Archive for panic attacks

Insomniac Lounge- 2:45 a..m

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 25, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

I stayed up til 10:30 p.m., thinking if I didn’t crash too early I might stand a better chance of sleeping through longer. I’m funny. Because it was an epic fail. The melatonin cocktail took hours to kick in so I took another half pill…Only to wake, again, every hour on the hour. 11:30 p.m. 12:20 a.m 1:15 a.m. 2 a.m. I got up at two out of frustration. Plus side, at least minus Restoril I am not stumbling around to get a drink or use the bathroom and falling asleep standing up. Negative, I’ve had less than 3 total hours of sleep and I feel like one should feel- tired and damn frustrated.

The anxiety kicked in yesterday when I got the reminder call that I have a shrink appointment at noon today. I have always had ‘anticipation anxiety’, be it work, an appointment, someone else’s work or appointment, my kid’s school schedule…I find it impossible to truly calm down and relax with things looming overhead. My neuroses over driving 20 miles to town and back has metastasized as the car is reaching 226,000 miles and continues to have dashboard wiring issues. It’s making a funny new noise, which has me convinced it is about to keep over. Is it neuroses and panic or is it legit concern? Panic doesn’t allow logic to enter the picture. It just sets off fight or flight mode and I genuinely dread every trip to town. Should the car break down, I have no one to call for a ride home, no money for a tow. On the interstate in the boonies is not a place anyone wants car trouble.

Then there is telling the doctor that Restoril doesn’t work and the hangovers kill me. He was absolutely clear last night that whatever I was experiencing with it was simply not possible because it’s not how the drug works. Oh, how many times have I heard that crap. It’s less about what the drug should do or does do for a million other people. Because my system responds differently to medications. Then I also have to tell him that 6 weeks at the max Cymbalta dose does not have me feeling less depressed, so another med failure. The doc is a nice guy but like every other doc that glances over my collegiate dictionary thick file, they take on that exhausted and baffled tone, “We’ve tried A to Z, I don’t know to do next. Niki.”

Like I do?

Well, I have an idea, but thanks to ass trash insurance companies, it is a no go. I did okay on Abilify last year, but I couldn’t handle the side effects. They have since introcuded a second generation of a similar drug, but they’ve tweaked it to have fewer side effects. Bitch of new meds is, big pharma can jack the prices to whatever they want and this med…is $1490 a month for 30 pills. That offends my sensibilities even if wouldn’t all come out of pocket. And the preapproval process could take weeks only to be denied, then of course, they say you can appeal, and that takes a ton more paperwork and time, essentially placing you in limbo without a secondary med and the appeal gets turned down every time. I fought to get Spook’s Concerta because it was the only one that worked for her ADHD without making her feel hazy but insurance would not even approve the appeal with the doctor on our side. And Concerta is under $400, so what shot do I have at getting something close to $1500? Sooo bloody frustrating.

Guess it’s back to the drawing board. Maybe I could give Lexapro another try, perhaps my body chemistry has changed since I tried it 6 years ago. It gave me akathesia like Abilify, which is constant movement without intention to move, your body just starts twitching and trembling and having all these tics you can’t control. Not a good side effect. Maybe try Celexa again?

The illogical thing is that every time a med fails and I have to tell the doctor-I always feel like I’m letting the doctor down. It isn’t my fault my body chemistry doesn’t respond to the meds or can’t handle the side effects, so why should I feel that way?

Maybe because I’ve tried over 31 antidepressants over the last 27 years and I can feel the doctors get frustrated with me, like I just want to try a new drug every few months for giggles. I can assure them, there are zero giggles involved when all I want is not even to feel good, I’d settle just for feeling okay. I want it more than my next breath. Unfortunately, medication resistance has become more common that the psych community would like people to know. Big pharma def does not want people to know, lest they start buying into the party line about all psych meds being bad and they don’t work. It’s not that I have faith in big pharma but I do have faith in myself and I know I’ve had successful med cocktails over the years. Maybe they didn’t last more than a year at a time but I know I can feel better than I do right now with the right meds.

I am so not going to want to get up with Spook when the alarm goes off if I don’t get to sleep soon. Then again I rarely want to get out of bed at all during winter. Just gotta remind myself with each passing day I get closer to the season change and with it comes a sort of switch being thrown in my body and I’ll feel much better with warmer temps and more sunlight. I HOPE. Depression has a way of mucking up what is your ‘norm’ sometimes.

For now I think it’s back to Fort Blankie, I am freezing and my hands are like ice cubes. I will either nod off eventually or I will be awake and getting more irate by the hour and drop off ten minutes before the alarm goes off so I can just get pissed off all over again. And it’s not even real anger, it’s frustration.

On a last note, I finally spoke up and asked about that money my stepmonster promised me for doing her bidding last week babysitting their neighbor kid. Rather than wordlessly send over $5, he says, “We’ll discuss it and let you know.”

So if you find me less than warm and fuzzy, consider that this is the man who spawned me and ‘fathered’ me. Compared to how cold he is, I am damn warm and fuzzy. He’s such a jerk. And I feel a cold coming on around Thursday thus I don’t think I should be babysitting lest I make the kid sick….

They want to fuck with me, they’re gonna get fucked with right back. Play fair or get out of the sandbox, idgets.

I Was Asked…Why Do You Swear So Much?

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , on February 21, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

My sister and I were texting last week and pissed about something so we were swapping our filthiest swear word insults at something (probably dad and stepmonster) and I said something about learning motherfucker as kid, and she said she learned cocksucker from mom and I was like, whoa, you got that from MOM? I was 7 and I learned ‘cocksucker motherfucker’ from DAD when the car wouldn’t start during winter and he’d slam his fist on the dashboard!”

We do put the fun in dysfunctional.

My dad’s a truck driver, so I grew up around swearing and filthy jokes and nudie girl calendars in the bathroom at his work. He’d bring us chocolate lollipops shaped like Dolly Parton’s boobs. Ink pens with a guy who strips naked when you turn it upside down. Perhaps inappropriate but it was one of the few things we both agree was pretty cool about our childhood. Hell, this year, he gave me a dashboard calendar of mostly naked men. We have a good sense of humor about such things in this family.

Why do I swear so much?

Honestly, I don’t like social conventions or anyone telling me what is or isn’t a ‘dirty’ word. Words only have the power you allow them to have.

I learned this in 5th grade when we moved to Podunk and I was different than the flannel and denim brigade so their favorite thing to call me was ‘weird bitch’. If it got me upset or a tear appeared, they’d laugh and hoot and it really fueled them. Sadistic little fucks. And I honestly had NO idea why they hated me so much for just doing my own thing and being myself. I mean, how did me using pink spray in hair color impact them at all? It didn’t. They were just small town judgmental jerks.

As I got older, the crude insults got worse. Slut. Whore. C*nt. Fucking bitch. Hooker.

And they loved giving me crap about being Niki Madonna, even though that phase was over in 7th grade but the name followed me til high school and as a metalhead, it offended me more than bitch.

But they knew that so one day I just turned to them and said, “Yes, would like Niki Madonna’s autograph?”

And just like that, they deflated a bit.

The next time a kid called me a whore and offered me a dollar bill to do what ‘fucking whores do’ I snorted and said, “You’d need a federal loan.”

The upper class girls, those older, wealthier than me, more popular than me…decided, based on nothing more than my appearance of wearing black and tons of make up and jewelry, that I was a ‘fucking bitch.”

I stuck to my guns and stayed true to myself. Their opinions stung and made my daily school life a living hell of being panicked in the hallway, in classes, and too much so to even eat in the cafeteria, I went to the gym to listen to my Walkman and write. But the counselor I saw told me there was nothing wrong with me, it was just small town mentality, so I knew if I changed, it wouldn’t change them, they’d targeted me and that was that.

When I started giving a curtsy and saying, “Thank you, I am a bitch, that is such a compliment!”

They backed off a bit but it was like their daily goal to see if they could make me cry. The day one of them actually spit snot in my face came close but I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

At some point, I just decided I would take all the power away from them and their rude insults. The words no longer had a good or bad connotation, they just had definitions and snarky but witty retorts. I swore that I would never again allow myself to become a prisoner of feeling my self worth was less because people chose to use swear words to describe me.

The more I used the words myself (usually to described stubbing a toe or burning a meal, not towards others) the less power it had, the less the memories hurt. Apparently that only makes sense to me but to this day…It sticks. People really don’t know to react when they call you a foul name and you smile and thank them for the compliment.

I just don’t get society’s hang ups on ‘bad words’. I mean, far as I know, there’s not a list of forbidden words in the Bible. They are ‘bad’ only because mass groups of people have deemed them that way.

There is a Canadian town called Dildo. Then we have Hell, Michigan. Fucking, Austria. Do you think the parents wash their kids’ mouths out with soap for reciting their full address?

I’m a liberal, so I guess I have a hard time seeing things from a conservative’s or religious person’s shoes. I try to be circumspect in certain social situations but when it comes to my family, friends, or my blog…This is just how I talk. It is how I vent anger and anxiety and stress. It keeps me from slapping people and throwing shit against the wall in a furious meltdown. They are just WORDS. Kind of like numbers are just numbers, yet people assign them some sinister meaning. 666, number of the beast, unlucky 13. It’s asinine.

Swearing is a choice and I respect those who have chosen not to do it. But at the same time I’d appreciate not being judged just because this is how my family communicates and it’s no big deal to us. \

I like being a ‘nasty woman’, it’s the ultimate fuck you to misogynistic dickbags who think it’s okay for men to be perverted and swear but if women do it, we’re nasty.

I’ll go Shakespeare polite here-

Fuckest Thou.

Words only have the power you give to them and I stripped them of their power over me.

Midnight Meltdown

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , , on February 19, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

Neurotytpical (those without mental health diagnoses) people wake up to use the bathroom, get a drink of water, or have a midnight snack.

Neuroatypicals (those whose brains operate differently due to mental health disorders) wake up…to have a midnight mental health meltdown.

After my brain allotted me two measly hours of sleep after an hour battling to get to sleep in spite of enough drowsy inducers I should have been out all night…I woke up, acutely aware my bedroom is freezing thus I feel cold from the inside of my body to the outside. This is a kind of discomfort I can’t even put into words. No one should be indoors, covered in clothing head to toe, and still be shivering uncontrollably. Yet I am and I was. I got up to drag a heater into my bedroom, then had to mess with stringing the cord to the outlet in the dining room, because this house is so ancient each bedroom only has one outlet and you don’t want to fry an outlet with TV, speakers, lamps, and computer already plugged in by adding a heater, so you have to get creative in making the outdated tech meet your needs. Anyway, dragged the heater in, wrapped myself in my plushie robe, and I am typing this even though my hands are so cold I may as well have been outdoors all night. I keep trying to tell my psych doc that part of my seasonal depression isn’t merely less sunlight, it’s because I am always freezing and I can’t think clearly when I am shivering and living under blankets. But that symptom isn’t in their handy dandy Diagnostic manual so it can’t be relevant.

Since I was jarred from sleep and the process of dragging the heater and turning on lights to run a cord woke me mentally, I checked my email.


I need not be reminded a simple email of basic communication and request for clarity is not a legit cause for fight or flight sensors to go on red alert. That would be why I am diagnosed with a panic disorder. My wiring senses the tiniest things as threats that require fight or flight.

Nothing is a bigger trigger than overly organized super functional people rattling off the mind boggling list of all they have going on in their lives yet they’re still willing to take on more to juggle…

Meanwhile, I manage a trip to town once or twice a week, bathe once a week, and do my dishes eventually…I think I’ve been super busy and super successful.

Even if you can manage to escape your own tendancy to compare yourself to others thus sparking the self loathing and feeling inadequate…the world is always there to remind you of your inadequacy in its own way. My father being example number one. His entire existence seems to be based around on upping everyone around him so if his neighbor works ten hour shifts, he has to spend 12 hours driving his truck, hauling things to the grain elevators. So anyone who doesn’t have his one up mentality is a slacker and he isn’t even politely silent or taking vague digs, he is very blunt about his thoughts on anyone who does not meet or exceed his own standards. Which is why I complain so much about his phone calls. He sucks the soul and the life out of me with that bullshit.

Comparing a fully functioning neurotypical brain to a neuroatypical brain is like saying someone in a wheelchair can make the same marathon race time as someone with two functioning legs. We are at a disadvantage and rather than be given any leeway, we are held to the same standards of others, even those who are overachievers thus we end up failing to meet expectations. This endless cycle of perceived or forced comparison grind down your self esteem and self worth. The sad thing is, most people are not simply jerks like my father. They are intelligent, successful otherwise kind and empathetic people who simply…cannot grasp the severity or limitations of those with multiple mental health diagnoses. They’re juggling 15 watermelons, they think you should at least be trying to juggle ten and sometimes…our mental health disorders render us unable to hold a single aople, let alone juggle watermelons. We want to do it.We simply do not have the ability.

So yeah, a simple email sent me into a tailspin, and this is the second time in a week that it has happened. I know it is most likely my neuroses to a large degree but signs have been shown that my mental health disability argument isn’t exactly considered legit so I can’t help but feel I am being viewed as inadequate if I don’t get to juggling some watermelons real fast. I do not blame others for my issue. Well, except for my dad, because his indoctrination and bullying have been going on 47 years now. He could work for the government brainwashing foreign enemies to turn against their country and work for the U.S., his brainwashing techniques are so damn good.

Watermelon juggling. It just isn’t going to happen and I accept that. I am doing my very best at this time. All things considered, I think my best is pretty damn good considering the depressive hellscape of my mental space. And ya know, the fact that a silly email can send me into a midnight meltdown, indicating that I am in a somewhat precarious state as far as anxiety goes. Yet I am still here, still reaching out, trying to become involved, to participate, to keep doing what I do best-writing.

And the one thing people need to accept about me as opposed to considering it a sign of my mental disorders is that…I am a loner. I don’t need to go out all the time and have ten friends and a constant stream of incoming texts and calls. I have not withdrawn, I am not disengaging or isolating myself. My own company-and my friendships on line and my writing- really are all the socializing I need most of the time. I’ve been this way since childhood. If I want company, I will seek it out. Otherwise, why would I invite people to hang out if I am just going to reading a book or eyeball deep writing? I don’t need an audience and I am sure they have much better things to do. Being comfortable with your company and activities-being an introvert-is not part of my mental health disorders. I know the psych community has been toying with the idea for years of making introverted personality some sort of disorder in their manual but if they do that, then they need to add extroverts, as well. People who need constant companionship and constant activity are pretty disordered to me.

I am starting to calm down, the more I write and that is blog benefit number one-venting and gaining clarity by letting it all out on the page. And the xanax and buspar I took probably helped, too. Heater and robe helped warm me up significantly so my brain is thawing out and my blood no longer feels like ice water pumping through my veins. Now I can take a deep breath and approach replying to the email without spazzing like some maniac.

That may perhaps be one of the hardest things for people to grasp about those of us with mental health disorders. Our perception is often altered so while you may say something with zero malicious intent, our minds may take it as some sort of ultimatum or challenge or threat. That causes us to lash out irrationally in a sort of fight or flight panic state. We simply do not always perceive things as they are, only how are chemically varied brains perceive it. Medication helps but sometimes the crossed wires and heightened, altered emotions can lead to…undesirable interactions we immediately regret. That is why blogging is just so crucial to my mental health. If I need to spew an hour long post on all the illogical shit my brain is telling me at the moment so later I can feel clearer and handle things more calmly…this is cheap therapy and I don’t have to listen to bullshit about cognitive behavioral therapy and mindfulness. Those are two very popular therpay practices these days but both failed me miserably so I have an attitude about them. More power to anyone who it has helped.

Unfortunately, I am now not sleepy at all. It’s nearing 2 a.m. and scumbag brain is wide awake and ready to party. Literally ready to do anything but ya know, accomplish something and be productive. Mainly it just wants to keep me spinning and filled with anxiety and self doubt and confusion. Have you ever tried explaining to a very organized person why you can’t even do basic math to schedule a post properly? I used to be good at math, I was in advanced placement courses. Then I had the drug interaction with an antidepressant and the local hospital sent me home so proper treatment was delayed a week and I spent a week in a psych hospital, not lucid, and they weren’t sure I was going to make it. When I did come out of my catatonia, I noticed mental deficits immediately. I was no longer so quick to learn or remember. Basic concepts I’d known before now sounded like gibberish. I became numerically dyslexic, often inverting even the numbers in my own birthdate or address. When I complained to the doctor about my new deficits he said, “Well, you should be thankful you are so intelligent and you had the IQ points to spare.”

YES, a doctor actually said that to me, as if it was a good thing.

Since then my brain has been scrambled eggs. I do the best with what I have and if it isn’t good enough for others, well, unless they know how to reverse brain damage…tough luck.Accepting my limitations does not mean I am limiting myself. It just means I am not arrogant enough to say I can fix a car when in fact, I can do little more than check the oil and fluids of a car. I don’t overestimate my knowledge or my ability to ‘keep up’ with people who aren’t neurotypically diverse. I am driving in the slow lane, and I’ve come to terms with that, so speed on, pass me by, it’s cool. Just don’t expect me to try to catch up to you.

Oh, man, writing this has been semi cathartic. Reminds me of a movie I once watched where this old tattoo artist quoted some alleged asian proverb.

“Where there is choice, there is misery. Where there is clarity, there is no choice.”

To me it tells me to stop, breathe, take a step back, and wait until I am no longer confused by choices but am filled with clarity on what to do next.

I got a red tiger tattoo from that movie based on this proverb, though I think it was fiction. It was just something that resonated with me back in 1995 and I waited 20 years and…the red tiger came to signify a hell of a lot more than a movie. My friend paid for me to get it, and I’ve not regretted it once. It’s like my built in constant reminder that sometimes choices can be misery and clarity is what sets you free.

At least that part of my midnight meltdown has been clarified.

What to do about being awake after 2 hours of sleep while the clock keeps ticking toward the alarm going off…I am ready to let someone hit me in the head and knock me unconscious if it means being down for more than 2 hours and popping up like some demented jack in the box. Least today I have no plans outside the house. Housework needs to be done, my hair could use a dye job and I found a box in the bathroom storage cubby so I could do that…Or I can get caught up on sleep. I have options here and that is what is needed. The clarity is in knowing I can make a choice on this matter. Sleep…isn’t so much a choice as it is a blessed gift from the sacred pegacorn and sandman gods.

It would mean a lot to me if you all would pop into the blogger community and check things out. My first article for the mental health safe space was posted (my scheduling was off, but math and brain damage don’t work well together) and I am open to feedback and questions.


My article
I Need Help Is The Hardest Conversation To Start

Everyone is welcome, the community is full of great people, and mental health is featured but it’s more than that, it is blogging tips, meets, shares, chatroom questions and a wonderful chance to meet new blogs and bloggers as well as share your own. I’ve gained 16 followers in the 3 weeks since I joined, and started following at least ten new blogs. It is a great community so stop in, say hi, have a looksee out the banter we share. Not your thing, cool. If it appeals, get in the ring and join us.

Now back to butting heads with Mr. Sandman so he will turn on his magic beam and bring me a dream. Or dreamless sleep, nightmares, anything that involves SLEEP.

The Toxic Stranglehold Called Parents

Posted in depression with tags , , , , , , on February 15, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

Y’all came sooo close to a pleasant lazy day ‘mental demons are rattling their chains but I got ’em on lockdown’ post. Soooo sooo close.

Then my dad called. For like the 3rd time. After interrupting my day to ask me to go walk their dogs so they could stay in town and have a meal out.

He started in on me about me ‘putting up’ with my kid’s ‘puberty bullshit.’

“Well, we didn’t to do that shit in my day, we reached that age and they put us to work whether we liked it or not.”

IT WAS 1957 AND YOUR FATHER BEAT THE HELL OUT OF YOU AND YOUR MOTHER DAILY AND IT WAS LEGAL. It wasn’t right then, it isn’t right. And you don’t stick a kid behind the wheel of a truck to work on a farm when they are ten years old in 2020. You call it making them snowflakes, I call it not getting my kid taken away for being too abusive.

Four minutes. That is how long the converstion lasted.

Four minutes of him pissing me off, making me half ass doubt myself as a mother, and honestly, my mood dropped so low, the demons broke their chains and came rattling out of their closet. I was already on self esteem thin ice, starting to panic over my on line interactions and feeling inadequate and useless…And talking to him, being made to feel that by NOT abusing my child I am an ineffective parent…my self esteem has left the building along with Elvis’s corpse and ghost.

I’m nearly 50 years old. I know logically, and legally, his old world views are wrong.

Yet that damn parental stranglehold is just toxic and it won’t let go. Just ONCE I’d like to hear him say something positive about me. Which deduces a grown ass woman to basically being a simpering 6 year old seeking daddy’s love and approval, further sickening me and making me loathe myself.

Spook was the energizer bunny today with her incessant wallowing and yapping and constant movement. I try not to medicate her on weekends cos I know what living through the medication haze is like and the only being punished here is me but…damn, she wears the nerves down.

On a plus note, I reconnected with an old friend on Skype and we’re back to doing text chat like the old days, like we’d never spent time apart and…it felt wonderful. Her friendship has been the only long term relationship I ever regretted losing in the means of regular contact due to us being in different countries. But we talked and things are back to good and damn, if I’d just let the phone ring, I could have ended the night on a positive note…

But positive is not a word my dad knows or conveys, ever. There was a reason I dubbed him doom and gloom monger when I was 13 years old. No matter what you were happy about, he could find a way to tear you down and make you feel like shit who doesn’t deserve to feel happy.

He just turned 73 and he is still doing it. It’s all he knows, I guess.

But this toxicity is why no matter how much I may need a break from Spook…I will not force her to go spend time with them. Last time the gave her a ride home from her grandmother’s, she had some sort of meltdown in the car and they both screamed that she was stupid. That sealed their fate with her, she holds a grudge like a mofo. I don’t blame her, no excuse for grown adults to say that to a child for any reason.

I just need this toxicity out of our lives and as long as we live here, until he passes, it’s just gonna permeate our beings until he makes us rot to our cores.

Good thing I curse a lot. Because fucking with my mental state is one thing, but now that he has started doing it to an innocent ten year old child…We’ll be going to fucking war and his geriatric ass is gonna bleed.

Damn it, Back To The Future, send that time machine back so I can return dad and his woman to 1957.

2020 has enough issues with Trump, we don’t need more ignorant abusive bullies.

Why, Brain, WHY?

Posted in anxiety, depression, insomnia with tags , , , , , , , , on February 15, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

I don’t know but regardless of the time, when I wake up in the middle of the night like this, the first thing that pops into my head is the Matchbox 20 song, “3 a.m.” It’s only 2:22 a.m. right now but close enough. Just keeps going through my head. “Baby, it’s 3 a.m., you must be lonely…” I’m not lonely, though, I just dig Matchbox 20. (Yes, even rabid metalheads can like other genres.)


I took my sleepy pills around 8:50 and shut down the computer, my brain feeling tapped out and in need of rest. Morning comes way too fast when you have an early rising kid. But 10 p.m., brain still wide awake. And I found Roast Battles on my Pluto Comedy Central and I LOVE their roast battles, frickin hysterical, so I watched that until 11 and then settled into bed.

I got billiant earlier and turned the furnace down to 66. End result? It’s so cold in here, I literally cannot feel my toes even though I am wearing socks. They’re so cold and numb, it’s a little pins and needly sensation which is unpleasant. My hands were ice cubes so I said screw it and turned the heat back up a couple notches, it’s only 22 out, not like I have it cranked when it’s 80 degrees out there. I finally nodded off sometime after 11:30…only to wake with a jolt around 12:15…(power bill, car sticker, omg, what the fuck am I gonna do, dear god)…So I talked myself off the panic ledge and slept…

Until 1:30. Then I got up because I was thirsty and I went right back under the blankets…only for scumbag brain to start swirling again and decide, oh, fuck you, you’re wide awake now, and when you’re all sleepy tomorrow and your dad calls before the crack of ass and wakes you, have a lovely day not even being able to nap with the spawn home from school…

Forget my voodoo doll, I want a big squishy brain to stab. My brain just won’t cooperate. So I’ve had about 80 minutes of broken sleep, multiple panic attacks, and now I am just aggravated but wide awake. GRRR.

At least the rest of me is fairly warm in layers but my cold feet are distracting as hell, they’re so cold, they are hurting. I asked for big thick socks for Christmas because I knew summer socks were not gonna cut it for winter even indoors but I did not get any. Next year, I will buy them for myself, bloody hell.

Ok, back to Fort Blankie. Maybe I’ll manage to nod off before it starts getting light out around 6 a.m. and can get an hour or two before I am forced to do this daywalker thing.

And I don’t even get awesome vampire powers like Blade. That sucks.

Good News Better News, BAD News, and Oh, I Am So SCREWED News

Posted in depression, mental health, single parenting with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 14, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

3 posts and it’s not even supper time, I am on a roll. Well, after 3 days of depressive deep freeze, my brain is firing on 6 out of 8 cylinders so I am taking advantage of it. No attempt to spam people but also not sorry. If you were a writer before you were a blogger then you know the creative urge has its own time table and if you don’t heed it at that moment, you can ‘lose it’ and get writer’s block. NOPE. And yeah, yeah, schedule posts, bloody hell, I have tried but wordpress has that idiotic military clock and no matter how many times or how many people explain it to me I STILL DON’T GET IT SO JUST LET IT GO.

Good news. I spent 20 minutes out in 12 degree cold removing 4 inches of snow and 2 inches of ice from my car. I had to take a break mid way because even in gloves I could not feel anything in my fingers except pain. My ice scraper broke halfway off the ice was so thick and I don’t have a spare so that’s awesome. The car started, the heater is still working and it is road ready.

Better news..I had like a dollar forty left on my card so I went to the gas station and got a 2 liter of soda for me and Spook. I couldn’t afford to get her a single thing for V-tine’s cos I had to get the stuff for her school party and it makes me feel bad so I figured I could at least ply her with soda and maybe do my homemade cocounut clusters later. Though that is gonna require Mt Dish Olympus be washed and I haven’t gotten there yet. But a cleared off car that starts, with soda-those are good things.

Bad news abounds. I am the bottom of the cat food bucket so I am either gonna have to ask dad if I can get some from them or hope they are all gone and I can just sneak over and swipe some. They keep it in the shed in a tall metal trash can, so they’d hardly miss a coffee can full til Monday, but sometimes, my dad just likes to be a dickbag and say no to simple requests.

I thought I had a cushion in my account so I could afford the copay for my refills on Xanax and Wellbutrin but that cushion was wiped out by my monthly ‘service fee’ so now I can’t get those and I didn’t learn of this til after I’d bought the soda.


A $317 power/heat bill due March 3rd.

I can’t pay it. I am out of arrangements and extensions. And the power company is talking about making me come up with a $200 deposit if I don’t pay it in full on time.

I dropped the ball. I got my low income assistance grant and didn’t realize the amount went towards any back bills I had with the power/heat people. I didn’t miss a payment, I didn’t make a partial, I had to go budget arrangement,which reults in…lump sum.I just can’t get caught up because we had to move in such a hurry in 2018 (we got the notice they sold to another company and were becoming ‘owner only’ instead of rental on V’tine’s that year and had two weeks to get out, happy eviction anniversary). But yeah, the whole $500 grant went toward one bill and paying the back amount so I am on the hook for that $317 and I can’t even buy cat food or my refills. I have no idea what I am gonna do, this area is just so small, we don’t have many assistance options.And March 10th my meter gets read again so I will likely have another $300 bill to pay April 3rd.

I feel trapped and hopeless.

This was why I started that Ko-fi thing. Not to beg for money but to write for my supper, so to speak. Someone told me they thought my writing was good enough for me to make money at it and I tried it and…without promotion on social media it is just getting cobwebs and it breaks my heart. I thought for sure by now I’d have found some sort of job to do but I can’t even get work from home or product tester because I have no recent references. Not that checking references would help, they’d all say the same thing: Great when manic, useless when depressed, and I am depressed 9 months of the year so fuck me.

I also need a $151 license renewal sticker on my car by midnight March 31 or I am not road ready.

My income is $848 for the month. Rent is $400. Even if I let the internet go, I still need water and I can’t pay that if I pay rent and heat. I can’t buy gas or food or pet supplies.

I am at a loss.

Meanwhile the donor galivants around town job to job, address to address, paying support for a week or two when he gets caught, then moving along before they can catch him again. (And the law doesn’t even require we be notified he’s not working so our support isn’t coming, we just wait every period hoping it deposits and yet again…it did not.) Maybe I need to work even with my disability, but I get damned sick of people letting that 57 year old man child off the hook. Spook is his daughter,too, but as long as he doesn’t work or goes off book, well, he has no responsibility. He doesn’t see her, doesn’t do a damn thing in any way to help out. But people are harder on me than him and I don’t get it. I’ve been with her since she was in my belly, I’ve put every cent into keeping her sheltered and fed and stuff. I don’t go out. I don’t party. I don’t have fancy things. Hell, my winter coat is so ripped, I can barely wear it anymore but she had to have the new coat this year…I gave her every blanket in the house, I only have 2 on my bed.

My fault, I tried to get ahead by paying car insurance in full for six months because I honestly thought I’d at least have a break rom the heat bill somewhat for March. At the most, I thought a hundred bucks. $317????? Holy fuck.

I don’t even qualify for one of those 100% legal loan sharky places.

The pawn king (literally the store’s name) says my stuff is too old, he could maybe give me fifty bucks for a tablet, a laptop, and three flat screen TVs. Fifty bucks barely puts the gas back in my tank hauling it all to town.

A normal family, if I had one, I could reach out to in a dire time like this, since they’ve been bragging about their tax refund windfalls and say, can I pay you back monthly… Not this family.

So I thought, well,worse comes to worse, we could move in with my mom. NOPE. Because my mom doesn’t own the house. It is owned by her roommate, who has willed it to her son (my brother in law) and he says even if we paid, we can’t stay there. Dad has no room. We literally have nowhere to go.

And I am venting here, guys, so don’t think it’s a pity party and don’t apologize for not being able to help. I know most people are in a similar shit situation and the comfortable people are not keen to risk being ‘scammed’ by some internet stranger, so I am not trying to manipulate anyone or anything. I am just telling it like it is.

So while people wonder why my posts never seem to be positive…This is my reality,guys. Sometimes, there’s just not much to be positive about. Yes, you thank your lucky stars for what you do have but to keep it requires a solution and I don’t have one at this moment. I am scared shitless. I’ll lose custody of my kid if I can’t provide her with a home. Her dad may not want her, but one of my ass trash family members would probably take her in and I’d never see her again or I’d see her at their discretion and they’d totally ruin her and turn her into…them. Ewww.

I gotta remember to breathe.

When we were forced to move, the donor was not paying, I had no savings, and we had 2 weeks to find a place and get out. I will figure out a way, even if we end up at the only ‘homeless’ shelter in town. If it’s still open, I haven’t seen much traffic there in 4 or so years. Like I said, even with a kid, if you have any income, there’s just not much by way of assistance here.

And maybe I don’t deserve it, I fucked this up royally, but it was an honest mistake. I never intended it to work out this way.

For now, I am just gonna let it stew and simmer and see what I can come up with in a few days.

At least today I got up, I bathed, I took out trash, I cleared off the car, I went out in public (if the minimart in Armpit counts as public) and I even took a third phone call from my dad without screaming GO AWAY YOU IDGET!

Life is a tossed salad of good and bad and for tonight…I am gonna focus on the good. The bad will still be there tomorrow.

I am definitely gonna need to find the money for the Xanax refill, though, geesh, the panic attacks are coming back with a vengeance and that I am NOT grateful for.

People-ing Is Draining

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , on January 26, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

I’ve not left the house since a quick trip to the mini mart Friday and yet, I still feel people’d out. My dad’s incessant calls then a surprise visit from a friend (to his credit, he called first) and my brother tromping into my house this morning to take my kid to church, then text messages…I am not in the mental state necessary for all of this interaction. It’s weird because I can write half a dozen posts a day, read twice that many, click, swap comments, exchange emails-none of that bothers me, it feels nourishing to my soul and psyche. But when I am forced to deal with the mental health muggles-those who do not have our magical mental disorders therefore they can’t understand it- it sucks the life out of me.

But, yeah, R visited last night and brought my birthday gift. I was fucking blown away. I asked for a $30 optical sound bar for my TV. He brought me this huge set with a sub woofer and blue tooth and it was no $30. My immediate instinct was to say, “Oh, no, this is too much, take it back.” Because that’s who I am. Cheap and I feel undeserving. But honestly, it meant a lot that he remembered even if it was a few days late. He even brought me a 12 pack of baby Mangoritas. I am grateful but hey, he’s making $17 an hour so it’s not like being nice to me is gonna break him. I just know with him, strings usually apply and I never know when they might appear. And he absolutely gives zero fucks about what state my mental health is in, if he feels he is owed, then…I do it or there is a shitstorm and I have to go into hiding to avoid the onslaught of insults.

He stayed a couple of hours, mostly yakking about Trump and stupid democrats and all the money he is making while loudly playing Angry Birds on his phone. Sitting in the living room, putting on smiles I did not feel, rolling my eyes when I was really feeling that (You ever seen those K-pop fan girls? He is like that for politics and I just…can’t.) I just do don’t do this social thing and frankly when people are always on their fucking phones, what is the bloody point? Not to mention one of the main reasons I moved from the living room to my bedroom crypt is because of the noisy fucking trains. I counted TEN of them in less than an hour last night and every time, I’d jump a little at the whistle thing. We’ve been here two years and when it is one or two trains, it’s annoying but you stop noticing. But that many trains in such a short time span emitting such noise? I just remember feeling jarred, unsafe, and hoping he’d leave soon so I could return to my safe bedroom crypt. Away from all the noise.

I finally slept. Horrible nightmares but based totally on shit that has happened with people I know so…Give me a good chase with a knife wielding maniac over backstabbing gaslighting friends any day. I kept waking up, scared to go back to sleep, but too cold to get up and get a drink or something, maybe restart my heart from ricocheting off the walls of my chest. This repeated right up til dawn and I nodded off again, only for the alarm to wake me to get my kid up for church. And I still hit snooze three times, banged on the wall to wake her, and stayed under my cover, awake, unmoving. Not ready to face another day in shitty mental space. After she left I had every intention of just curling up under the covers and pretending the world out there forgot I exist. Then my brother stomped in and my dad called and it’s like GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK. And I am still supposed to get to town to get the veggie soup I half paid for that my sister cooked and I…The thought of driving all the way to town when I just have to do it again Tuesday for my shrink appointment seems like too much fuss. It’s like, yeah, I want that soup, but it sure would be nice if like since they are gonna be in town anyway, dad and stepmom would stop and fetch it for me. They’re always reminding how many miles my car has on it, after all, saving me a trip would be both kind and wise.

Kind and wise are not words I use in reference to them. Even on the phone stepmonster was in the background listening to our call and I said something to dad about always being cold and she’s mooing in the background STOP YOUR WHINING! Then dad made a comment about me being closer to 50 than 40 and I said, what they never tell you is that even if your body is that age, in your mind you’re pretty much the same as 20 year old with more wisdom. And again that fucking cow is mooing in the background about me growing up and stop crying. HUH? I can’t make a simple statement- even a positive one- and that bitch has to butt in. Yet in the last 5 months she’s seen 6 different doctors, had upper GI, colonoscopy, a Gyno, a ton of bloodwork cos her iron is low and her diabetes numbers are off….If anyone needs to stop whining and being a big wussy, it’s her. She’s two years younger than me, for fuck’s sake. Sometimes I swear she is just competing with dad to see who is in poorer health and the sad thing is, he’s 73 and still not at the doctor’s as often as her. We have all tried to tolerate her for the last 20 some odd years but honestly, she needs a fucking mute button. I can’t have a simple phone conversation with my dad without her insulting me and I am just burned out. Shut the fuck up, you fucking redneck TRrump loving cow. Oops, sorry to bovine kind. Kinda hard for me to find an animal I dislike enough to liken her to. Maybe a maggot or a slug.

See, all this people-ing has me ready to implode. When it feels like my doors are being stormed and I am under attack, I become quite like a cornered animal ready to attack. Except I am too damn tired. And cold. Yet sweaty. I have no idea what is going on with my body anymore. But I sure as hell am not gonna run up a $20,000 insurance bill for ten different doctors and dozens of tests because I’m hormonal and can’t get comfortable in my own skin. It doesn’t matter if insurance would cover it all, it’s the fucking principle. If you’re that fucking sick, go into the hospital and shut the fuck up, you hypochondriac. See, I am giving her all the empathy and respect she gives me. Which is none.

I know the point of this should be, hey, the witch brought you some sweatshirts so you won’t freeze and R brought you that kick ass speaker rig. People care about you, shut up, Niki.

I’d give up all monies and material gain if they’d validate my mental health issues instead of treating me like I imagine them.

Yes, I got more lectures from dad about the job thing. Yep, haven’t bathed in days, house is biohazard four, I lose my shit when people crowd me even by phone, and I can’t string two coherent thoughts together. I sound like an awesome, reliable employee for sure. WTF? Oh, right, he doesn’t want to validate that my mind ain’t right because somehow that would make it about his genetic code being flawed and that only applies to the males on his side of the family. My brother ‘has problems’. I am just lazy. Well, my brother may sweep the floors 15 hours a week at a burger joint, but he’s under their gaurdianship at age 24, can barely sign his paycheck, and has the emotional IQ of a third grader. I, on the other hand, maintain a household, keep the power and water on, the car licensed and insured, I am raising a kid, caring for pets, budgeting, banking, driving in town, shopping for groceries and making sure my daughter and I both have our meds refilled on time and make doctor appointments. Who seems more capable there?

Guess that is his point, if I can manage this much, then a job would be no big deal. They never are until about a month in when I start losing my shit from the pressure. Manic-dream employee- Depressed-resign or be fired. I am in no hurry to get back on that merry go round. When I go back to work, I want it to stick. Sadly, the only things I seem any good at are ranting, writing, spelling, and sarcasm. Not a big job market for those skills.

This turned into a disjointed clusterfuck real fast.

I am going back to Fort Blankie. My mind is racing too much to find any peace but sometimes just the ritual of staring blankly at the TV can slow things down in my head. Quell the rage. Dull the anger and hatred toward cruel people. Give me more time to think up reasons why I suck and am a terrible person. The usual.

Hopefully this hormonal hell ride will pass in the next day or two and I won’t be so…vitriolic.

And pray to the sacred pegacorn my shrink appointment goes well and something is done about my med regime because the Cymbalta ain’t doing shit. Oh, how I dread that glance down at my file, pages turning, and that resigned, “Well, Niki, you have tried so many…” As if I am not painfully aware of my medication resistance.

My goal for this week: get the house cleaned up, my new sound bar set up, bathe, and oh, write a semi positive rainbow spewing post. The latter is probably gonna be the hardest thing of all to do. Debbie Downer is kind of my writing brand, positivity is going against everything I stand for.

Challenge accepted.