Least the donor has rights to Spook, whether I like it or not. His hatred of me while petty is at least half deserved and his pattern of hating everyone who wrongs him is own drama. For those who allegedly love me to make me think I should kill myself for my kid’s benefit??? These people are monsters and short of killing them, the only escape would be to move far far away. And oh, that takes money and the demons in my gym aren’t paying membership dues.

Day started out crappy. I haven’t written anything decent in days, it’s all gruel and I am blocked and the depression is just crippling..So in spite of how shitty I felt I attacked the mountain of garbage (not literal trash, just hoarder type stacks of various things) that had been in the kitchen for two years now. The more I sweat and worked and got shit done, the less tortured I felt about not being able to write and not being good enough for my kid even by my own ‘loved ones’ standards. And to my surprise, I kicked so much ass today. SO much. All laundry done, even pillows washed and fluff dried, hoarder mess stashed in the spare room instead of piled across the living room and kitchen. I cleaned the floors. I tossed out dozens of bags of stuff just to lift some of the weight from my plate.

Now I have to hope the holiday didn’t delay trash pick up tomorrow because I am pretty sure even slumlord is gonna have a problem with two full trash cans and a dozen bags piled out front. Oh, well.

I even managed a trip to Aldi for a couple of things.

I watched 9 episodes of The Originals.

I painted my nails and toe nails.

I tried to write. Tried to simply proof what was already written. TRIED but only 39 chapters and 7 weeks in and the wall has been hit.

Now my body aches from all the work I did but my brain has started to spin because tomorrow afternoon is my appt with the psych nurse. I am wishing on a thousand stars it’s not a case of her having to wait for the doctor to come back to town before I can get a fricking script. I need to start Cymbalta now before the depressive demons allow my batshit evil ass family to kill myself.

Last week my mom was carrying on about how she’s lost 22 pounds then she looked at me (because I am so no aware of my grotesque weight gain in spite of living on fricking water) and commented how ‘the meds must be making you bigger.” This after stepmonster and dad’s comments about my fat ass.

The only saving grace the last few days was an old friend with benefits surprised me with a visit from out of the blue and while I really don’t like sharing a bed and I am far too downtrodden with depression and self esteem issues to be truly…interested that way…It was needed. He didn’t insult me. He actually made me feel decent about myself, reminding me what monsters my family are and that I am beautiful the way I am. I know it was a booty call but it was what was needed at the time. Now he’s in the ether again and I can’t even play poor “I’ve been used” because only once my space was mine again did I breathe again.

I am that broken.

On a sad note, I had to bury another kitten today. Oreo. He only lived 4 weeks. His sister MyMichelle (yeah, after the G’N’R song) is doing okay, for now. I am fighting hard for these kittens with the meds and vitamins and shit. Maybe because my kid is better off without me, I am filled with so much self loathing for simply not murdering my family (ok, not that dramatic, just disowning them and shunning them)…The kitties are something I can try to help, to care for, to save and do battle for. Because right now, no one is battling for me. Some of the thoughts I’ve been having, I don’t even know I am fighting for myself right now.

Let us hope the psych nurse has 5 minutes to hear me out and will actually do something to help. Now, not when the doc returns two blood moons from now. I need help.

God knows all I get from my family is more reasons to let the depression kill me.

I’m just grateful the rebellious streak at least keeps me too pissed off to give an inch. They’ll get my kid over my festering dead corpse and they aren’t gonna be the ones to turn me into one. For all the “they mean well” bullshit…They are not worth it. They are evil in the worst way. The way that claims “we care about you” yet makes me feel more alone than I have even at my loneliest. Takes a gift of evil to make someone you claim to love feel more alone around you than when they are hiding in a closet sobbing with depressive agony.

Is it any wonder I cling to supernatural shows and books? The obvious monsters still have more humanity than that which I call family.

Ok, self pity and rant are exiting the building. Unfortunately a bunch of depressive demons are having a spin class in my head so time to do battle against them in an effort to sleep.

I worked my ass off today. I earned some rest.

The Bad Thoughts Are Whispering…Loudly

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on May 27, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Not that anyone should ever need to think or say it…If you spend enough time in a depression, you start recognizing when your thoughts aren’t your own anymore. You realize all those bad things whispering in your mind are simply depressive artifact. And logically you know this and know it can be corrected *if* you can stumble on the right med combo…

The fresh hell is waiting to find that combo and being forcefed bad thoughts by your own mind the entire time.

The Bad Thoughts started whispering when my kid woke me at 6 a.m. on the first day of summer vacation from school. I literally could not pry myself out of bed. Which lead to, you are a shit mom, get off your ass, your own mom worked swing shift and still got up with us girls every single morning!.

After that it was Spook asking every ten minutes for 5 hours if it was time to go to Grandma’s for her sleepover. Bad thoughts pointing out, Even your own kid can’t wait to get away from you, do her a favor and kill yourself, you useless bucket of monkey spunk.

After I finally took her to mom’s and came home…I just kept thinking of the clock ticking until I had to go to the shop. And R called and he was just heading to the airport in CA and was shocked nothing new had come in all week, as if people not wanting to pay to fix busted shit is my fault. Not to mention he’s already so far over his head with two jobs, why would you want more work???

Finally, the clock watching got to be too much, I couldn’t focus on anything, so I just went to the shop fifteen minutes early to make the calls instructed to make. And for a brief period, I wasn’t hearing the bad thoughts. Then K returned from his trip down south and I was reminded…

R has this awesome new job, traveling across the country, K is preparing to move down south, and wtf am I doing but stewing in depressive juices and self loathing? And believe me, more than anything, I want to pull myself up out of it, I want to work and feel better about myself and look forward to getting out of bed and doing something good with my life.

Depression simply doesn’t agree or care.

Once home…I returned to binge watching Lucifer (I missed the entire season due to the depression, can’t have that abyss tainting my favorite shows, no no no, and also, depression wants you to get as little pleasure out of life as it can suck away)…And then I see an episode about a dead musician and they mentioned he was sleeping on someone’s couch and that took me to…

When I was 16 and ran away from home to Hollywood, CA. I was so mesmerized with the hair metal scene and miserable in my midwest hell, I just worked until I had some cash and I bailed. And it wasn’t until there that I learned what “sofa surfing” and “couch tour” meant. It wasn’t nearly as “cool” as it sounded when uttered in magazine interviews by hair metal musicians. Money ran out quick in Hollywood and I ended up rooming with a hooker. Kind soul she was, she found my diary and of course, my idiot ass had all my pertinent info written in it, and so she called my parents who then called the lost kid network and they dragged me back home kicking and screaming.

And tonight I flashed on that couch tour and whether Nina did me a favor or not. Was dying there at 16 any better than dying here at whatever age? Not like my life has counted for shit unless being deeply depressed wins peace prizes.

I KNOW it’s depressive distortion. I hate it. I fight it with everything I’ve got. But honestly, between that and putting up the facade for everyone around me so they don’t have to face what a mess I truly am…It’s pretty easy to hear the whispers and start believing them.

I think that part is likely what drives so many with mental health issues to self harm and even suicide. Battling your own mind is beyond difficult. And eventually it just wears you down until you wave the white flag.

I’m not doing any flag waving, but I admit…I can’t wait for my appt Tuesday to ask the nurse if I can get back on Cymbalta. That has been the quickest acting most helpful anti depressant for me and I NEED my life back. I’ve lost the will to go to yard sales, for fuck’s sake. I skipped months of my favorite shows because I didn’t want to taint them with my depression. I’ve robbed my kid of a semi sane mom who doesn’t go through the motions but actually LIVES life. I want that back, even if it only lasts a few months.

I need to be stable and I need to progress and move on, like everyone around me is doing. Being left behind because my own brain seems to want me dead…It’s devouring my soul and making me an even angrier, more bitter person.

To quote Helloween, “I want out.”

I said I was always big on hair metal…Sofa surfing, nope.

The End Of All Days

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , on May 25, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Okay, so maybe nothing that dramatic but it is the last day of school which means for two and a half months…my already fractured brain and fried central nervous system will be held hostage and assaulted daily by Spook and her merry band of desperadoes.

On one hand…Yay, no dragging ass out of bed to meet her school schedule.

On the other…her yelping to play with her friends at 9 a.m. seven days a week.

I tried to get her into a summer program. Apparently “Is there a scholarship available because I can’t afford full price” means you don’t even warrant an email reply from the Y. Maybe I can find things for her to do, but I just resent being driven from my safe space to escape all these kids. Great, she has friends, she is popular.

It just never ends well. Her, around her friends, means she becomes more mouthy and disrespectful and argues with me every time I say no to an extreme I don’t even see when her friends aren’t around. And to make matters worse, these kids show up before 10 a.m. and are still knocking at 8 p.m. wanting her to play which makes it stressful for me to give her a supper time, a bath time, a bed time. The minute they show up, she goes off if I say no.

And as I told her yesterday when she said she didn’t like me because she mouthed off and I made her come inside…My job is not to be your friend, it’s too teach you right from wrong and keep you safe.


In addition to pre summer dread is the post summer dread when I have to pull blood from a stone to get her new school clothes and all the supplies then attend all the start of school stuff that get me so stressed…Two and a half months away and still enough to give me a stress stomach ache. Not that my mental health care provider seems to think any of this is a problem cos last time he saw me 4 weeks ago, I was having a less insane day thus he took it to me I am doing much better, here’s a nurse, talk to her, you’re A Okay.

NO I am never gonna stop harping on that. 24 years of psych care and never once was I shunted off onto a nurse. She might well be more understanding, hell she could suggest the magic bullet that gets me six good months, IDK. I just think it’s shitty to stick a patient in an 8 month seasonal depression in a position of feeling like they’re not even worthy of seeing their own doctor.

The anxiety is getting to me all over the map. I woke at 3:30 this morning amidst a pile of cats in my bed and realize…my softer mattress is helping my back pain, it’s playing bed Twister to avoid crushing a cat that is making me wake up all sore and feeling crooked. But there was no getting back to sleep immediately. I tried for an hour and a half. Stroked a kitten hoping purr therapy would work. By 5 a.m. it was 0.5 Xanax time. Which gave me a half hour to nod off and ninety minutes to sleep, give or take. When my sleep is disrupted like that, it usually means I am going to have a really shitty mental health day. It’s not the amount of sleep I get, it’s how much uninterrupted sleep I get. Not that the professionals understand that, either.

I took her to school, put gas in the car, and paid car insurance on line. Now I am gonna watch the season finale of Special Victims Unit because I do so love when fiction mirrors reality and I am reminded what this country has come to. A bunch of hate mongering assholes who think Muslims are all terrorists which is akin to saying all people with blue eyes are Hitler petri dish mutations.

I may be mental but the world is a cesspool of ignorance and it doesn’t take sanity or a brain surgeon to see that.

Manifest Anxiety

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , , on May 24, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

I have run the emotional gamut over the last 4 days from too depressed to be awake to wanting to die to “I’m okay-ish” to today’s “I was fine then the anxiety started gnawing away at me and I had to go out near people and now I am either having a nervous breakdown or a psychotic break”.

Mixed state. Icky.

Sunday my will to live was nil. The bad thoughts were kicking my ass and I was starting to believe their lies, especially when my kid was hosting 6 different kids and shrieks were the ambient noise. That day I managed to wash dishes and fold six baskets of laundry, not out of will, but out of desperation to drown out the depression and its lies of how worthless I am.

Monday was survivable.

Yesterday…I hadn’t eaten in 36 hours, took my meds, and started throwing up. Then my stomach started to churn and not even milk and Pecid were taking it down. I got excessively sleepy and had to stumble through the day ticking off minutes til my kid was asleep so I could escape to dreamland, too.

Today didn’t start out bad. But then came time in the dish and traffic and oh, some dumbfucks parked in the middle of the road arguing about who was the shittier driver. That was pleasant because confrontation sits so well with me. That ratcheted up the anxiety to fever pitch.

Part of this week’s anxiety is being at the shop 4-6 while R is out of town. It’s not that there’s anything to do. Whatever was asked of me was done Monday and now it’s ghost town aside from talking to elderly people who wander in and seem to just want conversation. No, I think it’s the responsibility factor. Like someone trusting their child to you when you’re in the middle of having a seizure and a heart attack as well as being dosed with roofies. I have enough with my kid and cats and home…But ya know, I am forcing myself outside my comfort zone for a friend and also, giving the depression and anxiety the middle finger. Fuck you, I can and will do this, even if it lands me in the Rubber Ramada.

Price for this forced functionality and rebellion is immense. Because I sit home and wonder, did I lock the door, did I turn everything off, did I forget something…Crushing responsibility at the moment. But when not mixed, when not getting my ass kicked by a seasonal depression that’s lasted 8 months…it wouldn’t be a big deal. I am capable enough. At this time, though, I am also altered so much, putting on pants is a challenge.

Of course, I can’t tell anyone around me that. I have to pretend to be just fine because Niki is too smart to be depressed. As if intelligence has fuck all to do with depression or bipolar. I can’t tell my family how bad it is because then they will start thinking I am unfit to care for my child. Yet as I fall apart, my kid is still fed, clean, clothed, going to school, and has friends. No, I am the one I am unfit to take care of. I do the bare minimum for myself because that is what it takes to be a competent mother while in this hellish state of mental unhealth.

Not a word there? I just made it one.

So two more days after today and hopefully R will be back and I will be free of added responsibility. Because I am wearing down and breaking down and I don’t even get to tell my doctor about it, he’s so busy I get to see the nurse in spite of an 8 month depression that’s barely been alleviated due to the fact the midwest still thinks it’s late winter. FFS.

Writing this has given me a headache.

I am gonna tell the nurse I just want to go low dose Cymbalta. I’ve been on it two or three times and the high doses always make my anxiety go insane. I am thinking this time with the Wellbutrin (if they can be mixed, cos you can’t say it’s so just cos the internet said it is) maybe I can be skyrocketed out of the abyss. Cymbalta has done it for me before, one of the best meds ever used by me if you discount high doses causing mania and anxiety. I just hope it’s not a case of “I have to talk to the doctor and he’s gone for 6 eons so you can’t get a script til he returns from Planet Neomaxiezoomdweebie”.

And I best not hear “outpatient therapy”, either. I am beyond the point where talking and art therapy are useful. I am up and ambling about and my anger is keeping me alive…I just want some damned balance and maybe the will to live. Because the way things are going with the new president…the disabled are going to be disposable and I’d like to have my mental ducks in a row before that happens.

And by disposable, I mean, bye bye benefits, not that the Trumpire wants to suck our blood and kill us.

Hey, don’t look at me, college humor came up with that nickname for him. I just like it.

The “Am I A Horrible Person Debate?”

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , , on May 21, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

So it’s no secret that I am absolutely a TV junkie. I binge watch like a pro and sometimes, the characters start to feel like family and friends. Not in a ‘lost touch with reality way’ but in a comforting way.

And then there are episodes of shows that trigger me. This week there have been a couple.

One episode was centered around a missing schizophrenic. His psychiatrist said, “I’d rather be alone with a paranoid schizophrenic than a bipolar or borderline patient.”

And logically, I know it’s fiction, just a TV show. I also know there are doctors and ‘mundanes’ who actually think like that and believe it.

It bothers me. Because I’m not violent. I am volatile but since a proper diagnosis and mood stabilizers, I no longer have the outbursts of throwing things then hiding in the bathtub n shame. Even then, I didn’t go after people. Walls hit with shoes, plates broken to vent frustration, sure. Like ten years ago. To hear that bipolar and borderline disorders are classified as having a propensity for violence really pisses me off. While some patients may lean that way, the sweeping generalization that ALL are dangerous…NOPE.

So one more thing that leaves me wondering…Am I a monster? If I’m not one now, am I eventually going to snap and become one because apparently, that’s how even the professionals view bipolar disorder?

The other show that got me locked in a loop on my own worth as a person involved a father who had walked out on his daughters and he told his adult daughter, “I had to leave, there was no way I could have stayed with your mother and survived.”

And right back to…I ran the donor off, I was a monster, I did everything wrong and logic was out the window for most of it due to pregnancy, not being medicated, being wrongly medicated. And of course, I did that horrid thing of projecting some of my own issues on him without even realizing that’s what I was doing. I begged him to stay even though deep down, I knew it was all wrong and I’d known it before I was even pregnant with Spook. He was the one telling me I was a quitter, give it more time, nothing is wrong, he’s happy with his family…

He said that right up til 3 days before he walked out by sneaking out his stuff and a 30 second call saying, “I can’t do this anymore.” What was I supposed to believe when I was so mislead? How could I be a monster when I was simply believing what I was being told?

And while trying to hang on even though he made it clear his wasn’t strong enough to handle my mental conditions and it was dragging him down..I was wrong but my reasoning was pure. I didn’t want to give up on one more thing. I didn’t want to be a quitter, again. I didn’t want my child punished by having no father just because I am difficult.

Looking back, it’s all so clear. Especially now that karma has bitten me on the ass and my daughter pretty much erodes my self esteem and sanity on an hourly basis. Is that how I made the donor feel? If so, wow. I am a monster. Not that he didn’t bring some of it on himself, always monitoring my every expression and asking are you okay and not letting up even when I said ten times to let me ride out the mood swing, it;s not your fault. That would set a sane person off being battered rammed constantly and especially when he made my condition all about him, as if it could be boiled down to what did he do wrong.

Rationalizing my own poor behavior, right?

No I accept responsibility for my bad behavior. I do not accept his weakness, not being able to cope with my conditions which were made known from word go. I do not accept that I am so monstrous it entitles him to abandon his child and not even attempt a relationship with her. Do I want to deal with him? Hell no. But when my kid asks what she did wrong to not have a dad like other kids…I’d walk through fire to give her a dad even if it kills my soul. Because it’s what you do when you love someone. You stop caring all about yourself and you sacrifice, you suck it up

I will apologize to him for my bad behavior. Not being bipolar, I didn’t ask for that. But my personality quirks that hurt him..I feel shitty about that. I own it. I can only try to do better and be better.

So am I horrible person? I’d like to think no. Troubled, flawed, difficult, sure. But a horrible person wouldn’t think twice about how they contributed to the failure of their relationships. They would blame the other person entirely. That’s a horrible person.

But maybe making that judgment is what makes me horrible.

Sometimes, I think all the therapy actually made me worse as opposed to better. Constant analysis of my behavior, past, present, future, analyzing those around me, wondering what disorders my shrink has so how does he have the right to label me…

That much awareness is kind of stifling and self defeating.

The Self Pity Monster

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on May 21, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

I suppose the title is a misnomer, because the term self pity is not my description of this phase of a depressive bout, it is what society at large seems to think. This current phase of “Why me, I suck, life sucks, I don’t deserve to live, I fail at everything” is NOT self pity. It is self loathing. It is desperation. It is ‘hanging by a thread and my brain wants to drive me to off myself with its depressive distortions’.

I started today out low but okay for depressed. It was cold and wet and I skipped yard sales. Actually, it wasn’t even an option to skip them, I simply didn’t have the desire or will to go out. And I haven’t turned down an opportunity for yard sales since I was 6 except during a depressive bout. Around one p.m. I took my kid to her grandmother’s for a promised playdate. I hadn’t bathed (the cold and gloom made my motivation about hygiene nil) and I was trying to ward off my mom’s comment the other day about how I can never stay, always have to go, too good to visit them…15 minutes in, my kid actually told me it was time for me to leave, I was hogging her aunt and grandma. And my mom snarked about how my kid isn’t the boss of me, I am the adult. Hmm…this after she made a bitchy comment about “you’re tougher on her than I was on your girls, I’m glad, I was a pussy, I let you walk all over me.”

Um…Reason why I am cracking down on my kid is because she is getting out of cute mindless kiddie age. She made an 11 year old cry at school the other day and 2 teachers had to intervene because she asked an adopted kid where she “came from”. This girl’s parents had signed away their rights and she’d bounced around foster care…Of course, my 7 year old didn’t know better. But it’s really not an appropriate question regardless of your age and Spook was playing victim because the older girl told her to ‘shut up’. Rude on that girl’s part but then my kid would have a tearburst if another kid pointed out her father’s absence from her life. Spook’s old enough to learn tact and empathy and compassion. I don’t know why that is considered ‘tough’ by mom’s standards but…Her seemingly positive support of me was attached to *that* judgemental tone indicating somehow I think I am a better parent than her.

I loathe going around them for that reason. The judgment.

I had a quiet day, following some errands in the dish. During which I had one of my usual “Wal-mart only” weak and dizzy spells. I think part of it is the road work on the main drag and the stress of the closed lanes and navigating traffic. But it unnerved me enough to come home and regroup. Then spend the day anxious without any real explanation.

When my sister brought my kid back she came inside to see the kittens and the ‘self pity monster’ kicked in. Because my sister is a housekeeping goddess and I broke the vacuum again this morning so I couldn’t even claim clean floors…and she made a comment about the strong scent of my Zen wax melts. Then I noticed my kid was in different clothes and had been bathed, as if I somehow neglected her. (They failed to mention she went fishing and got dirty when with them, my paranoid brain just jumped to conclusions.)

And so it started. Another minor tearburst in front of my kid because I caught her in a lie (and she just won the character award at school for honesty last month). Then came “I can’t do anything right.” Then it was “The doctor will want to lock you away, your own family thinks you can’t even keep your kid clean.” Followed by, “You’re buried alive here, you are never ever getting out from under it all, you’re as good as dead.”

Thankfully, though weak and getting its ass kicked, my stubborn rebellion streak spoke up and reminded me, when things are bleakest and you’re at your weakest, it’s time to not give up and not give in, ever.

Am I feeling it strongly? Nope. But it’s still there, reminding me that I am NOT depression’s bitch. Even though I really feel like I am down for the count.

One more lie depression tells.

So while the world at large may consider this the self pity monster…I pity only my child for having a mom with such a screwed up brain. I blame myself for something I cannot control.

Thanks for the social programming, world.Fuck you too.


Posted in anxiety disorders, bipolar depression with tags , , , on May 19, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

I did the unthinkable, the unforgivable, as a parent last night. I cried in front of my child. I am the grown up, I am supposed to protect her and make her feel safe and yet one too many stressors and I just…broke. I wasn’t sobbing and hysterical, I just teared up and sort of whimpered, “Why can’t something just go right?”

According to that last child psychologist who put every bit of my child’s behavior at my doorstep because she senses my depression and anxiety thus I am The Problem…I am probably the least fit parent on the planet. God knows, you can beat your kids, starve them, neglect them but god forbid you have a legitimate mental condition that causes you to behave in ways contrary to your own nature and beliefs…you are unfit. What that woman did to me psychologically with her “3 visits, your kid behaves in front of me, you’re the problem” bullshit is criminal. That after the therapist who diagnosed as borderline after 2 visits and 20 years of every other therapist saying not otherwise specified. They all want to rewrite history, they all want to label me after a couple of visits…

And THEY are the reason I no longer trust therapists or even believe in them. Once again, that is all on me, as I am mental and thus they are right, I am histrionic and unable to handle the truth about myself.

See, it’s not enough my brain lies to me, distorts things, and tells me how so much is wrong with me I should just off myself. NOPE. I get therapists who pretty much confirm what the scumbag depression is telling me. And this is supposed to make me better but instead, it has made me so much worse. Therapy used to be a good thing for me, back when I could rant and rave and not have myself labeled with a personality disorder during a hypo mixed phased or a deep depression. Because sorry, when you’re hypo and irritated, everything does become black or white. People are evil or they are good, there is no in between. That is NOT borderline, because six months later when the meds are working, you see the shades of gray. That is chemical imbalance, damn it.

But no, thanks to a couple of shitty therapists in a row who were supposed to help me…I’ve lost my faith in the therapy process and come to rely solely on blogging, research, peer support here on wordpress, and medications. We all know how well the medications work for me. Though to be fair, the mood stabilizers and anti anxiety meds are old reliable. It’s the anti depressants that fail me again and again or I have bad reactions and because I’m part of .001% who reacted that way, I must be making it up because big pharma and the docs say those aren’t known reactions…

I am rambling. Good. It means my anger is overriding the weepiness. I cling to my anger because society respects it more than genuine emotion. Anger and hatred get good press, look at who is our president. FEELINGS, like sadness, empathy, compassion, tears- those get the bad press, those are FROWNED UPON IN THIS ESTABLISHMENT. So bring on the anger, let it keep me simmering and above the surface.

As for last night’s break…It just stemmed from a week of kittens dying, my Mira computer overheating and me too stupid to clean the fan, the floors are caving in to the point my bathtub and toilet are going to be on the ground soon even though the maintenance guy pointed out it needed fix and stupid me assumed maybe since he saw how bad it was with his own eyes maybe it would actually get done…and then there’s my kid, perfect angel for everyone else on the planet, who just constantly defies me and bickers every time I say no and even after seeing me cry and me weepily asking, “Can’t we just be a loving family and respect each other?”…it took an hour and a half to get her to stay in her bed and quit making demands of me…

Who wouldn’t break?

Right, it’s just me. The therapists thought so.

I am buried alive here with everything that is wrong and while there are definitely some sucky problems..Six weeks ago, it wasn’t this bad. And I attribute this to being on a singular anti depressant regimen. I need dual anti depressants when it gets this bad and yet..I can’t bring myself to call the doctor’s office because their short staffing has made it a nightmare to just get refills let alone accomplish starting a new med without an appointment.I see the nurse in ten days, I can tough it out, right? Because what’s worse than feeling so broken due to depression is calling the professionals for help and feeling neglected, rejected, and pushed aside like you’re just an annoyance. And while that may be my interpretation, distorted by depression…it just feels shitty when your doctor, who you count on to help you get through this shit, is running an outfit less organized than the McDonald’s drive thru.

What hurts the most is knowing back around March 19th, I was doing pretty damn well. It only last a couple of weeks but it gave me hope that I could rise from the depressive ashes. Except the seasonal dragged me back down the second the weeks of gloom and rain and cold returned and it was like going through winter all over again. To feel so good only to have it ripped away is just brutal.

So maybe my kid will be traumatized for life because mommy broke down and cried a little. I’m human and I’m struggling and no one will lift a finger to help me so if breaking down on occasion gets me kid will just have to be traumatized. Though at 7, I’m not convinced she has the capacity for that because then she would have to feel something for someone other than herself and honestly…Spook just doesn’t. I don’t know if it’s normal behavior for her age. I just know it’s scary for me, thinking if I don’t instill some empathy and conscience in this child, I could be raising the next Aileen Wournos. Or worse, the next President Trump.

Yeah, I said it. That is worse than the female serial killer.

And while I’d love to say that’s the depression talking, it really isn’t. I just have a real problem with people who have no conscience or empathy, regardless of their age or station in life.

Maybe if I get medicated properly it won’t get me so riled. Until then..I’m broken. And it’s okay to be broken. Broken things can be repaired most of the time.

Let’s hope I am one of the “most of the times”.