Archive for Cymbalta

Can An Antidepressant Rewire Your Brain So Drastically It Robs You Of Creativity?

Posted in depression with tags , , , , , on August 15, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

I had an abrupt epiphany after a much needed (and questionably acquired) but dream plagued sleep: 5 months ago, I was depressed but I wasn’t having so much trouble sleeping and I was definitely not having so many bizarre dreams.

Enter Cymbalta.

Suddenly my sleep troubles increase ten fold and I have neverending dreams/nightmares. No matter how awful they are, though, sleep is still my happy place and waking up is a bummer.

So while I’ve known a long time that mood stabilizers do indeed alter your personality/creatity a bit because, hey, manic is bad, gotta tame those too happy self destructive chemicals somehow…I’ve never taken much of a look at the impact antidepressants have on your mind. Can’t have the ‘stay in bed, let me die’ depression so of course, your brain chemicals have to be altered by the medication in a way that’s positive, right?

We’ve all heard the stories-or lived them- where antidepressants, the very meds we count on to make us not depressed, often worsen the depression, or worse, make us have icky suicidal thoughts.

But has anyone ever studied how these medications can affect our personalities? Because I don’t care how depressed you are, some things lock in at a certain point and you are who you are, a medication generally can’t rob you of this.

But here I am, unable to even write a poem, because since starting Cymbalta, the only creativity in my life is in my dreams.

That was when it hit me like a ton of bricks. Last night, I had a ton of fucked up dreams. One was some foreign wedding with these bizarre food rituals and then the groom’s mom pulled a skeleton in chains from the pool and announced the groom had murdered the guy years before…OMFG. That is not how I dream! That is how I THINK! Because I am creative and I am a writer and instead of that all being robbed by Cymbalta, it hasn’t gone away. It’s just been displaced to my sleeping moments!!!!

Obviously, Cymbalta has got to GO. I have to convince that doctor tomorrow that this stuff, while once a great med for me, is no longer working and if anything, it is disturbing my sleep and robbing me of the creativity that makes my waking hours liveable. I suppose this says something about my psyche that I spend so much time entrenched in fiction, whether sleep or awake, but it’s a writer thing. And now that I know I wasn’t mere deluding myself with thinking I was a writer (in spite of half a dozen manuscripts and god knows how many computer versions). I am THRILLED! I can get that part of myself back! I just need to get off this medication and start another one and Iam thinking…

Back to basics. SSRI’s served me pretty well, Prozac specifically, and almost no side effects. Obviously my chemistry has changed so it may not work any better than this current regime, but if it gets me back my wakeful creativity…I’ll roll the dice. Gotta try something.

But I knew it was something very different from the days of old where all I wanted was to go to sleep. That was dark depression and there was no solace at all in dreams. For three months, I have sought sleep not to rest but because that’s where all the dark creative stuff happens. If I can have that back while awake, then I will probably sleep better. And no, I assure you, I have no notions of murder, self harm, robbery, sexual promiscuity, whatever fucked up dreams I’ve been having. Whoever said dreams are some subconscious desire is full of shit. My dreams are screaming GET US BACK TO YOUR WAKEFUL MIND AND WRITE A DAMN GOOD NOVEL, YOU TWONK!

I can’t believe it took so long for me to put two and two together to realize what was going on with Cymbalta. But now that I know…I don’t feel so lost. I think that stuff altered me on multiple levels in how I view my reality. Situation may not be ideal but it’s also not awful. Maybe a different med can get the circuits working in a more positive way. And give me back my warped creativity which is all that makes life worth living sometimes.

Bye bye Cymbalta. I have some vampires hungry for veinilla ice cream and they’re counting on me to bring them to life on the computer screen.

(Veinilla, omg, that is so funny, Mr. Mumple, you nailed it.)


Depressive Artifact:It’s More Than Just Sadness

Posted in depression with tags , , , , , , on June 21, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

I am struggling today and I have no idea why. Maybe it’s all the depressing news contributing to a low mood or my daughter’s incessant shrieks of boredom and blaming me for everything including the Lindburg kidnapping. Or maybe, even though Cymbalta helped lift me out of an abyss, depression artifact remains.

There’s a common misconception that depression is merely acute sadness. Even I believed this, until a couple of half decent doctors educated me on what depression really entails. Unfortunately, even these doctors are so busy covering their own asses and treating my depression conservatively, I am the one flailing in limbo here, being throttled by depressive artifact. A dose increase might help, but it would also help if they’d call me and inform me who I’ve been assigned to since my doctor left and I kind of need an appointment in the next couple of weeks.

Depression is so much more than just feeling sad and hopeless.

It is anxiety. It is lack of focus. Lack of motivation to do things that desperately need to be done. It is guilt and shame and self loathing. It is chaotic thinking, a swirling funnel cloud in your mind, so you can’t organize your thoughts enough to begin to accomplish things. It impacts memory so that you forget something that was spoken 30 seconds before and those around you either think you’re ignoring them or a total flake. It is lack of concern with basic hygiene. It is a rabid aversion to doing anything remotely social involving other humans. It is irritibility. Sometimes inexplicable anger. Sometimes heightened emotions that aren’t comparative to what is bothering you.

Depression is a machine with many moving parts. Nothing works the way it should. Parts that should go up and down move side to side. Stationary parts move wily nily and it creaks and groans like a dying furnace choking on a rusty chainsaw.

The worst part is that, this is your life, 24-7, and the so called professionals often blow off your concerns, your feelings, and make you feel like you’re not even participating in your own care. Because they have degrees and know best yet they spend maybe 15 minutes every two months with you and don’t know you at all. The doctors don’t have to live this way. They’re not left trying to explain to the people around you why if your medication is working well enough that the doctor won’t increase dose, why do you still act so cranky and not want to be around others? Obviously, the doctor thinks you’re doing well enough. But again…the doctors don’t see us struggling after the appointment where we were in a good mental space.

I am grappling with artifact here. It was all I could do last night to get my kid and myself bathed. I’ve been doing battle with myself all week to do dishes and stick a pot roast in the slow cooker and…I got nothing. I go in to maybe run the water…and within 20 seconds, I’ve gone off track and my disorganized brain won’t let me get back on the track. I did manage to clean cat boxes today, but I meant to do that 2 days ago so the accomplishment comes with procrastinator’s guilt.

Anxiety is another artifact of depression. Today I feel it though I don’t know why and it manifests with cold sweat pouring down my side despite multiple applications of anti-perspirant. I wasn’t sweating this way during the 6 straight days it was in the 90’s and the house was 88 inside even with the AC and fans running. Nervous sweat is baffling. And other than the phone ringing a couple of times with irritating telemarketers there’s been no trigger for nervousness. It’s random, it’s brutal, it’s…artifact.

So, no, depression isn’t just sadness. It is furnaces grumbling and rusty chainsaws roaring and you cling for whatever vestige of sanity you can find but…hey, your brain is not on board with this because it’s so disordered.

Depression is hell on Earth, 24-7, and anyone who says otherwise isn’t clinically depressed. A condition that negates your very identity and turns you into a hot mess despite the best intentions of efforts…That’s so sadistic, Satan himself must have created it in conjuction with the Marquis de Sade.

The Engima That Is Rapid Cycling Bipolar Two Disorder

Posted in bipolar depression, mood swings with tags , , , , , on May 12, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

As if life isn’t hellish enough going through with mental disorders and psychological baggage, what is worse is when your disorders don’t fit neatly into their Douchebagger Simpleton Manual (DSM).

When my clinical depression lifts, I am prone to rapid cycling between lows, highs, and mediums. The professionals I have seen often dispute this as not being characteristic of whatever label they have slapped on me and it is very frustrating. I know from talking to others on the wordpress mental health blog circuit that rapid cycling is actually pretty common for some of us, often in part because the very antidepressants we need to pull us out of abyss can bring about rapid cycling in early treatment.

I LURVE (thank you, Sass, for that term, love is just getting boring cos everyone on the internet loves everything) my manic and hypomanic states. “Ten feet tall and bulletproof, OMG, I am bloody well cured now, let’s not sleep cos this feeling is awesome and I don’t need to pause at the end of sentences because my lungs are filled with sweet beautiful air to spare and while I didn’t accomplish much, I jumped into a kiddie pool and splashed around with my daughter and felt sooo free!”


Two days I felt that way, just a few steps from full blown mania (yes, while not common in axis two bipolar, it DOES happen) but today…I am in medium mood territory. This is what I call ‘pre-splat’. The low is coming, I just don’t know when or how bad it will be or how long it will last. It doesn’t help that my PMDD (ten days of psm on steriods) has begun, wreaking havoc on an already wonky mental state, not to mention the physical misery. I usually let this shift send me into a tailspin but of course, my current self awareness and self help kick has forced me to take a step back and face facts: I have been here, done this, a thousand times before. It will pass. I will feel good again at some point.

This doesn’t negate the fact that it is maddening, frustrating, damaging.

But compared to where I was just 3 weeks ago pre Cymbalta- I’ll take rapid cycling. If it continues more than a couple of weeks, I will speak out at my next shrink appointment. Starting new meds is always challenging, at best, and filled with change. Not to mention just my cycle out of winter depression is often accompanied by rapid cycling (it amazes me how sensitivity to weather conditions can affect one’s mental health) so it may not be Cymbalta entirely. THIS current state is preferrable to where I was. My kid sure prefers me hypo, but then so did every man or friend I ever met, cos well, manic of most nature is happy fun ball time.

I wish I could be happy fun ball all the time. Being a depressive isn’t a life choice and it isn’t a good thing. But it is what it is. I deal. I rant, I vent, I soapbox, but acceptance has finally settled in. My disorders aren’t my identity, but they are also not something I can pretend away. Denial is not an option. So I must find a balance and fortfy myself to keep up this battle. My daughter is a good motivator. I’m not gonna do any ‘my uterus produced a kid, I am special” pompom waving but it doesn’t really matter if your motivation is your pet, your romantic partner, your family, your kid, your work. Whatever keeps you going (and that applies to non mentally disorded situations, as well) is your tether to reality, hold on to that until the rope frays and starts cutting into your flesh and you bleed. Never let that go.

So I will ride out the current medium mood, then I will roll with the low wherever it takes me, and like a phoenix, the mood will rise out of the ashes. Okay, that sounds more cheddar cheese than poetic but you get my drift.

Now instead of using that ‘f’ word involving dollar signs that seems to offend people…How about I use a “Please Read Our Story”.

I know sharing fundraisers on social media is often icky but clicking that share button costs you nothing. I’m not trying to raise thousands to buy happy fun ball stuff. I am offering up receipts. Our story may not be special and there may be way more worthy cause but…gotta try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Just think of us as a pet you’d adopt if you liked pets. But maybe you know a friend of a friend who does and you just pass on word.

On occasion, I write a decent post so view it as being a patreon.

Spook and I are grateful for any help we get, and I appreciate it even when it’s a click of the like button or a comment. Gratitude is all I have to offer at this time other than my writing.

Gratitude doesn’t buy toilet paper, though and of course, I am raising a princess who finds that sort of thing necessary.

How Do You Know When An Anti-Depressant Is Working?

Posted in depression with tags , , , , , on May 10, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

It seems like such a no brainer, right? Obviously, if an antidepressant is working, you’ll no longer feel depressed, duh!

If only it were that simple.

I’ve been taking Cymbalta two weeks now, ten days at 40 mg. I can’t say I am dancing on the ceiling or in the streets. My motivation is still on the side of a milk carton. My energy is still tapped out by 8 p.m. and sleep seems the only escape. By that measure, it’s obviously not doing much, is it?

Thing is, I look back at posts from a month ago prior to Cymbalta, and I was less focused, more encapsulated in my woe-is-me misery, totally honed in on the darkness of my own mind and the stress.

Recent posts have actually been more targeted, topic driven, and less about my personal situation and more about coping with my disorders. I still ramble, but I think that’s just who I am and as far as flaws go, I could do worse.

While it is not exactly known how antidepressants work on a depressed brain, it is well known that many of these medications can take up to six weeks tos how optimal results. And often, a dose increase is required to reach that optimal result.

So antidepressants aren’t like taking a Tylenol and an hour later, oh, headache’s gone, it works.

This is a tedious, weeks-long process of discovery, discerning if your mood has gone up, stayed the same,decreased. And after my experience with Effexor this last time, going from bad to worse, I am wary the same could happen here with Cymbalta.Fact is, I have not had a lot of luck with antidepressants. I am a magnet for the worst, most abnormal side effects and bad reactions. They often conk out after several months. But since Lamictal contols my extreme highs but does nothing for the lows, an antidepressant is pretty much a requirement in my treatment. It’s frustrating, disheartening, often demeaning when med after med fails.

I tried to explain to drive thru shrink Dr. H that I am not seeking joy in a pill. I know the meds can only do so much, they’re not going to change my financial situation or fix my personality flaws or whatever. I just want a medication that puts my brain chemically on the right track.

Is this one it?

That remains to be seen.

But the fact that it is making me write more coherently and with a little objectivity and self awareness as opposed to drowning in my own sorrow?

That’s a cause for hope and I can live with hope.

Life On Lockdown

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , on May 4, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

I think the worst thing about moving to Armpit, aside from it costing money just to go to town for a frozen pizza, is living so close to my dad and his crew. They show up without calling first, my brother barges in if I don’t keep the doors locked. It’s nerve racking, feeling like I have to lock the door at all times to avoid the ultimate assault on my nerves and safe space. We lived 9 years in a not exactly safe trailer park and I rarely felt I had to lock down the place. Yet here where the biggest crime is running a stop sign…I feel as unsafe and vulnerable as if living in a bad neighborhood. It’s not the neighbors.

It’s family.

I have told them for 15 years, due to my anxiety, call first. Just a ten second head’s up. And it’s too much for them to respect me that much. It is infuriating. Nothing I say or do makes a difference. Their own self importance pisses me off. They gripe about people dropping in on them because they might have plans but they just darken our doorstep (and my sister’s as well) whenever it suits them. I wish it weren’t a big deal but it’s a huge trigger, always has been. Further triggering is that I have a legitimate and debilitating condition which warrants asking for a head’s up and they ignore it.

Today my anxiety is off the charts and I can’t really explain it, aside from living on lockdown from their surprise visits and a trip into town today playing Russian Roulette with the broken gas gauge on the car. (Yeah, I track mileage and how much I put in the car, but…well, my math is victim to number inversion, so I don’t trust it.) It could also be increasing Cymbalta from 20 mg to 40 mg. Mostly I think it is just my dad and them randomly popping in, critisizing me, bringing me down, heightening my anxiety, exploiting my insecurities.

That woman who said no one can make you feel inferior without your permission never met my family.

I really hate when the anxiety reaches the level of ‘skeleton trying to escape from under my skin’. I took a mg of Xanax but it’s not making a dent. That this has become my daily life is reflected in the fact that my top number on my blood pressure has a baseline of 120. Since the move it has bumped to between 138-142. Not major but after 12 years of recorded blood pressure staying baseline then jumping that much…I am under a significant amount of stress and all because my family exploits my disorder. They don’t believe it’s real so they blow it off and no amount of reasoning, begging, or screaming at them does any good. Talk about feeling powerless.

In a further anxiety inducing twist, dad informed me last night that the landlord plans on painting our house this summer. Sure, the color is gross and needs painting, but ffs, how is it they know more about where I am living than I do? They’re not paying the rent. Small towns are a scourge for someone who likes privacy and being in the loop. Not to mention their harping about the lawn, omg, they are ocd about everyone’s lawn growing an inch. And if I don’t jump on it in an hour, they dispatch my brother to do it and the yard is the size they get normally get paid $45 to do, so I have to slip my brother cash I don’t have and then be guilted that it’s only a fraction of what it’s worth…

My biggest issue is…I am petrified of gas mowers. I saw my mom mowing a ditch when I was ten and she cut her leg open and had to drive herself, two kids in tow, to the emergency room 20 miles away, for stitches. That incident has stood out in my mind 35 years. See, I have one of those old school reel manual mowers which I used fine for 7 years at the trailer. But this yard is enormous and it grows so fast (brother mowed Monday, now it needs it again) so the ticka-ticka- as I call it, isn’t too feasible for the largest expanse of the lawn. One more stressor on a daily basis.

I used to think they were just yard work freaks, but as it happens, the entire town is OCD about yard work and they run mowers from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m. Also hellish on anxiety. (Not to mention all the trains passing through at all hours two blocks down, noise central, and yet, my dad calls this town quiet.) I am all for a nice looking yard but these people need an intervention. I guess they live in fear of some town ordinance where you can get fined if your grass grows beyond a certain length. You’d think this was some fancy gated community instead of a tiny dead end town in Armpit, midwest.

In other news…Spook asked me the other day if I miss R. And I could honestly say…No.

It wasn’t simply the stress of the shop and him being so rude and expecting more than I could deliver. It wasn’t all his pro-Trump attempts at brainwashing. It was the fact that I long suspected our ‘friendship’ was only based on me doing what he wanted me to do, ie, tending to the shop. And he controlled me by reminding me I needed a car and he’d buy me one, or I needed gas money but had to earn it. Then he’d show up uninvited and unnanounced with alcohol and if I said I wasn’t in the mood to drink, he’d guilt trip me about how he bought it for me, I should drink it…

I didn’t cave to bullying as a 12 year old, I sure as hell wasn’t going to do it in my forties.

And for the second time, true to my paranoid assumptions…he proved that as long as I wasn’t willing to tend to the shop, we had no reason to associate. I don’t call that a friendship. He hasn’t sent so much as a text since our falling out. He had me replaced in a week. My sister informed me of this because her friend took a TV in for repair and I guess the new girl is professional and likes to clean and far more competent than I ever was. I’d like to say this makes me feel bad about myself but I always told him a monkey could do what he expected of me some days. (Toward the end, all the pissed off customers cos it took so much time for repairs was expecting way too much of an anxiety ridden depressed person, not that he cared.)

So I don’t really miss him. Kinda miss Mrs. R, though. I had hoped I was wrong and he’d at least ask ‘what can we do to make this work?’ but alas…he didn’t even value our friendship that much so it really wasn’t a friendship unless I was doing what he wanted me to do. Hard to miss that, not to mention all the anxiety from the irate customers. Had he offered me full time, even at minimum, I might have considered it, if only for my self esteem. I’d still have melted down, but I could at least say I was doing legitimate work instead of being manipulated with promises of a car. Besides, I got a different car anyway thanks to my dad (hey, he’s an ass, but he has a decent heart on occasion) and R wasn’t paying our monthly bills so what am I out? Booze and the occasional twenty for gas money> Not really a big loss, especially considering how little he thought of me simply because I don’t like Trump’s personality. And yeah, that’s what it was for me, I don’t like misogynistic egomaniacal man children. Ans maybe my politics are different when I bother to think of the topic, but to text at 11 p.m. on a Friday night “I thought you were smarter than to believe the fake news”…R kind of sealed the deal with that one.

So why am I harping on it here? Purge.Mental vomit. Be rid of it, move on.

I am going to try to talk myself into bathing, it’s been a couple of days. I need to confront the sink full of dishes. Hell, I need to do lots of housework yet my anxiety has me rooted in my bedroom safe space waiting for the lummoxes to show up and send me into a panic attack it takes hours to recover from. Maybe towards afternoon and getting out of Armpit for awhile will help.

It’s sad they are so disrespectful and triggering. Because honestly THEY are the biggest problem living here. I always knew they would be. I didn’t leave home at 17 cos life there was good. I had to get away from my parents. Stepmonster wasn’t even around then, but man, she’s as abrasive as my mom is, so same damn thing. I wish I could shake it off, be tougher, but…I guess emotionally, I have arrested development, plus the anxiety being so extreme, and this truly bothers me.

What happened to basic manners like calling first, knocking, not insulting people…I expect that from the younger generation but people in their 70’s like my dad, I guess I expected more manners. My mistake to expect decency from anyone, I suppose.

On a final note…I named our wifi network Camp Crystal Lake. Doubtful the yokels get the reference but I think it’s funny as hell.

Guess ya gotta be a horror movie fan.

The Medi-Go-Round and Whack-A-Quack

Posted in depression, Uncategorized with tags , , , on May 1, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

My mental healthcare has devolved into little more than a carnival side show. I’ve ridden the medi-go-round for so long,it’s just another ride on the carousel that never stops turning.

Finding a psychiatrist is like playing Whack A Mole.

Dr. H informed me she is leaving in July and while they are allegedly working on their short staffing…

I am going to be bounced back to doc nurse. I am unamused and worse,also sympathetic to doc nurse cos with the mass dr. exodus the last few months…she is inheriting ALL patients til they can find a new staff doc.

So if I found her apathetic,dismissive,and was irritated by how little time I get with the shrink…I will be lucky to get 5 minutes every six months.

You gotta appreciate the irony (morony?) of the entire principle of mental healthcare being stability and consistency…yet I am being tossed to another doc for a third time in under a year. It’s like if I am not unstable to begin with, the carnival of my treatment center is going to make me that way and keep me off kilter.

So,not surprisingly,the nurse had no memory of talking to me about my Effexor side effects,no recall that she said insurance wouldn’t pay to change meds til maxed on the other one.

The doctor was rushed,asked if I’d tried gabapentin for anxiety…WTF? Three appointments,a dozen calls to the staff about that toxic crap,and she didn’t remember? I know docs have a lot of patients but Geesh,can they not even take 90 seconds to glance over your chart before seeing you?

I got pretty assertive because I tried to talk to her,she cut me off,I tried to stress that I am doing everything to help myself and I don’t expect meds to be magical pills,just want to feel more like myself.

She said,’I understand’ a dozen times and it was without sincerity. Felt like a hurried brush off and I wasn’t having it.

So rather than wait for her to bring up med changes,I told her I wanna try Cymbalta again and I think the dual antidepressants might be why my anxiety is so high. Not to mention 18 months on Wellbutrin didn’t make me even want to stop smoking so there were no benefits left to it.

She agreed (and to be rid of me,I think she’d have agreed with me that pegacorns are real) so we’re starting 20 mg Cymbalta,then up to 40, while tapering to 150 mg Wellbutrin for 7 days. She is hoping this does the trick so doc nurse will only need to check in and refill my meds.i

When told I’d have to go back to nurse doc,I actually asked in dismay,’She’s my only option?’ So I bet I came off as an ass but I explained,I like Carrie fine,she’s very sweet,but she has little experience with the ink barely dry on her master’s degree,I think my treatment resistant disorder needs big guns with experience.

I was glad to be done with it. Glad to get my kid’s dentist appt over(no cavities,yay!),glad to run errands and come home.

Only to have to go back to town today and pay rent and power. I think living in Armpit is worsening my panic coping skills cos now every trip to town sets me into a tailspin of anger,fear,paranoia…like I needed that amplified.

Now the day is mine to loll about and that’s what I am doing. I took my first Cymbalta today and immediately was stricken with gastric issues and even a bit of grogginess. Which is odd cos Cymbalta used to make me pep up at first. Idk,hopefully it will pass.

Now back to my rides on the bipolar coaster,medi-go-round and playing whack a quack with a Z whacker. Life is a carnival and the carousel never stops turning.

Which kinda makes me wish a tornado would tear the damn thing to shreds.

I fucking hate carousels.

Can coming off anti depressants cause withdrawal symptoms?

Posted in biolar disorder with tags , , , , , on March 19, 2016 by morgueticiaatoms


We are legion, here in the blogosphere, what with our multiple diagnoses and medi-go-rounds. We know this to be fact.

It took doctors years to figure out their precious anti depressants do indeed cause withdrawal symptoms. Even today there some docs (like mine) who think a 5 day taper and a low dose sub of another SSRI or SNRI will ward off the all too familiar signs of withdrawal.

I am currently being humbled because, damn it, I took my last Cymbalta Monday and no major bad things going on, so hey…Kudos, Doc, the Prozac’s keeping up the slack, you were right.

Then yesterday, in the middle of fast moving traffic, I got hit with the all too familiar and ghastly….brain zap. That electric buzz somewhere deep inside your brain, like a joybuzzer pressed to your lobes instead of your palm. Random. Disconcerting. Sometimes mild. Often times a jolt that leaves you shaken to the core.

It got worse today. Lethargy, leaden-ness, hot flashes, cold flashes, feeling weak and woozy and ohhhh brain ZAP  a palooza. The noise made it so much worse.

I was also battling the car, having to put a gallon of water in it to get my kid to school, then a gallon to go pick her up so it wouldn’t overheat and fry.

R still hasn’t returned my text about the red car so I can assume this is his pouting way of telling me how busy he is. (If you’re too busy, just say you can’t do it, stop being an overachieving brat who blames it on everyone else when you’re the one who can’t say no.) Dad stopped by and was on me about it, too. Then I dared get animated and he told me to “calm down”. BIG MISTAKE. I am in withdrawal,  I am having random anxiety attacks, the weather changes have me all turned around, I can’t adjust to this time change….Nope. Do NOT deny me my ranting rights. Sure, R is doing me a favor offering to do the work. But I can’t get shit accomplished until it is actually done and I have the money for what is needed so…how am I not entitled to get animated and frustrated?

Ugh. Then my mom called and told me she’s spent about $150 on my kid’s Easter, got her a Frozen Bike and an Elsa helmet. And it’s like…yeah, my life is circling the drain and I am busting my ass but grandma will get all the credit cos she’s a fucking moron with money….Same shit, different day.

This was supposed to be a very short post. Damn it. Stupid brain won’t shut up.

I braved Aldi today, figuring I’d better grab food lest the brown car totally die and then I’d be out of food and reliant on a  family member (satan’s posse) to haul me around…I hate Aldi. Just…It’s wide open space, too many people, too bright lights…Just…NO. And had the internet not gone down (as it’s been all week off and on, fuckyouverymuch, tornado) I probably would have skipped it. I reiterate, when refilling ice cube trays feels taxing…A trip to Aldi, carrying it all out after shopping, packing it in, putting it away, then cursing cos you forgot something…

Call me weak but I needed a Xanax.

I have a lot of stress but I’ve needed more Xanax this last week than I did in the last month. I think that too is a symptom of this ass trash Cymbalta withdrawal. (Only one as bad was Effexor and they did that to me back when tapering was unheard of, it was cold turkey and I slept with a knife under my pillow cos I was hallucinating for a week.) I’ve come Xanax cold turkey and it was less grueling than brain zap city.

In what I hope was an act of good karma or at least not being a taker…During my hellish trip to Aldi, I lucked out as someone had left a cart with the quarter still in it thus saving me a quarter. When I returned the cart, though, rather than pocketing that quarter…I left it for the next person who might not have one on them for a cart.

No, I don’t expect to be nominated for sainthood. It was a small thing, but it reminds me amidst all this shit going on with my life…I haven’t deteriorated into a completely selfish monster of a human. Something nice happened for me, I paid it forward, so to speak. Well, I guess you have to be in my shoes and hear from your own family what a selfish monster you are (for being introverted) to realize even the tiny things help you feel better about yourself.

At last my spawn has dozed off and I want to do the same even though it is only 8:24 p.m. An hour earlier if you take out that time change. Which, for the record, in combination with the midwest’s mild winter yet cool spring….I’m ten kinds of confused. I have to set six alarms to get my ass up. That’s sad cos it wasn’t that bad back when I had to shovel snow and warm the car up.


Tomorrow should be fun. My dad is gonna meet me out at DMV (allegedly) so we can get all this paperwork done on the red car. But until R has the red car ready to roll, I am in this hellish holding pattern and dad wants to take the brown car with him once all the stuff is switched at the dmv to mom’s name. So basically I am gonna be on foot, at R’s mercy, and completely miserable.

As I muttered angrily yesterday looking under the steaming hood at a plethora of car parts, “I shoulda taken auto shop instead of fuckin’ home ec.” And I meant it. You can always spring a dollar or two for take out. Getting a car fixed ain’t that cheap or quick or easy. If I had learned this stuff, I wouldn’t need to rely on overbooked grumps….

Argh. The counselor used to say I sometimes only see in black or white but that all correlates to mood cycle. I see in shades of gray at this moment. I feel bad for R’s stress and for asking this of him when he has so little time. He’s not the devil. But ya know, at the same time…He wouldn’t be as kind to me. He wouldn’t give me the benefit of the doubt. He’d just dismiss me as being demanding.

So I don’t think I have trouble seeing gray, black, white, the whole spectrum. I think others have a problem doing it in return.


Random As Fuck

It’s been most of my week so it’s kind of “funny cos it’s true but also sucky cos it’s true.”