Archive for July, 2019


Posted in anxiety with tags , , , , , on July 31, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

The panxiety (paranoid anxiety) has returned with a vengeance. I can’t explain it other than paranoid anxiety, this sense of bad things coming, feeling unsafe and vulnerable. Sometimes, I question my sanity because I don’t feel sane when it gets this bad. I don’t feel in control at all. And this is pretty much status quo 5-6 days a week. It is frustrating to try to explain to my psych nurse and her be so dismissive. If something is bad enough to disrupt your basic functionality and make you question your sanity because you honestly think “something” is out to get you, it seems it should be addressed by a psych professional. She refers feelings to counselors, as if they don’t play a part in my mental health treatment.

I am maxed on Xanax and Buspar and it’s not even taking off the edge. I don’t dare take more, though, they are making everyone sign these ‘pop urine test’ sheets for stimulants and benzos and don’t want to be caught ‘riding dirty’ so they think I’ve proven their benzos are evil mentality…This looming overhead adds to my stress because some days, I truly need to take an extra pill just to slow my mind and ward off the paranoia that has me convinced something bad is coming. I’m not superstitious, this is more insidious than a fear of black cats or the number 13.

I feel so helpless and hopeless. Maybe it will subside a bit once I’ve made it to town and back with my kid. I’ve noticed that all summer I have been under extreme stress from the trips to town and her being so far away from me (in my mind, 14 miles is far away) and I am just a neurotic helicopter mom…

I don’t feel I need hospitalized. I do feel I need an actual psychiatrist with an open mind on benzos who is willing to listen to me and not just refer every feeling I have to counseling. That would be the best thing to aid in helping my condition.

I have a better chance of finding a pegacorn.

Word Jumble

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , , on July 31, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

My brain is like one of those word jumble puzzles. I am forever using the wrong words or spelling even though I know what I want to write. Earlier I wrote a comment and meant to say ‘weapon’ but wrote ‘women’ instead. Geesh. This happens in verbal conversations too. The professionals say it’s byproduct of the disorders. Personally, I think it’s 20 years of their psych meds garbling what brain cells I have left. People have asked if I am drunk when I garble my words but sadly, I am NOT. I wish, that would be a legit explanation people would embrace.

Speaking of professionals, I just got my reminder call that I see Psych Nurse From Hell tomorrow. Joy, joy, happy, happy. I have decided that I am going to get some bloody eye contact even if I have to drag a chair across the room or perch on the corner of the damn desk. I will NOT be ignored and dismissed so easily. I thought about going in in my pajamas, maybe then she’d fucking remember me and realize, hey, she isn’t doing so hot. But I doubt she’d notice or she’d just chalk it up to me being lazy. I get the impression she isn’t a big believer in her own field of choice so you gotta wonder why she went into it if not to help people like me who need help. I had a doctor like that once, he said only three drugs should be on the formulary because they are all alike. He was a nice enough fellow, but man, such stringent views doesn’t leave you much wiggle room if you don’t respond to his chosen 3. At least this nurse is open to trying stuff. Or she was, til she got on her ‘fewer pills’ kick. Hey, I am all for fewer pills since every day I chole on my wheel sized Lamictal and it gets caught in my throat and we all know that bitter taste that doesn’t quite go away…But monotherapy has never worked for me, so she can just suck it up and prescribe me a secondary anti depressant.

I cannot believe how many people with mental health issues who tell me they went off all their meds and decided to cope on their own. Some of them smoke pot to alleviate the worst of it. Nothing against them, but pot makes me stupid and I’ve tried no meds. It was not pretty. And my priority is being a good mother to Spook and I can’t manage it sans meds because my conditions are really that pronounced. Good for those who can get off the medi go round, kiss the lousy providers goodbye, and manage. I’m just not that blessed.

I have managed to run uphill today. Ran errands I’d put off cos I was NOT coping well. I tackled vacuuming, dishes, and put a load of laundry in the washer. Beyond that, I am sitting in my ‘frozen’ spot, the only place where I don’t feel like everything is out to get me and it will all fall apart. I mean, I still feel pretty unsafe and paranoid, but at least my crypt offers some warm fuzzy feelings. Even if the panxiety stomps on them. I was looking at that teacher copy of the ADHD sheet the shrink gave me for Spook and I saw so many things that fit me. Like having to have things a certain way. Oh, I can live in mess, filth, chaos, hunger, not bathing, etc. But I have my ‘routine’ that MUST NOT be interrupted or I fall apart and shrapnel flies. Like my evening ritual of watching MASH then Frasier. If our freebie antenna isn’t pulling in the channels, I start getting very riled.

I’ve been like this as long as I can remember, right down to the shifts worked by my significant others. If it disrupted my normal ebb and flow, it was the villain and I hated it and in turn, they felt I hated them. I hate instability and lack of control and a comfort zone. Not my fault they didn’t view me as disabled and dismissed it as me being a hateful control freak. Maybe if they’d been stronger in character they’d have been smart enough to realize just how sick I get at times. I know that is expecting too much. Now if I had a physical disability, they’d be monsters for not helping out, learning about it, going to appointments with me, making sure I had my meds and a comfortable space…But because I have invisible illnesses, meh, no one can be bothered to learn that so many of the ‘traits’ they consider personality flaws are things that don’t occur when my med regime is working right. When I feel safe and calm and stable, I am not a monster.Frankly, even when I am not well, I don’t think I am a monster, just troubled.

I was gonna link to a couple of previous posts that didn’t get many views but I thought they were relevant but I realize this one ran too long and I probably lost most readers after the first paragraph. But I get sick of some drivel post getting 30 likes but something I am proud of goes unnoticed.

But ya know what? To hell with it.

This one is about mental disability.
This one is about learning yesterday that my kid is ADHD and is going to be medicated.

Back to trudging uphill in molasses and dreading the NP appointment tomorrow. I swear I’d almost rather face a dentist without novacaine. She makes me that uncomfortable.

Junk DNA: When Your Kid Goes On The Medi-go-round

Posted in anxiety, bipolar disorder, depression with tags , , , , , , , on July 31, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

So the benzo nazi doctor saw my kid yesterday and…Spook has now been labeled ADHD and given Concerta. I was so hoping she would escape the labels and pills and just be a really energetic flaky kid. In the short time the doctor witnessed her behavior, though, she quickly steered away from waiting til the teacher could fill out the paperwork in six weeks and said, we’re starting her on it right away.

I always knew, of course. If you have the disorder, or version of it yourself, you sense a kindred spirit.

I have ADD, no hyperactivity, but my thoughts race and bounce around too fast for me to focus so I am frustrated all the time with all the things I am supposed to do simultaneously.

Spook is hyper, can’t sit still, has too many thoughts to organize, and wow, she checks off 85% of the criterion.

I suppose it’s not a big deal, considering how many kids are shoved onto the medi go round and given these meds because god forbid kids be disruptive and hyper.

My kid, however, can only benefit since she meets so many of the criterion. I hope it helps her, she struggles so hard with school work and focusing on one thing at a time. I really hope it’s her magic bullet and it’s the only pill she needs to improve her functionality and decrease her frustration and low self esteem because she ‘can’t keep up’ with the other kids.

My big fear is that as she gets older, they will steer away from ADHD and start labeling her bipolar, depressive, borderline, et al. It is what they do, after all. Once you hit 18, suddenly you’re cured of ADD/ADHD and the doctors won’t prescribe it and insurance won’t even cover a third of the cost. This makes NO sense to me.

It also makes no sense for one doctor to say I have ADD comorbid with my other disorders while another nurse doc says, no it’s just because of the anxiety and depression, it will go away when we fix that.

They can’t agree on anything and my kid is now on the medi go round and it’s terrifying. I know how it impacts your self esteem once they start slapping on the labels and handing out the pills.

Time will tell. If it helps her, then we will ride that medi go round til it stops spinning. If it doesn’t help her or there are too many side effects, then we’re done. I’ve heard horror stories about these stimulants actually turning vibrant kids into zombies. I’ve also seen ADHD kids miss a dose of their meds and turn into aggressive monstrosities. It’s just a balancing act.

She is at day camp on their last field trip so I told her she can start the pills this weekend. Last thing I want is her having side effects 100 miles from home, getting sick, and wanting her mom.

The weird thing is, she was scared for me to tell her aunt cos she might call her weird…Yet she couldn’t wait to go tell her little friends who are also ADHD that now she is one of ‘them’. Like taking pills is cool or something.

I just about choked trying to take all mine (doesn’t help the lamictal is hubcap size and powdery) and there is nothing cool about it. It’s just necessity and survival.

On an amusing (sad) note….the doctor didn’t even remember seeing me July 1rst. She thought yesterday was her first time meeting me. I know they see a lot of patients, but even my damn gas station cashier remembers me on occasion. Somehow there is no comfort, for me or my kid, in this drive through medicine factory where they don’t even know your name without a file being shoved in front of them. Which is one more reason I miss the ‘good’ doctors. They not only remembered me, they didn’t need crib notes to remind them. Is it so bad to want your provider to remember you a few weeks later?

If the ‘decent’ doc doesn’t remember me after 4 weeks, my apathetic psych nurse probably doesn’t remember me at all til the nurse gives her my file. Too many psych patients, not enough competent providers. Welcome to mental healthcare in the rural midwest. And now my beautiful creative smart child has entered the fray and I can’t help but feel it’s because I cursed her with junk DNA.I hope she doesn’t come to resent me for it because I always wanted it to go the other way and for her to skip the genetic curse on both sides of my family.

You just never know which way the junk dna is gonna go.


Posted in anxiety, bipolar depression, bipolar disorder, disability with tags , , , , , , , on July 30, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

I’ve only had my disability claimed reviewed like 3 times.(Probaby be up for it soon.) Which is stressful to the max. But the ONE part that always gets me is when they ask how does your condition impact your daily life to the point it disablws you?

Well, let’s see. There is this from yesterday, a simple trip to Wal-Mart.

My kid has a doctor appointment today and I AM THE ONE WITH ANXIETY, on pins and needles.

My every day starts out with one hour of consciousness before I am counting the hours til bedtime because I can’t stand living in this hopeless dark space.

I no longer feel safe, even in my own home, so I am never calm or reassured.

I have unchecked paranoia born of this anxiety, convinced even the cats are sometimes out to ‘get me’.

It’s omly (nearly) August and I am already in dread and meltdown mode of the upcoming seasonal affective disorder and its crippling months long depression. Which considering I haven’t even managed to conquer the depression during the summer months, normally my happy time, I am PETRIFIED of the darkness I may be facing.

I don’t date. I don’t socialize. I don’t really enjoy much in life. Everything is a fake out, plastering on the smiles and forced conversation so others don’t feel uneasy and don’t think I am an unfit mother.

I am STUCK with a psych nurse who is so inept she can’t even make eye contact with me and does not listen to me, at all. That is disabling in and of itself because that is the ONE person whose responsibility it is to make you feel better, not worse.

See, it’s not any one thing. It’s the whole mish mash combination of situational depression and anxiety on top of the disorders that do hinder my progression in life.

For anyone who does not think this is a disability is ignorant.

How does it impact my life…

Easier question would be, how does it not muck up my life. It’d be a very short list because I can’t even be trusted to practice proper hygiene when I am in these mental states. I already feel emotionally naked, so I guess the thought of being truly naked and bathing and being vulnerable is too terrifying, not to mention exhausting.

My kid has the appointment, I am breaking out in hives.

I am going swimming Friday with her day camp as it is the final day and picnic and they are paying. I will have my curse by then but I will buy the necessary product and I found a swimsuit in the closet that fits and I am terrified of the public but I promised my daughter because it means a lot to her. It will take a lot out of me but..failing her in big ways is not an option. I fail her daily in so many little ways. Like not being happy happy joy joy mom. By always being so jumpy and nervou that she can’t even play a ‘boo’ joke because she knows it sends me into panic meltdown.

Next Sunday is her bday party at the pool, which took some tooth pulling to get that date. My mom was hell bent on it being the Saturday before her bday but my sister is the organizer and we both agreed we don’t want to go on a busy Saturday where Spook might not have much fun with it so packed. I consider it a victory that my sis and I agreed and vetoed my mom. Not like mom will swim, so I don’t know why it matters if she sits at a picnic table on the outside looking in.

Returning to this pool for the first time since I was 13 is going to be tough. They were the idiots who wouldn’t let me in because my legs were covered in flea bites, I had a doctor note saying so, and they said I was contagious. I was humiliated and never never went back. But hey, I’m damn near fifty years old, time to suck it up and let it go. Unless they do it again, I do have a few bites on my ankles but mostly because I am very allergic to flea bites. My kid gets a bite, she has one mark. I get a bite, I get all over red spots that itch so I dig in with my nails and…You get the gist.

Anyway…How does it impact my life?

I think this diatribe says it all. Some people just won’t listen because it would require them to open their minds and let go of longheld biases.

My family being the worst of that lot.

Yes, doubters and haters, mental health disability is a legitimate problem and until you’ve walked around with distorted thoughts and felt utterly black inside for no discernable reason and are convinced you are unsafe even in your own home…

Your input is pointless and unwanted.

Meltdown At The Self Checkout

Posted in anxiety, bipolar depression, depression with tags , , , , , , on July 29, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

Yes, I had the JOYOUS (NOT!!!) experience of going to Hellmart and struggling through the self check out lane with SIX measly items. The lady next to me was having no trouble and she had a small kid in tow. Which didn’t stop me from meeting my frustration peak and growling, ” I hate this shit!” Ooops, my bad. But I was struggling with just those few items, trying to remember what I scanned, what I hadn’t, what went in the bag or had yet to be scanned…It was bloody confusing and stressful and I melted down. As I do EVERY time I have to use their stupid self check out. With someone as terrified of people and as misanthropic as me, you’d think self check out would be a dream come true. It is not. I will purposely walk to one end of the store, far from where I parked, if it means getting a real person to check me out. Today I didn’t have the energy and in addition to my meltdown, I also overheated in spite of it being a cool rainy day and got woozy and sweaty. A half hour out of my life and it set the tone (further) for an utterly shitty day.

It started with waking at 4 a.m. I tried to go back to sleep. I gave up at 5 a.m. But an hour or so of my greasy itchy scalp drove me to take a bath around six just so I could wash my hair. How fucking dysfunctional is that? I don’t care if I smell bad but damn it, my scalp is itchy so I will bathe for the first time in 3 days!

How a COMPETENT Psych nurse or doctor can consider bathing twice a week ‘stable and well’ is beyond me.

I got so sleepy after the bath I hit snooze just as the alarm went off. I hit it three times, trying to drown out the light with a pillow over my head. Finally sat up and shut off the alarm and knew it was gonna be a long bloody day. Getting my sloth of a child in gear took more of my spoons.

Now I am home, hungry, but I don’t know if I have the energy to bother feeding myself. At least not til it gets dire and I start feeling dizzy and sweaty and nauseated. HOW HARD IS IT TO FEED YOURSELF, FFS? With depression and anxiety, it’s pretty damned difficult.

Yesterday was a crushing anxiety mash that I didn’t think I was gonna survive. I started thinking about bedtime before it was even noon, trying to think of ways to tire my kid out so she’d be on board with an early bedtime. She was unamused (yet griped today that she was still tired, so maybe mother does know best.) It was just grueling every step of the way. Anxiety, paranoia, panic, that bad juju feeling, terror at the prospect of leaving the house…

The only time I left was to run to the mini mart and spend $1.08 to MAKE SURE me renewed debit card actually worked. Because I’ve been traumatized before with a card that didn’t activate properly. Thankfully it worked. Glad they didn’t have a mandatory purchase amount for debit, cos I had like a buck and 86 cents in change on there. I had that damn card for a week before I had the guts to activate it and change whether it would work or not. That is the kind of stuff that keeps me awake at night. No, I don’t care how irrational it is, or how ridiculous I look.

I only look that way to people who don’t know what depression and panic are like and they’re just not people I want to know.

My paranoia has reached such a point that I labeled a pingback as Spam today because I just wasn’t in the mood to see who it traced back to and if they were talking trash.

I am exhausted. Tomorrow my kid sees the benzo nazi, who I am sure will say she’s a normal kid because if she won’t give benzos to people who TRULY need them, then a squirmy overly emotional kid isn’t gonna sway her much.

I am having such trouble with concentration I actually wasted money on Focus Factor. Guess what? It doesn’t do a damn thing to help me focus. But I’ve heard it helps some people. Maybe those of us who truly are ADD/ADHD only respond to actual stimulants which of course is harder to get than a fucking opiate and insurance would rather shell out for an organ transplant than pay for a medication.

Okay, back to the ‘do I have the energy to feed myself?’ and ‘do I even deserve to eat since I can’t even hold a job?” debate.

My daughter told me this morning she had a nightmare that I worked full time and she never got to see me and grandpa was still griping at her because I wasn’t working enough hours or making enough money and she should grow up and get over needing to see her mom.

That man and his faction have no boundaries to the damage they do and they just aren’t bright enough to care.

It’s so easy to say cut ’em out of my life, move away, et al.

Like head lice, my family NEVER truly goes away for long and as for moving away…Even if I had the money, my dad already told me they won’t help us move if we leave Armpit, EVER, and I don’t know anyone with a truck and I don’t have a credit card to rent a moving truck so….

The easy answers aren’t gonna work in this case.

I am not, however, opposed to being adopted and just ditching everything so Spook and I can save ourselves from this toxic environment and toxic people. Just need a place to go, a way to stay afloat, and a little seed money. If I had all of that…

I’d declare my family dead to me and move the fuck on before they cost me what few strands of sanity I have left. Then and the psych nurse are tapping me the hell out.

Panxiety Goblins

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , on July 27, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

My head itches, omg, did my kid bring home the hair critters?

My ear itches, who is talking trash about me?

I hear a lawn mower, oh, shit, did I not do a good enough job and my dad is out there ‘fixing’ my fuck up?

Was it wrong of me to buy myself a $1.90 necklace or was that selfish?

The car was shifting rough, is it about to break down?

Round and round the panxiety goblins go, filling me with anxiety that borders on panic, whispering all the trash talk about every tiny thing. I keep trying to teach my kid not to let her imagination run wild with the ‘what ifs’ but it’s kind of hypocrisy when I can’t even keep myself from going there. Then again, if I had heeded the bad juju…

I took her to my dad’s so she could walk to church camp with my brother. That motherfucker (24 going on 10) backed into my car, and kept backing up even after he hit us! So my kid was terrified and screaming and bawling and I didn’t know whether to back up or what, thinking it could peel the cars back like sardine cans. Now my passenger side doors have big dents and red paint on them and his truck didn’t even break a damn tail light. I had written that very day that I felt the bad juju thing in my gut, I should have heeded it. Nothing good happens from leaving home.

Normal people would turn it into insurance, right?

NOPE. They didn’t mention it. There was no apology, which is more insulting. I calmed my kid down and tried to roll with the punches and dents, at least the doors still open and it still runs. But he wasn’t even looking as he backed up and he was actually accelerating instead of slowly using the brake to back out. If a little kid had been walking by, they’d be dead. He is a fucking menace and they baby7 him like he’s 10. Not that this is new, this is the normal disparity in how my father treats me and my sister verses our half brother. Part of the problem is that they want him to be mentally normal but he is NOT. He was in special ed classes, is on meds for bipolar and anxiety, and all he cares about is playing video games and has zero desire to drive himself to work or get his own place. And they let it go on year after year. When I was sixteen, my dad told me to go to school, get a job, or get out. That seems fair treatment between us, right?

What was that sound> Is someone darkening your doorstep? The landlord could be here and demand to inspect the place! Worse, it could be a suprise visit from old friends….

I really wish I could guillotine the panxiety goblins.

I don’t feel safe anywhere, really, and haven’t since the center enacted the benzo nazi police. I did well for the better part of 7 years at 3 mg and I wasn’t jonesing, abusing, selling, sharing. But hey, what do they care, they don’t have to live with this, I do.

Nose it itching, oh, no, comany is coming or the phone is gonna ring, NOOOOO.

I had to take my kid into town for her sleepover at grandma’s and let’s just say, we are both traumatized after the way my brother bashed into the car. And it was on her side so she was doubly terrified. Now I view every car as potential for splat and me and my car are Frogger trying to cross the road without dying. It’s a harrowing, terrifying endeavor, and it has been this way for over a year. I used to love to drive. Now it doesn’t feel like freedom or independence, it feels like playing Frogger and the big fast vehicles are gonna make me go splat.

I was also so altered earlier, I actually forgot whoch driveway was my mom’s.I’ve been there dozens of times, I know what the house looks like, and yet, I blanked out.

Today has been panxiety goblin palooza in addition to trudging uphill in molasses to do the simplest things. Refilling the ice cube trays? Exhausting. Keeping the cats fed and watered? Draining. Helping my kid pick out clothes that are clean…tiring as hell. (And our dryer broke so I am hang drying stuff and despite my laundry soap also having fabric softener, the clothes can still feel a little crispy, grrr.)

Now I am home, free, and I don’t know what to do with myself. The bad juju lurks. Leaving the house is bad juju. Had I not driven the other night, my car would not have been smashed up. If I hadn’t run out to the gas station, our kitten Tyketto wouldn’t be dead. Job interviews are pure bad juju and at this point, I do it in hopes that rejection will make me stronger and more practiced at some point. It’s a fail right now.

Is my sister gonna take Spook to the dollar store so she can spend her five bucks she won at a church raffle and the donor will be there and suddenly take an interest in seeing her and making my life living hell? What if Spook has a meltdown and goes off on him? Worse, what if she likes him?

I am NOT in my right mind right now. But I tried talking to my mom and dad about the anxiety and they scoffed and told me to get over it, so reaching out to them is a no go. This blog is the only safe supportive space I have. So while I have learned to plaster on the mask of “I’m ok” to make all the naysayers less uneasy…This blog is the only proof I have of how hard I have been struggling and still am. But if the people close to you don’t see it or want to hear it, you’ve got no personal back up witnesses to your struggles.

Today has been acid stomach churning pain day. It subsided but now it’s coming back, because the anxiety is so bad. And my kid asked me what I have to be stressed about. Am I so altered that I am living this great life and don’t know it? Or are the people around me just so self absorbed they can’t see me battling and losing?

I took 2 mg Xanax, the paranoia has got to go. Yes, I was bad, taking more than prescribed. But if your every thought was like a little voice whispering in your head terrifying thoughts, wouldn’t you do whatever it took to quiet it down?


Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , on July 25, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

The crazy has crept up on me like a ninja, bringing with it the paranoid anxiety and distorted thoughts and metastasized fears. Think I waited too long to take a Xanax but with the low dose, I don’t have much choice but to ration stingily. I was reading another blog earlier and the writer was experiencing much of the same irrational but very convincing negative fears and anxiety and she chocked it up to a cycle of mania. Well, I am not manic, so I don’t know where mine is coming from except it’s a daily thing and the only variance is just HOW distorted my thoughts are going to be at any time. I almost wish it was one of those weirdo teratoma tumors with an eyeball and some hair and teeth growing on my brain, making me so bloody psycho. I don’t feel sane. I feel like my sanity is about to crack open like a watermelon hit with a baseball bat.

Meanwhile, I have my dad on my ass about getting a job. Well, I went and talked to this lady who was hiring and she wanted someone full time but didn’t tell me that. Had I known that I would never have even gone. Unless they pay full time wages and have benefits, minimum wage will cost me our Medicaid but not provide me with the income to pay for insurance, ffs. BUT here’s the kicker….The only way my dad would have known that I ‘failed’ him by not asking for full time hours thus disappointing this fucked up chain of ‘I know someone who is hiring but I don’t anything about it.” Bullshit. It all went right back to him as soon as I left the interview. He made it abundantly clear what a disappointment I am to him. This is why I want to move far away from all of these fucking people, there is no privacy in these small towns. Everyone knows everyone and they’re all up in your business and they have an opinion and nothing I do will every be right, good enough, or what the fuck ever. I wish the woman had just told me directly that she wanted a full timer, rather than tell me ‘I’ll let you know.” I had a couple of hours of almost feeling hopeful and like I’d done a good job. Leave it to my dad to suck whatever good there is out of the air. Pardon th FUCK out of me for not wanting my kid to be uninsured, not to mention myself, considering it costs $175 for monthly med checks and my meds, even as generics, run close to $400 a month. Damn me to hell for considering carefully such things. And FUCK a system who places me that situation where it’s catch 22 all around. Oh, and let’s not forget THAT FACT THAT I AM DISABLED AND IN LOONEY TOWN MOST DAYS.

It took FIVE days of procrastination and dread, then feeling guilty for the procrastination and dread, and then feeling bad because despite the procrastination and dread, I STILL couldn’t kick my ass into gear and get the lawn mowed. After yesterday and dad’s bullshit and negativity, I came out of the gate this morning hell bent on getting that damn football field mowed, on my own, to keep him the fuck away from me. It took start and stop for 4 and a half hours but I did it, all by myself, with a push mower. It won’t pass his lawn king inspection by any means, but it looks good enough to me. And I feel accomplished and satisfied and yes, fucking relieved that now he has no reason to darken my doorstep in person. The phone calls are traumatic enough.

Speaking of calls…I keep getting all these unfamiliar numbers and it’s freaking me out. They don’t leave messages so surely they can’t be important, just spammers, right? I did answer one call and it was one of those ‘so you were on our site looking for work’ automatated calls and I panicked and just hung up. Because I don’t want to talk to machines or real people right now. I am too busy trying not to let all the mental distortions drive me to madness.

I’ve always struggled with my mental health but between the Nardil incident of 2000 that left me brain damaged and the toll pregnancy took on me mentally, I have not been ‘right’ in the head since. I am a husk of myself, faking smiles and silliness for my kid, feigning normality to get my dad off my ass, plastering on fake smiles for my critical mom and my well meaning but ‘under mom’s thumb’ sister. I am tired of faking it. I want to FEEL GOOD. Genuinely good. Not terrified every minute of the day, constantly second guessing and third guessing myself. Feeling shitty for no reason, feeling guilty because I can’t ‘snap out of it’ or ‘straighten up’.

It’s wearing me down, honestly. But I am still here, still fighting, still trying. Even if my former arsenal of coping mechanisms included the occasional manic stretch so I could at least say I had those few weeks of happiness…Lamictical works too good at quashing mania, even hypomania. It’s for the best, but damn if I don’t miss mania something fierce. When depression is your baseline, any escape is welcome, even sometimes self destructive ‘this is not gonna end well but I feel good so fuck it!’ states.

I feel like something bad is coming. I don’t know what. And it could be hormonal dysphoria on top of my ‘wish it was a tertatoma’ insanity. Hey, it COULD be a teratoma. Not that I will find out any time soon if it doesn’t cause me pain or slow me down physically. I HATE doctors. They TERRIFY me. I am already saddled with a lousy psych nurse, I got no room left for sucky healthcare providers. I got no energy left for these vampires to drain me of. Maybe I will just assume it’s a tumor and give it a name and learn to embrace either having a crazy making tumor or blaming a tumor because I don’t know what else could be making me this husk filled with dread and terror and panic 24-7. Mental illness isn’t real, ask my family, they tell me so often enough.

Then again, even if I had a tumor, insurance wouldn’t pay to remove it if it’s not cancerous and short of packing it around in a jar, I don’t think my family would even consider a tumor legitimate reason for me to be, well, me. They really really really reject mental illness.

And wonder why I reject them.

Tis a mystery Columbo couldn’t figure out.