Archive for panic attacks

Climbing Walls and Crawling Skin: Life With Anxiety and Panic Disorders

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , , , , on May 23, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

For a couple of weeks, anyway, I thought my generalized anxiety disorder was being kept in check by Buspar and a Xanax chaser for the panic attacks and racing, fear filled thoughts. It only took one bad appointment with an inexperienced and obtuse psych nurse practitioner and her student nurse for me to disintegrate back into a paranoid, shaky, unable to focus or beat my panic induced inertia. I am livid and feeling helpless and hopeless. Because I don’t have any options other than this woman and I simply do not think-and never did from the get- that she has the experience and expertise to treat bipolar two disorder with seasonal depression. She’s talking about stripping away my singular antidepressant therapy and that terrifies me as much as their office wide nazi like edict taking everyone’s benzo doses down to barely adequate.

The thought of facing fall without an antidepressant-or two-in place and working terrifies me. I don’t want to go down the blackened rabbit hole again.

The fact this woman would suggest it, and be serious about it, terrifies me more.

I accepted that Wellbutrin would heighten my anxiety when I asked to go back on it after a few months break. It has been the only antidepressant that truly treats my depression and inertia with any efficacy. I did not choose to go back on it lightly. It is definitely weighing the lesser evil. What I did not foresee, however, was them handing down the strict edict on my beloved Xanax. Not all of us are addicted junkies who need climbing doses. In 20 years, I have never ever gone above 3 mg a day and often, I asked to have the dose lowered when I was coping well. And when my psych center had experienced, adequate doctors, this was a non issue. They recognized that xanax is an effective drug for people with severe anxiety and panic disorders and they trusted me to ration myself and only use what I needed. Towards the end right before the edict taking me from 3mg to 1 mg daily, I was taking 0.5 twice during the day and saving the other 2 mg for the really really bad panic attacks or bad insomnia nights. I have an enormous stash of 0.5’s, 1 mg, .25 mg. I can be trusted to monitor my usage. And I am proud to say that I have learned coping mechanisms so my go to isn’t reaching for the pills.

Today, however, it was 2.5 right out of the gate because this nurse has me freaking out. I have never felt so ignored in my life, nor have I ever had a psych professional make me feel so cornered, so vulnerable, and just utterly powerless. She seems unaware of her impact and her edicts having a bad impact on me. Her goal, likely to please her supervisor, is to get me on as few meds as possible. Well, that was the goal all along through every doctor. What they all understood was that life is fluid and rapid cycling bipolar two means what your goal is and what you need to do to survive are often very different things. I miss that level of expertise, that trust they placed in me to know what was best for me and when. I no longer feel like she trusts me or even believes a word I say, for that matter. She has zero concept of how disabling my conditions are. I can’t truly open up to someone whose back is turned to me the whole appointment while she clacks on the computer and shows zero empathy. Her detachement is a bad fit for me and I haven’t experienced it since the last time they stuck me with a nurse practitioner.

I have friends who RAVE about how amazing their psych NP’s are. I was open to the possibility because some of those friends have complex diagnoses so I figured the nurses would be just as knowledgeable as a doctor. What they lack, though, is experience and the ability to let go of all the book taught stuff and LISTEN to what the individual patient needs. It is not my goal to vilify this woman, as I am sure there are others who do find her an absolute godsend. I am just one person who finds it a bad fit, like shoving my size 11 foot into a size 8 shoe and wondering why does it hurt so much and make me walk funny. This should never be cause for a patient to feel guilty or non-compliant. Finding the right fit in any doctor or counselor or even a lawyer is crucial to being able to open up and try your hardest. When someone makes you feel minimized and does not seem to grasp the severity of your personal situations, it feeds into the desire to give up because it seems so hopeless.

I am limited by insurance acceptance and geographical location in my options. Plus, I’ve been with this center 13 years, through about 9 doctors and 2 NP’s. It was always my go to place, my godsend, my miracle working center who never gave up on me and never minimized me or pushed me beyond my comfort zone to the point I needed to take a double dose of Xanax. I just don’t know how to slow my mind and heartbeat and wobbling knees any other way. I breathe, I count, I picture stop signs and recite mantras, I have aromatherapy and sound therapy. I do EVERYTHING but their counseling and that is because my insurance covers only inept people who break confidentiality. This place thinks therapy is so crucial but they won’t let me see their staff counselors due to money. If anything, it is them who make therapy seem impossible. I can’t see someone I can’t trust, I tried that and it put me off therapy for years. So I turn to my peers in the on line community who help me calm down, gain perspective, and they validate my concerns about this NP being a bad fit and they cheer me on as a strong, tough woman who has this.

What I may not have is summer vacation with a bored kid. I didn’t get the camp counselor job, and I can’t afford to send her there, so we’re conjoined twins for the next three months after 1:30 today. Talk about being under pressure and having my anxiety heightened and metastasized. Oddly, I am calmer this summer and I credit the Buspar for that. I am just going to have to get creative and try to find cheap or free stuff for her to keep busy and pray it goes by fast. Maybe her starting counseling will help, too. And it has me unwillingly pondering going to the now behavioral health place, if only for advice on how to handle how stressful this situation with the nurse practitioner is for me. But again, I got burned badly by that place and it happened twice, so…I’m gunshy and wary, to say the least.

For today even with xanax, I am climbing walls and my skin is crawling off my bones. One 20 minute psych appointment with a bad fitting nurse sent me into a tailspin. I am salty because I was starting to feel well. Then she persisted in having me talk to her back, letting the student commandeer my session, and talking about removing the very medication keeping me afloat. Enter terror and panic that has NOTHING to do with being hooked on drugs or preferring popping a pill to alternative coping skills. I should have the right to say, this isn’t working, bad fit, my needs are not being met and I feel trampled. It should not equal non compliance or addiction or being difficult.

We should all be able to take charge of our psychiatric care and have input that the professionals do not trample and quash and send us into tailspins and down rabbit holes. That is unprofessional and borderline malpractice. I just want to be treated as an individual with my own experiences and my own genetic way of processing meds. This woman told me I wouldn’t have withdrawal from Prozac and I had 3 weeks of hellish withdrawal. Because I am not a textbook case and treating me as such does a disservice to me. As a supervisor, the psychiatrist in charge should be made aware that her staff is breaking the cardinal rule in the medical field.

Do no harm.

This last appointment, great harm was done to me. I am not okay with that.

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Pre-wedding jitters.

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , on May 18, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

It is not lost on me how narcissistic it seems to make someone else’s wedding day about my neuroses. But I am venting here,not aloud to anyone. I will plaster on my smile and perform like the trained seal I have become when it comes to trying to deny my disorders and fit into the cookie cutter world.

Heart is pounding, pits are sweating, stomach is wonky. I am up and dressed, I even fed myself, put on make up and jewelry. I was going to aim for wearing a bright blouse with black leggings but turns out, all that stuff my dad bitched at me til it got hauled off…had all my nice dress blouses in it so I have nothing but black, blue, and gray left and most are t-shirts or tank tops. So a shoulder cut out black dress with black leggings it is. I think it looks nice but no doubt the mundanes will consider it outlandish. Fuck ’em, not like I am getting anything out of this adventure in panic misery.

Yeah, I am selfish sometimes. Me, me, me, I, me, I, me. Because no one else has to live with the sweating and wonky stomach and trembling and pounding heart. Only I do. So yeah, I cop an attitude toward that which triggers these physical responses and it doesn’t matter if it’s something I don’t want to do, like go to a wedding, or something I would love to do, like go to a concert. This is my reality and I fight my disorders with all my might but…reality is what it is.

Soon my dad and stepmonster will be here so I can ride into town with them. Me, at the mercy of who ever is driving so I can’t escape on my own terms…my inability to drive in town without terror has become extreme. I wonder what the worst of the seasonal affect is gonna be like with the 75% reduced Xanax dose. Will I even be able to leave the house? Hopefully by then they at least get their telepsychiatry thing up and running and those docs aren’t under the benzo nazi’s purvue.

Okay, I am started to hyperventilate. I don’t know what’s more panic inducing, being around my dad and stepmonster or attending a wedding with dozens of people i don’t know. Both are equally horrific, I think.

The Stench Of Terror And Rejection In The Morning

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , , , on May 17, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

My heart is still shooting around my chest like a shiny metal ball in a pin ball machine. Oh, panic attacks. I got a call from a temp service I refistered for on line and got ten minutes in and by the second time he asked if I gave notice, I realized…I’d failed to give notice to my last ten jobs cos I usually went manic and saw no consequences or went down the rabbit hole and saw no consequences cos I saw no future. It does sound bad and it reflects badly on me, but I can rewrite history. I can only do my best not to repeat it. But in all fairness, I didn’t give notice to R when I ditched his ‘friendship’ and his shop wench helper monkey thing. Once I hit my breaking point, fight or flight.

Then I was told that they won’t assist anyone without at least a current reference within the last 4 months.

My heart was pounding so loud the whole time, and I felt so much guilt and shame for not giving notice so many times. No wonder my name is literally mud, with employers. I always had this immature notion that because I was a good worker, that would somehow negate my bad judgment toward the end when my disability caused me to crash and burn. You can’t live down your past in some cases. In my case, I fucked everything up so bad from so many angles, legal, professional, skillswise…If I ever get hired again it will truly be a miracle. I’ve said until I had a year of medication stability under my belt, even I wouldn’t hire myself because I don’t think a two or three month stretch of ‘decent mental space’ means the seasonal affective won’t come along and kick my ass and make me flake out all over again.

Had to put my legs up, they are trembling so bad coming off the panic attack I about dropped the computer. Damn, I hate panic attacks. Phone calls should not make you feel this terrified but it does, for me.

It is all snowballing. The home health aide rejections, the fast food rejections (my brother even gave me a direct verbal reference to the hiring manager and I can’t get an interview to sling fries!), now temp services won’t touch me. I am toxic. I never set out to be. I don’t know how to fix it except find a way to work for myself where the meltdown cycles don’t cause income to come to a screeching halt. I don’t feel like I have many other options. I got an update about a hotel maid job and there are 56 other applicants for the same position. I have zero experience in that field so I am pretty much out of the running. I still haven’t heard from the day camp and I am wondering if they ran my background and I’m out for that, too.

It is very frustrating and disheartening. I honestly though by now I’d at least have found something ten hours a week, housekeeping or something. Now my water is going to be turned off and that means the hundred dollar deposit my dad coughed up gets kept by municipal utilities…But I had to pay power and rent and buy food and gas and…

I don’t understand why people are so hard on me, yet no one is rioting at the donor’s door. No one is terrorizing him for not working and not supporting our kid. It’s all on me and it isn’t right since i am the only parent making an effort. I don’t expect an award but it’d be nice to be seen as finally doing the right thing by taking care of my kid. I could have come unglued and blamed my disorders and just let someone else raise her while I drowned in my depressive sorrows. I have changed for the better even if I am not cured but no one gives a damn.

I just gotta keep pushing ahead, there’s no other options. But I really find it insulting to be looked down on for having fundraisers when I am putting every cent of my monthly $835 into the household- $400 rent, $220 power and heat, $70 water, $47 car insurance…if someone wants to add all that up then include feeding and littering the cats, two tanks of gas for the month, plus toiletries and extra food when needed and explain to me how to get blood from the proverbial stone…I am listening. What sickens me most, I think, is the fact my kid hasn’t received a single cent for her fundraising project for the summer. That’s bloody cold. But it’s my fault for not utilizing social media. I feel bad for using my blog for personal needs that way but…it was a follower who told me I should raise funds when needed….

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

I’m pretty dejected now and already in a state of half panic so I guess it’s time to make a trip out into the petri dish. Fuck a fancy bag. I didn’t get back to sleep til 5 a.m. so I’m having one of those endless days/nights for a second day and it’s really got me space casing. Hopefully I can focus enough to drive and get groceries.

Then once my kid has left for grandma’s I can assume the fetal position, and sob uncontrollably because everything is such a mess. I have only myself to blame. Though I blame bipolar and anxiety and that isn’t too negate my own responsibility. I just maintain that my behavior stems from the information my brain is sending out so at the times I fucked up and flaked out….I was just doing what the firing impulses in my melon told me to do.

I fucked up my life and now my kid is suffering for it and I can’t get anyone to give me a chance to prove how much I have changed. The one thing I never had when I was bouncing job to job was mood stabilizers. They have made such a difference in my life, I would like the chance to prove it. But I understand why no one wants to take a chance on me.

I probably wouldn’t put my money on me, either, if I had any.

Interrupted Consciousness, Bridezillas, and SPLAT!

Posted in anxiety disorders, bipolar depression, depression with tags , , , , , , on May 16, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

I am just burning up the DSM today coming up with new disorders. Restless mind syndrome, now as opposed to interrupted sleep, I have decided sleep is my normal default so technically, it’s the waking up over and over that is the disorder.

Splat started earlier after I learned of my mom’s bad mammogram and the waiting period they stuck her with. I thought my own father might be able to work up an iota of empathy as he was married to her 28 years and no one deserves cancer even if they were a bankrupting spouse. Nope. Then his gf got involved and said oh, three weeks isn’t time for it to spread to the lymph nodes, she has plenty of time, she will be okay…Now lets talk about my low iron and how I have to get an upper GI series and a colonoscopy…SERIOUSLY? You want to put that up against potential breast cancer in a 70 year old woman whose entire family died from cancer?????? How narcissistic can one woman be?

So splat imploded then exploded and now I am back to feeling truly demoralized, defeated, depleted, and wait, because it’s only 10 p.m.

I got Bridezilla texting me and saying I gotta get my kid white or purple dress shoes by Saturday for HER wedding. I told her I have NO money. None. Zero. I just got hit with another power bill that was 45% of my income and my rent was the other 50% so now my water is gonna get turned off. So yeah, shoe money, sure, let me pull that out of my ass. I will be so glad when this fucking wedding is over. I knew it would end up being my financial problem, that was only ever the reason I didn’t want Spook involved in the fiasco. “But they’re just twenty dollars at Wal-Mart” says the 20 something with no kids of her own whose rent is only $80 a month. Twenty bucks is a LOT for me. I need cat food, I will need even more gas now since I have to make 3 trips to town over this stupid wedding, then next week Spook has a doc appointment, then I have to go back for a job interview.

I feel like my brain is trying to claw its way out of my head.

Anyone want to buy a 16 disc collection of the best of Forensic Files? Right now, it’s about the only thing I have worth around $40 on ebay. Discs are in great shape, bought new, barely used, cos I switched to digital files.

I.want.to.scream.and.smash.things.

But I am too tired and my stomach is rioting from stress and my back is hurting from sitting up to write for so long. Scumbag brain is on hyperdrive, and not in a good way. This is a perfect storm brewing and I am terrified someone is going to say the wrong thing come wedding day and I am gonna burn a dozen bridges when I snap.

This is SPLAT. This is what follows a brief hypomanic bout. Irritation, anger, defeat, zero motivation, hopelessness, and right back down the rabbit hole. We’re all mad here, said the cat.

It’s a ‘I wanna drink bleach’ kind of night and I don’t even have any bleach.

Ass Trash.

A Heartfelt Thank You

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , , on May 14, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

(In response to last night’s post, A Heartfelt Plea)

To my gleeful surprise, someone was kind enough to deposit gas money into our paypal. I did not receieve an email or comment to interact with her, so if she reads this…I want her to know how very thankful Spook and I are. I can put enough gas in the car to get us through our necessary appointments until the 31rst and I will be able to buy a small bag of cat litter since the boxes are reeking. That act of generosity and kindness means everything to us. It means someone believes that I am trying my hardest, it means someone has faith in me and believes my words and emotions behind them. It means…I was wrong about humanity being completely devoid of value these days. I LOVE being proven wrong, it really makes me happy. I know that sounds nuts, but I am a little crazy and wired very differently so being proven wrong…is a good thing for me.

My kid has already had a mini meltdown tantrum. Over a pair of pants covered in cat hair that the lint brush wasn’t helping so I said nope, not wearing those public. She went OFF, stomping so hard her flip flops came off her feet and snarling and yelling THESE ARE THE ONLY PANTS I HAVE THAT WILL MATCH! She was wearing a black t-shirt, everything matches a black t-shirt. When she starts in like that, the anger boils through my blood, because I know this is NOT my child. The more it happens, the more I know, something organic is wrong with her brain. It’s like she feels every emotion times a thousand so it’s all extremes and she can’t seem to utilize any of the coping skills the counselor and I have tried to teach her because she is on overload. To me, that isn’t simply behavioral. It sounds like something that medication could correct and improve her life quality. I am going to ask the pediatrician the 21rst when she does the well kid check up if we can get a referral to my psych center. I don’t see any harm in having her evaluated. My family keeps telling me I just want her to be a mess like me so I am programming her with doctors and counselors and wanting to put her on meds. Um, I have fought the last 7 years to keep her off meds and believe me, my life would have been much easier had I just jumped on the ‘high strung kid, must be ADHD, have some pills’ wagon. But now that I see how she struggles, and then how she ‘comes down’ and apologizes after these outbursts…I think she needs help that I can’t provide nor can her guidance counselor.

Looking forward to getting this day over with. I was so anxious about the interview last night, I think I took 300 mg antihistamines just to get to sleep. I woke a couple of times but was so leaden and sleepy, I went right back down. Then at 6:30 I laid back down, thinking, oh, I have an extra hour today…But I also knew feeling that loopy and leaden, I needed to force myself to get up and get moving. So I woke myself up by blasting Leo’s metal version of Die Antwoord’s “I feek you freaky”. That did the trick. Man, no brain can snooze through that beautiful cacophany that Leo recreated with his own flavor. A thing of obnoxious audio beauty.

I think I will just take Spook with me to the interview, since mom can’t watch her and honestly, I can’t afford to rack up 80 extra miles and gas money running her back so she can be at school 90 minutes and still be counted absent the whole day. It either counts for me as in she has a kid and needs work, or against me, as in she has a kid and can’t even find a sitter for a half hour. My dad told me to take her to my mom;s but my mom is busy today, so that shows you what he knows. He only thinks he knows it all. I am glad I called to ask her before making an asshole assumption.) Whatever, let’s just do this and be done with it. I may have slept the sleep of the dead, but my anxiety and panic are in the stratosphere. I’ve used antiperspirant three times and still my armpits are sweaty. Think I need those new DFA approved wipes for excessive sweating, geesh. My stomach is wonky, I am hungry but no way, even with the pepcid a friend sent me, is my stomach stable enough for food right now. Everything is on hold until this is over with. I try to talk myself out of that line of thought but this is just how it’s always been for me. Let’s face it, though. Any activity where I am forced to wear a bra is gonna be something I can’t wait to get over with.

I’m not hypomanic anymore. That two day phase has ended. Not quite to splat yet, either. Just coming down. It is, like I’ve always said, a lot like a drug, being bipolar and having manic episodes. You get so high, you think nothing can touch you and you are too happy to entertain the possible bad outcomes of your extreme behaviors. Then the high either turns into immediate splat or slow free fall splat and it’s like coming off a drug. I would assume but I’ve never really dabbled with many drugs so I can only assume that’s how it is.

Now to put on the dreaded torture device called a bra and a ‘ladylike blouse’ so I can feign being a civil muggle mundane worker bee who is all cured and not at all disabled anymore. Blah.
PLEASE COULD SOMEONE VISIT MY KID’S YOUTUBE PAGE AND CLICK LIKE OR LEAVE A COMMENT??? This morning she said she was gonna delete it ‘since everyone hates me’. Yeah, I know, it’s a little manipulative but I have that feeling myself sometimes so…throw the dog a bone. Or feed the spawn a soul, whatever euphamism you want to use.

Spork of fortitude for anyone who just clicks a heart or share for her vacay project.

And I posted a couple different video clips, if you wanna check it out.

Survival Versus Self Care

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on May 10, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

I have been reading a great deal about the practice of ‘self care’ which involves pretty much all humans but takes on greater meaner for those with mental health issues.

Right now, I am on the brink of breakdown and madness, due to the fact the ex is $5000 behind in support and the court has zero intentions of making him step up or even hold him accountable with penalties. I am trying to get a job but 63 other people are vying for one position on one application, so it’s maddening and very discouraging.

I am willing to work hard and earn money. I don’t like asking for stuff, it plays hell on my already tormented self esteem. Having said that, I am so very thankful for the help that I have received but I think most can grasp that self esteem comes from being able to make you own way. I wouldn’t turn down help or a winning lottery ticket or even a live in housekeeper position (if Spook can come along) because I need money NOW to keep my water turned on. But until my ship comes in, so to speak, I am trying everything I know how. I even took my brother to work the other day for five bucks cos Spook and I needed food. I am trying.

This is where survival versus self care comes into play.

I cannot tell anyone I am totally stable and kicking ass and taking names. I bust my butt trying to keep up the housework and even when I think I’ve done well, it is brought to my attention that I ‘half assed it’. Some of that isn’t blatant disregard for detail or doing a good job. I just have zero attention span, I start and stop and start and stop. I go to do one thing, get sidetracked with another. Then some days my brain is so overflowing with thoughts that I can’t even become lucid enough to choose ONE small task to complete. I miss things others would not. I tire out mentally and physically so maybe I do half ass a few things from time to time. I am making an effort. It is, however, taking so much out of me, and becoming such a trigger for the crippling anxiety and panic attacks that I am left to wonder…

When can I take a step away from fighting to survive to tend to my psychic wounds that need some self care?

The answer is, I can’t, unless I want to face the world’s wrath and being called lazy, shiftless, a user, a flake, a dingbat….

Which means I have to weigh my mental health needs against my financial survival needs and it seems like a no win situation. Forget winning, it seems like a no balance situation. And I have no support system, just a peanut gallery of critics, so for every step forward I manage, I am taking two steps backward every time those people tear into me for not putting forth enough effort, for not trying hard enough, for not being aggressive enough in job search. I know they are very wrong about me but it still bugs me.

The bottom line is, I am legitimately disabled. I am not cured. I can make every good faith effort and try my hardest but I can give no promises on how long I can push myself harder while growing mentally weaker. I need that crazy balance thing. I wish the mentally ill had the same protections as other disabled people. In theory, we are supposed to have them, but in reality…we simply do not. It is left up to us to do battle, to bust our butts and break our psyches, and because we are pushing ourselves so hard when we don’t have that much energy to spare…we end up in a loop of losing jobs, gaining bad references, being unable to get hired, unable to make a living.

If you have a chronic physical illness and you can explain your periods of not working or leaving many jobs because you had a physical breakdown that required treatment and time off, you’re golden.

However, if you lost jobs and missed work because your chronic mental illness keeps surfacing…no empathy will be forthcoming. You’re just blacklisted and might as well be labeled a biohazard.

So I did get back to R;s text but have not heard anything from him. I will keep myself open to the possibility of helping him out for a few bucks but I think I also need to practice some self care today. That means to get off the guilt train, stop obsessing over all my screw ups, and just take some deep breaths.

Self care is a legit thing, and it is legit important. I didn’t need a therapist to tell me that, though I could sure use one to advise me on how to not let all the naysayers get inside my head and drag me down. They are the ones who need a biohazard label, picking on the mentally disabled. Their mothers did not teach them very well at all about being a  decent compassionate person.

 

 

I’d Like To Strangle My Panic Disorder To Death

Posted in anxiety disorders, Friday Thoughts, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on May 10, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

Got a cryptic text at 10:38 last night from R. “Need Assistance. Are you game?” I was asleep so I didn’t see it til almost midnight and by then, well, I would not be so rude as to contact anyone by text or phone after 9 p.m. unless it was a crisis. Plus he has to be at his first job at 7:30 a.m. so he has to work sleep in somewhere and I won’t be the one to fuck that up by texting. Because I know the man is so attached to his phone, his wife complained to me he once answered it in the middle of having sex with her. Ugh, gross phones, ewww.

Now it’s 8:15 a.m. and I am trying to work up the courage to text back. Because hells yeah, I don’t have a dollar to my name, so I am willing to do some work for some cash. Here is the thing about panic disorder: it does not care about your needs or their urgency. It knows not logic or intelligence. It is simply part of my brain rioting in fight or flight chemicals with no real explanation. So working my way beyond it and replying to a simple text becomes this huge process and every part of me feels wary, leery, paranoid, scared.

Like I said, I KNOW this man. He can be a wondermous person. He is also a diagnosed narcissist so anything less than an equal relationship places him in control. Especially the money factor. He truly uses it to control others and I don’t want to go back to that. I finally got some self respect and confidence back after I cut that cancerous lump out of my life. (Yeah, I know, calling a friend a cancerous lump is an asshole thing to do.) But he ran me ragged and nothing I did was ever enough. Any issue I had was my own problem, I could not talk to him, he would not listen, and worse, he was dismissive and scoffed that any feelings I had contrary to his own agenda were silly.

But hey, maybe he really does need some help and isn’t just throwing the broke unemployable chick a milkbone for ten bucks to have me back under his thumb. Idk. I think not knowing worsens the depression. I can’t count the number of panic attacks his cryptic texts have given me over the years. I told him over and over to be specific or I’ll spend hours spinning out in panic and anxiety. Even 18 months distance between us and he didn’t learn a damn thing. Hell, the texting at 10:30 at night thing was one of the main reasons I felt I had to be rid of the toxins. I never had a real employer call me that late, so why should I have to endure it from a friend I help out so I can get a different car or earn ten bucks? I need boundaries and I need them to be respected. But having a narcissistic father who has stomped said boundaries my whole life, I know it simply is not in their character to ever ‘learn’.

I will return the text, after I spin out some more.

I did more job apps last night. Applebee’s flat out rejected an on line app because I don’t have a current number for an employer from 20 years ago. Wtf? I had to do the personality test for Sonic and pretty sure I failed it by being too honest. But they do that trickery thing by asking the same questions in different ways in an effort to catch you lying and that is such dirty pool. They didn’t even use that to elect a fucking president.

This morning the neighbor girl told me she has a second interview with one of those upscale 2 for $20 meal places. The very one that wouldn’t even take my on line app. She’s a lovely girl but she has never had a job outside corn husking or whatever they do during summers here and she is on the spectrum and can’t make eye contact so…her being your waitress seems a little odd to me. But maybe it is sour grapes born of frustration. I truly wish her the best, though. Maybe not getting certain jobs is the universe’s way of pointing out that I can’t be anything but who I am so any place that requires me to change who I am is not gonna work out well. No, I don’t expect anyone to appreciate my gallows morgue humor but I shouldn’t have to change that aspect even while off a clock.

Plus side, I woke several times during the night but did manage to go back to sleep (with more melatonin, of course,so now the increased dose means I am almost out of pills). It got down to 47 overnight so we woke to an ice box. My hands are still like ice cubes. This is how I know the Abilify is helping, it sure as hell isn’t because winter is over here.

Ok. Time to talk myself off the panic ledge and behave like a mature 46 year old woman. I still…got a bad feeling about going back down that rabbit hole. But hey with as much trouble as I am having getting a part time minimum wage job, maybe being on current record as helping a local business owner, that could be a stepping stone and recent reference to work in my favor over time.

It should not be this fucking difficult to find work to support your kid when you’re willing to do the work but no one is willing to hire you. I see how people become malcontent and vengeful. I am gonna try not to become one of those types. But I’m always gonna be a Ghoul Scout whose humor makes some uneasy. I was reading Fangoria at age 6, I  have Jason, Michael, Freddy, and the chainsaw dude on my car window, and I will never end my love affair with Halloween. Those are the good things about me.

I’d love to strangle my panic disorder to death, though, cos it isn’t a positive tic or trait.