Archive for the mental health Category

How Employers Fail The Mentally Ill

Posted in mental health, Mental Health Disability with tags , , , , , on January 13, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

For those who think it is easy to obtain disability pay for mental health issues, you are very wrong. It is a grueling process that takes years for many of us fighting to get it. During these years, we keep trying to work at positions that trigger our illnesses and worsen our conditions. We burn bridges with out failures, we lose friendships, relationships, rack up bad references and a reputation for being ‘flaky’. No sooner than we hit a solid patch, we can backslide in a few weeks’ time. This DOES make us seem like less worthy candidates for many jobs.

But unlike laws that protect the physically disabled from discrimination and employers are required to accommodate their disabilities, the mentally ill are protected only in theory. In practice, we are often shunned because of our checkered pasts. Instead of an employer seeing a slew of jobs as you continuing to try to support yourself, they just see someone who can’t keep a job. If you fall into depressions and stop bathing (as I have currently) and your only true joy is sleep…You are perceived as weak and lazy. I am anything but. I have been fighting to raise a small child on my own for 7 years while her father gets away with spotty child support that often leaves us in the lurch. I am bounced around my psych practice to providers varying in competence, few of whom are really invested in my mental health. I am constantly facing unexpected expenses and I try to play to my strengths and seek what I perceive as ‘possibly doable’ jobs. Babysitter, dogwalker, light housekeeping, secret shopper, virtual assistant, proof reader. I WANT TO WORK.

At the same time, I can’t deny my limitations and pretend everything is okay. It is not. I can’t even get a good reference from friends and family because they think I am unreliable and they’re not entirely wrong. But since much of my disability stems from trying to interact with my mental illness in situations that I can’t even manage for basic functioning or enjoyment, I am almost doomed from go to fail. People trigger me. Crowds trigger me. My anxiety makes me twitchy and paranoid and sometimes, my brain convinces me that if I don’t cuss and scream, my brain will claw its way out of my skull. I cease rational thought in these situations and it happens over and over. I’ve put in 30 years of counseling. I have tried every med known to man. I bully myself, I pep talk myself. My disability simply isn’t going to go away nor will I ‘snap out of it.’

I accept this. Others do not.

How wasy it is for them to think me lazy or weak. How common to not be given an opportunity to prove yourself because your past is so unstable and you can’t look someone in the eye and say much has changed. You want to work, to earn your keep, but you’ve grown wise enough to know what simply pushes your boundaries and leads to breakdowns. So where does that leave me?

Working from home by computer, ideally. But most of those jobs are scams or require some sort of degree and familiarity with software I can’t even afford, so again…I pawn off what I can, I have fundraisers, I offer to cook a meal or do someone’s dishes. I am TRYING everything I know to makes ends meet. I can’t even get a call back from a place where all I’d have to do is wear a ridiculous costume, stand in the cold, and wave at people. I don’t think I’d be very good at it because I have a perpetual ‘fuck off and die’ look on my face when ‘out there’, it is all terrifying and frightening so the porcupine quills come out whether I want them to or not. But to not even get a call for an interview, Geesh. I know I brought it on myself, but hey, if I had been granted disability sooner, I wouldn’t have burned every employment bridge in this small area.

You have to be given an opportunity to earn your keep. Until that happens…you’re really at the mercy of fate. And no one cares if your intentions and motivations are pure. I would likely flourish working from home in some capacity but those jobs just aren’t plentiful or realistic, I am told. So I keep trying to live in the ‘stable world’ even though I am far from stable and get nowhere in those pursuits. At this point, I’d do creepy fetish porn if I thought someone was paying for it.

So before you dismiss the mentally disabled, before you deem us lazy or weak or unwilling to work…View us as you’d be required, by law, and morality, and decency, to view someone with a physical disability. Someone with a cane is obviously not going to be able to wait tables and move quickly and carry trays of heavy food but they might make a good greeter or sorter or even dishwasher. You just have to be willing to find a position that their disability and limitations don’t exclude.

For me, anything outside my safe space is at the moment beyond my capabilities and still, I am making the effort to try and get one of those jobs. Yet if someone would give me the opportunity to do some sort of work from my safe space, at my own pace…I’d probably excel and flourish instead of languish or crash and burn.

I just need a chance.

Employers need to stop, intentionally or unintentionally, counting out the mentally ill when in fact, we’re capable of quite a bit if you play to our strengths instead of expecting us to suddenly overcome lifelong limitations.

Finding a way to support yourself that does not drive you to a breakdown shouldn’t be a luxury or lottery winning. It should be common sense. And there should be far more employers out there offering this type of work for the mentally disabled.

You want to preach about teaching men to fish as opposed to just giving them a fish, but you don’t want to give lessons. That is illogical to a degree even I can discern.


No Withdrawal From Cold Turkeying Prozac,my ass

Posted in depression, mental health with tags , , , , , , , on January 7, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

Forgive me, those who come here for written posts. I can’t make my fingers land on the proper keys due to brain zaps from coming off Prozac abruptly-and my psych nurse told me there would be no withdrawal as long as I started taking the Celexa immediately. LIES!!!! I am impaired to the degree I may as well be drunk. So bear with me and watch my vlog, it’s under 15 minutes, NSFW cos I swear a lot, and if you think my writing is fucked up…

You ain’t seen nothing yet, withdrawal from Xanax isn’t this bad. Though the abrupt halving on the dose certainly has left me climbing walls along with the brain zapping stumbling shamble. Ass trash.

Fresh Hell, Served Stale

Posted in depression, mental health with tags , , , , , , on January 4, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

I did not have a good night. My kid started in on me, being uncooperative and I stewed over the ‘mandated Xanax dose lowering’ because part of my routine is 2 mg at bedtime…Now I don’t even get that for the entire damn day. And I feel bad cos M. is just a practitioner and she can’t control what this Dr. Dictator hands down as practice wide edicts. At the same time, I don’t feel connected to this nurse and I don’t dislike her, but she does not give me good signs on being supportive of my limitations. You know when you’ve got a pro that is all “Team you!” M, perhaps newness to the job or area, she’s not unpleasant but…I also don’t think she’d go to bat for me in a review on my disability claim. Not that unsupportive psychs have ever stopped me from fighting for myself.

I took 12 mg melatonin, 200 mg antihistamine, and 0.5 mg Xanax around 7 p.m.

I figured I would zonk out while watching the ABC special on the final days of JFK Jr (and I don’t even know why I watched that other than promos hyping it up, that whole Kennedy thing was my mom’s spiel but I guess repeats get old and new is new). Ten p.m came around and I still wasn’t sleepy. I was agitated, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable, in severe menstrual pain. The cats were fighting and the neighbors had an ambulance in the drive and visitors parked on my lot, engines running, til almost midnight. It was nerve wracking, and while I tried to be empathatic more than nosey or irate about whatever they had going on…

I could not even get my number counting bedtime routine down, my heartbeat was as deafening as the beep beep beep of the ambulance backing into their drive and the slam of all the visitor’s car doors. I got through Perry Mason (yeah, the old black and white ones, I like a good mystery) and then an episode of Hitchcock Presents (sooo need a digital antenna that pulls stations in from more than 30 miles away) and another episode of Chicago P.D. but I was getting more agitated and finally said fuck it and took a 1mg Xanax. I still have some left from before Dr Dictator’s edict but now they are precious precious little things to be treasured and hoarded. The stress of having this limitation slapped on me, without them even calling to explain it to me, and it coming from a doctor who has not once ever seen me…I was livid, furious, depressed, stressed.

Maybe it’s rebellious me having a knee jerk reaction to being told ‘you can’t do X anymore, you have to do Y.” But arbitrary rebellion tantrums were over in my thirties, I realized it is great to rebel as long as you do it for the right reasons and it doesn’t hurt yourself or others more than the principle is worth.

It was after 3 a.m. last I knew when finally I started getting sleepy (and another 3 mg melatonin) and I was in pain and knowing that soon the alarm would go off, with the fear that getting too sleep so late and getting so little sleep could cause me to sleep through the alarm…Dr. Dictator and her nurse minion really put me into a fresh hell, only they served it stale because I’ve been battling idget professionals like that my whole life. They don’t care who you are as an individual, it’s one size fits all medicine and it’s borderline malpractice to not at least taper me down dose wise. I’m super salty toward them now and it’s suckage cos I thought, hey, finally they got a staff member to stay more than a month, she’s seemingly competent and I don’t dislike her…I should have known the other shoe would drop and it’d be made of concrete and land on my damn head.

So I guess I got about 4 hours of sleep, off and on, cos I can’t get physically comfortable even with painkillers and my brain is rioting. I took my first Celexa this morning, by itself, because I want to see if it alone makes me sleepy or hyper or sick, before I take it with the Wellbutrin. I got my kid off to school, and now I am watching the morning Perry Mason, super pissed cos I can’t even do videos on my phone due to the failed micro sd card so it just feels like nothing is going right so why shouldn’t I be depressed and give in to all the dark thoughts? NOt like my providers really give a fuck.

Three more months of winter and maybe just maybe the horizon will look less like a mushroom cloud. UNtil then…this is what I am stuck with and I do not like it one bit. I feel betrayed by Dr Dictator, unsupported by nurse M, and surrounded by nothing but fucking suckage.

Everyone says depression doesn’t kill. People just ‘take the easy way out’ and commit suicide.

They’re full of shit, there’s nothing easy about coming to the point where you feel there’s no wiggle room, ever.

Depression kills, they just don’t have a nice little ‘murdered by mental illness’ box to check on their death forms.

Happy fucking new year.

Have Yourself A Scary Little Cryptmas-video version

Posted in depression, holidays, mental health with tags , , , , , on December 27, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

Mourge+Spook = Spookticia…mommy daughter Christmas Day awkwardness,

Like Button Whore

Posted in depression, mental health with tags , , , , on December 18, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

7 years ago when the donor walked out with just a 30 second phone call to say “I can’t do this anymore”…and he didn’t just mean our relationship, he also abandoned our 2 year old daughter…Well, all I could think about was spewing all this internal mental venom before it poisoned. And the bonus was the donor once having scoffed at my idea of a mental health blog because no one wants to hear about your depression…Doing what felt right and natural for me, and spiting him? WIN WIN WIN WIN.

I gave my link to one person.

Now I have 1000 plus followers.

Which in internet speak means maybe 3 regularly read my writing, but I know for the most part…they’re still decent people. They are just busy living their lives. At least if they don’t have time to comment positively, they also aren’t making the time to troll me in a toxic manner.

You take the small wins when you can.

Oddly, the donor was totally anti social networking back when I was on myspace- but he posted something on Facebook years later that resulted in him being fired from a $15 an hour job cos, hey, he is that much of an uppity person. Odd how it was stupid and shallow when I did it yet it didn’t make me get fired or call into question my devotion to my child.

People who have one set of rules for themselves and another set for others are what I call the donor, or the donor’s progeny. If I am hard on others, it is but a fraction of how harsh I am on myself. I’d say the rules may be uneven there but in a way favorable to everyone but me. As opposed to ya know, “I get to be this way cos mommy didn’t love me but you can’t cos you had a mom who loves you’. All I ever wanted was a fair playing field and it’s the one thing I was never going to get.

Dear God in heaven, my kingdom for some bloody Focalin so I might stop wandering off topic…And while I will own being scatterbrained, I also know Focalin fixes it but insurance won’t pay for the script so again…fuckest thou and the steed they galloped in upon.

All I ever wanted to do with this blog was vent all the toxins that make my brain wonkier than it was to begin with. I just wanted to spew it, vent it, maybe even occasionally encounter someone who thought WHOA, I FEEL LIKE THAT TOO SOMETIMES, I AM NOT TOTALLY ALONE!

Thanks to Twatter and Fuckfacebook making even restaurant chains around for 50 years little more than victims of ‘are we popular this week or not”…

I’ve become a needy bitch why craves the occasional few people who care enough to click that insipid like button.

What’s sadder still is, I know the people who read my blog and maybe can’t manage to read every post or click like or comment…but they are there, and they have shown my daughter and I so much kindness and acceptance in ways far more meaningful than any like button…So why do I still feel outraged when I see some vapid post about eyebrow waxing that got 3000 likes yet I write a wondermous post about heartfelt gratitude and am lucky to get 6 likes?

I love my technology but a few days a week I look at how difficult and stressful that same tech has made our existence…and I have to wonder, at what price?

And if you have never asked that of yourself…

Well, doesn’t that say a lot about you. No need to click like. I LIKE THIS POST enough for all of us cos it is ugly, it is brutal, it is…ermagod…


My Fuckitol Doseage Needs Increased

Posted in mental health with tags , , , , , on December 17, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

One would think after the year Spook and I have had (you can read about it here, where someone commented ‘this is really your life?” ha ha, I wish it was a bad soap opera.) that I’d be too beaten down and defeated to still give a damn about much of anything. This is not to diminish, by any means, the acts of kindness that people have bestowed upon us during what has been our worst year since the donor walked out 7 years ago. But anyone who battles depression and anxiety also knows that it doesn’t matter if you’re rich or beautiful or a rocket scientist. Your mind just goes to a dark place and only by making jokes about stuff like ‘fuckitol’ pills can you ride out months of misery.

I’m a single mom, of course, I want to say fuck it all, I think it all the time especially when being told I’m a terrible mom cos I can’t afford to buy her the awesome $80 toy that six of the kids in her class have…But being a mom, I really do care. Maybe not about asinine stuff like politics or even my family’s backstabbery, but I care about my daughter, I care about my cats, I care about keeping us sheltered, warm, and fed. It’d probably be easier if I didn’t care. If you fail but didn’t care anyway, it doesn’t sting, let alone cripple your self esteem. But when you care and you try your absolute best and still end up on the failing side…it stings like lemon juice and salt poured into a raw gaping wound.

So I think I need my Fuckitol dose increased. Caring too much is getting me nowhere. Except my mom accusing me of not caring enough and my dad saying I am teaching my kid to be too wimpy and emotional (I think a 9 year old saying, “Can we just talk and not yell at each other?” is pretty damn intelligent, not wimpy). Some of my happiest years, well not happy, but least stressful were when I hit rock bottom around 2003 following the death of a friend and I started doing bad things and decided if people were going to assume I was bad anyway (because here, depression is called being ‘stuck up’) so I was just gonna roll with the bad.

I’ve spent the last 12 years trying to clean up my messes and live down my mistakes. At the time, I thought being jailed or hospitalized would let me get some needed rest and I wouldn’t have to make decisions or juggle too many bills with too little income or worry about family infighting….Yeah, I was a step below rock bottom, mixing whiskey and cola with meds like Seroquel and Trazadone…I had really stopped caring about everything, including myself. My only saving grace was my cat at the time, I knew I had to be there for her. I didn’t think about this until after I already damaged my own reputation and worsened my situation, but…I did come around eventually. (Anyone who says misdemeanor charges can be shaken off doesn’t live in this state, even my sister’s juvenile charges come up on a computer search and while legally maybe they can’t hold it against you…they use it to judge your character so no matter how many years later it is…you’re still paying for your bad choices.)

Now I am trying so hard to blaze a new path so the past seems dimmed, I fear my self esteem and inability to ‘kick’ the depression are going to lead me to rock bottom all over again. One does not need drugs or booze or sex or credit cards for a bipolar backslide. Personally, I could turn ‘kale abuse’ into an actual thing even if I can’t stand the stuff, just saying, going overboard is a bipolar characteristic) Every day is a struggle to get out of bed, to stay out of bed, to accomplish even the tiniest things and the ‘fuckitol’ is doing a fantabulous job making me think “Oh, well, if they deem the house unfit for my kid, she can go live with someone who can buy her love”. Yet on idioctic bullshit like my parents insulting me, as they always have, fuckitol doesn’t work at all.

Ya know, I had hope for awhile, my writing seemed less rambling and a little more coherent. Now…back to blathering on like an imbecile. A good hearted imbecile. Who woke six times last night so the longest stretch of sleep I got was 2.5 hours. If I could step outside my own mind, I would see that this pattern of sleeping in spurts for the last year, has really taken a toll and no wonder I am tired before I do a damn thing.

But like the migraine commercials, you can’t escape your own mind. You’re trapped. Odd that I can’t see a migraine, yet it’s more legitimate than mental illness. Huh? (I get migraines from time to time, need blackened room, silence, and to suffer through it.) Just saying, when is society going to remove its collective head from its collective ass and face that mental health issues are not escapable any more than migraines are.

Different being, migraines don’t leave you feeling weak, lazy, and ashamed.

We should change that.

Or up my dose of Fuckitol.

I often wish I’d been born a psychopath. Caring about…stuff…hurts too much.

Sinking Ship, Scurrying Rats

Posted in depression, mental health with tags , , , , , , on December 14, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

Not that I celebrate anyone being bummed out, but a fellow blogger recently confirmed what I had thought all along: it doesn’t matter how many followers you have, if you stop writing juicy content for the mindless sheep to chew on, they scurry like rats on a sinking ship. I was willing to think perhaps it was just me, because I’m not known for juice content, just lots of foul language, depression, anxiety and occasionally I am funny. Acquired taste, so to speak. But it made me feel less crappy to know that IT ISN’T US BLOGGERS AS MUCH AS IT IS PEOPLE BEING ADHD SHALLOW READERS.

I write an angry yet inadvertently humorous post, I am told I am entertaining. I write about how financial constraints are turning me into a basketcase, snooooooze, whiny bitch, hand out queen. I ooze how much I love my kid and cats, ugh, too cutesy and mooshy and ‘attempting to manipulate with cute pictures and heart string tugs.” I write a disdainful-of-famous-people post and I am both offensive but entertaining. People say ‘keeping doing you’ but then I see who my hardcore followers are, the same 4 or 5 names who bother to click like several posts a week and while I don’t expect anyone to hang on my every word or even half ass follow my often rambling incoherent posts…The die hard readers have let themselves be known and the ones who may not be able to read all the time, have let me know, in email or otherwise, that they care.

It is THESE people I write for. Maybe it’s hit or miss, but it’s always for real. That being said…

I solved my bad my mom blues dilemma the other night by falling on my sword and asking if we could get a ride with dad and stepmonster. This lead to them harshly criticizing my child and me for our anxiety issues, our fashion choices, and my dad even saw fit to go on a tirade about the state of my back yard. Which honestly I haven’t seen since the season of leaves, rain, snow, ice, and mud began 2 months ago. The darkness and traffic reminded me why I was willing to fall on that sword, just sitting in it had me panicking. Then a gym full of hundreds…I took out my MP3 player and popped one ear bud in, hoping my badass metal music would make me feel less like a deer trapped in headlights and more, well, bad ass. I was also using my phone to take pictures, and record the program since mom and sis couldn’t be there…

Only to get home and find out I had no pics, no video, THANKS TO MY ASS TRASH FAILING MICRO SD CARD. I was both mad and sad because I’ve always gotten at least a pic (I only had a flip phone til last year) of my kid’s holiday program and yet I came home with nothing. “Media server failed.” “You can’t access this video.” “SD card is corrupted.” GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. I braved the madness, the panic, the parental people, and didn’t even get a pic of my kid. Oh, well, at least I got to go to sleep that night with my mom dignity in tact as opposed to the self flogging I would have given myself had I said fuck it, let’s not go. (I don’t think she would have minded, a friend sent her a bunch of Magic Tracks and magnetic toys and such and she’d have been happy staying home to play with them.)

FYI, If you read this and I have referenced you as a friend yet not linked to your blog isn’t rudeness, it is because I just don’t know protocol for this sort of think. Some want to remain anon, some don’t mind a plug and picking up a new reader or whatever. JUST TELL ME IF YOU WANT THE LINK. Happy to do it.

So… our wondermous friend who sent Spook the toys in the mail and has also been helping feed and litter our cats, has no idea how wonderful her gift is. She said she hoped my kid didn’t mind it being used but um, we live off yard sales and auctions, so we kind of like used stuff better. And my kid is so mega creative and I am so pun-ishingly punny…

I was feeling goofy (hey, a week without your meds when you’re bipolar kind of does that) and every time the little LED cars rearended each other, I’d yell MAYHEM and ask if she had Allstate insurance.
Without me ever suggesting it, she started playing with the magna-whatevers,magnetic toys…and she made A BLOODY TARDIS WITH THE DOCTOR INSIDE!!!!

I guess just having a Tardis poster on my bedroom door inspired her. Oddly, when I was a kid, I had a Freddy Kruger poster on my bedroom door and it only horrified my sister.

I am still fighting the depression, but every day closer to the holidays means…I am a day closer to being rid of this yearly misery! The saving graces have been the kind actions of people who donated or sent us things we had to have or both. You guys are the most awesome friends Spook and I could ever hope for. And those in our boat who can only offer up words of support, you can’t know how much that means to us, either. I think my big pressure right now is just all the family bullshit and infighting and backstabbing. Oh, and my sister, who lives in a house with 7 other people, all combining their income, so of course, her and mom get to spend exorbitant amounts on my kid and their own gifts to each other. (Oddly, I’m never included, but being an acquired taste, it’s ok, I did’t want what I actually asked for, anyway.HUH?)

I have been battling acid reflux lately, which only serves as a reminder of my age. 45 may be the new 25, but I can’t have food after 6 p.m. without agony, apparently. Though yesterday it started after I ate at 5 p.m. so maybe it’s holiday stress related, Idk, I am just not used to being in physical agony for hours and begging my child ‘hit me hard enough in the back that I burp, it hurts so bad!” Humbling and humiliating.

In a shocker, I stumbled across two pics of Spook when she was small that I thought were lost forever cos I tend to save to hard drives and then of course, it dies, the phone is outdated, and stuff gets lost. These pics were taken at the trailer when she was 4 and omg, I love my daughter so much, but I occasionally miss that innocent age. When she hated me on tantrum, not principle.

My beautiful picture

First day of Pre-K before she ever got glosses or had her hair chopped off (her choice on the hair, tho not til years after my dozens of lice battles, grrr.)

My beautiful picture

She gets out early today, like 4 hours early. Not sure what we are gonna do with the weekend. I HAVE 4 trips to town next week I have to make for appointments and such. At some point, I need to get her Christmas presents bought. Oh, and clean the house, put up the stupid gargantuan tree. Oh, fuck, bathing. I miss my fucking shower, this bath tub thing sucks. Especially since I had to knock the thermostat down 5 degrees in hopes of lowering the heat bill.

I need one of these things.

$299. LMFAO. As if. But hey, entering menopause, never able to be quite warm enough or cool enough…I wouldn’t say no if the company wanted to give me one to do a review on its efficacy. Unless it does that creepy GPS thing that relays what position I am in and what transportation I am using at that moment.

But then again,if given one for free…

I’d probably be so paranoid I’d put it on the cat and say, here’s your data, bitches. Wonder what the location for ‘popping in the litter box’ translates into.