Shake And Break

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on June 3, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Tuesday through Friday were a total wash, write off days. The ones where you’re so far under the depressive abyss you function minimally even if you want more than anything to ‘snap out of it’. Didn’t happen, desire to do so be damned. Often, this is the price I pay for uber functional days like Monday. I kicked ass that day, accomplished a ton and then…four days of nothing but shambling like a zombie. Last night was telling as I allowed my kid to sleep with me. Always a mistake because even in a full size bed she sleeps with one knee out and no matter which way I turned, it was in my gut or my back. So I didn’t sleep well, was up a couple of times, and that bummed me out because I wanted to get up and go to a few yard sales, see if it picked up my spirits. Not getting decent sleep is a big intention killer for me. I don’t need a lot, just a few hours not popping up like a demented jack in the box.

To my chagrin, I woke when it was light outside…and it wasn’t even 6 a.m. So I snoozed until 7:30 then bladder and child dictated I get out of bed. I wasn’t feeling the ‘let’s get going’ vibe. It was all I could do to FORCE myself into a shower after 4 days and I only did that because my scalp was so itchy and my hair so nasty, I couldn’t handle it anymore. Then came the horror of choosing clothes and actually getting my kid out the door.

First yard sale…BAM. Found a Vellux blanket, perfect condition, one dollar. And that sent my mood into the stratosphere because I have been trying to find a Vellux for years, they are so soft and warm…And ONE DOLLAR? Hells, yea! So that lifted my mood and we went to several more but my good friend (and by that, I mean, mortal enemy) anxiety peeked in and screamed BOO. All the roadwork around town had me convinced I had a flat tire and panxiety started chewing on me because I can’t change a flat and I’m not sure I even have a spare and…and…and… Ya know, anxiety making me its bitch, the usual.

Kept going, though. Even stopped by the shop to see R. The new job laid him off after 5 weeks of work, he is livid because the shop can’t bring in enough money to feed my cats some months, he needs a ‘real job’. I feel for him, I really do. For all of my bitching and moaning, I realize…he was putting me in a situation that stressed me out with all the ‘find this part and find that part’. He’s kind of a twonk at times, but most of my ranting…is on me. Because I can’t handle being put under pressure and having expectations put on me. I have the legit condition to explain it, too, it’s not selective anxiety, but nonetheless…I own it. And I do feel empathy for him. Here he thought he has a great new job, perhaps paying less than he wants, but he was working his ass off for them and one day they say, layoffs are coming, the next, the boss says no, we have more work for you, then that guy gets sick and the next guy waits until end of shift Friday to tell him he’s laid off for a week or two…Guess even the so called beautiful people get shanked on occasion.

So…we finished yard sales, then we went to get household supplies, came home, and now the spawn is running with her posse. I had to take her bike away from her. She wasn’t focusing yesterday and ran into a car bumper and fell into some grass. Grateful she wasn’t hurt but she should never ever have been close to a car on her bicycle and she knows that. If she won’t listen to me and obey the bicycle rules presented to her…I can’t trust her not to hurt herself. And having encountered bicycling children myself who pay no attention and ride right toward my moving car…I can’t fathom the guilt of a driver who hit a kid on a bike even if it was the kid’s fault. Spook doesn’t seem to care as long as she gets to play. I’d like to call her resilient but she just has no sense of conscience.

Though at the store I spent fifty bucks (food, cat supplies, cleaning stuff) and the cashier said something about “your mom had to work three hours to spend fifteen minutes at the store.” And of course, the instant shame of being on disability comes, but I also know I help at the shop so it’s not like I’m sitting home on X Box and smoking weed. Might as well be. My kid basically yelled, “My mom doesn’t work, she doesn’t have a job.” I was livid, especially because I’ve heard this manager/cashier go off about people on disability/food stamps/even told me once I was too lenient on my kid. Well, I wasn’t today, no meant no, and for that…my kid made me feel half an inch tall, like everything is handed to me and I pay nothing, it costs me nothing.

I told her to get in the car and said not a word for ten minutes. To her credit, she didn’t say a word until I told her she could speak. Maybe it’s more my own shame for not working than it was a 7 year old’s big mouth but she needs to learn not to mouth, to show some respect, and not every aspect of our lives have to be discussed with random people in public.

Anyway…that’s been my day so far. The joy of yard sales replaced with the panxiety of a brain telling me the car has a flat. The public humiliation at the hands of my own child.

I’m not down the rabbit hole, though. Only been 3 days on Cymbalta but today I took it first thing rather than take all meds at once. I’ve moved the lithium to bedtime in case it makes me sleepy and I always eat supper so I shouldn’t get nausea. The Wellbutrin and Lamictal I can work in around that.

But hey, I got up, got out, and accomplished stuff. It’s an improvement after four days of inertia and wanting to cease to exist. Then again, even a toothache is better than that.

Disturbed and Perturbed

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , , on June 2, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

I fed six shrieking kids last night. Fortunately they sat outside at the picnic table so I didn’t have to do more than cook mac and cheese and provide paper plates and forks. I don’t know why I agreed to it, maybe I was just that glad to have my kid home even though the noise of constant kids is already breaking me down.

Then came drama. My kid opted to play with the older kids two doors down so the devil girls mouthed the older kids then their mouthy loud mother got into it with the devil girl’s father in MY yard and he told me his girls are not allowed to play with those older kids. Fine, but my kid was getting along fine with them prior to his kids showing up. To make matters worse is the race issue, only made an issue by HIS mouthy kids who seem to think skin color is indicative of superiority. Hmm, where did they learn that from?

The shocker was when devil dad invited all four of the posse (I’d call them a gang, but that’s a bad term, too, I guess) plus his own two to sleep over at their house. Not once in 5 years have those parents offered to do ANYTHING, they won’t even let kids in their house supposedly due to a bite-y dog. I was relieved to finally have my kid back but I wasn’t feeling too great (the meds, guess Cymbalta and Wellbutrin together are to blame for my newfound sleepiness and nausea) and my kid’s almost 8 and never slept over anywhere but grandma’s, grandpa’s, and R’s. So I cut the apron strings, in spite of my own anxiety. Their trailer is right behind ours, can see their front door from my step, so it wasn’t like she was miles away. Still…it was a big step for me. Alone time with the dark thoughts is not good right now but I put her needs ahead of my own.

She returned home today at the time I specified and I gave her a shower while she said she stayed up all night and she cried for me, and the other girls made her clean up all their messes but it was okay because they had McDonald’s (why did I feed them all mac and cheese again????). I bathed her and gave her breakfast, within 30 minutes another kid was knocking for her. I tried to play My Little Pony Shopkins with her but the child is so bossy she doesn’t allow free thought. ‘Do this” “Pretend this” “say this”. She needs to learn that if she’s got the story all plotted out and doesn’t want to include others then she can play alone. Awful of me? Maybe. Still. I let her play with Riley and wasn’t five minutes they were asking for food. I hate seeming stingy by saying no but my God, I can’t afford to feed her and me, let alone 6 other kids, day in and day out. And before I get any comments on how I am the adult. duh! I know this. And I realized earlier I would never allow any man or woman to treat me the way that child does. Guess I’m just wishy washy during these deep depressions and she’s likely learned to use that to her advantage. No do-overs here, just cleaning up the mess that’s been made. And in our situation, with limited funds, a crap ass down with zero activities, there’s not much for any of these kids to do during summer but play together. I just don’t know why it has to be my yard. Guess the picnic table replaced the swing set they destroyed as a beacon.

So…Oh what would it be like to write coherently and stay on topic? So I went to sleep-ish at 7 thirty last night…And I say ish because I was up several times but I was so tired (fuck you, meds) I didn’t have the will to stay up. This morning I took my meds and spent two hours trying to stay awake and feeling comatose. Last time I was on Cymbalta, I got hypomanic for a couple of hours afterward. But then I wasn’t on Wellbutrin back then. Guess this mix is just sleep inducing.Which is one of my deal breaker side effects. May be mythbusting time, take away Wellbutrin temporarily and see if the grogginess sticks. Bad Morgue? Yes. But I’m a professional at this shit. Gotta be when your doctor is too busy to be bothered with you.

We ventured out to Dollar Tree. By then all the sunlight and road work and traffic had me so rattled I barely remembered why we went out there. And doing anything with the “I want” monster is hellish. Then a fire truck, cop, and ambulance all appeared in the square, sirens blazing and my first thought, as always, was, “Least it’s not at my house.” That set me off further so I scrapped other errands to come home to safety and try to get my brain on track.

I have a sink full of dishes I am avoiding. Monday I kicked so much ass and now I simply have nothing left. I will try to tackle it all later but Tragic Hate Ball says not to hold your breath.

I just seem to get worse by the day and I don’t even know why. Public outings and noise have always been a trigger but since I had my daughter…it’s like I have dry socket of my central nervous system. Everything is a trigger and my nerves are raw and throbbing when even a breeze blows. It was never this bad before. I don’t blame my kid. It was my old shrink who said the entire pregnancy/birth process could shock my brain better or it could get worse.
I lost that roll of the dice.

I’m not giving up. I read this Hollywood Reporter interview with the lawyer defending Kathy Griffin for the whole bloody Trumpire head picture thing…And she’s getting death threats same as Griffin. She was quoted (and I repeat this loosely), “Yesterday, the devil whispered in my ear that I am not strong enough to survive the storm.”

“Today I told him…I AM THE STORM.”

I like that. I didn’t think a lawyer could say anything that would resonate with me. Who knew.

Follow Me Down The Rabbit Hole

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on June 1, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Actually, I really don’t want anyone to follow me down the rabbit hole. Truth be told, I wouldn’t wish depression on my worst enemy. It’s awful and another harsh truth…standard issue people, and especially the ‘Tom Cruise mental illness isn’t real’ faction wouldn’t last a week in my shoes during the black periods. No one deserves that.

After Monday’s whirlwind kick ass of accomplishment…I crashed into ‘out of bed and hating every minute of it’ land. Two days, mostly kid free, and I accomplished nothing but binge watching more of The Originals. Then yesterday my depression and anxiety hit fever pitch and I had to switch from that show (oh, so much anxiety inducing drama) and move to Special Victims Unit. Which used to depress me after an episode or two, because, jebus, ruining sex is just despicable, thank you human race. That has to tell you how far the rabbit hole I went down.

Tuesday’s appt with the psych nurse wasn’t too awful except I did that nervous talking too much inappropriate humor thing. She probably thinks I am a malingerer. Only saving grace is she was a nurse there for 6 years before getting whatever alphabet soup degree to be a psych nurse. She’s familiar with my history, I doubt she’s going to contradict an MD, let alone a series of them who all agree that I am indeed, ill. Still…I reflect on my words and behavior and cringe. I admitted to the suicidal thoughts, though I was appalled when asked if I had a plan. No. If I had a plan, I wouldn’t talk about it, I’d just do it. Speaking up was my way of saying ‘this has gone on too long, I recognize this as depression, I need help.”

Of course, much as I like the psych nurse cos she really is a sweetie…I couldn’t help but remember, 2 years ago she was preggo and going to school and managing a marriage and what have I accomplished? Nada. So why can people like her manage it all yet I start melting down at the slightest provocation and sometimes without that much? Doesn’t do much for my self esteem. Nor did being asked about therapy because of course, now they’re gonna deem me non compliant simply because I have trust issues due to therapists who broke my trust and damaged my further…Oh and as a new psych nurse, she was being extra thorough so now I have to have a lithium level drawn which means…actually taking the lithium and not forgetting doses so the levels are accurate.

To be honest…I’m not doing so well with the med compliance and it’s not unwillingness. It’s either forgetfulness or the sleepiness or nausea and by the time I remember, it’s time for another dose which would mess up all levels…It’s frustrating because I try to be med compliant. I believe in the meds when they work. And today, one of my first actions was to go to the pharmacy to get the Cymbalta she agreed to prescribe after hearing me out. 30mg for a week, then up to 60 for 4 weeks, and see them again. I guess the doc is so busy I am seeing the nurse now and if that fucks up a disability review, I am gonna be furious. Their lack of staffing should not endanger the very thing that keeps homelessness at bay. Paranoia? Maybe. But with the Trumpire on a rampage…Loss of benefits is a real thing, and it’s terrifying. It’s not some “I’ve been flying high and functional a year but I just don’t want to work” thing.

My father finally returned my child last night 40 minutes before she was to leave on the church van. To her credit, she seemed happy to see me. She claimed she wanted to come home sooner but they wouldn’t let her and they also wouldn’t allow her to even call me. I can believe it, they’re assholes. And so overbearing my hatred boils over. “They mean well” has become more appalling than “sociopath without conscience”. They choose to be jerks and try to usurp my parental authority. They have her maybe a week total a year, go buy her all these clothes, and won’t send a thing home with her. They brag about taking her out to eat, and buying this and that…Even my sister said when she was there the other day (dad pays her to clean their house when stepmonster only works 16 hours a week but no, she can’t have the time to do the work herself) that stepmonster was yelling at my kid and trying to take my place, telling Spook to get over missing her mom. Um, four day, I should think a 7 year old missing their mom is quite normal, you stupid twonk.

What I learned while my kid was gone is…One day of me time is enough. I miss the life she brings to the place. I feel bad for not taking care of her because I chose to have her. I wanted her home where she belongs. Selfish? Maybe. But this is her home and where she belongs.

And that was when it really hit me. My parents always worked, kept us fed and clothed, yada yada but the ONE thing I have done for my child that they never did for me and my sister…My child came home to this place, hovel or not, when she 2 days old and she’s lived here every day since. 8 years I’ve maintained a roof over her head, not any roof, not a revolving roof, the same stable roof. By the time I was 13, my parents had moved us nine times. Their fault or not…My kid has had a stable home. That’s ME, doing my best, to give her stability and a home. Not fancy, everything’s falling apart, but she hasn’t had the displeasure of moving repeatedly and go to new schools. Not much, but it’s something. Not that my parents would ever admit it.

Yesterday was horrible because I decided I should take my meds. Ha. First I got sleepy and started nodding off. Then I got a headache, then I started to feel like I was gonna throw up. At one point I felt so sick, I even hoped they’d keep her an extra night. But I was so relieved they didn’t, having her back made the place come alive and my will to live returned. Being depressed without even a kid to take care of…Dark territory. Shallow? Maybe. IDK.

Today’s been stressful/peaceful/relief. She had a friend here before 10 a.m. and he wouldn’t stay outside even when I told him four times to go play outside. I tried to have patience, but not my strong suit. Then we ran errands, even took my kid out to lunch. Came home and bam. Devil girls. One of them took of my kid’s new bike and Spook told her to bring it back but she just kept riding away…So the bike got chained up and I decided to go pay rent. Not an easy task because the car is running hinky and I put gas treatment in but scumbag brain keeps telling me something is Very Wrong. And if the car keels over…I’m screwed. And breaking down…Horrific. So I limited our outings. Now my brain is OCD about the new girl at the landlord office not writing down that my rent was paid as due and me getting some notice about $70 late fees. I kept my Visa receipt, but those people are so unorganized…

Ha, me throwing stones when I can’t even write a post that stays on topic. Oh, well, my whiplash typo ridden posts are simply me. The Real Deal. The Ugly Truth.

And the kids are back in my yard. Blissful summer break. NOT.

Today is better than yesterday, I guess that is something. Hopefully the Cymblotto helps my brain start working better. I am so tired of everything I say sounding so hateful. I don’t want to be that way. I don’t want to be chemically imbalanced, period. But want and reality are two different beasts.

Depressive Demon Are Doing Their Jumping Jack

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on May 30, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Since I am not religious and my demon are psychological…they cannot be exorcised. But oh how they love to get their exercise. Jumping jacks, sit ups, pull ups, squat thrusts, sprints, long distance runs…And my fractured mind is their gym.

My kid has been at my dad’s for two days. I didn’t mind until the jackass who donated genetic material to assist in my creation called to inform me they’d be keeping her a second day because she is having fun and wants to stay. If it had been left at that…Me time isn’t awful. But nooo, he and his redneck pseudo wife started prattling on about how they did this with her and took her out to eat and bought her this and they took her here and oh, they bought her better clothes and had her haircut so it’s all even now. Then that idiot woman of dad’s was in the background prattling about how Spook is playing with toy barns and becoming a little redneck….(I’d be less offended to learn she’d aligned with satan.) One thing after the other with those fuckers, pointing out every thing I cannot give her, right down to not having a dog for her.

To say I hate them violently is an understatement. Much as I despise the donor and the other faction of my life family is no better…I do believe (in a testament to my depressive altered state) I’d rather she end up with her father than ANY of my fucked up family (except my sister but then my kid would become a stoner like her uncle in law so sorry, sis, no.) I am just so sick of being insulted and run down by these people. Least the donor has rights to Spook, whether I like it or not. His hatred of me while petty is at least half deserved and his pattern of hating everyone who wrongs him is own drama. For those who allegedly love me to make me think I should kill myself for my kid’s benefit??? These people are monsters and short of killing them, the only escape would be to move far far away. And oh, that takes money and the demons in my gym aren’t paying membership dues.

Day started out crappy. I haven’t written anything decent in days, it’s all gruel and I am blocked and the depression is just crippling..So in spite of how shitty I felt I attacked the mountain of garbage (not literal trash, just hoarder type stacks of various things) that had been in the kitchen for two years now. The more I sweat and worked and got shit done, the less tortured I felt about not being able to write and not being good enough for my kid even by my own ‘loved ones’ standards. And to my surprise, I kicked so much ass today. SO much. All laundry done, even pillows washed and fluff dried, hoarder mess stashed in the spare room instead of piled across the living room and kitchen. I cleaned the floors. I tossed out dozens of bags of stuff just to lift some of the weight from my plate.

Now I have to hope the holiday didn’t delay trash pick up tomorrow because I am pretty sure even slumlord is gonna have a problem with two full trash cans and a dozen bags piled out front. Oh, well.

I even managed a trip to Aldi for a couple of things.

I watched 9 episodes of The Originals.

I painted my nails and toe nails.

I tried to write. Tried to simply proof what was already written. TRIED but only 39 chapters and 7 weeks in and the wall has been hit.

Now my body aches from all the work I did but my brain has started to spin because tomorrow afternoon is my appt with the psych nurse. I am wishing on a thousand stars it’s not a case of her having to wait for the doctor to come back to town before I can get a fricking script. I need to start Cymbalta now before the depressive demons allow my batshit evil ass family to kill myself.

Last week my mom was carrying on about how she’s lost 22 pounds then she looked at me (because I am so no aware of my grotesque weight gain in spite of living on fricking water) and commented how ‘the meds must be making you bigger.” This after stepmonster and dad’s comments about my fat ass.

The only saving grace the last few days was an old friend with benefits surprised me with a visit from out of the blue and while I really don’t like sharing a bed and I am far too downtrodden with depression and self esteem issues to be truly…interested that way…It was needed. He didn’t insult me. He actually made me feel decent about myself, reminding me what monsters my family are and that I am beautiful the way I am. I know it was a booty call but it was what was needed at the time. Now he’s in the ether again and I can’t even play poor “I’ve been used” because only once my space was mine again did I breathe again.

I am that broken.

On a sad note, I had to bury another kitten today. Oreo. He only lived 4 weeks. His sister MyMichelle (yeah, after the G’N’R song) is doing okay, for now. I am fighting hard for these kittens with the meds and vitamins and shit. Maybe because my kid is better off without me, I am filled with so much self loathing for simply not murdering my family (ok, not that dramatic, just disowning them and shunning them)…The kitties are something I can try to help, to care for, to save and do battle for. Because right now, no one is battling for me. Some of the thoughts I’ve been having, I don’t even know I am fighting for myself right now.

Let us hope the psych nurse has 5 minutes to hear me out and will actually do something to help. Now, not when the doc returns two blood moons from now. I need help.

God knows all I get from my family is more reasons to let the depression kill me.

I’m just grateful the rebellious streak at least keeps me too pissed off to give an inch. They’ll get my kid over my festering dead corpse and they aren’t gonna be the ones to turn me into one. For all the “they mean well” bullshit…They are not worth it. They are evil in the worst way. The way that claims “we care about you” yet makes me feel more alone than I have even at my loneliest. Takes a gift of evil to make someone you claim to love feel more alone around you than when they are hiding in a closet sobbing with depressive agony.

Is it any wonder I cling to supernatural shows and books? The obvious monsters still have more humanity than that which I call family.

Ok, self pity and rant are exiting the building. Unfortunately a bunch of depressive demons are having a spin class in my head so time to do battle against them in an effort to sleep.

I worked my ass off today. I earned some rest.

The Bad Thoughts Are Whispering…Loudly

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , on May 27, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Not that anyone should ever need to think or say it…If you spend enough time in a depression, you start recognizing when your thoughts aren’t your own anymore. You realize all those bad things whispering in your mind are simply depressive artifact. And logically you know this and know it can be corrected *if* you can stumble on the right med combo…

The fresh hell is waiting to find that combo and being forcefed bad thoughts by your own mind the entire time.

The Bad Thoughts started whispering when my kid woke me at 6 a.m. on the first day of summer vacation from school. I literally could not pry myself out of bed. Which lead to, you are a shit mom, get off your ass, your own mom worked swing shift and still got up with us girls every single morning!.

After that it was Spook asking every ten minutes for 5 hours if it was time to go to Grandma’s for her sleepover. Bad thoughts pointing out, Even your own kid can’t wait to get away from you, do her a favor and kill yourself, you useless bucket of monkey spunk.

After I finally took her to mom’s and came home…I just kept thinking of the clock ticking until I had to go to the shop. And R called and he was just heading to the airport in CA and was shocked nothing new had come in all week, as if people not wanting to pay to fix busted shit is my fault. Not to mention he’s already so far over his head with two jobs, why would you want more work???

Finally, the clock watching got to be too much, I couldn’t focus on anything, so I just went to the shop fifteen minutes early to make the calls instructed to make. And for a brief period, I wasn’t hearing the bad thoughts. Then K returned from his trip down south and I was reminded…

R has this awesome new job, traveling across the country, K is preparing to move down south, and wtf am I doing but stewing in depressive juices and self loathing? And believe me, more than anything, I want to pull myself up out of it, I want to work and feel better about myself and look forward to getting out of bed and doing something good with my life.

Depression simply doesn’t agree or care.

Once home…I returned to binge watching Lucifer (I missed the entire season due to the depression, can’t have that abyss tainting my favorite shows, no no no, and also, depression wants you to get as little pleasure out of life as it can suck away)…And then I see an episode about a dead musician and they mentioned he was sleeping on someone’s couch and that took me to…

When I was 16 and ran away from home to Hollywood, CA. I was so mesmerized with the hair metal scene and miserable in my midwest hell, I just worked until I had some cash and I bailed. And it wasn’t until there that I learned what “sofa surfing” and “couch tour” meant. It wasn’t nearly as “cool” as it sounded when uttered in magazine interviews by hair metal musicians. Money ran out quick in Hollywood and I ended up rooming with a hooker. Kind soul she was, she found my diary and of course, my idiot ass had all my pertinent info written in it, and so she called my parents who then called the lost kid network and they dragged me back home kicking and screaming.

And tonight I flashed on that couch tour and whether Nina did me a favor or not. Was dying there at 16 any better than dying here at whatever age? Not like my life has counted for shit unless being deeply depressed wins peace prizes.

I KNOW it’s depressive distortion. I hate it. I fight it with everything I’ve got. But honestly, between that and putting up the facade for everyone around me so they don’t have to face what a mess I truly am…It’s pretty easy to hear the whispers and start believing them.

I think that part is likely what drives so many with mental health issues to self harm and even suicide. Battling your own mind is beyond difficult. And eventually it just wears you down until you wave the white flag.

I’m not doing any flag waving, but I admit…I can’t wait for my appt Tuesday to ask the nurse if I can get back on Cymbalta. That has been the quickest acting most helpful anti depressant for me and I NEED my life back. I’ve lost the will to go to yard sales, for fuck’s sake. I skipped months of my favorite shows because I didn’t want to taint them with my depression. I’ve robbed my kid of a semi sane mom who doesn’t go through the motions but actually LIVES life. I want that back, even if it only lasts a few months.

I need to be stable and I need to progress and move on, like everyone around me is doing. Being left behind because my own brain seems to want me dead…It’s devouring my soul and making me an even angrier, more bitter person.

To quote Helloween, “I want out.”

I said I was always big on hair metal…Sofa surfing, nope.

The End Of All Days

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , on May 25, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Okay, so maybe nothing that dramatic but it is the last day of school which means for two and a half months…my already fractured brain and fried central nervous system will be held hostage and assaulted daily by Spook and her merry band of desperadoes.

On one hand…Yay, no dragging ass out of bed to meet her school schedule.

On the other…her yelping to play with her friends at 9 a.m. seven days a week.

I tried to get her into a summer program. Apparently “Is there a scholarship available because I can’t afford full price” means you don’t even warrant an email reply from the Y. Maybe I can find things for her to do, but I just resent being driven from my safe space to escape all these kids. Great, she has friends, she is popular.

It just never ends well. Her, around her friends, means she becomes more mouthy and disrespectful and argues with me every time I say no to an extreme I don’t even see when her friends aren’t around. And to make matters worse, these kids show up before 10 a.m. and are still knocking at 8 p.m. wanting her to play which makes it stressful for me to give her a supper time, a bath time, a bed time. The minute they show up, she goes off if I say no.

And as I told her yesterday when she said she didn’t like me because she mouthed off and I made her come inside…My job is not to be your friend, it’s too teach you right from wrong and keep you safe.


In addition to pre summer dread is the post summer dread when I have to pull blood from a stone to get her new school clothes and all the supplies then attend all the start of school stuff that get me so stressed…Two and a half months away and still enough to give me a stress stomach ache. Not that my mental health care provider seems to think any of this is a problem cos last time he saw me 4 weeks ago, I was having a less insane day thus he took it to me I am doing much better, here’s a nurse, talk to her, you’re A Okay.

NO I am never gonna stop harping on that. 24 years of psych care and never once was I shunted off onto a nurse. She might well be more understanding, hell she could suggest the magic bullet that gets me six good months, IDK. I just think it’s shitty to stick a patient in an 8 month seasonal depression in a position of feeling like they’re not even worthy of seeing their own doctor.

The anxiety is getting to me all over the map. I woke at 3:30 this morning amidst a pile of cats in my bed and realize…my softer mattress is helping my back pain, it’s playing bed Twister to avoid crushing a cat that is making me wake up all sore and feeling crooked. But there was no getting back to sleep immediately. I tried for an hour and a half. Stroked a kitten hoping purr therapy would work. By 5 a.m. it was 0.5 Xanax time. Which gave me a half hour to nod off and ninety minutes to sleep, give or take. When my sleep is disrupted like that, it usually means I am going to have a really shitty mental health day. It’s not the amount of sleep I get, it’s how much uninterrupted sleep I get. Not that the professionals understand that, either.

I took her to school, put gas in the car, and paid car insurance on line. Now I am gonna watch the season finale of Special Victims Unit because I do so love when fiction mirrors reality and I am reminded what this country has come to. A bunch of hate mongering assholes who think Muslims are all terrorists which is akin to saying all people with blue eyes are Hitler petri dish mutations.

I may be mental but the world is a cesspool of ignorance and it doesn’t take sanity or a brain surgeon to see that.

Manifest Anxiety

Posted in bipolar depression with tags , , , , on May 24, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

I have run the emotional gamut over the last 4 days from too depressed to be awake to wanting to die to “I’m okay-ish” to today’s “I was fine then the anxiety started gnawing away at me and I had to go out near people and now I am either having a nervous breakdown or a psychotic break”.

Mixed state. Icky.

Sunday my will to live was nil. The bad thoughts were kicking my ass and I was starting to believe their lies, especially when my kid was hosting 6 different kids and shrieks were the ambient noise. That day I managed to wash dishes and fold six baskets of laundry, not out of will, but out of desperation to drown out the depression and its lies of how worthless I am.

Monday was survivable.

Yesterday…I hadn’t eaten in 36 hours, took my meds, and started throwing up. Then my stomach started to churn and not even milk and Pecid were taking it down. I got excessively sleepy and had to stumble through the day ticking off minutes til my kid was asleep so I could escape to dreamland, too.

Today didn’t start out bad. But then came time in the dish and traffic and oh, some dumbfucks parked in the middle of the road arguing about who was the shittier driver. That was pleasant because confrontation sits so well with me. That ratcheted up the anxiety to fever pitch.

Part of this week’s anxiety is being at the shop 4-6 while R is out of town. It’s not that there’s anything to do. Whatever was asked of me was done Monday and now it’s ghost town aside from talking to elderly people who wander in and seem to just want conversation. No, I think it’s the responsibility factor. Like someone trusting their child to you when you’re in the middle of having a seizure and a heart attack as well as being dosed with roofies. I have enough with my kid and cats and home…But ya know, I am forcing myself outside my comfort zone for a friend and also, giving the depression and anxiety the middle finger. Fuck you, I can and will do this, even if it lands me in the Rubber Ramada.

Price for this forced functionality and rebellion is immense. Because I sit home and wonder, did I lock the door, did I turn everything off, did I forget something…Crushing responsibility at the moment. But when not mixed, when not getting my ass kicked by a seasonal depression that’s lasted 8 months…it wouldn’t be a big deal. I am capable enough. At this time, though, I am also altered so much, putting on pants is a challenge.

Of course, I can’t tell anyone around me that. I have to pretend to be just fine because Niki is too smart to be depressed. As if intelligence has fuck all to do with depression or bipolar. I can’t tell my family how bad it is because then they will start thinking I am unfit to care for my child. Yet as I fall apart, my kid is still fed, clean, clothed, going to school, and has friends. No, I am the one I am unfit to take care of. I do the bare minimum for myself because that is what it takes to be a competent mother while in this hellish state of mental unhealth.

Not a word there? I just made it one.

So two more days after today and hopefully R will be back and I will be free of added responsibility. Because I am wearing down and breaking down and I don’t even get to tell my doctor about it, he’s so busy I get to see the nurse in spite of an 8 month depression that’s barely been alleviated due to the fact the midwest still thinks it’s late winter. FFS.

Writing this has given me a headache.

I am gonna tell the nurse I just want to go low dose Cymbalta. I’ve been on it two or three times and the high doses always make my anxiety go insane. I am thinking this time with the Wellbutrin (if they can be mixed, cos you can’t say it’s so just cos the internet said it is) maybe I can be skyrocketed out of the abyss. Cymbalta has done it for me before, one of the best meds ever used by me if you discount high doses causing mania and anxiety. I just hope it’s not a case of “I have to talk to the doctor and he’s gone for 6 eons so you can’t get a script til he returns from Planet Neomaxiezoomdweebie”.

And I best not hear “outpatient therapy”, either. I am beyond the point where talking and art therapy are useful. I am up and ambling about and my anger is keeping me alive…I just want some damned balance and maybe the will to live. Because the way things are going with the new president…the disabled are going to be disposable and I’d like to have my mental ducks in a row before that happens.

And by disposable, I mean, bye bye benefits, not that the Trumpire wants to suck our blood and kill us.

Hey, don’t look at me, college humor came up with that nickname for him. I just like it.