Archive for the bipolar disorder Category

It All Just Sucks

Posted in anxiety disorders, bipolar disorder, depression with tags , , , , , , on July 14, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

Honestly this is not some boo hoo woe-is-me post, I just couldn’t come up with a better title at the moment. I was too lazy to eat when I woke up so I thought, I’ll do the mood stabilizers later after I do eat but what can it hurt to take the Cymbalta now while I am thinking about it…Well, the hurt is in my gut which is now burning like a mofo, something that was never a side effect when I took the same in the past but now suddenly it is a random thing. As if my burning stress stomach aches and lowering myself to take Pepcid isn’t enough, then playing the “will the pills make me puke or not today’ lottery…Just what I bloody needed. GRRR.

You can spew all your sunshine and wave your pompoms in my face and tell me what works well for you and it’s all about a positive attitude but you know what? It doesn’t change the fact that MEDICATION SIDE EFFECTS EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIFE JUST PLAIN SUCKS.

In a surprise twist the other day after being assaulted by some well meaning but ’caused traumatic flashbacks’ pompom waving…I felt like a loser for a couple of hours and then I realized no one has my permission to make me feel inferior no matter my failings and hey, that includes ME. I was busy beating up on myself because I’ve not found my magic cocktail of unicorn farts, medication, and meditating on clouds made of cotton candy I forgot the most important things of all: we are all different. And I really need to get the stick out of my ass because I suck at being given advice, I take it way too personally and in doing so, I close my mind to some positives I could take away from it. I totes want my uicorn fart magical cocktail but until that happens…I’m gonna keep doing me.

And I surprised me because after the loserpalooza mental state kicked my ass long enough, I started moving around the house. Not because I wanted to but because I was pissed off, because I was sick of beating myself up, because damn it, I am fighting as hard as I can and the pegacorns aren’t barfing rainbows on me so I may as well do something. I folded 7 baskets of laundry and attempted to find a place for it all thus making the middle room look less biohazard-y. (It is very challenging to store things when YOUR IDIOTIC HOUSE HAS NO CLOSETS,FFS, whoever designed this place was a fucking moron.) I cleaned cat boxes, tried to clean floors (epic fail without a working vacuum and fans blowing dust everywhere you just swept or dusted, grrrrr.) The humidity that day was so high I had sweat running down my back, indoors, with the AC. 93 outside, 89 inside, what a joyous life. But I got shit done and it felt good. Hypomania always does, though I sure do miss my full blown mania and oh those delicious but lethal diet pills that kept me looking pretty and so energized I could run 56 hours straight but that’s a story for another (never) time.

I zonked around midnight, only to be wakened three times by the rioting cats who don’t do diurnal…I had a nightmare I jolted from at 4a.m. and could not get back to sleep. So I tried boring myself to it by watching, oh dear god, Martha Stewart glazing a ham. (The horror!) Fail. By 6 a.m. I was doing dishes, counting time til I had to take my kid to my mom’s for her sleepover and outing. Which meant by the time I got my ‘me day’ I spent most of it sleeping because I hit the hypomania wall and when I did wake up, I was up til after 2 a.m. and too tired to do anything I had planned because when planning it, I had assumed I’d be well rested instead of my cycles all fucked up.

Today I am edgy and grumpy. My kid is off to St. Louis with her cousin and his girlfriend for her first ever trip to the zoo. And selfishly, I feel pissed off about it. I want her to be happy, but I feel pissed off that my nephew doesn’t work, doesn’t pay a single bill, his girlfriend just had to resign from her job before they fired her, and still they have all this money to drive so far away and go to the zoo and feed my kid (after they took her out of town shopping last night!) and it’s just not fucking fair that I do all the sacrifice and hard work and I can’t even be included in the fun stuff she gets to do. Me, me, me, I know, but is it so wrong for a parent to want to be with their kid doing the fun stuff? It should be a memory for mom and daughter but no, I’ve got every cent tied up keeping a roof overhead so…

So I am feeling left out and petty and at this point…I’d just be happy if I could afford a damn pizza from Marco’s. Everyone takes Spook out to eat, to swim, to shop, and I am always stuck home, can’t even spring for a damn McDouble. Boo hoo, right? Well, newsflash:parents are people,too, and while we are willing to sacrifice whatever is necessary for our kids to be happy…

Some of us selfish bastards would still like $13 to get a damn delicious pizza.

But knowing my mental state and how the meds are wrecking my body daily..I am glad she has others who financially able to give her what I can’t. Honestly, some of my fondest memories of childhood aren’t of amusement parks or zoos, they’re just the mundane daily things, like playing with a dog, or running through a sprinkler and having ice cream after. Of course, I’m not vapid and my kid kind of is, so her memories will involve everyone but me cos they all have money to do the fun stuff. I won’t begrudge her that. I’d probably have a mental breakdown if I was even sitting in a car in St. Louis traffic (sure would love to see the snakes though, such beautiful creatures.) I still think it’s bullshit that my cousin and his girlfriend don’t have to pay for food or a single expense by living off my mom and my sister. But then isn’t that how everyone views me, living off disability…Difference being, my money isn’t going toward happy fun ball stuff. I prioritize and my kid comes first so if her having food means no trip to the zoo and I’m a downer…so be it.

Really makes me think of everything my parents sacrificed for me and my sister when we were kids. How little they got out of life other than working to pay bills and keep us clothed and fed. Not to mention they hated each other and stayed together for our sake (not a favor) so that had to suck a lot, too. At least I am not stuck with an albatross in my home thus ours is a happier home than what I grew up in.

I still want my Marco’s pizza, though. If I can’t have pegacorn barf and unicorn farts…I just want a damned pizza. I’m shallow and demanding like that.


Word Vomit

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , on July 11, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

What an appealing title, right? Who isn’t going to break a finger clicking to read this! Actually, I just need a good purge so whatever I write here will be…word vomit. And ya know, sometimes it’s a lot like being physically ill where the last thing you want to do is throw up but once you do…you start feeling a little less putrid? That is what I hope this post will do for my mental state, which to be honest, has not been good at all, thus the ‘long time, no write’. And yes, if I go more than 2 days without posting, it usually means I am in The Bad Place.

Over the weekend The Bad Place hit hard and I was swallowed up by blackness.

Looking toward the legal proceeding with the donor and how the judge will likely grant him visitation even though he hasn’t so much as mailed the kid a birthday card in 7 years or asked about her when faced with my family members (most of whom seem to side with him cos they are from that antiquated ‘children should have both parents’ mentality, which, in this day and age is absurd…Ideally, yes, kids would have both parents but in this case…I don’t think rewarding abandonment is the right move. ) But once the darkness hit, I started thinking maybe it’d be in her best interest because I am a shitty mom, always down or up, always jumping at every sound, unable to socialize let alone work…Maybe they should take her from me because, plainly, I suck.

And thank pegacorn I’ve been on this hellish hamster wheel long enough to know depression is a blatant liar and distorts the truth. My kid is healthy, happy, creative, smart, we’re very bonded, and she’s got her basic needs met, always.

But then that bastard depression starts whispering, pointing out all my failures, as fluffy and vapid as they are.
“You’ve never taken the kid on a vacation once in 9 years.” “You can’t afford to sign her up for the sports she wants to try.” “You buy her second hand clothes because you’re such a loser, you can’t even work and earn minimum wage to buy her new stuff.” On and on and on it goes.

Then come the Really Bad Thoughts, the ones telling me that she’d be better off if I were simply dead. That I am a hindrance, that I am a bad influence, cos hey, I don’t work and she knows it’s not normal and points it out frequently. I look at all my damn years of meds and doctors and therapists and I’m not any better now than I ever really was. The only change has been in me, as a person, in my personality and thoughts but if I can’t ever escape the bipolar depressions, it’s all been for nothing. I’m an albatross for this vibrant little girl.

I rode out 4 days of those thoughts poisoning my system. Lived only for sleep, which is still interrupted and plagued by nightmares and the dread when I wake in the mornings.

I know I had a brief ‘up’ when the Cymbalta first start working but when the doctor made no changes and left me hanging 3 months before an appointment with yet another new nurse doc…I just feel like they dropped me in a war zone with access to water and military rations, but nothing else. I am stranded in this shitty place and will be for another month at least. And knowing how that place works, there’s a good chance I might even get bumped for someone ‘not doing as well.’

I don’t know how much more ‘not well’ I could be doing to have the dark thoughts lurking and stalking me, to feel so lethargic, stressed, hopeless. This is better than 4 months ago, but after gabapentin and Effexor giving me such horrendous side effects, the bar for better is set pretty low.

I am still juggling the stress of living so close to my dad. Even when they leave us alone, I just live in fear they’re gonna crash my limited safe space. (Conversation with normal person:”Thanks for mowing our lawn, we appreciate it.” “You’re welcome!” Conversation with my dad: “Thanks for mowing our lawn.” “Yeah, you need to be thanking us!” Lack of basic manners totally sets me off!) I keep trying to convince myself it’s not so bad here and yet every time we are in town my kid sees a friend from the trailer park or her old school, she gets sad, I get sad, and realize…We had no choice and we’re making the best out of the hand we got dealt but this is never going to be our home. It’s is my dad’s town (he even knows when I go to the gas station cos it’s such a tiny town and everyone talks) and…I called living in town a cess pool and the petri dish but it was OUR space, our privacy. Now…Armpit just makes me feel exposed and even though my dad’s not footing a single bill or buying us groceries, I feel like we’re depedent on him. Which is ludicrous and yet I fight myself tooth and nail to change my mental state and…FAIL.

Today I took my poison, er, meds, with milk…and got so sick. I ran to the bathroom 4 times in 10 minutes, I was dizzy, nauseous, my head was spinning and…I’m sick of it. I’ve never been a pot user but the more people I talk to who are fed up with the psych meds not working but pot seems to help…It’s not the road I want to go down, but I sure as hell understand why people are going down it. The medi-go-round is the ultimate test in constant aggravation and frustration but I’m not giving up hope. It has, occasionally, gotten me to a good place mentally. Besides, as I recall from youthful dabbles, pot just made me sleepy and if I wanted to sleep all the time, I’d go back on Trazadone, least keep it legal.

But yeah, that’s where I am. Word vomit. Purge complete.

How Rapic Cycling Screws Up Your Life

Posted in anxiety disorders, bipolar disorder with tags , , , , , on June 29, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

For many, many years I had a crap shrink who saw me once every 3 months and gave zero credence to what the therapists told him about how they’d witnessed me go from depressed to manic to depressed, in a week. He labeled me as “dysthymic” and shoved anti-depressants down my gullet. Which is possibly the WORST thing you can do for someone who is bipolar. He was basically treating me to a year round cycle of even more rapid cycling because with no mood stabilizer, the antidepressants made me go full on manic or hypomanic. He was a douche. It took 16 years to find a doctor who actually nailed the diagnosis of bipolar 2 because I do have more lows than highs. Once she put me on mood stabilizers, life got a little easier.

A little.

But as is typical for me during summer months, I am rapic cycling through ups and hypo manic episodes at breakneck speed. The now-departing shrink said she wasn’t worried about it because of the mood stabilizers, but hey, guess what? Rapic cycling during these months has always been my norm. They are so gung ho on their stupid cocktails they cannot be convinced it’s not a cure-all for these symptoms and cycling.

Today has been a roller coaster. I woke before 5 a.m., could not get back to sleep, so I paid some bills on line and the phone, all the while cussing my internet provider for making it too damn confusing to pay on line thus making me use the hated phone. (I love my Droid for everything BUT making calls, go figure.) I forcded myself to bathe and put on clean clothes. I woke my kid up so we could get to town to pay the power bill on time and also, to avoid the extreme temperatures we’re now having. In town, I was okay, though traffic did miff me, people drive like maniacs.

Then we got home, carried stuff in, and I took my meds. Now, I’d had food an hour or so before, so I didn’t blink. And then I got so nauseous, my head started to hurt, I was woozy and dizzy…And that crack of dawn waking thing has me dragging ass. SPLAT. So I had corndogs for lunch and that took care of the nausea but now I have heartburn and it bloody hurts. I’d take a Pepcid but it’s so damn hot, I can’t breathe in the curtained off room. Thankfully the AC and fans are keeping the other rooms bearable.

From Splat I’ve gone to spinning mind and rabid paranoia and anxiety. We had a storm last night and it blew down an enorous tree branch (miss the glass patio table by an inch!) and I of course asked my dad if they could appear at some point this weekend to haul it off and trim the branches that are growing into the power lines, messing with our electricity, making it flicker. The landlord was supposed to take care of it weeks ago, but I figure he’s not being a total dick about the rest of his security deposit so I shouldn’t be too fussy about his lack of memory, he is 78. I digress…Dad and his woman have access to a chainsaw and they have pick ups to haul away yard debris like huge ass tree limbs so asking them is painful but necessary. I did manage to detangle it from the chairs and stuff it crashed on and drag the enormous thing to the front yard where they can easily dismantle it with their power toolsy stuff. (I’m not into chainsaws, mowers, weed whackers, that shit terrifies me and as clumsy as I am..NOPE.)

Now…downside…They never call before they show up so I am on pins and needles just waiting for them to appear out of nowhere and assault my sensitivities to sound with roaring power tools. And the house is kind of a mess which they will be uber critical about, reminding me they vouched for me with the landlord, but ya know what? Unfolded laundry, unmopped floors, and the vaccuum that spits out more than it picks up aren’t high on my priority list when the humidity is so thick even inside with air I am having trouble breathing with allergies and sinus problems. It can wait til night time when it cools down. I am not risking more med nausea by doing all this stuff in the heat and humidity, which of course you’re super sensitive to on mood stabilizers and you can dehydrate and overheat and get very ill, very quickly. Especially in my “will the meds make me sick or not today” lottery lifestyle.

I despise people who refuse to give me a heads up before they darken my doorstep. Is a 30 second “on the way” call really that inconvenient? In polite society, I think it’s looked upon with fondness. But rednecks like dad and stepmonster and my brother aren’t quite polite society, their way or fuck you. Yet they gripe when people knock on their door before 8 a.m. or after 8 p.m. Hypocrite much? This anxiety makes me feel frozen in place, like if I even walk to the other room, they’re gonna coming barging into the door. And if my dad sees me hypo, he will be sniffing me for alcohol smell and ranting because he’s too damned ignorant to understand mania and bipolar. (Yet my brother’s on meds for the same and it’s ok, because his disorder manifested less as manic and more as aggressive anger tirades and god knows, society loves them some anger, way more appropriate than tears or depression or mania.)

I think it may be time to bite the bullet and go to therapy. Obviously the revolving door of shrinks at the psych center isn’t going to help me much to gain stability and learn how to manage the constant anxiety that these people cause me. But then comes that terror that I will end up with R’s daughter Ursula as a counselor and while my nephew’s fiance things Ursula is a great therapist and she likes her a lot….I used to babysit Ursula and I have witnessed how many of her own issues she has and won’t own and I’ve seen the lack of empathy she has for the mentally disabled (sanity challenged a better term?) They just assign you a counselor, you get no say in it, and you ask to change, they take that as non compliance because obviously, the therapist gave you a diagnosis you didn’t like and want to try someone who might see things your way. That is the place’s mentality. And it’s no longer counseling center, it’s ‘behavioral health’ and I loathe that term as much as I despise the overuse of stupid trendy terms like “Creating a narrative” and “Your brand could be bigger if you used social media”. Brand? Seriously? I’m a person, not tennis shoes or a can of corn.

I don’t need a counselor to agree with my every (fucked up) thought but I do need them to be supportive, non critical, and HELP me sort through the constant garbage in, garbage out cycle of mind. And I definitely need to learn some assertion skills (never used to be an issue when I wasn’t on mood stabilizers, I pretty much told people to bite me at every turn, including a boss or two.) Now I am 45 and live in terror of my father and his crew. Not cool, not normal, not healthy. I was never a daddy’s girl, I don’t much care what he thinks of me, but since they helped us out so much during the move and with furniture and such…I guess I feel beholden to keep the peace and not rock the boat. And that, too, sickens me, because that was always the donor’s mentality. Some old lady in a restaurant assumed I was pregnant again when Spook was two weeks old. Rather than be classy and say something like, “She dropped 20 pounds already, I think she looks great for just having a baby.” Nope. ‘Consider the source.” “Ignore it.” “Don’t rock the boat.” And that I have become that spineless and pathetic really makes me want to stab my eyes out with a metal Spork and let Spook beat me with a Z-Whacker. This is NOT me.

Can you tell from my rant and topic bouncing how hypomanic my mind is right now? And this is fully medicated.

Sadly, a hypo manic brain does not equal a productive mental state and the anxiety is paralyzing me. My ear itches from the fan blowing my hair and I think, ermygod, someone is talking about me!!! (Damn you, momby, for instilling such stupid superstitions in my head, even if I think they’re bogus, I still get panicky.)

Breathe, Morgue, breathe.

So walking on eggshells made out of busted Faberge knock offs it is.

Be a great time for a power nap but I can’t do that with the spawn loose and the sun reminding me it’s not sleepy time. But sleep has always been the best way to reboot my brain’s OS, so to speak, and I usually wake up in a better, or different, mind frame.

The sleep disturbance is gonna drive me mad. It’s not that I require a lot, I just don’t like seeing the hour 5a.m. unless I’ve been up all night. I can sleep from 8am to 11 am and run the whole day and night just fine. Anything before 7 a.m., I’m fairly useless.

6 hours of uninterrupted sleep has become my fantasy. That and owning a Dodge Challenger or Hellcat, and I am fairly sure neither is going to happen.

Damn rapic cycling to hell.

Inside Out

Posted in anxiety disorders, bipolar disorder with tags , , , on June 1, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

So there I was, so proud of myself for performing basic hygiene and making an effort to not appear like a hag…And I went out in public with my shorts on backwards. OOPS. What’s a girl to do? Find a bathroom, go back home…Nope. This girl just turned them inside out behind the wheel in wide open. Why? Because I bloody well can and really don’t care who likes it. Nothing to see here but some zebra striped undies, perverts, move along…(See??? Getting the appointment and trip to town over with and getting home safely instead of the car stranding me brought back my piss and vinegar!)

I’ve started rocking the ‘that’s not appropriate for your age!” hairstyle of pig tails to keep the sweaty hair off my neck and I’ve gotten several compliments. So fuck you, 45 year olds can rock pig tails! Oddly, it’s men who have complimented. Women giggle and tell me I’m way too old to wear my hair this way. (Though a dye job would be an improvement, I admit.)

(And yes, I have a Tardis poster on my bedroom door…EX…TERM…INATE…DALEKS ROCK!)

So…some little toddler boy in the doctor office waiting room for whatever reason decided I looked like a good playmate and kept rolling a ball to me. I played along, of course, even though I am wary of doing so lest the adults think it’s some weird pedo thing. Idk, kids have always liked me and I think kids are a pretty good judge of character sometimes, they sense a kindred spirit. Because, hey, deep down, I’m just a kid who loves soda pop, Pop Rocks, and Pinky And The Brain.

The appointment with Dr. H was a disappointment because she refused to raise my Cymbalta dose, erring on the side of caution and ‘well, it’s only been 3 weeks at this dose, it can take six weeks to fully kick in, your med sensitivity makes me reluctant to do anything knee jerk that could harm you.” Pfft. I was in a depression so long, I guess knee jerk is my go to response but I admit, she has a very valid point. She advised me to make sure with my kid out of school that I take plenty of time for myself and get breaks so I don’t get as overwhelmed but she thinks I am doing a great job. (I didn’t mention the inside out shorts, we all have brain fade, right? RIGHT???) All in all, while she wasn’t on board with my (not necessarily right) wishes…she has the right idea, caution.

Bad thing is, when I went to schedule for six weeks…they took my name and number and said they’d call me when they decide who to assign me to. Which must mean they hired someone new and that is terrifying. I was resigned to going back to doc nurse, which could still happen, but then again, human nature being spiteful as can, since I switched from her she might not want me back. Whatever. Though the next time I am expected to get the lithium level bloodwork done and I hate that shit. Needles and blood aren’t my big thing, it’s going into the damn hospital that nearly killed me with misdiagnosis. Okay, it was 18 years ago but still…I just hate going there. Had they not basically held my newborn hostage, I’d have been out of that place 2 hours after giving birth, I dislike it that much. And well, being honest, I just don’t like hospitals, period. But you tend to hold a grudge against one that resulted in you getting brain damage because you were misdiagnosed and denied proper treatment.

The stress came when driving in 91 degree heat and the damn ‘low coolant’ light kept flashing on the car and the gauge kept rising. I was petrified and my dad checked the coolant last night, it’s full so that means…another malfunctioning gauge, ffs. I almost wish I hated this car then I could be all vindictive about its flaws but I really love Blanca. I may have lusty-drool issues for Mustangs and Camaros, especially the 60’s classics, but my Lumina suits me beautifully. It’s the newest car I’ve ever owned, which I suppose isn’t saying much, as it’s a 2001 and only cost $450. YES, you can get a car that cheap that actually runs in the midwest, one word-auction. Still, working gauges would be wondermous but I will cope. And my Xanax dose was down, oh, well.

I made it home after the necessary stops, including paying rent and am just enjoying me time. Spook’s little friend wanted to play but we were gone and now they’re in Peoria getting the dad’s other son for summer visit so, woohoo, I may have a break from running free daycare. Though the half brother is 15, can’t see him much wanting to hang out with a 5 year old. Today, though, I am getting a break.

EXCEPT, the landlord came knocking an hour after I paid JUne rent in person. His little ledger book indicated I was $725 in arrears. Um NO. I owe $325 toward deposit, but all rent is current. We finally got it straightened out. I paid March rent on February 28th so he credited it to February but we didn’t move in until the 1rst of March,the missing security deposit is what is confusing him most. (Hey, guys, fundraiser is still open here, unless you’re donating to that ridiculous minister with three airplanes who now wants his flock to raise fifty plus million to buy another jet cos flying commercial means sitting next to demons-and I’m the crazy, greedy one????) Hopefully since the landlord wrote it all down we are squared now.

Ugh, who knew paying rent early could result in such a clusterfuck.

Now I have about an hour before they bring Spook home so I am going to mindlessly chill out. Because if she finds out her little friend may be gone for awhile she is going to start rioting and tantruming and I will need my bloody rest.

Thing is, when she isn’t being an emotional terrorist…the kid has crazy creativity that just cracks me up. Example: a zombie virus broke out in her dollhouse the other day so she made Giraffe his own biohazard suit from a baggie. This kid is fucking brilliant! And I pray not in a Theodora Bundy way.

My little unicorn.

Again…donate if you can cos we’re not asking for a jet, we’re fine traveling with demons…or just share because you care.

Toss. Turn. Sleep. Wake. Toss. Turn. Sleep. Wake. Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

Posted in sleep disorders with tags , , , , , on May 26, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

My first kid free weekend in who knows how long. After a tumultuous year of unexpected change after change, a crippling months long depression, and overloaded anxiety circuits…I should be fast asleep at 4:19 a.m. Instead, I am sitting up watching Major Crimes, drowning in sinus drainage, thoroghly disgusted by just how extreme my disrupted sleep pattern has become.

I fell asleep sometime before 11 p.m….And I woke at 12:30, then 1:30, and again a little after 2 a.m. So I got up for a bit, turned on some news thing on PBS about foreign news stories and I moved to lay at the foot of the bed. More toss and turn, more racing mind and thudding heart in spite of a second 6 mg dose of melatonin, so in went more Xanax. And I nodded off.

Only to wake at ten til 4, wide awake, misrable in my drainage, and said, oh screw this.

I’ve always had sleep disorders-insomnia, somnolence, trouble falling asleep, oversleeping, not sleeping enough…But this disrupted cycle since my child was born 9 years ago…it’s insane. It’s exhausting. And everything I am hearing and reading says that this lack of rejuvenating rest could be making my depression and anxiety worse. Oddly, it’s the aspect of my disorders the professionals seem least concerned with. Probably because I refuse to take their old school sleeping pills like Trazadone because hey, I have a kid and need to be alert, not bombed out, and I can’t sleep 12 hours a day and spent two hours shaking off the damn headache hangover those sleeping pills give me.

So I try the ‘lights out, calming sounds only’method. Counting backwards, visualizing the STOP signing, deep breathing, relaxation techniques, no food or caffeinated drinks after 7 p.m. take my Xanax to calm my brain an hour before my melatonin…I am getting more exercise, more fresh air, more sunlight. I AM DOING EVERYTHING TO HELP MYSELF EXCEPT TAKING THEIR DAMN COMA PILLS and nothing helps, nothing works.

I tried the hypnotic sleep med route back when I had a decent doc who gave me samples. I’d wake up on the bathroom floor with no memory of walking there so thankfully, insurance wouldn’t pay for that crap and the samples ran out.

I tried their weak ass Vistaril and Restoril hoping if nothing else it’d help with my plethora of allergies and rioting histamines. Both took forever to kick in and didn’t keep me asleep but did give me headaches.

I’ve had a golden day or two this week. The days where nothing great happens but my mind feels steadier and even when something sucky does happen, my steady mind is able to cope with a modicum of lucidity and dignity. Golden days.

The nights, though, the start and stop sleep, over and over and over…Is is any wonder I am always on edge, always tired, never feel revived enough to leap out of bed, happy to face the day?

If you told someone your phone only charges to 40% and goes dead after a couple hours of use, they’d say buy a new battery so it’d charge fully and work better.

But if you’re a lowly person who can never recharge properly to work optimally…meh, no biggie. Your fault for not wanting to take pills that make you bombed out and hungover.

And by the way, even with those coma drugs and sleeping 12 hours a day, I was still always tired because even taking them for years, that morning hangover never would lessen or go away. That’s no way to live any more than this sleep/wake cycle.

I am frustrated. I should be elated, I have another entire day and night knowing my kid is safe and having fun with her grandma and aunt. My time. I was going to do this and that around the house, and hey, if I can’t sleep, I can day nap without a kid to watch. Except dad and stepmonster are going out of town and my brother is staying home to babysit their neighor’s dog…and dad and stepmonster, assholes they are, said, “Your brother is going to be home alone with (husky pup) so he’s probably going to bring him over to your house so you can help out.”

My brother turns 23 in July. How hard is it to go without mommy and daddy for 3 or 4 hours and take care of a damned puppy? Infringing on me quiet time without regard to my feelings is one more reason I have so much resentment for them. They give zero fucks about what I might have planned. Or even I have no plans, hey, I’d like ONE bloody day without another living soul aside from my cats in my proximity.

But hey, I’m 45, paying to live here without their help, and apparently, I’m still a child whom they can inform has to hang around to help her little brother. With a dog. And hey, that dog is awesome, but 15 days in a row those people have been in my face…enough is fucking enough. I say so, they laugh, snort, and ignore me. Were I a wealthy sociopath, I’d hire someone to kneecap them just so they couldn’t get around as easily and bug the fuck out of me.

I am disappointed in myself sometimes for not being a sociopath. Those are some of the happiest most successful people on the planet. Damn having a soul and conscience all to hell.

That concludes my early morning rant. MAYBE if I were ever able to sleep for more than 3 solid hours I wouldn’t be so rant-y. Don’t think I’m ever gonna be able to mythbust that one since it’s more likely I’ll win Publisher’s Clearing House money than get 6 solid hours sleep in my lifetime.

Playing The Slots

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , , on May 13, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

Update to our story.

When we moved, I had to leave behind a previous Mother’s Day Gift dad and stepmonster got me from Spook. All I wanted for our new home was another rose bush-yellow. And yesterday they bought it and planted it for me. I named it Persophone, daughter of the goddess of Harvest, in hopes she will grow as tall as my old rose bush. It reached 7 feet tall and 5 feet wide and I called it Monster. Seems silly to wave gardening pompoms but I killed a cactus once, so Monster was one of my pride and joys. Persephone is my new hope.

Slots. Mother’s Day. I have sinus drainage drowning me, cramps, and pre-splat is heading downward fast. I am cooking chicken noodles as a gift for my mom (someone else bought the stuff for it cos I chose to pay bills but everyone wanted my noodles so they bought the stuff). My kid is at church for another 30 minutes so I have a moment of peace. If you discount the fact the cats are going bonkers and keep jumping up and clawing me cos they’re running round like ferals. Best I can guess is all the changes in the weather has them acting like squirrels on meth and coke.

Mood disorders are like playing slots. Only my wonky chemicals are the house and odds are always in favor of the house. I keep pulling up losers. Two weeks ago when I proposed a mother’s day dinner for our mom, I just wanted to do something nice. Then all the other stuff happened (losing income is a huge thing when expenses have tripled, so yes, it affects mental state negatively) and now…fuck nice. What about me? I’m a mom, and today, crampy drain-y moody mom just wants Fort Blankie, minus blankets, cos well, it’s warmed up. I will keep my word, though, cos in spite of our dysfunctional family dynamic, I love my mom and my daughter loves her grandma and aunt. I will ignore the fact that my sister’s interloping non family friends will be there. I try to be civilized and even like them, but the fact they invite themselves to EVERY family event we have annoys the hell out of me. If I wanted to hang out with a bunch of stoners, I’d become one and surround myself with the same kind.

But that could be hormones and mood talking. IDK.

I just know I pulled the arm on the slot machine and today’s a bust. Faking it gets so old. And the game of slots makes it impossible to make plans because as I said, two weeks ago I was okay with this thing. Then I found out the interlopers invited themselves, I lost income, PMDD hit, hypomania crashed downward…I do everything I can in an effort to keep my spirits up and splat still happens.

I’ve had a preview of my summer since the weather warmed up the last couple of weeks. Every day with a kid who is bored within five minutes of every activity, whiney, mouthy, and on the rare occasion I feel generous and offer to watch her little friend while his parents run errands ‘for an hour’…it’s gonna be two, three, four hours, and after hour one, they start bickering and my nerves are going to fray and split and break. But I guess it’s better than three months of six trailer park kids in my yard, eating our food, and causing trouble and destruction. Maybe my coping mechanisms will improve as time passes. It’s been a tough year, makes sense I am frazzled easily.

I do not want to go today.

I will go and I will pretend I want to be there and I will fake nice and cheerful.

Or I will try. When dad showed up yesterday with the rose bush, he growled, “What the hell are you scowling at us for?” And honestly, I had NO idea I was scowling. Anxiety shows on your face whether you intend it to or not, and I guess I wear mine unconsciously and very visibly. I wasn’t pissed off. And I don’t spend time in front of the mirror gauging my expressions then consciously trying to make them more pleasant for others.

I guess this inadvertent scowling may be why people find me unapproachable or unpleasant. I try to be friendly and most of the time, even when faking it, I pull it off. But if I stop trying to fake it at all times..well, scowl happens and I get my case jumped. Mood slots is exhausting to play 365 days a year. I hate gambling. The house is always gonna win, even if I manage to cash in on a few coins occasionally.

Anyway…Happy Mother’s Day to all it applies to, even petmoms. As well as single dads who are doing the job of both parents. It ain’t an easy gig being mom and dad both.

Read our story.

Borderline, Bipolar, Tripolar, whatever

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , , on May 9, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

Yeah, I don’t think tripolar is really a thing, but I totally just wanted to work in the title of the album Tripolar, because Sick Puppies, well, awesome band.

After 15 plus years of battling my mood swings and being wrongly diagnosed and wrongly medicated, I was ELATED to receive a bipolar diagnosis and mood stabilizers. It changed so much for me, explained so much. I mean, I hate being bipolar and had wished so much it was just a fucked up childhood and family, but…mood stabilizers leveled my mind out so much, I realized that my dysfunctional upbringing was a smidgeon of the problem.

So I took my meds and occasionally sought counseling but at certain points, they’d decide I had things under control and insurance didn’t want to pay for more sessions, so they’d say, call if you backslide…And so I would go along that way and I didn’t return to therapy until the donor left. And I wasn’t fond of it, whereas before I liked counseling. Just the venting process, reassurance, and some unbiased input was helpful. Of course, I had half competent counselors…up until I didn’t.

My counselor, the sunshine spewer, as I called her optimistic nature, decided to change jobs and I got bounced to an upbeat goody two shoes who spent 120 minutes with me over 3 or 4 sessions and changed my diagnosis-the same ‘personality disorder not otherwise specified’ I’d had through 6 therapists over 20 years- to ‘borderline’.

I know how cliche and well, typical, it is for a borderline personality to reject the notion that they are indeed borderline.

The thing is, just a few weeks before sunshine spewer left and I got transferred, I had broached the topic of personality disorder with her. I point blank asked, “Am I borderline?” And she got out her little diagnostic book and we went through the symptoms of bipolar versus borderline, and while some mimic on both sides, and I had a trait or two of borderline (I suck at relationships, totally border-liney,except I don’t fear abandonment so much as actually aim for it)…but the therapist, with 15 years experience, who’d been seeing me a few times a month for 2 years…said NO, YOU ARE NOT BORDERLINE.

So when Yoyo, as I called the replacement noob counselor (ink was barely dry on her degree), decided after minimal time with me that I was borderline and everyone else was wrong but her…I took great umbrage. And I quit going and part of that was that I fell into a crippling winter depression, but also…I told her about my discussion with sunshine spewer and her opinion that I only have borderline traits (like sometimes seeing only black and white, but the shades of gray do tend to dominate when not in an acute depressive or manic phase) but Yoyo wouldn’t back down. If a counselor isn’t willing to at least give it time to get to know me instead of making a snap decision based on whatever mood cycle I am in for a couple of sessions…they’re not going to help me.

She caused further damage by making me feel like I spent twenty years focused on all the otherwise not specified issues when instead I should have been working on borderline.

I lost all faith in therapy thanks to her. And sure, I should be stronger willed than to let one bad counselor (at least a bad fit for me) ruin something that can be very helpful but…I wasn’t and I’m not.

I still play around with notion of going back, maybe get some help figuring out why I’ve become a spineless jellyfish afraid to speak up and stand up for myself. But rural area, crap insurance, that same place is my only option and now that they have renamed themselves Behavioral Health…that alone makes me want to spit nails and get stabby. Because hey, if you have a brain tumor that causes you to behave inappropriately, they don’t send you to counseling for your behavior. But if your illness is under the mental umbrella, apparently even whacked out brain chemicals are you fault and your behavior is the problem. If I sound resentful, it’s because I am. I think it’s stupid and I also think that it will cause a lot of people, like me, to be reluctant to seek therapy. The last thing we need is to be told everything is our own fault and that is exactly what the term ‘behavioral health’ means. Not to mention I know a member of the staff on a personal level and if I were to be assigned her as my counselor…I’d never go back to any therapy place because her own mother has mental issues and the way she talks about her, as well as clients…NOPE. She should have worked under Dr. Mengele, her views are so harsh. NOPE.

All that being said…

I am not unaware of my personality issues and behavior problems.

Even when not manic, depressed, or crippled with anxiety…I have a difficult time relating to others, let alone being in a relationship. Any relationship. The fact my daughter and I still speak to each other is in itself amazing. I have trouble balancing my own emotions, so relationships open me up to balancing others’ emotions and I suck at it. And as a writer, with a lot of empathy and the extreme emotions of bipolar, I tend to expect others to feel as deeply as I do. The fact is, most people simply aren’t that deep. They’ll show happiness, approval, disapproval, anger, irritation…But it is never on the level that I feel thus I can’t relate to them and they can’t relate to me.

I guess on that I need to lower my standards, but at the same time…maybe the people who claim to care about me could higher their standards a little and not think me histrionic just because they really offended me to the point of me needing to walk away from the relationship rather than being poisoned by it.

Or I can get over myself and deal with the fact most people are as deep as wading pools.

I think I’m just happy alone for the most part, and when I need my ‘deep emotion’ fix, I drown myself in TV or reading or writing. But I guess if I want to be ‘normal’ I have to own the fact that…I’m not a people person and it causes problems in my life. Though usually for others and I can’t for the life of me figure out why others are so obsessed with why I prefer being alone to being social. It’s more a problem for them than for me.

I’ve recognized that in relationships, I often get too clingy or controlling. All the while playing the ‘don’t leave me’ card, subconsciously I do things that make people want to go away and when they do…I am relieved and I can breathe again. The few times I wanted people to stick around, my moods always interfered and drove them away and I don’t necessarily fault them for it. I am a difficult person before the mood swings and depressions and anxiety. Though I prefer to view myself as complicated instead of difficult, I know the truth.

What is also true, however, is that all the borderline traits Yoyo saw in me…dissipate when I am not in a relationship and my meds are working properly. I may be in the minority but I simply don’t believe medication cures personality disorders. So what does that leave? Bipolar. If I become a different person off the meds as opposed to on, then the meds are suppressing more than a messed up past. And the fact I am always changing, growing, learning more about myself…kind of flies in the face of borderline because those personalities are the last to ever recognize there’s something off about them.

I haven’t ruled out that I am delusional and wrong about it all but I have made up my mind about therapist Yoyo. She was dead wrong about me, and her inability to even discuss it with me is why I won’t go back to therapy. If I get yet another counselor who changes my diagnosis three sessions in, I’ll fucking snap like a twig. I let them get into my head with their labels and rather than helping, it just damages me more.

The therapy offered here is so incompetent, there just might be a category for ‘tripolar’ because they’re going to turn people that way.

Therapy should help clarify, should help bolster confidence.

It should never make you walk away more confused, with lower self esteem, feeling unheard and dismissed.

I may have mental issues and be flawed but I would never let the cashier at the gas station tell me I owe $15 for gas if I only purchased $10, so why am I obligated to accept a diagnosis that is contrary to 20 years of confimation by others with more experience than Yoyo?

The professionals don’t always know more or know better, they just think they do.

And that’s dangerous for the people they’re supposed to help.

Maybe they need some help with their behavioral health.