Archive for anxiety

Swallowing Pride…In The Name Of Love

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , on October 20, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

First….this post has nothing to do with U2. I really am not into that band. For me, they rank up with Rush-ughhh. (sorry,Mr. M!)…but their song did remind me of what tonight was like for me. (***Disclaimer…I recognize the contribution both of those bands have made to the music world over the years, it’s still not the poison I’d pick.)

By some miracle I staved off the disgruntled shop customer to not take their business elsewhere til Monday (fuck you, asshole postal service,don’t tell me it’s delayed without an explanation!) Like, literally, 20 minutes before I left, all the while wishing they wouldn’t call and ask and me have to deliver bad news, again…But I guess by being sincerely obsequious (is it an oxymoron? Because, yes, I gushed gratitude for their understanding but it wasn’t at all insincere), I bought a day or two for ASS TRASH POSTAL SERVICE to do their damned job properly…(After I sent a pissy email to the ebay seller, oops, what a bitch I am!). Stress makes me panic and panic makes me an enormous bitch beast. Anyway, I miraculously held off that dragon.

Tonight my plan was to have my kid inside, bathed, and fed by 5:30 p.m.

Man makes plans, God, sacred pegacorn, and the flying spaghetti monster laugh.

I kept wondering why neighbor kids were showing up to play in their Halloween costumes..only to be informed there some ‘safe trick or treat’ shindig tonight. Which I had no notice of prior to 20 minutes before it began. And one of Spook’s friends asked if she could go and I said, yeah, long as I talk to an adult for approval. Well, that mom said no. Never mind all I do for these kids and me having them all here giving their parents a break…no, they can’t do fuck all to reciprocate. Then my kid started in. And I don’t do ‘on the spot’. In theory, spontaneous is amazing. In practice with mood swings and panic disorders….it’s terrifying and threatening.

I told her I’d research the local paper on line for details and consider it. THEN I found the article and it said last years between 5p.m. and 8 p.m OVER 1000 KIDS ATTENDERD. Which means at least 1/4 at least had 2 parents with them thus raising th crowd number…And I freaked. I told myself, noooooooooooooooo, you’re gonna end up in the rubber room.

Then my kid raised the ante and asked if her two devil girl friends could come with us. And I felt shitty cos I know (assholes they are) their parents have only one car and the mom had it at work so going with us was their only chance to attend…I said okay. Then wondered why I said okay.

I took 2mg Xanax (No, it doesn’t make me sleepy or impair me, not after 25 years) and the kids costumed up and I took them…Relieved to find a parking space I could easily escape, and also, the line was only 30 people long. I was anxious, I was terrified of losing one of 3 kids, but I was also giggling and taking pics of the Halloween displays…I overheated, nearly choked on a beloved fruit flavored Tootsie Roll, and could have done cartwheels when we finally ‘escaped’…But it wasn’t all terrible. It was stressful to an extent but I tried to bolster myself with the 3 girls’ enthusiasm.

I even let them play in the yard an hour after we got back so they could check out and swap their candy.

Then I had a generic ‘rita to steady my nerves and help me sleep because, dammit, I earned it. I have been so damned strong, so determined…I will pay eventually, but right now…I put my kid ahead of my own needs or likes, I even managed to conquer my own terror and panic for her enjoyment…No resentment. Just…

WOW! I fucking did this!!!!! Not just with my kid, but with two extras in tow! How awesome am I?

I recognize this for what it is. An aberrant manic-mixed episode where I amaze myself with my uber functionality and think WOO HOO I AM BLOODY WELL CURED!!!!

But I’m not. I am dancing on a razor’s edge. Not pessimistic. Realistic.

But, for once….I was tough enough to put my kid’s needs first and I will pay the price this weekend and probably be unable to stumble out of bed beyond going pee and feeding my kid but…for tonight…

I felt like Wonderwoman. It was a good feeling. I just wish mental illness gave a damn and would let it stick the landing.

(Creepy pix to follow…at some point)


Confronting Anxiety

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , on October 19, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Day 3 in the dish. Started out lethargic but determined because yesterday my anxiety was so bad, I couldn’t even manage a trip to the grocery store. To punish myself, er, push my limits, I did let my kid have company when I got home yesterday. 4 kids, playing inside. Nerve racking, annoying, loud, icky…But since I let myself delay the shopping trip cos I was so rattled, I figured I could atone for the guilt of feeling weak by allowing my inner sanctum to be invaded. By six thirty when the church bus came, I was ready to do a fucking mamba. 7 kids playing in my yard, all of them bickering or crying, sooo much drama…When I punish myself, I do it well.

Today has me in confrontation anxiety. R has a customer who’s been waiting for 5 weeks for a repair, they’ve sent one wrong part, one never got sent at all even though ebay said it did, and the current one was supposed to have arrived today at the latest…but it’s not here. And the customer wants to take the TV back, he is mega irritated and pissed and I don’t blame him. I hope I can hold him off til tomorrow at least. This confrontation thing is a huge anxiety trigger for me and it’s not even really my damned drama. The worse part is, R is out of state the next 4 days for his youngest daughter’s wedding which means even if the customer agrees to wait til tomorrow and the board comes…Who’s gonna install it? Oh, right, ME. I’ve never done that before. I tear them down. I don’t put them together. I’m a bull in a china shop, ffs. But hey, I’ll give it a whirl and do my best. Though I’m not sure the customer will wait even 24 more hours. This is the sort of stuff that gives me pretzel gut and digestive issues, it’s so stressful. I don’t do confrontation.

What I do, however, do, is improvise when possible. R has been on me for over a week about moving a big 65 inch TV to the back, get Kenny or someone to help me…I got sick of waiting for help to be available so I dragged the fucker back by myself this morning. My sister offered to come help, but honestly…asking for help is just so not me. If I can possibly do it myself, I will. And I did, even if it wasn’t exactly ‘gentle’. Screen is still in tact. One plus of being raised by a redneck who wanted boys instead of girls…my sis and I are more hardcore than a large percentage of men. We have the truck driver/sailor on shore leave swearing to prove it, fuck yeah! Which is one more thing about my idget father that cracks me up. He swears all the time, one of the first words I remember him saying when I was a kid was “motherfucker!” when the car wouldn’t start…and it’s okay for him but my sis and I swear and he says we’d make sailors run back to the ship in horror. WTF kind of male bullshit is that? He taught us most of the words, anyway. I guess me and sis really suck at the being girly thing, wonder why…

Am I awful hoping the disgruntled guy doesn’t call? Earlier I was feeling more level ut a couple hours of noise and another ‘not fixed right’ return…My nerves are starting to fray. I had an idea that might have worked but of course, R missed a couple of repairs so I can’t even do a substitute with an abandoned set. Frustration also feeds anxiety.

That’s all my blog has come to, isn’t it? Nervous, nervous, anxiety, anxiety. I don’t like it, either, but I write it because out there might be someone struggling through it, perhaps even undiagnosed, and if they read that someone else knows what it’s like…it can be of some small comfort. It’s so easy to feel all alone with mental stuff. Kind of like having invisible leprosy and being shunted to your own island. Sucks.

Now…something cute I can’t resist posting. My kid got this ‘finger’ drumset at a yard sale then parked Mr. Brownstone at it. (Yeah, the cat is named after the G’N’R song, sue me.)

(Yes, the carpet is gross but that’s the doorway where a dozen kids stampede daily, I quit fighting it. Look at the cute kitty, damn it!)

Unnatural Sounds

Posted in depression with tags , , , on October 18, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

Much as I loathe living in a small town, it has become increasingly clear to me that me low noise th reshold would never allow me to live in a large city. Today alone the street sweepers have every nerve ending n fire and as if that’s not enough, someone across the street is using a chainsaw. Incessantly. So even indoors there is no escape from all these unnatural sounds. Of course, I get my panties in a bunch over the totally natural sound of chirping birds so it’s apparently just incessant loud noise, period, that sets off my panic receptors. Living in constant fight or flight mode, with pretzel gut, is pretty unpleasant.

Unpleasant. Hmmph. There I go, sugar coating it, lest my true feelings cause someone to call me a whiner. Guess what? Living with anxiety disorders SUCKS. It’s not merely unpleasant. It is 24-7 with no break, especially when even your dreams are so vivid you can recall feeling anxious while asleep. This is not something I’d wish on my worst enemy. If saying it sucks makes me a whiner, then pass me the cheese and a glass to pour the whine into.

Day two in the dish. I am running on empty. My nerves are practically deep fried, my will to fight exists only out of sheer spite and stubbornness. Can’t fail my kid, can’t fail R, never mind the damage it’s doing to me. Shamble on, zombie mode, don’t stop to eat brains, that might give me joy. IF I were capable of feeling joy anymore. Seasonal depression has quickly sucked away every last vestige of that spiel. Everything is bad, there is no hope, I am imprisoned, I can’t get warm, I just want my blankies…Depression lies, reminds me of the donor, cos not a word uttered is true. Still, I become prisoner to its lies, wanting to defy, yet too weakened to put up much struggle. For me, getting out the door with clothes on is The Victory. And if that’s someone’s idea of high functioning, they need slapped with a rotting fish. This is existence. And I try to take the small joys where I can- a good episode of The Flash, a purring kitten, my kid saying, “My cat didn’t throw up on the floor, he has an alibi!” (Seriously, how can you not get a giggle out of an 8 year old who knows what alibi means???)

Sadly, depression makes the little things seem smaller and smaller til they’re no longer visible in the rearview mirror. You know your brain chemicals are altered and lying to you, but clinical depression isn’t something you ‘snap out of’. Best you can do is shamble on and hope you make it to the next ‘break in the mold’, which is what I am now calling blocks of time when I am not expected to perform like a trained seal. Because my performance is the mold and when I don’t have to dance, monkey, dance, it’s a break in the mold. (Hopefully Funeral For A Friend doesn’t sue me for using the line from their song ‘Red Is The New Black’, no disrespect, looove that song.)

Oh another unnatural hellish sound. Pick up trucks with diesel engines. Roaring by all the time. This is why I like my hovel across town in the trailer park. Sure, it can get noisy there, especially when police and paramedics show up two, three times weekly for various resident issues… But mostly, it feels like my own corner of the world where the dish can’t really intrude too much. That’s why I discourage visitors. I don’t like my inner sanctum violated. I need the place that makes me feel safe. Safe from what, you may ask. Well, join the club, because I’d like to know, too. It’s not normal to feel threatened and scared at all times. I never knew anxiety could get this bad, but I’m living it now and I reiterate…it fucking sucks.

Another thing that sucks, and I mention this out of irritation…My sister happened to go to the new place where the donor is working and I guess the 53 year old man child was caught off guard and started stammering to her-in front of another customer- about “Tell Niki I’ve been unemployed, I will pay her the child support I owe her…” My sister asked for a pack of e-cig catridges and he blurts all that out. WTF?

And it just proves every point I’ve made since he walked out six years ago. He couldn’t be bothered to ask about his daughter. He didn’t use her name. Just mentioned owing me money. NO. He owes our child money. And that he can’t get it through his thick skull even after 3 kids is infuriating. HELLO, DONOR, IF YOU READ THIS: You and I are grown ups, things didn’t work out, it’s done. But don’t go thinking about what you owe your 3 baby mama’s. Think about your children E, C, and B and what you owe them. It was never about me or you. It has always been about doing right by the kids.

Sorry, had to be vented. Just…wtf, why mention our personal shit to my sister, anyway, while he’s at work and another person is in line and she never said a word about any of it…I guess I should expect it. He did strongarm my stepmonster into “try to talk some sense into Niki so she’ll sign the papers.” Yeah, well, I talked to a lawyer who said DIY paperwork involving child custody doesn’t fly so I was using my sense. Dragging someone else into it is his thing, I guess. Maybe because he knows how infuriated it makes me to have my family up in my business. Anything to stir the pot.

Except this time…I refuse to take the bait. He’s under court order to pay support by the state so whether he likes it or not, Spook will get that money even if they have to take his entire tax refund next year. It ain’t about me. It’s about her. And whatever emotional issue makes him, and other ‘parents’, fail to grasp that concept, makes me pity them.

Whatever my damage is, it ain’t as bad as theirs. Kids come first. The grown ups can fend for themselves. You don’t owe me shit. You owe a beautiful, smart, funny 8 year old girl.

Tirade over. Xanax needed. I really hate chainsaws. Given a choice between Justin Bieber or a chainsaw sound…I’d throw myself into the chainsaw and drag Bieber with me. Kill two birds, one chainsaw.

Yes, that was an attempt at macabre humor. Don’t judge me.

Faking It Is Exhausting

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , , on October 17, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

My week back in the dish has started with two days of interrupted sleep, one of them with my yapping child in my bed and staying in yap mode til 45 mins before alarm time and then screaming at me for 15 solid minutes about her own wardrobe choices…IDK. It lead to me feeling like I need to sign into a psych ward or something, make the world stop, make the carousel stop turning, just for a bit. And I had 3 relatively peaceful days so this feeling of lethargy yet overwhelmed anxiety is a little confusing.

Then again, it’s not. Temps have been dropping to 39 degrees at night and hello, seasonal affect is kicking my ass. See, when I get cold, I tend to shut down around 8 p.m. and only my blankies and bed and maybe a purring cat matter. The doctors carry on about the sunlight, light lamps, blah blah blah. For me, it’s being cold that truly does me in. And of course, our heat is not working AGAIN this fall season and rather than deal with the landlord I am going to ask R to take a look at the furnace (he had it fixed in under an hour whereas the ‘professional’ heating guys took 4 days) which means getting in line and hoping I am deemed worth the time. Because ya know, asking for working heat is exactly as superfluous as expecting him to drop off work at the shop an hour early to come hang out and watch Llamas with Hats.

Guess that will be lost on others. Just mean, he carries on about people bugging him for stupid shit but me and my kid having heat is not stupid shit. And yes, my landlord should take care of it, but goddamn it, my landlord should do a lot of things and that ain’t how it works. Pardon me if I’d prefer someone who knows what they are doing deals with it. And if he can’t then I will suck it up and call the slumlord.

I guess my patience is wearing thin with everyone, thanks to dish time and seasonal. I receive so little joy out of anything. I am like this robot covered in skin, doing what needs done, forcing the appropriate social niceties yet feeling none of it. I want my blankies, I want to sleep. Even though my last dream involved being a teenager again and at the mercy of my idget father’s constant judgement. Thankfully, I can wake up from that. Well, not his judgment, that is eternal but I don’t live under his roof and he doesn’t do shit for me so he can fuck off.

Everything is so jumbled. I am mad, I am sad, I am hopeless, I am tired, I am wired, up, down, all the fuck around. To my credit, I did muddle through my traditional Friday the 13th thing and wear my Jason Vorhees shirt and watch a Friday the 13th movie. Not much joy in it, just…forcing myself to do the normal in hopes I will be and feel normal. And guess what, mental healthcare professionals? It ain’t working. It’s like faking an orgasm and trying to convince yourself it actually happened.

Faking it takes too much damned energy. I feel I owe a modicum of false cheer for Spook’s sake but otherwise…the seasonal depression has me in its T-rex sized teeth and ain’t likely gonna let go til March. I can’t keep going to be at 8 p.m. only to wake around 3 a.m. but the depression just leaves me not wanting to be conscious and if my kid is already asleep, fighting it seems to be pointless…I’m not waving any white flags. I WILL figure this out. Last year it took getting the heat running before I was comfortable enough to at least last til 10 p.m.

What would save my life is if I could start writing again. But this dish thing with the stress of R’s demands and my kid acting out and all the financial stress….my brain’s not gonna quiet enough to let creativity flow. And insurance won’t pay for the ADD medication that slows my brain enough to focus so I am kind of stuck in this rut and resenting every minute of it.

If I MUST find a silver lining (likely toxic mercury) in this cloud…The cooler weather means the neighborhood brats haven’t been haunting our doorstop morning, noon, and night.

One day it’d be nice to have a big victory instead of trying to make a filling meal out of the tiny ones. I am hungry for something really positive to happen and this little victory stuff leaves me starving.


Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , on October 12, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

I guess grappling is the best way to describe my current state. Four of our 5 kittens died (I practically begged R for the money to get some medicine but he said it had to wait til his payday three days later, so of course, they died and I am pissy as fuck with him). Losing Adelitas was grueling. I just lost Graves last month. It starts to feel like anything I love and get attached to dies. Except that’s not true, Godsmack is still alive. I managed to save him and he seems to be thriving. Still…dead kittens are a horrible thing to have to contend with first thing in the morning and first thing when returning from an anxiety riddled day in the petri dish.

I had one survivor. Cold as ice, mother rejected it, refusing to eat anything. I kept warming towels in the dryer, bottle feeding it powdered milk, bolding it against my bare skin for body heat…And the little thing is still fighting. Still refusing food even though I got the wet stuff with gravy, but this lil black kitten seems to want to live. Cold as it was, I figured for sure it was going to die. It still may. But the fact it survived the night (tucked under the neck of my shirt, lucky I sleep lightly and didn’t crush it) and was still raising hell this morning…I have hope. And if it lives, its name will be Hellraiser. HR, for the kid friendly version, and also, a nod to the departed character from The Flash.

Yesterday I protested doing fuck all at the shop. Dead kittens, especially ones who might have been saved for $14 measly bucks, do not motivate me to do kind deeds for someone who shunned me when I had need of kindness. Rather than throw a tantrum or curse R out, I just ignored anything asked of me and did nothing. And felt no guilt, either. I mean, if he can live with essentially not lifting a finger to help save my kittens, then I can live with pissing him off as a form of protest. And ya know, normally when I do this sort of stupid rebellious shit and get called out for it, I feel a little guilty…Not this time. He reprimanded me and I just shrugged and said the dead TVs will still be there to tear apart tomorrow like me kittens will still be dead tomorrow. And when he failed to even offer up a faked platitude, I called him on it and he said, well, I didn’t know how to respond. Um…No one truly knows how to respond to grief. But the social standard, for those of us with an emotional IQ over 60, is to express “I’m sorry to hear that” or “That’s so sad, sorry for your loss.” For pet lovers, this is even more true. Just making even an effort rather than ignoring it counts for something. For such an intellectually gifted man, his emotional EQ rivals that of my 8 year old.

Speaking of whom…she attacked me again yesterday. Kicked me and threw a book at my face all because I dared to tell her she had to wear a shirt with long sleeves for church since the temps are dropping. It set her off. She was growling and snarling (I have audio recording to demonstrated to the social worker that I am not doing anything remotely wrong to instigate these attaks) and I told her to go to her room to calm down and she did the unthinkable…She grabbed for one of the cats and tried to throw it. That was my line in the sand. Anyone, child or adult, who harms an animal, goes on my shit list. That’s where I stop being a scared wussy and go into mama bear (cat) protective mode. I grounded her an extra day and told her no slushies or sweets until she can go 2 days without having a fit and hitting me.

It’s so weird because prior to this summer, things had been improving. Now she’s turning feral again and I have to wonder if it’s my fault for letting her spend so much time with her feral little friends. The one who catches the church van at our house wasn’t wearing a sweater even in the cold last night, so I guess my kid thinks I’m gonna be like that girl’s mom. Nope. You can take off a sweater of you get too warm, but if you don’t have one and get cold, you can’t pull warmth out of thin air. I don’t find it an unreasonable request.

When they dropped the girl off last night, it was our house, so I walked the kid home. And we had 3 cop cars in the trailer park at two different homes and people were having their domestic spats and Spook was all curious but I was just like, let’s go before they somehow drag us into it. And I wonder what seeing shit like this does to her psyche, but then, how realistic is it even in nice neighborhoods with two parent families to expect there to never be any ugliness. Domestic disputes happen everywhere, to everyone, and I guess, in our trailerhood, they just happen a lot more often and more loudly. I’m just thankful it is all down the street and around the corner from us. I don’t do drama, it requires to much xanax to cope with.

Today I have…forced myself into a shower, fetched the canned food and set up Hellraiser in a pet taxi with warmed bedding, run some errands to pay R’s bills (yet he couldn’t help save my kittens, ffs) and I’ve been at the shop little over an hour and already stripped one TV down to the frame. That took me 36 minutes and that was even with a smoke break. Some of them come apart easily and some of them take forever,cut my hands up, and make my brain hurt trying to figure it out. Destroying things is easy and sometimes fun, but when you have to be careful to yank the working parts out without damaging them, it gets tricky.

Especially for my current brain state. It freaked me out the other day when I was watching this show and they were giving a polygraph exam to this person, and one of the control questions was what is 34 minus 19. And omg, my brain struggled round and round with it, just like it blanked out. I mean, jesus, first grade subtraction and it’s like my brain has a big swiss cheese hole in it. That was when it hit me how altered I have become. And ya know, looking at those numbers even now, it’s a big of a jumble in my brain to come up with the answer. Nice to know I’m so nuts I couldn’t even pass a control question on a polygraph test. Excellent, Smithers.

I give it a few more weeks, grappling, trying to keep up with R’s demands cos God knows I need a different car as this current one is falling to bits..but mental breakdowns aren’t really elective, never have been for me. I break my back trying to be what is demanded of me and I stay afloat until…I go under. And instead of understanding and empathy, I am surrounded by resentful people thinking I am lazy and weak. They are the reason I end up breaking down. Because they refuse to let me off the carousel when I’m saying, let me off, I’m gonna hurl..No, they just speed up the carousel ride and eventually, I fall off, throwing up and oozing emotional blood and psychological tears in torrents. (You’re welcome for that mental image.)

I guess ultimately, though, it’s my fault for having the breakdowns. I should be strong enough by now to stand up for myself and say enough, without fear of it turning into a bridge burning situation. Gotta give me points for at least caring enough to try to meet the world’s demands of me, though.

On second thought, don’t give me any points. I might not be able to do the math and could construe it as a bad thing.

Please Don’t Wake Me When It’s Over

Posted in depression with tags , , , on October 10, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

I’m down the rabbit hole once again. Our summer drought has ended and turned in to day after day of gloomy Autumn rainstorms, most of which don’t last long, just enoygh to create a muddy mess. Today’s has been a torrential downpour and I’m debating whether to pick my kid up at the us stop or let her walk home with her new kitty/doggy umbrella I got her. I am walking on shards of glass with her these days.

Yesterday I told her that her skirt was too short, she needed pants or shorts. She ordered me to help her find some, which translated, means do it for her and I refused. She balled up her fist and punched me in the stomach 4 times, then whacked me with a hairbrush. I crumbled into tears after sending her to her room and telling her she’s grounded 2 weeks. I was…astonished…

It’s not the first time she’s hit me. It is certainly the first time she has hit me with her fist repeatedly and it was damned scary. Here she is the one the teacher is worried about cos of self esteem issues, but I’m the one living in terror of my own child. She’s already latched onto the social worker thing and every time I so much as say no to having pudding, she threatens to tell the social worker, the teacher, and she tacks on stuff that happened years ago (like when she knocked my glasses off my face hitting me during a tantrum, and hell yeah, I have her a swat on the butt).

And after a 20 minute woe is me tantrum in her bedroom, she came out with an apology letter and acted like a totally different person. And that was when the true terror hit me. I’ve seen that behavior before. In myself. Prior to proper bipolar diagnosis, I would go off on tirades and scream and cry and blame everyone for everything and I would sometimes hit or throw stuff…And then once it passed,…I would be apologetic, filled with shame, desperate to make amends. Not quite sure what had come over me or why it was so hard for people to forgive me.

There is no way they will diagnose her bipolar before her teen years. Which means for at least 5 years I am living with the very source of my torment and anxiety, locked in an endless cycle where it’s all my fault when all they need to do is realize…kids can be bipolar. It’s not a disorder that cares how old you are.

There is no woe is me. She is my daughter and has so many great qualities and I love her and will never give up on her.

At the same time, I am battling my own demons, and I mean, the seasonal depression, which already has me going to bed at 8 p.m. just to escape my own distorted hopeless thoughts as well as recover from whatever screaming calamity she’s had for the day. (Just had 4 straight days of it, I am beyond exhausted.) But going to bed early means not sleeping through which means at 2 a.m. I am awake and wishing I wasn’t and painfully aware my kittens are probably gonna die cos their ass trash cat mom won’t feed them and they won’t eat solids and then I gotta face the shop and R’s demands, the housework that never ends, the anxiety that devours me, and guessing if my child is going to love me or physically attack me and tell the authorities what a monster I am so they take her away.

Society has the right idea to protect children but in doing so they have given they way too much power and taken away a parent’s right to discipline. And I’m not talking spankings, I am talking good old fashioned grounded in your room no fun activities grounding. And even that is considered too harsh.

I guess I have good reason to be depressed, anxious, hopeless, and terrified.

Society paints it as one direction only, only children are abused.

I wish someone cared that some parents get abused by the children. And thanks to well meaning laws…we are powerless to defend ourselvesm protect ourselves, or even choose what discipline to use. It’s humiliating to be a grown up yet have an 8 year old beating on me with her fists. I feel helpless. And no one else ever sees it, so it’s just…me.

It’s to the point I want to put video cameras in every room running 24-7 because I am NOT making this up. I am NOT the crazy person here. I am a concerned mother with legit fears who doesn’t want her child taken away yet also, I don’ think my life should feel like a fear inducing prison where the word ‘no’ results in a physical attack.

I know bipolar when I see it. I live it. And 8 years old or not, my daughter has the beginnings of it which might explain why they don’t think she is ADD. That’s often a secondary from the bipolar and if they refuse to entertain a child so young could have such an imbalance…

Let’s hope love and devotion are enough to keep her from harming someone before the establishment will smarten up.

The Wicked Witch Syndrome

Posted in bipolar disorder with tags , , , on October 8, 2017 by morgueticiaatoms

I have been alternating between functional and paranoid anxiety for weeks now. Today I realized where I truly, am, static, as far as a personal level. The mental health stuff is background noise, it is crippling…

My child. She brings me so much joy, yet so much discord, and everyday with her is like ten rounds with Tyson. She gets great grades, the teacher adores her, but she has lately taken to saying she feels like trash which of course I had to explain during P/T conferences about a band of hooligans who have been calling all the kids who live in the trailer park trailer trash. While I don’t dispute my kid may have some self esteem issues, I witnessed today how she uses them at will to worm her way out of being called out on poor behavior.

The teacher thinks it’s a great idea to put Spook with a social worker the school has on staff. Hey, any help I can get with her, any help Spook can get, bring it on.

THEN I realized my snowflake’s improper perception of everything is probably going to land the entire family under investigation. I apparently spend all my time in my room not helping her work out her issues and my sister once drove through a flooded viaduct and my kid swore she was attempting to drown her, then Spook told some lady who taught her at sunday school in my dad’s town that she was never going back because stepmonster forcefeeds coleslaw down her throat with a spoon.

Sounds pretty cruel on the surface, doesn’t it? I am terrified what tiny slight she will come up next with us. Today she told me maybe we just don’t get along and it’s because I refuse to be more like her. That’s all it’d take, for me to become 8, say yes to her every idea, and all would be well.

Meanwhile, my depression continues knocking, the anxiety gnawing at nerve endings, and now in an effort to help my child, I am petrified these local yokels with their well intentions and blindness to just how wretched children can behave are going to take her from me and string the entire family up as abusive.

As if that’s not bad enough, my kitten Adelitas is very sick and likely not going to make it, which means one more stab through my already shredded heart.

Trying so damned hard and it doesn’t even matter in the end. My kid and the system and the mental disorders are all gonna kick my ass and I’ll be lucky if I end up locked down in a state facility. Or worse, have a good day and brush my teeth thus getting kicked onto the street to live in a cardboard box.

When the depressive distortions start, they really don’t let up and they really fuck with your head.

Still…terrified what my kid is gonna tell that social worker. I’ve known too many good parents faced with a baseless accusation from a kid and it’s always guilty til proven innocent.

I’m too tired and beaten down to be pissed off. I’m just….scared.