Archive for bipolar parenting

A Day In The Life Of A Bipolar Single Mom

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , , , on February 1, 2016 by morgueticiaatoms

****Yes, I am well aware I am NOT special, single parents across the world do the same things everyday and often, for multiple children. This post is not meant to be an affront or a woe-is-me thing. It is simply a glance into my daily world, balancing limited funds, multiple mental health diagnoses, and a headstrong six year old.***

6:30 a.m. The first alarm goes off. I stab at the snooze button until 7 a.m.

7:00 a.m. I tell my daughter it’s time to get up. I try to motivate myself to do the same. She groans and fusses that she’s too tired, too cold, school starts too early. I tell her she still has to get dressed for school.

7:05 a.m. I make my way to the kitchen to feed and water the cats. I brew myself fresh iced tea. I call to make sure she is awake and getting ready.

7:10 a.m. I check on her and she is still in her jammas, bellowing how she is too tired to dress herself and wants me to do it for her. I tell her to stop whining and get dressed like a big girl.

7:15 a.m. I finally get a chance to go pee. I have my tea, my first smoke, take my shovel full of pills.

7:20 a.m. Kid is still not dressed so I poke her with a verbal stick. She starts screaming at me and calling me an awful mom. I ask her what she wants for breakfast. She never wants anything but brownies and such. I say no.

7:25 She is still hostile about not getting sweets for breakfast and grudgingly agrees to a Pop Tart. (Which technically IS a sweet, ya know.)

7:30 Finally she is dressed. I have to remind her to put on her glasses and shoes, she can eat on the way. She yells at me some more. I tell her she’s lost Uno for the night. She screams more. I take away her dvd player for the day. Still, she is mouthing off, blaming me for school starting too early, and wishing grandma was her mom.

7:35 a.m. Finally get her into the car. She is either yapping a mile a minute or giving me the cold shoulder silent treatment. I try not to get too bent about the traffic, all the while my brain screams to return to its safe bubble.

7:40 a.m. She gets out of the car at school, nose red from crying fits, and barely speaks to me. She trudges along as if she’s been beaten down.

That’s just the start of my day.

8 a.m.-2:15 p.m.- “me time” some days. Some days I go hang out at the shop with R so I can get  a pack of smokes or a bag of cat food. At home, I occasionally accomplish something. Mostly I ponder doing things but my body feels leaden and I get overwhelmed and do very little then feel guilty about it. On the really bad days I become so panic ridden I swear bugs are crawling on my skin and the paranoia is so bad I think every tiny sound is as dangerous as a gunshot wound. Good times.

2;30 p.m. Wait amongst the sheeple crowd, skin crawling with anxiety, until finally my slow poke comes running out. She’ll either be pouting or ecstatic. Either way, within the first two minutes she will ask what I got her and if we can go someplace to get her something. If I say no..Right back to her yelling at me.

2:45 p.m. Snack time. I offer string cheese and fruit. She says I am trying to starve her.

3:00 p.m. Homework time. She lollygags and says she doesn’t know how to do it. I try to help her so she tells me I don’t know how to do it. I tell her to do it on her own. She tells me I am  a terrible mother.

3:10 p.m. She has dawdled and figured out I won’t do her work for her so she makes an effort. When she asks for help, I help her. She gets it done, I praise her, tell her how smart she is, high five her.

3:15 p.m. She is fussing about being hungry again. I offer alternatives to junk food. I am back in the bad mommy doghouse. “Grandma lets me eat whatever I want!” I roll my eyes where she can’t see. My mother is the devil.

3:30 p.m. I encourage her to play on her own for a bit. Watch a movie, color a picture, go play on her swingset if it’s warm enough. Occasionally I ask her to scoop litter boxes or put her clean laundry away then she can play.

3:35 p.m. She is glued to my side, uninterested in her plethora of toys. She batters me with chatter. If I don’t give her the answers she wants she yells at  me. I take one more thing away, she cries like she’s been beaten. I quietly try to explain her behavior is the problem in her losing privileges. Once again, I’m evil.

3:45 p.m. She demands supper because I am starving her to death.

4 p.m. She asks if it’s supper time yet. I offer her a pineapple ring or two. She plays the starving card again.

4:15 p.m. She is still battering me with chatter, bouncing topic to topic. She wants to play UNo. She wants her supper. She wants her grandma. Is the moon made of cheese? How do babies come out of a mom’s belly? I’ve not had a single moment of silence or time to myself for two hours so I am getting a little irate. I can’t even go into the bathroom for a break because she sits outside the door prattling and telling me I am taking too long.

5:00 p.m. I ask her what she wants for supper. Nothing I have is good enough. I finally get her to settle on a meal, fix it for her.

5:05 p.m. Her food is too hot. It’s the wrong mac and cheese. She’s got a stomach ache. It hurts when she pees. She has an ear infection. Just getting her to shut up long enough to put the food in her mouth takes a half hour.

5:35 p.m. She says she is full even though she hasn’t eaten half of her real food but she wants dessert NOW. I tell her she can wait a few minutes and let her tummy settle. She screams and stomps off to her room.

5:45 p.m. She comes out, apologizes, then asks for dessert again. Not nicely, either. I tell her for her rudeness she doesn’t get a bath to play with her paints, she gets a quick shower so I can wash her hair. I am satan.

6:00p.m. Finally she is bathed even though I am soaking wet because she won’t hold her head back for the shampoo rinse and her getting soap in her eyes is my fault so she  moves all over and I get sprayed with the shower hose.

6:02 p.m. I get her out, dry her hair, instruct her to dry herself. She throws a fit.She says she is too hot/cold/tired to put on her own jammies. So I let her stand there in  a towel until she stops her fit and dresses herself.

6:10 p.m. She demands Uno and dessert. I acquiesce.

6:35 p.m. Either she is gloating cos she won all the UNo games or pouting because I did.

6:40 p.m. I have her pick a book and we read. I try to encourage her to make an effort on the shorter pages which usually sets her off.

7:00 p.m. I tell her it is TV time, because it generally calms her down (yes, I know, she’s as dysfunctional as me.)

7:45 p.m. I give her “snuggle buggle” cuddles and jokes, tuck her in, and retire to my living room chair or my bedroom.

8:00 p.m. I am so beaten down I have no energy to do anything I enjoy so I take my sleepy pills and take up in fort blankie.

10:00 p.m. Just as the pills kick in I am wakened by a text or call from R which gets my anxiety and anger up.

11 p.m. I finally get back to sleep.

12:30 a.m My kid wakes up and wants in my bed so I let her climb in. I spend the night with a knee in my gut and no blankets.

2:00 a.m. I wake up for no reason. Decide to go pee, make sure the cats have food, get a drink of water. Back to bed where I manage to snag at least one blanket from the six year old cover swine.

4:30 a.m. I am swatting the headboard for my alarm to see how much longer I have to sleep.

And then the alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m.


THAT is a day in my life. Are they all like that? No, some exceptions apply. For the most part, this is my Mon-Fri.

So anyone who thinks I have it easy simply because I am on disability thus don’t have a job…You are very wrong. Some days just putting one foot in front of the other is exhausting. Were I a lesser person I probably would hand her over to her father and say “You take all the stress.”

But because of my anxiety disorder, I will be mega stressed whether I have a kid or not. A disorder is a disorder.

Amidst all this, I juggle limited funds, bipolar depressions, and a family that’s absolutely cruel and useless. I don’t have the energy to even entertain dating or a serious relationship.

For those who do…You’re more hardcore than I am.

Life is as much fun as gargling razor blades

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , , on April 29, 2013 by morgueticiaatoms

I honestly think I am beginning to crack up. What scares me most is, I’m starting to not care. Being committed would get me a break from all this shit sending me into freak out mode. It sounds like a childish cop out, but I am to the point where I can’t breathe anymore. My skin feels like it fits too tight. My mind seems to be doing whatever the fuck it wants in spite of the meds. I am feeling out of control and overwhelmed and angry and frustrated. And the more everyone tells me I am okay, suck it up, rise above it, blah blah blah…The more I want to have a screaming throwing shit breakdown. Because I am a lowly human being and even people without the mental stuff can crack up sometimes, so maybe I am just more prone to it and yet, I am smothering in the lack of ability to even crack my lids.

My misanthropy is growing by the day. I am losing objectivity and starting to fall prey to the moods and anxieties. Everyday feels like a fresh start for someone to take advantage of my kindness. To take but not give. To claim to be supportive yet completely blow me off. Of course, for all I know, this could be my own mental distortion. For all I know, I could be right as rain tomorrow.

I have had a hellish weekend, though. That girl has been here off and on for three straight days. I told her to come back at 3 today, she was back at 12:30. She started calling me a fatty and a butthead then claiming it was a joke. She kept asking for food and drinks. My kid became a terror any time I tried to send her home. We had to basically flee our own home two days straight to escape this child. Which earned me an hour of screaming and bawling tantrums. Yes, Spook can stress me out, but it was hardly ever this bad before this girl started coming over. She left earlier without even saying bye to my kid. I put Spook down for a nap, and the girl comes back and tells me I need to wake my kid up so they can play. I told her not to come back. Six pm, she was back pounding on the door and I just ignored it. JUst like I did yesterday when my kid was sleeping and she wouldn’t go away.

This child-Sam, we will call her, has become the bane of my existence. She was here this morning at 9:30 a.m. My stomach was churning, I had a Trazadone hangover, hadn’t gotten dressed yet, needed to do all the housework I didn’t get done yesterday cos she was here all afternoon….My mood was vile. And I glared and snapped accordingly. Not my finest mom hour, but ya know what? Parenting is a tough job. Parenting with bipolar disorder is a mind boggling feat. Throw in someone else’s kid who is rude and demanding and never wants to leave and can’t listen to basic instruction (Please come back at 3 pm so we can do things we need to do”…I feel trapped in my home by this child, like my only recourse is to not be home. But my home is my sanctuary.

Then I think of all the advice I’ve been given about being polite but straight forward with Sam, about how I am the adult and this is my home and I have to assert myself…And it’s like, wtf am I doing? This child will not listen. Much like my own, who has had more tantrums this weekend than I can count on both hands. I am at the end of my rope. But once I send Sam away and my kid realizes I am not caving, things calm down and we play together and…It’s fine until that child returns yet again and again in spite of being told not to. And forget talking to her mother, she’s basically told the kids she doesn’t care what they are doing as long as they aren’t inside bugging her. So…When polite firmness does not work…What do I do? And this whole taking advantage of my kindness and basically using my kid to play with her toys while running off to play with other kids without so much as a bye or helping Spook clean up the mess…It infuriates me. Because it’s a matter of basic manners.

I am sure it sounds asinine and trivial but this is really driving me over the edge. Throw in the stuff with R at the shop and one of my cats is acting out so I put her outdoors because I got sick of cleaning up her messes to protest the other cats….Plus the burning stress stomach aches are daily now. The anxiety makes me want to claw my own eyeballs out. For the first time a long time, I am actually taking the full daily prescribed dose of Xanax. I am doing breathing exercises, visualization exercises, I am drinking water in lieu of caffeine…I am doing everything that is supposed to help. But it’s not helping. All I want to do is sleep. Everything else seems hopeless.

And I wonder, is the Cymbalta really helping? But I am terrified to tell the dr it isn’t because I can sense her growing aggravated with me due to the neverending med failures. It’s not a Goldilocks thing, where I just keep trying the beds to find one that is comfy. I just want to feel better. I want back my will to live. I want out  of this teeth grinding darkness where my only comfort is sleep. Plus, she thinks it’ s situational depression that can only be worked out in therapy. Well, I’ve been going for 19 months now and the sunshine spewer isn’t concerned with underlying depression issues.

I am at a loss.

My kid is talking to me and it’s like nails on a chalkboard. It isn’t right, because I love her more than anything in the world.

I love my cats but when they are climbing all over me sometimes, I just want to scream and start throwing them off of me.

I have napped with my kids both days this weekend and I am still just exhausted and stressed out.

Now I have to try to relocate some semblance of sanity to go to the shop this week. I have tried to talk to R but he has this way of deflecting my feelings and making me feel sorry for him. It pisses me off. Because it’s a common thing with guys. You talk about your feelings and somehow they dismiss them and insert their own feelings about how you are difficult and stressful and…God, I hate people. As a whole. My true hatred only applies to people who have personally stepped on my emotional toes. And when I tell a so called friend I really need an occasional break because I am losing it and it suddenly becomes about their needs trumping mine…That’s not a friend. That is someone who uses you for their own comfort without giving a damn about yours.

Or has my brain just liquified to the point of not having any sanity left?

I’m scared.