Archive for January, 2018

Just…Make…It…Stop

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , on January 30, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

Woke today to the sound of heavy machinary implentmenting the new mgmt company’s landscaping plan. Suffice it to say with this outside my crypt windows, the noise has me ready to chew off my own nerve endings to make it stop. I am so rattled I can barely think, let alone, kick into action.

Then I got the news that my uncle died. And my mom is shutting down, running off to live in his town with her niece, no desire to talk to me and my sister or have us near. I understand better than my sister. Mom had ten siblings and George was the last one. Now she’s got no living siblings, no true tether to her original family and her parents. I relate, somewhat. I tend to grieve alone, too. But my sister is crushed to be shut out totally and I feel for her, too.

This month has been the worst in the history of my 45 years. Just too much sadness and tragedy and upheaval for anyone to process and not feel like they’re going to meltdown. And while the tragedy should take centerstage above all else…

Petty lil me is stuck in the depressive anxiety ridden loop where my primary concerns are surviving this depression cycle and the crippling anxiety without a complete meltdown. I am concerned about having a place to live tomorrow because yeah, landlords can issue 5 day eviction notices. And I am ashamed to say, I have instilled the sense of anxiety in my 8 year old.

What kind of monster does that? Though it was never my intent, I told her about the new company and the pet policy but the rest…she overheard me on the phone and now…she’s spinning out too, and part of me thinks maybe I should just give up and make it stop myself. Yeah, I know the dire tone of that, and I know, logically, it’s the depression and grief talking. But it’s what I am feeling now and it is all encompassing and rather than getting up and cleaning and doing the things that might keep a roof over our heads…

I am paralyzed. The noise of the machinery is like a jackhammer to my brain.All the loss, the anxiety, the bad thoughts the depression is inflicting on me…It’s just too much to handle but on top of that, I get to feel like an utterly shitty person for even worrying about my own problems right now.

But all I have are problems and it’s hard to focus elsewhere. And the dark thoughts just keep coming and I am fighting them but…I am so exhausted from never sleeping well, from never being rested, from never having any sense of security or feeling in control of my own mind, let alone my life. Giving up seems like such a peaceful choice.

I won’t go there but the dark thoughts keep telling me I should, for everyone’s good.

Thank God I tuned out all the therapy crap about taming my rebellious attitude.

Right now my ability to tell even my own mind “go fuck yourself” is probably the only thing keeping me alive.

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5.5

Posted in depression with tags , , , on January 29, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

5.5 That’s how many days I went without showering. FIVE AND A HALF DAYS. I didn’t even have the legit excuse of no heat. I just have zero will to bathe. Or more appropriate, the depression has left me with zero energy to expend on such frivolity. I can wet wipe myself and use deodorant, keep the stench at bay. Try to ignore my scalp is so skanky my entire head itches. I used to relish bathing. And during the summer when marinating in my own sweat, showering isn’t that hard, usually. But during winter…Ugh. It sounds so pathetic and lazy and disgusting but it is…

I can’t figure out on what planet this pattern of not bathing would not truly concern any mental health professional. I guess psych nurse just thought being stinky and slovenly is my norm. Which it is so not. This is the anxiety and depression and it’s been going on for months. Yet she had zero concern. I presented with every visible sign of clinical depression and intense anxiety and she just…

Yeah, yeah,I need to let it go. Anyway…I finally forced myself to shower last night. It was supposed to make me feel better. Other than preferring the scent of Irish Spring to my own reek and having a non itchy scalp…it just felt like another damned chore, like washing dishes or scooping litter boxes. Seriously, depression has even robbed me of the basic pleasure of a shower. this isn’t normal, this isn’t affect.

The whole situation with our home(lessness) up in the air has me a trainwreck, and I feel so damned powerless I just want to give up. And sure, it’s enough to stress out anyone but the thing is…

Even before this complication arose…I was down the rabbit hole. I just keep thinking, I just need one good idea, I just need one break, I can pull myself out of….and then my brain goes off the reservation and the thoughts start spinning and I can’t come up with a single coherent thought. No plan of action. It’s all too jumbled. One would assume thought it as simple as putting one foot in front of the other and walking. But it’s not. My brain is in total control of walking and breathing and such-but when it comes to focus, problem solving, organization…I’ve got less than nothing and it is terrifying.

Because I can’t melt down. I don’t have that luxury. My kid says at least once a week, “Promise you won’t leave me, Mommy.” And I’ve never left her, I’ve been here every day since she was in utero, so the notion of me leaving her must stem from her sperm donor having split so she clings to the one parent she has left. And I can’t and won’t leave her, and after what my family has been through after K’s suicide this month…I’ve even abandoned my long term ‘end of the road’ plan of self destruction if I can’t get back up from the depression and anxiety. Which means I am in it for the long haul and that’s as it should be, but with no psych support and my own mind working against me…I feel like I am on a sinking ship. But I can’t feel that way because my 8 year old needs me to be an adult. There is no three day stay at the psych ward to recharge or stabilize.

Yet if I needed an operation and was in for three days…that’d be okay, not abandonment or weakness. But because my ailments are mental…it’s not legitimate.

I am so sick of this.

And I am sick of my gut being in knots, my nerve endings on fire, feeling so damned exhausted that even making my kid a sandwich is tiring. I have a disaster zone of a house and I should be scrubbing everything with a toothbrush in a last ditch effort to convince the new powers that be not to throw us out but instead…I am still binge watching Scandal and when not doing that…I am on my 4th novel in 3 weeks. If anything good has come out of this latest meltdown is I am so far gone I am actually able to focus on reading a book because even grisly murder mysteries seem less cumbersome than my real situation.

More than all of it…I am sick of complaining. I am sick of feeling weak and hopeless and useless and lost. I am sick of trying so hard only to get nowhere, have no support, and never gain an ounce of self confidence because my own brain is my worst enemy.

I just want to live life as contently as possible and even that has been denied.

I’d love to go all girl power and pull myself up by the bootstraps like all the self helpers preach but that’s the thing about depression. It cuts off your bootstraps, breaks all your fingers, and you have nothing to pull on or with.

Depression hobbles as well as that chick from Stephen King’s “Misery”.

False Sense Of Security

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , on January 28, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

Finally got the heat fixed on Tuesday which gave me about 20 hours of not wanting to give up and die. Then Wednesday I went out to run errands and ended up stranded cos my car battery decided to die. Luckily my sister and nephew and his gf came to my rescue, got the car jump started, and made sure I got home okay. It’s amazing how much toll one wrong thing takes on me. After that, my previous good-ish mind state slipped into a sense of terror and ‘what am I going to do without a working car?” Because of course everyone chimed in and decided it was the battery, no, maybe the alternator, and all I can think is not only do I not have the money, but I have no mechanic and no back up plan…

Fortunately the car has started the three days since, though the stalling out problem is getting worse rather than better and when I asked my dad and stepmonster, they just shrugged and said they had no idea. Yet in the past they were the ones who worked on my cars, now suddenly they can’t be arsed to even look at it. And I finally got my birthday gift from them, but only cos I called stepmom and guilted her, thus she guilted dad. He was fine giving me nothing. I managed to ‘extort’ cat food and they gave me ten dollars in rolled dimes (oh was that cashier thrilled with me having to unroll and count them all) but…

The worse part came with a letter from the new property management company. We are now only allowed 3 pets and all have to be inside at all times, which means I have to part with at least 5 cats, even though they were harming no one outside and my kid is having a fit cos the kittens need to be rehomed as they won’t stop messing on the bedding even though I finally got them litter trained. The manifesto from the mgmt company has all these plans to landscape, take our sheds away (so I am supposed to store my lawnmower inside????), they want all the yards pristine which means no toys for the kids outside. The tagline “we want to make these improvements so this becomes a place you look forward to coming home to everyday.” That sounds great, right? What it means is they’re weeding us low income people out and they plan on tossing us all out because we’re going to be unable to meet their standards. Just the outside of my trailer alone with its scraped paint (that way when we moved in) will get us tossed. And my former landlord, now their property region chief, doesn’t have the decency to be honest and tell me if I am on the chopping block.

This sent me into a downward spiral. Being lured into false security only to find out all the changes coming are indeed an effort to rebrand this place and drive us away if they can’t legally evict us. Without a home, I am a wreck because it means I have failed to provide for my child. Yet what can I do? I can’t come up with first and deposit on a different place plus utility charges and moving fees while trying to keep this roof overhead.

Meanwhile the sperm donor goes on his merry way not having paid a dime on Spook since late August and the state, who was supposed to keep track, doesn’t give a fuck and won’t give me information without some number and I can’t get the number without the number so they’ve tied my fucking hands. He skates on a third kid. And yet all Trump cares about are non white people being here and doing wrong. How about deporting the worthless Canadian who has two kids in the states he won’t see or support?

I am melting down. I have taken about all I can.

My uncle has been unhooked from all the machines, he’s basically drowning in his own lung fluid til he dies. My mom’s feet have swelled up and a trip to the ER told her she is in early stages of heart failure.

January 2018 has been the worst month any of us have ever had.

Hell of a time to be left without a damned psych doctor.

I keep trying to tell myself to do the serenity prayer because there’s really nothing I can do. If they kick us out, I can’t stop them because these plans have been in the works for months. Their plan is theirs and we are at their mercy.

My dad;s solution is for me to move 9 miles out of town to their armpit tiny town and short of living in a cardboard box, that is NOT happening. I grew up cut off from everything in a town of 144 with the nearest things 7 miles away. When I escaped ay 17 I swore I’d never ever return to being in such a trapped, hopeless location. This town may suck but at least I can get a soda at midnight if I need to. Not in tiny Bumfuck where even the need for a pack of hamburger means 9 miles into an actual town. NOPE. Not going back to that shit.

The hardest part is the cats. How I love my cats. How I don’t want to break my kid’s heart, we both love Vex and Hex but they won’t stick to the litter boxes and I have cats with seniority who do so…I hate this shit.

And since we’re basically on the chopping block you’d think I’d be running around trying to beautify the place so they couldn’t hold my shitty housekeeping against me. Instead I am stuck in a depressive inert loop while my anxiety ridden brain just spins and spins and convinces me nothing I do will change anything. And while others may find this hard to believe, I have been here before, even as a child, even when we rented from family members. Once someone decides you’re out, it’s done.My mom’s sister threw us out of the house we were renting when I was 8. So some random management company who wants to transform a turd into at least a block of fool’s gold after scumlords years of refusing to fix things thus we end up looking like destructive thugs…

It’s bloody hopeless. But I will hang on til the end. Because 9 years without paying late once or causing any problems should count.

I am seriously considering counseling, even though I will never be able to open up to those people. I’d go in, rant about things that are legit stressors, they’d make their professional cooing sounds and push their cognitive or mindfulness agenda and I’d walk out feeling just as bad, if not worse.

Hell of a choice, whether to do something that could harm more than it helps, but if I don’t reach out to someone and my disability case goes under review…All current info will be from doc nurse and since she was so dismissive…

I don’t know. Counselors don’t really have any say in disability claims. They can write reports and give your diagnosis, but they can’t actually influence decisions. If it were any other therapy place than Ursula central…ANY other place. They want us to get help yet leave us zero options to seek that help because insurance won’t pay.

I feel so trapped and frozen like a deer in headlights. So what am I going to do?

I am going back to binge watching Scandal. Because when your brain is on overload and your problems seem insurmountable…fiction is as good a method as any for helping remove you from your own stress and put you in the mindset of someone else’s stress. It’s not going to change my plight but it might help me ride out this current mind set where I feel so helpless and doomed. I am supposed to be able to use free time to battle my conditions and instead…the outside stressors keep blindsiding me so my concern is survival yet my disorders have me frozen and I can’t make sense of anything.

So I will go see if the president saves Olivia Pope and let their portray (accurate I’d say) of politics further my own gut feelings about how this country is fucking doomed under current regime. At least their storyline can change.

For the rest of us who aren’t bible thumping elitist, racist, pro life zealots…

We’re screwed.

If only real life had a writer’s room and we could scrap this current plot line and start over.

Proof I am losing it? Or just a need to escape a reality that is too hideous to comprehend in my current depressive high strung state?

Time will tell.

Panic Disorder: Living Life On Red Alert

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , on January 24, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

“Panic attacks won’t kill you, just breathe. Be mindful. Calm down. It’s no big deal.”

Oh, how sick I am of hearing this sort of thing in response to anxiety and panic disorder. OF COURSE, I know panic attacks won’t kill me. I also know that my entire life is lived on red alert where even the most benign events can trigger fight of flight impulses. I fight these impulses as hard as I can and sometimes I am successful. I feel it inwardly and it’s terrifying and it sucks but I don’t show it on the outside.

More often, though, I fail to keep things wrapped up tightly and others can see all is not right in Morgueland. I can just imagine the ‘deer in the headlights’ look I must have when panic sets in. The sweating (btw, bevahiorists and polygraphs, sweat is NOT always an indicator of dishonesty, for some of us just a ringing phone can set off a physical reaction, viva panic disorder), the hyperventilating, the trembling, the inability to form coherent thoughts and act accordingly….Well, it has proven difficult for others to handle time and again and I have found myself losing relationships because I can’t even go out to a crowded restaurant or a concert without this extreme reaction.

If anyone grasped how much I like music and how much I want to be able to enjoy live bands…Then they’d get how much these disorders cripple me. But people don’t understand, don’t try to. Fair enough,tending to a friend’s panic attacks are not a good way to spend the evening, nor do I expect anyone to handhold when it happens. Though it would be refresing were people to simply tell me I am an embarrassment as opposed to shuffling off as if I am biohazardous.

This post comes because today I find myself quite strung out with anxiety. I heard footsteps earlier outside the window and it set off ‘fight or flight’ receptors. Which is ridiculous but it’s very real. Not fatal but very, very real. I am not faking the speeding heart, the sweat rolling down my sides, my heart squeezing in my chest like someone’s fist is around it…I am just as terrified as if faced with a machete wielding homicidal maniac.

It is illogical, and sure, snap out of it already.

I’ll get right on that as soon as the general public snaps out of their ‘being an asshole’ disorder.

No?

Enough said.

Traffic Jam Of The Brain

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on January 23, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

“It’s a traffic jam of the brain…makes you wanna scream and shout…”
—-Scritti Politti. “Let’s Go All The Way”

It’s been days since I have written and it’s not because I don’t need a good rant or venting session. It’s because I DO have a traffic jam of the brain. Too many thoughts and utter frustration that I can’t assemble them into some facsimile of coherent prose. I swear the racing jumbled thoughts get worse by the day and all the professionals can say is “it’s anxiety” or “retrain your mind using better coping behaviors”.

To which I say…fuckest thou.

Yesterday was my birthday. Happy #45. For my birthday. I got…ten bucks from someone not even technically related to me, and she did it because even MY OWN ASS TRASH FATHER couldn’t be bothered with even a card. He did call the day before to say happy birthday and razz me about my old age, adding, “We called today because we’re just going to be too busy tomorrow.” And yep, not even a text on my actual birthday. In addition to nothing but insult and injury, our heat has been out going on 5 days and the landscum,er, lord, keeps dicking me around with the guy is gonna be there this day, then this day, no, this day…It’s fucking heat, not a dammned luxury during winter!!!!!

I managed, for the first time in A BLOODY WEEK, to shower yesterday…and promptly kitten Vex pissed on me and my nice clean, warm clothes. And that’s a statement about my entire birthday, even though my sister did bring me a card and some Halloween cupcakes cos that’s all the decorating stuff she had but it was sweet of her. Otherwise, I felt pissed on. My kid was having meltdowns about school, then declaring her hatred for all birthdays except her own cos it’s not about her, then she was on about gym class and homework….

2018 blows goats.

Jan 1-K’s suicide.

2nd week- uncle dying of bone cancer in ICU 8 straight days with the flu and additional infection they had to call in infectious disease specialist for, he’s intubated and just sleeps, mom’s been there 9 days straight. Oh and hey, here, have a new shrink for yourself, but not until March, apparently our psych nurse doesn’t find your case important enough for sooner treatment.

3rd week- no fucking heat day after day thus I am uncomfortable. Which until today was okay because it was in the fifties and I was the only one complaining, I really really have something in my body that makes me cold even when it’s not. The monthly curse arrives with agonizing cramps. I get peed on by a cat, on my birthday, essentially pissed on by my father, dicked around by the landlord, and oh, a $335 power/heating bill I cannot possibly pay and since I’ve already had an extension, I am so screwed.

I HATE JANUARY 2018.

I’m exhausted, obviously, why else would I be awake at 4:25 a.m. with frozen hands typing…I’ve been up every two hours for four days, truly stressed about the heating situation. How this is acceptable is beyond me. Stupid things a tiny space heater is gonna keep us warm when it’s made to warm a bathroom, not a place with 3 bedrooms and two full baths. I am holding my temper in check, barely, because I want to rant and I think this is rant worthy, but because things are so precarious with the holding company now owning the place and scumlord simply being ‘manager’, I don’t dare get too ‘stand up for myself’ lest it rock the boat.

In spite of all this…I am hanging tough. I am not melting down, at least not in a major way. So much for the professionals saying I just quit when things get too tough. (Oh maybe they didn’t say it, or didn’t put it that bluntly, but I got the gist from nurse doc,grrr, my bete noir.) Getting off Trintellix, getting away from R, and laying off booze has helped immensely. I also tossed aside Paxis and went back on leftover Pristiq, which, I checked, and this was the last working combo I had when I was seeing Dr. B before he abandoned me. (Yeah, yeah, he likely got a better job offer, not all about me, blah blah blah.) I am just gonna keep with the Pristiq/wellbutrin/Lamictal cocktail til I see the new doc in March. As long as it gets me through. I don’t see how they left me much choice. That nurse saw me crumbling and gave zero fucks and if it were within my power, I would sue her on principle for being so apathetic that it has caused me great mental anguish and contributed to me not trusting or believing in psych professionals.

Which leads me to the other traffic jam in my brain, which makes L.A. traffic snarls look tame: the whole therapy/personality disorder thing. In the attempt to be fair and take a long hard look at myself and determine how my own behavior contributes to my condition…All I’ve realized is that borderline and bipiolar disorder mimick each other so closely, it’s not a shocker the pros can’t figure it out seeing me 20 minutes every 6 weeks. I am not in denial, I do have some borderline characteristics. The difference is, I LIKE being alone, I almost want to be abandoned once the shine has gone off of relationships. And that’s just me, people bore me easily and my hobbies don’t require other people. Unless you, too, like binge watching the shows I like, watching me read the books I like, listening to the music I like…I like what I like and I am damned sick of it turning into a personality disorder.

I am too damned old for this level of confusion and the professionals are what caused it. If I could just live outside their stupid labels and just be an individual…But nope. Mental health care is getting worse now that some doctors are using computer algorithms to determine pat treatments for the top 7 mental disorders. No, I am not making that up. Google ‘mental health treatment algorithm”. I don’t even trust those things to give me relevant adds on my gmail. Dear God, I write one message about a condom joke and next I know, I’ve got ads from the top ten rubber manufacturers in the world. Fuck you, Google, and fuck you, doctors, for using an algorithm because you’re too damned lazy to treat us as individuals and WORK to help us. Honestly, if the computer algorithm is doing the work, then let’s allow everyone with a computer to become a shrink. Not like it takes special know how these days to use a computer.

I am further haunted by March’s appointment with the new doctor. I need to get her on my side, seem sincere (I can come off as insincere when I am really nervous or ‘off’), and I need to do it without a lot of rambling and going off topic. Because aside from Dr. B, none of them give a rat’s ass about getting me on track, they just say ‘get therapy’. And I would, except the only place my insurance covers, is a hot pit of incompetence and confidentiality breakers. They think I need it so bad yet not one of their therapists in office can offer me a price break? Proof they only care about the money, not the client. Makes it hard for me to take their word for anything.

Okay…I need to warm my hands under fort blankie so I will end this rant. But hey…I showered and I wrote all within a 24 hour period…I’m gonna call it a win.

Not saying a lot for 2018 that this counts as a win but I will take it.

Lost

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on January 17, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

My disorders, and the extreme cold thus my kid being glommed onto me due to school being cancelled, has me hanging by a thread. It takes every ounce of strength to just fix her cheese and crackers or a turkey sandwich. Vacuuming feels like futile because the thing spits out more than it sucks up and I can’t find any clogs. Dishes get washed and pile right back up. Finances took a bad bad turn so I can’t even afford to go to the laundromat, that is WHEN my car doors aren’t frozen shut.

To top it all off, after my sister’s brother in law’s suicide New Year’s Day…our uncle is in the hospital 40 miles away, with bone cancer, pneumonia, and the flu and his heart is failing, they don’t think he’s going to make it. Mom’s been living up there by his side as he is her last living sibling (of nine) and she is taking it really hard even if they barely spoke for the last 30 years.

I feel like an idget for complaining about my petty little plight, but depression gives zero fucks. I have actually taken to writing to stave off my own thought madness and finished an entire Jonathan Kellerman novel in 3 days. And now I have started a second one by him only…

All the psychology gobbledygook where the main psychologist character diagnosis everyone’s disorders…Now I am all paranoid about what my docs think of me. And what life maiming notes doc nurse put in my chart and how that will taint the new doc against me in March. Is it logical? The level of terror and paranoia (terr-anoia?) is illogical but human behavior dictates that most people, even professionals, will take the word of their colleagues in the form of session notes and possibly commit to that notion before giving a new client a chance to present.

That is my biggest fear.

The whole cognitive and mindfulness drivel is about living in the now, changing your negative thoughts and behaviors, yet if your past leads to problems in your present, it’s kind of hard not to beat yourself up.

Once I started reading about my meds and how alcohol can cause seizures with Wellbutrin…I got the message loud and clear. I fucked up by drinking. It was self medicating to dull the nerves and noise but I’d thought at worse it would make me sleepy and hells yeah, I want that. But seizures??? And the nurse didn’t even mention that even while giving me her disapproving expression. I guess what with my Google-itis before there was Google, just the desktop prescription manual, I should know every med and side effect ver batim but this one…I did not know. I’m not suicidal, I don’t want to die. I mean, I don’t much want to live these days but I have a kid and even a momentary lapse in working thru my misery and trying to off myself could mean they take her away from me….Irksome as her behavior can be, she is my heart and I don’t want to hurt her, me, or die, or lose her because they deem me unfit.

Unstable, sure. Were I stable I could handle a damned job and get out of this self esteem purgatory. Maybe even live a little better than paycheck to paycheck and getting food stamps. I TRIED, the whole thing with R and helping at the shop would get me a decent car…Once I hit my breaking point, he just swept me aside. His way or no way, as always. Not a word since I said no more. Some friend. But I did try! I was even thinking differently than I had in the past, thinking that having a routine of sorts, getting out of the house, helping out, gave me purpose and self worth. This was no small feat, me walking away from a better car. It was him and his bidding or me in a rubber room and I truly believe this even if doc nurse blew it off completely.

I am trying to be different. But with my spotty psych care and crap choices for therapy, it feels hopeless. And reading books where terms like “bipolar axis 2” and “thinking disorder” and “borderlines” are thrown around wily nily…I start going ocd with the thoughts that because I have some flaws and some quirks (I don’t want cured of my quirks, wearing black and liking skulls hurts no one) that I will always be written off as some behavioral problem who needs medicated and ushered out, tough love. Which was what doc nurse seemed to be giving.

I need to let it go but I’m not there yet. Which is another point, my therapists hated my process of holding a grudge for months and maybe years until I could let some stuff go. (I still haven’t quite let go of how the donor basically ditched his daughter, even though the counselor told me 6 years I had to let it go…I ain’t fucking Elsa.) All my insecurities and neuroses and self doubt start bubbling to the surface and maybe now is not the time to be reading a book on the topic of bipolar and personality disorders because obviously it’s been a trigger. But then isn’t the new tough love therapy about facing what triggers you?

Bloody hell! I am lost. I want to do well, be better, and yet I feel doomed. And it’s not merely circumstantial depression, this is full blown seasonal wish-I-was-a-hibernating-bear depression. I mean, really, bathing twice in a week is the best I can do? My idea of hygiene is deodorant and brushing my hair? I wear the same clothes 2 days at a time sometimes…All of this seems more of a red flag than one alcohol bender but the nurse doc..doc nurse…whatever the hell she is…

LOST.

And again…not letting it go. NOT ELSA.

Though in the midwest this year I am frozen.

Happy New Year, Surprise, You Get A New Psychiatrist…again!

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , , , , on January 12, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

Twice this week I’ve been knocked for a loop by things I was never warned of. First came the landlord basically selling out to a management company. Today, after almost 6 weeks waiting to see Dr. B…The office called to tell me this was his last week there, he was gone from the practice, so my appointment for the 15th was off. I was told they’d provide me with refills but I’d need to choose one of their other doctors and the soonest they could get me in is…March. By then I will have survived 4 months of winter depression without any medication changes or psychiatric support.

I would have cried or had a meltdown but it’s become so goddamn common in this town…Find a decent shrink, they leave within a couple of years. Now I have to start over with a new one, a woman a friend reccommended (I figure if she got his chronic pot fried brain functioning properly, she must be a miracle worker) and once again, I am tasked with imploring this new doctor to see how troubled I am and take me seriously. And her only frame of reference will be the months of futility when I was seeing doc nurse.

I am pretty hopeless. I had a few hours of blind determination. “These people aren’t gonna help me, it’s all on me now.” But it gave way to just feeling defeated again. Bipolar itself is instability and since 2008, this will be my seventh different doctor at this same place. And none of the changes were my doing, it was either the docs leaving or scheduling problems or staffing shortage. That’s a lot of damn psychiatrists to go through, to have no choice but to endure the revolving door. The doctor is the gatekeeper I need for my disability to remain active and I can’t even get in for 8 more weeks. How is that remotely helpful? Just to get a med change, I’ll be required to go the hospital outpatient, make a psych complaint that concerns them enough to get the on call doc to see me…Ffs, could they have hobbled me a little more, think I still have one good toe to stand on….

Mental healthcare is lacking everywhere but in the UNited States where we are supposedly so progressive and wealthy as a nation…There is zero excuse for such a lapse, and a negligent one, in my mental healthcare. Perhaps my own stubbornness was an issue as I bet I could have gotten in with doc nurse a couple weeks before the actual psych doc but…doing the same thing again and again and expecting a different outcome is the definition of insanity. That was never going to take me seriously, see how hobbled I am by my disorders, and help me. Her mind was made up probably from the first appointment. And because I was sympathetic to their short staffing and didn’t want to rock the boat and make it more difficult…I screwed myself out of the second best shrink I’ve ever had. I saw him not quite 2 years and that man was amazing. Seems to be the pattern, though, with all the shrinks in town. They put in 2 years and out they go, probably screaming into the night.

I am lost. Not giving up but it gets more appealing with every blow life hands me. It took me two days to find energy to do dishes and fix myself something more than microwave food to eat. I’m not suicidal but I sure as hell ain’t on solid ground. By the time I see the new doc, it will be nearing spring and the seasonal affect will start to slowly lift. 4 months without a check in, med change, nothing. And the charlatans have the nerve to claim they give us 25 minute appointments and bill insurance $260 for it even when it’s just a psych nurse. I used to feel mad that insurance companies put caps on what they will allow and pay out but seeing that bill recently, knowing that woman sure as hell did not spend 25 minutes with me….it’s infuriating. At least Dr. B served his time to earn it.

I just…no doc, not sure if we’re going to be evicted at any moment, depression not lightening up…And the sleep problems, oh, dear god. I woke at 3:30 today and spent an hour trying to get back to sleep but it was futile so I sat at my desk and started proofing the last revision of the same novel I’ve been trying to perfect for almost 10 years now. And it kept me entertained right until I got the spawn on the bus, then I caved in to catnapping in 20 minutes increments. I got maybe an extra 2 hours of sleep but again, in increments so not exactly restful. Just enough to get me through the day.

At one point, I was thinking, damn, this book is really good, maybe I haven’t perfected it because it’s just…done.

And then it went way off the reservation and the whole tone changed which in turn morphed the characters and storyline in a direction I despised and it was like, fuck! I can always read my writing and know when my moods shifted, it reflects in how the story flows along for awhile and makes sense and then next I know, it’s like, who the hell wrote this garbage, this character would never say or do that shit!

I am always having to explain and prove how my mental conditions are a disability but I think when they even impact the one thing I love more than my kid and cats-my writing- I’d say that’s pretty disabling. Throw in the inability to focus and stay on track and it doesn’t matter that I’m a half ass decent writer. It just becomes drivel even I find cringeworthy.

Then again, getting that call about the psychiatrist situation may have put my mood in the gutter enough to make my revision seem worse than it actually is. I don’t know. I keep getting kicked in the head here on a daily basis and I’m at a loss how to handle it. Just keep going until I can’t go anymore, I guess.

Just…could the sacred pegacorn throw me a damned bone of not suckiness once in awhile? I’m not a great person but I sure as hell don’t deserve to have this much instability heaped on my already unstable mind. People want to know why I can’t get my feet under me and remain standing…

THIS. No patient, psych or medical, should be subjected to such a perpetual revolving door of providers. It’s doing more harm than good and the rule is, first do no harm.

They have failed.