Archive for panic attacks

Panxiety Ninjas

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

Paranoid anxiety (panxiety) has swooped in like a band of ninjas, wielding nunchuks, swords, and sick martial arts moves that make Van Damme look lamer than he already does. I have no idea what happens to my brain when this ninja panxiety attacks, the only real trigger is that my dad’s on my last nerve with all his putdowns and his hypocrisy and racism. He used a very rude term to describe Martin Luther King day and no amount of me telling him it offends me makes him stop it. I just can’t handle too much of the man, he is so negative toward everything but himself, his woman, and their 23 year old man child. Not that my mom is any better, she glares and growls at the mention of him, like me and my sister chose him to be our father. She was the nitwit who married him and made kids with him. She got to divorce the ass, we’re stuck with him for life. And he’s a stress inducing person.

Otherwise, things are status quo. I get to keep the water on another month (mom and sis helped me come up with the other half I needed) and my cats got a bag of food, that was my birthday gift (from dad’s crew). He’s on his ‘geezer’ kick,mocking my age, which baffles me because I don’t mentally feel like a woman about to turn 46. If anything, I’d say I’m stuck around age 30 and some of the music I listen to is pretty freaking harsh and new school metal, so age isn’t mellowing me out at all. I just roll with it because yes, I do remember being a young person and making fun of my ‘old’ parents and thinking life pretty much ended at 30. What can I say, karma bit me on the ass again.

We’re facing a one two punch of weather storms, first freezing rain, then up to 5 more inches of snow. I should be in town stocking up on food and such. I can’t seem to locate my motivation. And the panxiety ninjas are making me feel very panicked and unsafe, so this is definitely not a good time to put myself in the middle of traffic and idiocy. (IT’S A CAR, NOT A PHONE BOOTH, YOU ASS CLOWN!) We won’t starve or anything if I don’t make it to town, we just won’t have a vast option for food. My kid is salty that I forgot her ramen noodles. With the shutdown and food stamps in danger and her deadbeat sperm donor not paying support, ramen may well be all we can afford for months to come. I can’t stand the stuff but I have so much macaroni, I could probably live off it two months given milk and butter to make the sauce. What I worry most about is not being able to buy her grapes and apples and stuff. She is so picky especially when it comes to healthier foods and I have this fear that she’s going to end up with scurvy or something. Personally, I know one can live weeks and months without so much as a nibble of veggies or fruits, but I’m not willing to test out that adult ability on a growing 9 year old.

She got her report card for the second quarter. All A’s and B’s. I am so proud of her. She had such a tough time transferring in so late last year and getting a real stickler for a teacher, one without patience or the willingness to give extra help to a kid in need. She doesn’t like the teacher this year, either, and it’s all boring and she hates it, but now that I know her grades are good, I feel less shitty about the forced move to Armpit. Maybe I ruined her social life because here all her friends are boys and she misses girls to play dollhouse and dress up but she’ll soon move onto tween stuff. Already she’s taken an interest in make up. I did it for her today so she wouldn’t end up looking like Pennywise. Sometimes, the school makes the girls wash their faces and that pisses me off. It’s my fucking child, I made sure the make up was soft and not garish, should be a parent’s choice, not the damn school’s. That would be my biggest problem with conservatives and small rural areas. They want to force their views down your throat and if you don’t like it, tough. To that I say…bite me. Unless she does her own make up and does indeed go to school looking like Pennywise, then it’s okay to make her scrub her face. Clowns are terrifying!

Okay, so writing helped with panxiety ninjas a little but my gut is still twisted into pretzel knots. The only good thing that came from the 20 inches of snow last weekend was that we were all pretty much snowed in and my anxiety level was fairly low. Now that people are out and about again, the noise is sparking that sense of being overwhelmed by sensory input. Just the ice dripping on the air conditioner sets my skin to itching. The cats aren’t helping, jumping and chasing and knocking stuff down. This was a fine time for Dr. Sadistic to hand down a practice wide ban on high dose benzos. NOT. I have every intention of getting put on a list for the next new doctor they bring in, this nurse doc thing isn’t working if they don’t even have the power to control their own patient’s medication amounts. I keep looking for contact information on who heads the center so I can lodge a complaint about this doctor’s abrupt edict. They put me through hell between cold turkey Prozac withdrawal and halving my Xanax without tapering. If this is their standard of care, they suck.

Oh, cripes, my dad’s on the phone, wonder what about me he is putting down today. (eye roll)


To Hell(mart) And Back and Censorship Sucks

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

We’re under a weather watch for 3 days, a possible 7 inches of snow coming our way, so I finally forced myself to go to town for groceries. I was too exhausted just battling Hellmart (Walmart) to bother going to any other stores even to save a buck or two. Man, that store gets me cussing and frustrated and angry almost instantaneously. And it was busy as hell cos of course, everyone in the surrounding Podunk wants to ‘stock up’ in case we’re facing some storm of the century thing. Trips to town are less escape, more terror inducing these days. My dad and stepmom seem to think this means I am adapting and hate bigger towns. No, I just hate fucking morons who have confused their with being a phone booth. City folks got nothing over the rednecks or small town charmers.

A friend emailed me and suggested I keep track of my mental state but keep it rated G cos doctors can have their sensibilities offended by such awfulness as words like ‘fuck’ and ‘asshole’. She’s not wrong. But the thing is, I do make every effort in certain situations, to use situation appropriate language. So I’m not so uncouth that I don’t know the difference in how to carry myself with a doctor say, versus swapping ‘fuck you’ trucker talk with my dad’s crew. Thing is, even with my filters in place, I don’t always manage to catch myself and there are times…

I don’t wanna be fucking censored. My blog is one of those places. If swear words offend the nurse or doc, oh, well. How can they expect me to be honest with them about how bad I am feeling if I have to spend the whole time watching my language like some lame pre-teen? I keep a handwritten journal, as well, and filters are off in it, too. This is me. Of course, I would never go to a school event, church, or court proceeding touting everyone as ‘jackass clownfaces.’ But if I am supposed to be honest about my mental state? The swearing-to-normal-word ration is the most telling. Much like people who disintegrate into using strings of emojis in texts because they’re too drunk to type…if I am bursting through my own filters and swearing out loud, it’s because…I’m falling apart. (I think I muttered ‘hate this fucking place’ six times at hellmart, because I couldn’t find anything and no one was around to help and it was wall to wall people and I bumped into several of them and….oh, fuck it, fuck fuck fuckity fuck it.)

My friend has a point, and I am going to take it to heart in future ‘private’ writings to track my moods and anxiety. But my blog and vlog…this is me. Deal with it. Or go back to the G rated pages.

Also…I like my tech as much as anyone but when I hear ‘there is an app for that’ concerning mental health issues and it doesn’t involve free therapy…It’s little more than breathing exercises, natures sounds, and mindfulness bullshit. If that helps you, you are so fortunate. For me, it does nothing to slow down my heartbeat during the panic attacks so that I can hear anything over my own thudding heart muscle. Having said that, I’d like to try this Calm app that is getting so much ad space on my TV though I suspect my mp3’s of thundering rainstorm would be just as soothing. Now you give me a therapist in an app so I can get the damn nurse off my back about therapy, I’d be all in. Sadly, my insurance doesn’t cover such ‘luxuries’. How hysterical is that? The doctor and nurse think it’s crucial to my progress but my insurance only covers minute services at one very disreputable place….

Sometimes, I think the message is ‘you don’t matter cos you’re mentally unstable so kill yourself already.’

And it is those dark moments when I want to give up and give in that I am so very very thankful….

to be a foul mouthed bitchbeast who has zero probably saying OH FUCK YOU! even to her own brain.

Besides, I never Tipper Gore and her PMRC censor my heavy metal music when I was a kid, I’ll be damned if anyone will censor me as I face turning 46 this month.

Fuckest thou. There, I did it classy and Shakespeare like 🙂

Kardashians Under The Bed

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , on January 9, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

I’d like to take credit for that title but alas, it stems from an episode of American Housewife in which the mom reads a ‘bedtime’ story to her ocd neurotic 9 year old and the little girl is stressed out and asks her dad to check under the bed in case the Kardashians are hiding under there. That was bloody brilliant and it’s relevant to this post because…

The world has become my trigger for anxiety. Kardashians, Trump, collusion, shutdown, social media, round and round it goes and it does not stop. I am two steps from fearing a Trumpdashian being under my bed. Doubtful since the dust bunnies would make them recoil in horror but with the proliferation of social media, there is literally no escape even if you live like it’s 1890 and avoid electronics. I drive into town and BAM. Applebee’s has a sign out front asking me to like them on Facebook. I don’t even use Fuckfacebook (me, a couple of shed dwelling rednecks, and the cats are probably the ONLY ones who don’t, and the cats I wouldn’t vouch for, they are shady as hell.) Drive a little further, some bank’s LED sign is telling me to follow them on Twitter. No escape. I try to avoid news yet I have lived so many years with my head in the sand, I feel obligated, to my own detriment, to at least watch some news on TV and read emails about breaking news across the world. Because like it or not, there are some pretty stressful, ugly things going on that impact hundreds of thousands of people and I won’t do them the disservice of looking away even for my own good.
I don’t know what the answer is. It is the shittiest time possible for the psych center to cut my Xanax in half, I can say that much. They are fucking sadistic. I left a message with the receptionist about not sleeping even being worse than before but she gave me the ‘it’s practice wide, no high dose benzos for any patients…I can’t take Trazadone cos it could cause serotinin syndrome. Can’t take nasty Scaroquel cos of potential interaction with other meds. I can’t pay for Lunesta or Ambien. Wtf. Do no harm. They are doing harm.

I woke this morning with a headache and I think that stems from wearing glasses that were from 5 years ago and thus the old script is straining my eyes. I immediately started to panic, for no apparent reason. Oh, maybe it was my kid asking if I was going to town today. Yesterday that was the plan but during the night, my give-a-damn went away. I just want to stay in my safe space and not cope with all that bullshit. 6 days straight without leaving Armpit. Even now that I have gas in the car (thanks to an amazingly thoughtful and generous friend)…I can’t seem to rally. I’m not in the mental space that is required to go into that madness. And honestly, there’s still food in the fridge/freezer and if I truly need a necessity like milk, I can pay a 70% mark up and buy it at the minimart here…I just feel like my inability to muster up the give a damn and go to town is failing Spook, though I am fairly certain child services never removed a child cos mommy didn’t buy a box of fudge round snack cakes…

This depression is kicking my ass and the anxiety attacks and panic attacks are shredding what little sanity I have left. I am also freaking out because I need $19 to pay my water bill in full and so I have been asking the family if they could pool resoures to give me cash for my birthday on the 22nd. For the water bill, yippee, happy birthday. The heat bills are killing me. And then there are those damn Kardashians under the bed and Oompa Trump loompa all over my news feed and TV. Permission to scream?

Much as the internet has saved my life and allowed wonderful people to come into our lives that we otherwise would not have known…I think it has a detrimental impact on many people’s mental health. And The Copperdrone and his tantrums are as much to blame as any social media Kardashian monster.

No escape.

If My Psych Nurse Liked Me…She probably doesn’t now

Posted in depression with tags , , , , , , , on January 3, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

Another wake and sleep night on top of major pain from my monthly curse so I didn’t really wake up bright and bushy tailed, just resigned to get shit done in town and get back to my safe space. The psych nurse got me in a few mins early, things were going fine, she agreed we could take out prozac and add celexa (though I didn’t agree with her at all about there being no withdrawal from prozac, even when added to another anti depressant, you still get the crazy brain zaps)…then as a nurse practitioner, she informed me the doctor who oversees her work has issued an office wide cap on benzos for all patients…so without even being weaned, they’ve knocked me from 1 mg times 3 daily to 0.5 times 3 daily.

Now, mind you, I’d just been asked-and told her- that while the major panic attack days have me taking the full 3 mg, I usually make do on half that whenever I can.

But then she told me that my dose was being cut in half, no tapering, just an edict handed down from some doctor I’ve never met or seen and I have no recourse. My first words were, “What fucking quack did this?” Then I asked if it was osteodoc, who now oversees the inpatient program and thinks all psych meds are alike so only 3 should be on the formulary…but I don’t even get to blame him, it’s some other doc entirely who has an issue with patients on benzos whether they have shown a predisposition to abuse them or not.

I got downright salty and testy after that, then took a breath and said, “It’s not even the doseage, it’s knowing that it’s there if I absolutely NEED it whereas when you lower the dose, and you have a bad spell, then you’ve got no wiggle room.” And my biggest thing is being boxed in. I come out like a caged animal.

But alas, I can’t do fuck all about it, this doc has seniority and the alphabet soup degrees so my psych nurse has very little wiggle room herself if it is contrary to what Dictator Shrink decrees.

I tried to dial it back but…too late, I was already running ‘hot’ on Wellbutrin ( if it keeps me from hitting snooze 7 times every morning, I can deal with a little bit of hyper high strung ness) and Xanax is one of my hot topic issues cos I worked my ass off getting my dose down whenever possible, but the biggest part of this-ironically-is that only by being allowed to go to 1 mg three times daily was I able to control my use of the medication. Because I knew I could if I HAD to. Now…Even if I took the entire 1.5 at bedtime, it wouldn’t help sleep and it sure as hell ain’t gonna keep me calm. I have a HUGE problem with other providers who swoop in with their own biases and decide this is what is best for EVERY patient practice wide. How dare you say I can’t handle the responsibility of managing my Xanax use without even having met me once!!!!

I apologized for being mouthy and high strung but I am fairly sure nurse practitioner M. has now witnessed hurricane Morgue and formed the opinion that I am unpleasant.

Damn good thing she wasn’t in the car with me when I got behind some old dude driving 10mph and screamed, “What the fuck, you cocksucker motherfucker?” I swear a lot when I am angry, but it seems wiser to do that and offend certain sensibilites than to do what I’d really lurve to do, and that is use my car as a battering ram against idiotic people.

I got my meds filled, got half way out of town and had to go back cos I forgot to drop off the rent money order, then I realized I’d better stop again and make sure Spook has fresh bread for her Nutella sammiches…And after my nurse appt and the lowering of my Xanax, I was just livid, I only wanted out of that place where I was so tempted to play bumper cars.

I should be taking down the tree, cleaning house, bathing.

I am not.

Later isn’t looking good either, according to my Tragic H8te ball.

I know I am being asinine and it’s all tied into my rebellious nature but at the same time…if I can’t get prescribed enough Xanax to ward off the paranoia and panic attacks, I’ll be right back to where I was December 2016-drinking to escape the anxiety. Not hard to do when your sister and her friends are big drinkers and as long as you make them laugh they will include you…I don’t want to be that person again, damn it. I feel like I am being punished but it;s not cos I or anyone else did wrong, it’s because the one all mighty psychiatrist has seen issues with patients using benzos so now we all must be punished…

Oh, and these professionals don’t know as much as they think because YOU DEFINITELY CAN GO THROUGH WITHDRAWAL FROM ANTIDEPRESSANTS EVEN IF YOU REPLACE WITH ANOTHER. Brain zaps that go to the core of your body and mind are not something you make up nor can you just smile and shrug it off. It sucks. Take the meds, go off the meds, then replace them and talk to me. Maybe it’s not that way for 100% of people but it is for me and to be so discounted because ‘the literature says’…

Can I go back to swearing as a coping mechanism?

Hmpph. Here, have a photoshopped spider cat, it made me smile. It will likely make everyone else cringe. Good.

Don’t Wanna Be My Friend No More

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , , , , on January 2, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

Yes, the metal queen has quoted a song by Pink but it’s never applied more than it does right now.

The anxiety ninjas came out of the bushes swinging and I as usual, I never saw it coming. I’d been managing okay up to when I went to figure out the bills for January, knowing it was not gonna be pretty but I didn’t expect…to spiral out, meltdown, and get hit with massive waves of panic and sheer terror.

I can’t afford my water bill and there was no way to factor in the amount til it came in today’s mail, so I lowballed my guestimate and…fail… I forgot about needing $30 to renew my driver’s license. I have not even put gas in the car and I have about 70 miles left on the tank…until Feburary or B.), someone decides to give me cash for my birthday January 22nd. (This is where you put your head between your knees and remind yourself how to breathe properly, repeating the ‘panic attack will not kill me’ mantra.)

It’s just so whacked out how abruptly the panic ninjas came at me with their throwing stars and nunchuks and whatnot. Now it’s like my scalp is crawling, breathing isn’t second nature, and I am totally feeling like I am gonna spin out of control.

To add injury to insult…I tried to empty a large bag of cat food into the plastic container we use and…I STABBED MYSELF IN THE EYEBALL WITH THE CORNER OF THE GIANT UNWIELDY BAG cos I lost my hold on the sack.. Ffs, what kind of loser stabs herself in the eye with a cat food bag? But hey, you gotta realize just how steel cage death match my relationship with my daughter is any time I ask her for help or to do something for herself if I was more willing to hurt myself than ask for her assistance. That and I am hormonal and thought getting up and moving around might alter my mental state…

All it did was send me into freak out free fall and overwhelming feelings of “I am so sick of being me, I don’t wanna be my friend no more.” I truly am exhausted, with wearing the masks of functionality, forcing the smiles and laughter, allowing people to condescend to me when I am panicking as if their cruelty is right and my ‘overreactions’ are just silly. I’m tired of constantly feeling like I fail my child when I am doing everything in my power NOT to fail her.

If I want to be brutally honest, it’s probably been brewing for a few days. I forgot the pharmacy put my change in the paper bag with my refills (funny how I can only get the ones with 0 or one dollar copay) and I forgot about it til three days later when I realized I should have more cash on hand. So I dug through the nasty wet filthy trash and found the empty pharmacy bag but NO money anywhere inside. So I have this vague memory that maybe I put the bills under the something cos I was in the middle of doing what not but I’ve hunted high and low in the house and nothing. This is NOT like me. Though the abrupt blank outs, like when watching a show and they use slang or some tech term I don’t get, so I go to Google it…and in that 15 second span I have blanked out on what it was I wanted to look up. Sooo frustrating, not to mention humiliating.

I don’t wanna be me anymore.

I wish my life was a TV show. Then I could get canceled and come back with a better written and acted version perhaps on a better network.

I sounds nuts. What do you expect of a grown woman with two posters of Cheshire Cat on her wall? I’m mad as a bloody hatter.

And I am terrified.

Earlier, I felt half level, half lucid, thought well, I will just have to let them cut off our internet and phone so I can swing the petcare fees even though I’d still be facing collection action based on contract length. I was…half calm.

Now I am totally flipping out and I don’t like it. I don’t want to be friends with me, I don’t want to be me, I just…

To return to my metal roots, allow me to go super retro with Helloween’s “I WANT OUT”. The words resonate 30 years later, for me.

And again, if you can help even with a share, maybe we can pull together and get our male cat fixed first, then the girls. Godsmack has a deformity so she can’t make milk and all 3 litters she’s had have died so…she definitely needs spayed. And if you just want to help out cos you like my writing or my cats or are just feeling nice cos my state of being a hot mess makes you feel pretty damned good about yourself.
Also, my demonic Godsmack looks hungry for soul food, how I wish I had a camera quality enough to show her beautiful blue eyes instead of the demon cat eyes.

Now…I’m gonna work on the breathing thing again. I can feel another wave of downward spiral coming. (NIN The Downward Spiral, geesh, does my brain think of anything not in terms of music or pop culture?)

Hopefully you guys will remain my friends.

Right now, I just don’t wanna be friends with me. This too shall pass. That is called naive optimism.

A Few Hours In The Mind Of Morgueticia (longish read)

Posted in depression, mental health blog with tags , , , , on October 2, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

(I used to do my random posts this way, just jotting time and stuff on my mind then, so I am gonna revisit that, let me know if you’d like more of it on occasion and if not…well, continue your inability to click like or comment, I hate the status quo but it beats being trolled.)

11:21 a.m.
Panic is rising the longer I wait to see if my check direct deposits. I feel panic seeping in as if this has never happened before when it has. What if they canceled my disability and I didn’t get told because I forgot to change my address? Did I change my address properly? I checked several times, so I know I did, but what if the computer glitched it up? I saw the landlord across the street as his other property across the street and the panic increased. He’s used to me paying early or at least first thing on the first, he’s going to think I’m blowing him off. Or does he remember he rents to me? What if he knocks on the door to ask for the rent? The scumag brain goes round and round and simply does not care for reasoning. So I sent in the troops, ie; Xanax.

11:28 a.m.
I’ve noticed when I am anxious and stressing, I pee more. Idk why that is. So while I drink tons of water and pee a lot anyway, now that the ‘expected’ has become an EEEVIL DEVIATION with my check MIA…suddenly the anxiety metastasized to ‘what if I am peeing so much cos all the meds for 20 years have damaged my kidneys?” You don’t have to tell me how ridiculous it is. Panic is not a rational disorder.

11:41 a.m.
Middle of writing…power went out. And I went into meltdown mode. The trailer had a breaker box so I could check if it was tripped. This old place has fuses and I don’t know what means a fuse has blown short of it being blackened and my dad and stepmonster are working so who the hell am I gonna call…I checked to see if other room lights worked to see if it was a fuse and they were all out so I moved onto…wandering the house in a manic panic, using my phone to check the website for power outtages in the area, hoping just because I’m 3 days late on the power bill (bite me, donor) they turned off our power…It was only 10 minutes and the power came back on but…my heart is pounding, my pits are sweating, I feel thirsty, and I am all jittery…
Deviation Is EEEvil for me. Routine is important, much as I don’t like stringent routine. I need at least a ‘loose’ routine I can rely on, like my check coming on the first or whatever or people calling before they freak me out with a knock on the door, or trying to watch Frasier at night before bedtime because for some reason, I find it a calming show….I need MY effed up routines to keep even a precarious balance and today…I am being kicked in the face. I know power outtages aren’t personal, digital banking isn’t either, my kidneys are fine, the landlord is not out to get me cos rent isn’t paid by noon…
So why can’t I reason with the panic that sends my physical responses into nasty hyperdrive?
People fail to understand when it comes to mental disorders, our minds are so disordered, we kind of rely on certain outside routines to guide and comfort us. Deviation sends me into a tail spin and it takes awhile to get back to my ‘sane’ space.
I don’t want coddled or pitied. I just want to be understood and have this aspect of my disorder respected because it’s as crucial to my mental well being as medication, therapy, exercise, etc. Empathy works better with me than criticism and ‘buck up’ speeches. Which is all I’ve ever gotten from family, friends, and romantic relationships so maybe that’s why I need the softer touch, the supportive voice. We always want what we’ve never known.

12:02 p.m.
Mind is racing as I ponder how this check deposit deviation is really mucking it up my week. Spook has a 4 day weekend so my free time to get stuff done without her in tow fussing about how much stuff I can’t afford to buy her is so limited. Plus that yard sale nightmare. And paying bills. The panic is abating, but it’s sped my mind up so much it kind of feels like I’m on a roller coaster and the Joker is at the helm. Make. it. stop. or at least slow down. Damn it, check, deposit already, I NEED TO GET STUFF DONE SO MY ANXIETY LEVEL CAN GO DOWN!
For every idiot who has ever said that panic attacks are silly and not real has NO idea how one or two panic inducing events on top of a deviation from routine impacts my mental state. It’s humiliating.

12:15 p.m.
I am knee bouncing out of agitation born of anxiety. I never bounce my knee cos personally when others do it, it makes me nervous. (is that irony or morony?) I could just abandon all hope of my check coming but with direct deposit, it could come any time. I never know. And my mind is so preoccupied I can’t seem to function in any other capacity than sitting on eggshells and bouncing my knee. I know, DO something, distract myself, accomplish something. (Oh, no, my nose itches, my mom always said that meant a call or company, stupid superstitions she programmed into me) I am frozen in half panic mode. I had a few good days, I guess this is the aftermath.

12:26 p.m.
Damnit, disappointment. I got a text and thought oooh maybe it’s my deposit. Nope. My brother asking a question. Sorry, bro, no offense to you but I was really hoping it was notice of a deposit to my account. And a second text that isn’t my deposit….GRRRR.

12:29 p.m.
Smack me with a shovel, my deposit is in. Now to go spend it all paying bills and hoping I still have $20 left to buy food for my spawn.

3:15 p.m.
Rent and power paid for the month, gas in the car, car insured a little longer…Now I need $170 to food and water bill and my kid’s Halloween costume and internet. (Though I’ll live on ramen if I have to to keep the net, this is my ONLY social life, it keeps me from ya know, killing things.) Then we gotta turn around and raise another $600 to keep afloat at least the sixty days the donor has by law to start paying again. (And only IF he or the new employer turn it into the state, which he’s required to do yet never has and yet they do nothing to punish him, fml.)
Had to explain a call I placed to dad’s earlier when the power went out. And of course, I heard the “You need to calm the hell down, you’re always getting upset over nothing…” PANIC DISORDER, ASS TRASH. I do take things hard and I don’t mean to. The donor used to baby talk to Spook about ‘tell mommy not to get so bent.” Um, bent is pissed off. Panic is freaking out. Get it right, dumbass.
Time for the spawn to be getting home. The alarm ringtone to remind me is the American Horror Story theme. Gotta keep your humor even if it’s macabre.

4:13 p.m.
I lasted six hours in a bra and just freed myself from the unsexy bondage of some sadistic lingerie designer with singing out loud and dancing, “I get to take my bra off, I get to take my bra off!” My child laughed her butt off. She’s at that age where she wants boobs so bad and wears little training bras even though she’s still not there yet…I let her have her dreams of bras being pretty and comfortable simultaneously. She has a long life ahead of her to learn how untrue that is. Unless she escapes the family curse and is flat chested and thin so comfy bras are easy to find. Pfft. She already has my side of the family’s big shoe size so I’m not optimistic for the poor child.

4:20 p.m.
No, not time to smoke pot, that stuff is expensive. And it makes me stupid. No, my kid has the neighbor boy coming over to play so my anxiety has spiked again as he is much younger and all they do is bicker. But I can’t bring myself to condemn her to boredom or let her go blind and braindead with too much LCD screen time. What amazes me is that I think her and this one boy stress me out as much, of not more, than 7 years at the trailer park where every single day there’d be 2-7 kids in my yard. It’s the bickering and how much Spook bullies C that really bothers me. I don’t do confrontational with any grace.

4:51 p.m.
I LOATHE the ‘new and improved’ gmail appearance. I put if off til they left me no choice and I was right to do that. Deviation is fucking EEEEVIL, HAVE WE NOT COVERED THIS? I have an open mind and like change to some degree, but I also like the right to say “Hey, the old unimproved way works better for me.” Take that choice away and I get fucking hostile ala Pantera. Gmail now looks all bloaty like wide ruled paper and the attachments trigger me with the red text showing in the in box and…C’mon, Google, can’t you let us old schoolers opt out?
This is as traumatic as when Firefox put my home button on the left side of the page and it took 2 years for me to rewire my brain and typing and clicking hand. STOP MAKING THINGS BETTER UNLESS YOU LET SOME OF US DECIDE WE LIKE THE WORSE OPTION.

4:55 p.m.
I found Nemo. Well, not the fish, but the lip balm my daughter was wanting. I was ‘cleaning’ and forgot where I ‘reorganized’ it to for three days. This is like earlier when I tried to put the unfrozen ice cube tray in the cabinet and the plastic sugar container in the freezer. My brain is EFFED UP.

5:50 p.m.
My dad just drove by again in his big rig and honked the horn at Spook who is playing outside.Gah,living in Armpit is bad enough, but when your dad’s driving all through Harvest 7 days a week by your house….it does not make me calm and safe. If anything, I’m just waiting til later when my phone rings and he tells I parked my car wrong, the lawn isn’t mowed properly, I wasn’t supervising my child well….It never ends with him, the criticism. It was how he was raised, getting it from both parents, so I understand the damage, I just don’t get why he can’t try to break the cycle. But he is 71 so it’s unlikely the old dog will learn new tricks.
Harsh as he is…the one thing he’s boasted-correctly so-about, is that he has never abandoned any of his offspring. And that is true. He may not be warm, fuzzy, and emotionally supportive and even a spare piece of bacon warrants being ‘indebted’ to him…but he’s never abandoned us completely.
Maybe because like my child, his own biologicL father bailed when he was 2 and never appeared in his life-or supported him-again.
Gotta respect him for that much. It’s not his fault that semi truck horns blaring sets off my panic disorder. Though telling me to man up and get over it is kind of a douchey move.

5:57 p.m.
I am watching Last Man Standing (season 2) and they are up in arms over whether the grandchild should keep the mom’s maiden name since dad disappeared for 2 years or change it…
That was the only thing I caved in on with the donor. I let Spook have his last name (he would have feminized her name to name her after him, nooo, don’t feed the egos!!!). She tells me often she wants my last name but I know how much trouble my dad had legally changing my brother’s name cos he didn’t sign the birth certificate, cos ya know, he was still married to my mom when his 19 year old mistress had their love child…Spook may have to suck it up on this one. I can’ t get the donor to support her more than 6 months before he flakes out, doutbful I’ll ever have money for a legal name change.
Though noone wants my last name. Growing up being called “Harddick” is not pleasant. Until you find out “Limpdick” is even worse.

Gofundme keeps emailing to *help* er *remind* me my campaign is an epic fail with only one donation. It’s like being told, “You don’t use Facebook and Twitter, you are a useless piece of crap who doesn’t deserve to be helped!” No one cares that the reason I don’t used social media is because social media was how I found the donor and totally got fucked over so it’s all become tainted for me.

7:41 p.m.
Spawn is in bed. I am free to…um…fret that I am not ensconced in bed fully sleep medicated to ensure I am asleep by 11 p.m. Guess this is where I end the rambling and post this typewritten spewage. But hey, it’s my spewage, every word is true, and I have to live it, so consider yourself lucky if all you have to do is read it.


Give Me A Fucking Brake!!!!

Posted in depression with tags , , , , , on August 29, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

Yeah, yeah, I know the word is ‘break’…But MY REAR BRAKES ON THE CAR WENT OUT YESTERDAY so…yeah, give me a fucking BRAKE! I really have zero right to complain since it’s a $450 car and has given no problems the last six months, shit goes wrong on cars and needs replaced…I just can’t shake off the “Are you fucking kidding, I am coming out on the other side of birthday and school costs now THIS?” thing. I can’t catch a break, it’s ridiculous. The only saving grace was they went out while I was in town in traffic and I managed to get her home and parked without playing Bumper Cars with others. My stepmonster and dad have it going in Thursday night with a mechanic and they’re gonna float me (another) loan to keep it road ready but…Crikes, I am into them so far, I don’t see any end in sight. And oweing family is worse than oweing any knee busting loanshark. Especially with my family. A financial stranglehold is akin to me having to ask how high when they say jump but….I don’t have a choice.

I called my doctor’s office yesterday to check on my lithium level results. Usually, it’s a good thing. This time, my levels are fine but my creatinine is low which might indicate liver function failing so I have to have the test repeated in a month. Here’s a fucking thought: let me off the goddamn lithium and my liver might be just fine! When I am hormonal or in a situation that causes emotional overload, Lithium is great, total Novacaine for the brain. But living in that numb state 24-7,365…FAIL. Because Lamictal keeps the manic episodes at bay just fine, this second mood stabilizer and all its side effects simply isn’t necessary, it’s overkill. Now I get to spend the next four weeks wondering if my liver is gonna fail and require a transplant. Because that’s what panic attacks do. They don’t care about logic or thinking positive. They KNOW the worst is coming, and even if it isn’t, they are PREPARED for the worst. It’s like you will die if you don’t panic because that’s what all the receptors are telling you is an appropriate reaction.

Plus side, stepmonster let me borrow her SUV today so I could get to town and pay bills. Negative side, it’s a reminder I still owe her $300 for the windshield I cracked. Her SUV is nice, but driving other people’s cars is not something I relish, it makes me more nervous than driving my own car even without working rear brakes. At least I handled that bill in my sister’s name and rent and power and internet and car insurance. We’ll be broke for the next two weeks but at least we can’t be tossed in the street or forced to sit in the dark. And having it all taken care of does make me relax a little, so I am super grateful she let me take her car instead of offering to cart me around town. Usually, they do that, even if I just ask to borrow enough for a gallon of gas, they’ll follow me to the gas station and watch me fuel up then pay with their check. To say this is humiliating at age 45 goes without saying, but…it is what it is. Least today I was allowed to be a grown up.

My worthless brother in law, the ‘reformed’ stoner, actually got hired to that good full benefits job. Much as I want to be happy that it will improve things for my sister and my mom…The guy’s a douche who will likely spend every cent on a motorcycle so he can run with his wanna be ‘mc’ club friends. (God, where’s Jax Teller to smack a bitch when you need him? Sorry, SOA reference.) And while my mom and sis think I am jealous he got hired at a place that would only have me as a temp and won’t hire me again cos I missed too much work…I’m not jealous. I am morally outraged because there are so few jobs around here that pay a liveable wage and offer benefits and he gets hired over hundreds of far more qualified less lazy applicants who want to support small kids as opposed to their 21 year old still living at home….I give zero fucks about bro in law having money for a motorcycle or more computer gear (I WANT A COMPUTER TOWER, DAMN IT, I DON’T CARE IF IT’S XP AND ANCIENT AS LONG AS IT WORKS!) or X Box shit. But then hey, maybe I should butt out and take off my judgmental tin foil hat.

Hmm…Nope. I don’t want to be judgey but sometimes, people deserve to be judged for their dickbag behavior. I’ve been watching shows lately where there is so much backstabbing and corruption and sociopathy and no one apologizes for their behavior. They just become more successful and more wealthy and I think that’s a statement based on reality, as well. The socipaths will inherit the earth and fuck those of us who are decent, we’re irrelevant.

That makes me doubly pissed off because my depression already makes me feel irrelevant. It is NOT normal for me to go into a store decked out with Halloween items and not at least get sad I can’t afford to spend $5 on a ghoulish chotchky. Yet that’s where I am now. And this is not me. I remember August 2008 before Spook was born when me and the donor lived at my mom’s in a room with just a curtain and people conducting pot deals (brother in law) right in the room while we tried to sleep…donor wasn’t working, I’d missed a check due to losing my wallet and having to have everything rerouted….I had nothing, literally, even food was a luxury then…But I still had enough zest for life to go into Dollar Tree and see Halloween stuff and think, “Oh, man, bummer, that is so fucking cool, I want one…” This. Is. Not. Me.

I tacked the borderline personality disorder tag on here because…well, since they slapped me with the label and didn’t tell me, I guess I am gonna exploit every disorder I have. Even if I don’t agree with their diagnosis. I’d like to have the professionals take tests and not know which is for what, let’s see how many of them turn up borderline versus bipolar versus etc al. This is not denial, I admit the traits are there. Just not in an abundance to warrant an entire label being slapped on me. And trust me, it’s not lost on me that denial is exactly what a borderline personality would do. But I’ve met several people with that diagnosis and not one of them had the self awareness or self restraint that I possess. So I am either cured of borderline or I simply don’t fucking have it.

So now I am gonna put the brakes (ha ha ha ha) on this post and hope I get at least one like. That evil vile like button has turned me into a simpering little junior high kid hoping the popular kids acknowledge my existence with that click. Ugh, I hate myself now but I promised to write the truth in this blog and…sadly, that’s the truth. Besides. Writing is no different than making music or drawing. It’s all a form of art and artists can often be needy bitches.

Like me or…Um…Pfft, I can’t even be bothered to threaten people with a Z Whacker. Like this post, don’t like it, donate to our fundraiser or don’t…I’m never gonna rock the being popular thing so….fuck it and feed it to the fishes.