Manifest Anxiety

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.

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