Archive for panic disorder


Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , , , on March 12, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

In case you don’t follow regularly or even sporadically, this post ties directly into one I wrote yesterday detailing my current struggles with my psych center.

I am still waiting for a return call, as I seem to be playing phone tag with this clinic director. Though I am beginning to get a complex and think she is purposely leaving me hanging in hopes I will get fed up and simply get out of their hair. Yea, persecution complex much? Only cos it has happened before when I complained about subpar care at a different center. I called this morning and left another message, so I might be labeled a stalker for all I know. Or needy bitch syndrome in which case they will side with their staff member no matter her errors. This is hellish. My gut is in pretzels. I had planned on going to town today for groceries but I am so scared of missing this call, I’ve been carrying my phone room to room and I just couldn’t make myself get on the interstate for that drive to town and risk another phone tag nightmare.

Once I stepped outside into the cold, windy gloom, it wasn’t exactly a hard choice to make. Tomorrow is supposed to be in the fifties even though gray and rainy but maybe I will feel up to it by then and pray to the sacred pegacorn this woman calls me back so I know where I stand, for better or worse. That is the awful part, waiting, not knowing which direction the conversation is going to take. Being further invalidated by this place is terrifying. I search my soul and memory and heart and I guess I could have handled the situation with a little more grace but I did nothing wrong. I even pointedly said I wish the NP no ill will, her detached style simply isn’t a good fit for me. Dear God, how well trained and indoctrinated are psych patients that we even question ourselves when we know deep down we are not at fault?

And the kicker is, I am not the least bit malleable or one to follow. Most stuff, I know who I am, what I want, what I like, and it’s just my personal tastes, there is no wrong involved. But when it comes to this psych professional stuff, I am filled with self doubt and I blame all the therapy. By pointing out my every failing they taught me not to trust myself, at all. That,too, is my own personal belief, not a blanket statement and certainly not intended to besmirch therapy for those who find it helpful and have kind caring professionals.

I am all shook up today. I have this little quirk where I pee a lot when my anxiety reaches fever pitch. I am so terrified of missing this call, I have even been taking the phone to the bathroom with me which is NOT my normal, at all. I am repulsed by those who think they are so important they have to take their phone to the toilet. It’s what, 90 seconds at most to go pee> Geesh. But this call tag thing has me ready to yank out tufts of my own hair so I continue to walk on eggshells with my phone firmly in hand.

So salad and soup via words is what this post amounts to. I am not blind to my own banality. Or how disorganized my thoughts are. My mind is a giant junk drawer filled with long forgotten items, and they all just spill forth yet the item you want is never to be found amidst the chaos. I also think the time change and nearing the season change may have me a little hypomanic, at least mentally. I sure as hell am not accomplishing a damn thing physically.

I am on day 11 of Lexapro and it seems the itchy bug sensation as subsided as long as I don’t take all my meds at once. Saturday I go up to 20mg. I want to think it’s having a positive effect but 11 days in at the lowest dose really isn’t a valid gauge of whether it is or is not working. So far the side effects seem to be constipation and the death of my libido but at this point, if it gets me out of depressive purgatory, I may be willing to suck it up.

Time to pee again with the phone in tow. (Grossness.) But the anxiety just has this impact on me whether I’ve had much liquid to drink or not. It’s embarrassing, especially when surrounded by people without tact or boundaries who are constantly asking why you pee so much. Low anxiety days, I don’t so, I can only draw a parallel between high anxiety and this overactive bladder thing.

If you haven’t done so, please do visit our gofundme page. I posted a short video this time as opposed to just a picture and novel length text story. It details why we need money, what I am willing to do to earn it, how I am trying to help myself in this situation, and’s a hearfelt plea. All of this stuff weighs heavily on me and I think it does impact my writing and how organized my thoughts are. I am creatively starving due to all this other stuff devouring my love for written regurgitation. (And you are welcome for that mental image.)


The Mental Crickets Are Chirping

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , on March 11, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

All my life I have been forcefed upon the notion that panic attacks will not kill me. DERP. However, when you can’t breathe through them and the physical symptoms aren’t things you can hide…well, the terror is very real, whether it kills you or not. Especially terrifying is when everyday things no one else would think twice about spark a fear within you that while irrational, is nearly paralyzing.

Like getting phone calls from local numbers. I recognize the exchange but not the caller. My mind starts going to town on all the awful things it could be. Most of the time I don’t answer it, figuring if it is important enough they will leave a message. That gives me some semblance of control so that I can retrieve the message later on when not feeling all fight and flighty. That simple act of ‘ bravery’ may not come for days, though, for me.

I am further stressed out by simple stuff like knocks on the door, getting the snail mail, or even running into people I am acquainted with. It’s been this way for years. It wasn’t so bad before the Nardil incident that boiled my brain, but it’s always been problematic. Now I am a tough love personality on some stuff. If I am just edgy and squirrelly, I’ll tell myself to suck it up and get over myself. Panic won’t kill me.

What panic does do, however, when displayed with physical symptoms you cannot control, is paint an unflattering picture of you for those who witness the event. I sweat, I flash hot and cold, my stomach churns noisily, sometimes I have to flee to a bathroom because the stomach issues are so severe. I tremble, I start to talk fast, I start mixing up words, spittle flies, and I very much become like a cornered animal. Fight or flight. Logic has left the building. And one of the worst things about my panic symptoms is…when I am really stressed out, I actually start to smell bad. It doesn’t matter how much I bathe or use deodorant or perfumes or lotions.I hit a panic threshold and my body just does its own thing. Try making friends with that symptom. Try impressing someone you want to hire you for a job when your anxiety makes it seem like you can’t even be bothered to bathe and not stink.

I have tried discussing this with counselors and doctors. Most of them don’t believe it is that bad. Most of them think I am making the problem much worse than it is.

My bar for measuring how disabling a problem is, is this simple question: “Would I react the same way were I going to a live music show or amusement part, doing things I enjoy?” And the answer is, panic does not discrimimate. It riots whether it’s something you like or something you hate. For me, dating has always been the stuff of nightmares, because you’re supposed to feel some stimulation and excitement when drawn to someone but my receptors are always on overdrive so adding this to the mix usually means I sweat, emit a bad smell, get stomach aches that are noisy, and become so nauseated I have to run to throw up. Kind of makes me wonder how I ever managed to have a kid. The only thing that has ever truly helped with this ‘dating anxiety’ is booze. That’s not an answer, that is just another problem.

So with my anxiety less medicated than it has ever been in my life and my mind in a place of shaky stability where courage is absent…Basic existence has become a terrifying experience, filled more with anxiety, panic, and misery than anything else.

There are times I feel very content, don’t get me wrong. These times are almost exclusively during the evenings after the threat of phone calls, door knocks, visiting family, and mail delivery have ended. I can take a Xanax, or I can take my antihistamines in triplicate and my mind will start to slow and I will start to feel less terror stricken and less impaired. Once I am safely asleep, even if I don’t stay that way, I feel my most at peace.

Saturday when we were on dog walking duty (those cats best appreciate what I did to get money for their food), I couldn’t even eat a bite until after they had called to say they were home so we were off the hook. That level of anxiety over what shouldn’t be stressful at all has been with me all my life. Never more prevalent than with jobs, where the only time I was ever truly off fight or flight mode, was the first of my two days off. By day two, I was back in dread mode, knowing I had to go back and the nasty symptoms would return. It’s almost like if you never let yourself feel calm and live on red alert, you can’t miss being calm and feeling content and safe. But that’s no way to live, either. The goal is a happy medium.

Which is why I think I could flourish working on line whereas I have had so many failures trying to exist in normal society with such crippling mental and physical symptoms. I just need a chance. I want desperately to prove everyone wrong. That I can support myself and my child with a little outside the box thought. I don’t need to earn money in any normal conservative manner. At this point, with my dirty mind and writer’s imagination, I think I’d rock the casbah writing fetish porn or doing some sort of sex chat. The added bonus would be going to the lokels and my family and announcing I TALK DIRTY TO INTERNET PERVS AND GET PAID WELL TO DO IT. Mortifying the conservatives is just fun.

Any thoughts on how one gets into this abnormal, seedy but highly lucrative net porn thing?

I am willing to write for my supper even if the topic makes me not want to eat my supper.

Round And Round

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , , on August 16, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

I have the appointment tomorrow afternoon with the new shrink for an emergent (only cos someone canceled) visit…so of course, I can’t stop the racing thoughts or quell the anxiety enough for sleep. In spite of my nighttime 1mg Xanax and 15 mg melatonin.

Which brings me to an oddity. I switched to a different store/brand/strength of melatonin because honestly, my nerves couldn’t handle stopping at yet another place. But melatonin is melatonin,right? And going from 6 mg to 10 I should be sleeping like a baby, right? NOPE. I don’t know if this brand uses different buffers (how that would impact its effectiveness, I have no idea, but something is up) or whatnot, but a stronger strength and 4 hours later I’m not even yawning, let alone sleepy? WTF? It does, however, lend credence to how bizarrely my system responds to/tolerates medications and even supplements. It is working fine for my kid (and YES, her pediatrician okayed its use with her because, well, she’s a fricking battery bunny) so it’s just me. Makes me wish I had a few extra bucks to throw around so I could buy the old brand, see if the lower strength of it would still half ass work. Which is was, though it was taking longer and longer to kick in. Not 4 or 5 hours, though, this is maddening.

Round and round, scumbag brain goes. (Damn, now I’ve got Ratt’s ‘Round and Round’ stuck in my head, kick ass tune but not a lullabye.)

I keep going over in my head what I want to say to this ‘one and done’ shrink. The receptionist who lobbied so hard to get me in said I might be waiting awhile cos Dr. T is very thorough and does not rush, she actually takes time with patients. But as it is ‘one and done’, I wonder if I will be on a ticking clock trying to plead my case or if she will want to basically quiz me on multiple boring aspects of my dysfunction. What I need most is a doctor who at least feigns interest and lets me talk without asking me all the standard snooze questions. I think I can answer all the basics if I am allowed a couple of minutes to state my case.

State my case. Dear God. Every time I see a new doc/nurse practitioner, it’s like I’m on a job interview. But instead of trying to impress on them how awesome I am, I am trying to make them see that while I may be out of bed and shambling through the motions…this isn’t living and it sure is hell isn’t being ‘not depressed.’

The problem with shrinks is that they all subscribe to different beliefs. I won’t do the Freud/Yung/Ink Blot debate but like it or not, it carries weight. Like that dreaded osteopath shrink who only thought 3 meds belonged on the formulary as they are all the same. (Blatantly, and scientifically proven wrong, but he would not hear of it, perioddotcom.) It was a clusterfuck for me because he was a pleasant enough man. He wasn’t rude, wasn’t (too) dismissive, he even reconsidered seeing me because he refused to prescribe Xanax and I made it clear, I’d tried the others, they don’t work, so buh bye. He tried to work with me, to an extent, but it always came back to his beliefs, they trumped my needs.

So every new psych pro it feels like I am auditioning for a role in whatever production they’re directing. That sounds half delusional, like I’ve lost touch with reality, but I assure you I have not. (If I had, I wouldn’t be fretting money issues, I’d be oblivious to reality, duh.) Doctors, intentionally or not, become jaded over the years. They see a lot of people who are malingerers, addicts who simply don’t want to change their behavior, people who won’t take their meds properly so they end up in the same place again…It’s a shame a bunch of assholes end up screwing those of us who are the real deal and want help and are there seeking it. So I get this ‘pre appointment’ anxiety (even with established docs/etc, but to a lesser degree) and it sends my mind into a tailspin. Circular thoughts, kind of OCD, start in, then the spinning randomness comes, where my brain feels like one of those machines that blows around lotto balls but one never pops up for me.

I am pondering whether to share my earlier epiphany about how the Cymbalta has seemingly rewired my brain so that my only creativity happens in my dreams thus I dread being awake and crave sleep even with the dark nightmarish images. It sounds a little out there, but there’s a large percentage of people of a creative nature (music, art, writing, et al) who struggle with bipolar one or two and know off the meds, they risk manic behavior or a clinical depression but because the mood stabilizers tend to squash down all your creativity along with the poorly behaved brain chemicals. And some people are willing to roll the dice on self destruction with mania or depression just so they can practice whatever creative, artistic thing they are passionate about.

Fortunately for me, I found a mood stabilizer (Lamictal) that doesn’t quash my creativity. I get writer’s block from hell, but that was going on long before I ever had a psych diagnosis, let alone meds, so I don’t blame that on my condition or the meds. Now the goal is to find an anti depressant that lifts my mood (without mania) but doesn’t flip the script on my creativity and doesn’t result in even poor sleep patterns that I already had. Will this ‘one and done’ doc listen to me? Will she believe me?

In the past, I’ve come in with journal entries, print outs of relevant posts, and not one professional has wanted to read them. I think it’s the optimal way of knowing what is going on in a person’s mind. I get nervous, self conscious, disillusioned, and oh, yeah, nervous, when I see docs so I may not present properly. But my thoughts written as they are at various times…That’s the real deal. That’s what is happening in my mind, it’s the best gauge of “Is this chick putting me on because she’s too weak to cope with reality sucking, or is she truly feeling this poorly?” Alas, my insurance is crap, this psych center can’t keep docs or nurses, and their case load is so astounding, they can barely afford to give 10 minutes to each patient (yet they always bill insurance for 20 minutes, how is that even ethical, let alone legal?). So I doubt I will ever find a doc around here who will do me the honor of actually getting to know what’s going on in my brain, not just during that ten minute visit, but during the weeks and months when I am not being treated. Unless someone wants to adopt us and pay for us to move to a less….rural choiceless area…

So I tell myself to chill out, calm down, just go in, tell the truth, and pray upon the sacred spork and pegacorn that I will be heard and she will see that the current med combo is not working in a positive way for me so it needs to be changed. Honestly, it’s gotten to the point I was considering anti psychotics and of the 7 I have tried, they did nothing but make me sick, oversedate me, and displayed zero positive impact. But obviously someone who’s constantly paranoiad (but no voices being heard) and only wants to go to bed ever single moment of the day, that’s pretty psychotic, right? Much like Trazadone, though, those meds are simply too harsh with too little benefit for me to consider, seriously, using them again unless I do indeed start wearing a tin foil hat (no offense if that’s your style, I once dressed head to toe in foil and went as a Hershey’s Kiss for Halloween) and hearing zebras telling me to attack random produce with a spork…Nope.

I guess I am gonna try to the sleep thing again. It’s almost midnight and the spawn will no doubt be up at the crack of ass, chattering me into submission, so I need whatever sleep I can get. Oh, I miss the days when I’d say, “Sleep is for sissies” or I’d quote lyrics from the Bon Jovi song about sleeping when I’m dead. That was just 11 years ago. I guess my uterus doing its job and hosting the spawn really fucked up my already fucked up brain chemicals and while my mind remains sort of stunted at around 30, my body has reached 45 and simply can’t keep its old pace. To my credit, however, at Spook’s birthday party, one of her friends brought her man with her, and he had to ask who was the older sibling, me or my sister. She’s six years younger. So I must be faring pretty well if I’m not clearly looking older than her. Meh, it feels like a tiny bit of flattery, I’m gonna take it.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a good mystery with a plot twist or two so I remember what creative juices feel like. I can take or leave the dead skeleton of the murder victim being hoisted out of the pool at the wedding reception.

Man that was a fucked up dream. More, please. That’s how much I miss my creative side. Nightmares are more fulfilling than wakefulness. And I live for my daughter so…this is unacceptable. This one and done doc better change the regime or I’m gonna go Beavis and Butthead and start looking Hallucinogenic toads to lick.

(Creative license, toads are icky.)

Non Fictional Anxiety

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , on July 28, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

Over my years on disability, I’ve been asked How does your condition(s) impact your ability to function normally on a daily basis. During my years blogging about said conditions, I have received a plethora of advice telling me to exercise, meditate, use herbal supplements, envision myself calm and unaffected, be strong, be tough, blah blah blah. (Well meaning people are the bane of my existence because they really don’t get it.)

Today the enormity of my anxiety disorder/panic disorder is slamming into home plate with a cleated shoe to my face.

I’m watching a fictional tv show where most of the characters, including the cops, are corrupt, lying, backstabbing assholes and the only decent characters are all getting screwed over and gaslit by the assholes…and my heart is pounding, my paranoia is up, and it all feels like it may as well be happening to me. I feel scared, outraged, helpless, and I am about to just give up on the final four episodes (it only lived one season) because my fight or flight response is hammering at my psyche…

THIS. This is how my conditions impact my daily functioning. I can’t even watch a fucking tv show because it triggers fight or flight.

Going for a jog, doing some jumping jacks, and inhaling essential oils does not correct whatever is crossed in my brain causing inappropriate messages to make me feel inappropriate emotions and physical responses.

So while some may perservere by jogging 10 miles a day and huffing essence of pegacorn farts…

I’m not so fortunate. And I hate this shit with every fiber of my fucked up being because I can’t even date or eat in a restaurant or go to an amusement park lest the fight or flight panic be set off and send me into a sweating, pretzel gutted foul odor emitting trainwreck.

Yesterday it was the black depression kicking my ass. Today it’s the anxiety.

17 days til my next med check appointment with yet another new psych nurse. Maybe she’ll tell me to stick a spoon on my nose and walk around the block while singing “Yankee Doodle”. After being told by one well meaning person to rub patchouli oil on my pulse points as it would help with depression and anxiety but instead made me sneeze, itch, get hives, and cough until I retched…

It goes to show I’m willing and desperate enough to try pretty much anything but as usual the one size fits all mentality simply doesn’t fit me. I’m oddly propertioned psychologically, I guess.

Anxiety Files: My Central Nervous System Is Cannibalizing Me

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , on July 23, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

I’ve been awake since 4 a.m. No mystery why, between the financial stress, the possibility of failing my kid with her birthday and school clothes, and tomorrow’s court hearing facing off with the donor. I’ve been in a state of panxiety all day, jumping at every sound, stomach churning, heart skipping beats, mind racing, frozen in place with paranoid anxiety. Like if I moved, the sky would fall. Yet I paced a lot. A whole lot. Accomplished nothing.

My kid went to my dad’s today. Except they didn’t tell me they were bringing her home to their house after church so I waited over an hour, starting to freak out, then get fucking pissed because I told my brother when he picked her up for church TEXT OR CALL AND LET ME KNOW IF SHE’S GOING BACK TO YOUR HOUSE. I had to call to find out for sure and dad was snarky, like I don’t have the right to want to know where my child is.

Hours ticked away. I remained jumpy and anxious, unable to focus or eat or get anything done. With them, they could bring her back any minute so what would be the point of bathing if they could come traipsing through the door at any moment…Hour after hour, I waited. Supper time for us, not a word. At 8 p.m. I finally texted my brother and said I wanted her back home and he came back with ‘after we’re done with dinner. OMFG, are you fucking kidding me????I waited that whole time so I could cook and eat with my child and none of the three of them could even send a text to let me know????? I was furious, and I think it’s justified, but of course, it’s the usual, ‘she’s in a mood’ or ‘she must be on the rag’ or ‘she’s overreacting’. Spook is MY child, not theirs.

Finally heard from the lawyer, which was a fucking miracle as he had my old number. If I wasn’t still getting magicjack notifications for voice mail (hasn’t been active in 3 years and won’t give me messages but it leaves a number of who called so I got back with him and he amazingly said, after 2 years without a word, he recognized my voice, huh? I must have a distinct voice.) But he will be there tomorrow and I told him I am done with the venom and seeking any back support, I just want the donor held accountable for his legal bills since ya know, he was the one who abandoned us with little food and no diapers for Spook. That’s the least that…person can do. Fortunately, tomorrow will just be a brief hearing where the judge decides to dismiss or carry on to another date. Not good for my nerves but…If he wants to fight me on the custody or visitation thing, I have 15 witnesses, most of whom he’s had contact with as recently as a week ago, who can attest that he’s never once asked them about his daughter. I don’t think his fragile psyche could handle a parade of people pointing out what an utter disappointment he is as a father to all 3 of his kids.

Still, courthouses, metal detectors, formal settings..Ugh, I’m in knots and having random gasping panic attacks and it sucks. Sadly, this was what it was like for me when I worked, every single day with the crippling anxiety. The only time I ever breathed were days off. Or well, one day, because by day two, I knew I’d have to go back. Hard work doesn’t bother me. My brain telling me to feel irrational terror bothers me and I can’t bully it into submission.

I doubt exhausted as I am I will get much sleep tonight. But hey, it’s okay. (No, not really, it pisses me off and I’m tired of always being tired.) But PBS sometimes has some cool shows on at 2,3 a.m. Though last night/this morning’s about new policing and how we are being watched constantly and have no expectation of privacy ever and facial recognition is being run from cop cars…Dear God. It doesn’t matter if you’ve done nothing wrong and have nothing to hide. If your underwear have crept up your ass, you should be entitled to rectify the situation off to the side in semi-privacy. Call me paranoid but I don’t think I am paranoid enough. (Oh, and little tidbit I learned on…wearing Juggalo make up has actually proven to be a solid way to beat facial recognition software so while I won’t ever be an ICP music fan…if I ever need to duck and hide…Bitch is wearing Juggalo make up. Just saying.)

Finally…I know I am always doing fundraisers and it gets old and honestly, I’ve been looking for side work but I am either unqualified, undesirable, or fucked due to living in isolated Armpit so…having a fundraiser for my kid’s birthday and school stuff…makes sense. Kids are fucking monsters, especially in the upper grades. I remember one year in grade school, my parents were so broke, I owned TWO outfits. I tried to mix and match and keep them washed but that didn’t stop the little bastards from making fun of my limited wardrobe and calling me “stinky” cos they thought I wore the same clothes every day. I don’t want that for Spook. Not saying she has to be a fashionista, we’re good with Wal-mart stuff (and usually even yard sale clothes but due to being broke, I haven’t even been able to hit yard sales for decent used clothes for her.)

So look at this little girl and tell me she isn’t worth a $5 or $10 so she can at least start school with a couple of new outfits and all the supplies the other kids will have. Click just to share, if that’s all you can do. She’s a great kid (for a demon spawn;) and she didn’t ask for any of this crap situation. Any more than I asked for the one I grew up in, yet survived, albeit the name :stinky; did follow me for a couple of years until my parents were able to buy me a few more outfits. Oddly, kids don’t much care if your clothes smell like laundry soap and are clean. They’ll say mean things just because, well, they’re mean spirited little snots.

Thought Panic

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , on July 1, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

Panic ninjas are attacking in brute force and this time, it was my own thoughts that kicked it into motion.I just realized how far in the hole I am in so many ways, facing so many stressful things-money, family, a court hearing involving my child’s donor..And bam, the ninjas come flying out of nowhere wielding their nunchuks of hyperventilation, their swords of dizziness, their throwing stars of terror…And I am as disoriented as if washing down Amibien with Jim Beam. (Which for the record, I’ve never actually done, but I imagine that’s how it would be, Ambien was bad enough just being downed with water, total mental smackdown.)

Maybe part of the feeling woozy and disoriented is mommy withdrawal. My kid’s been at her grandma’s 24 hours now and I do go into withdrawal-and that whole too attached to my kid thing- after a certain amount of time. Also, my nephew and his girlfriend are returning her, so I’m trying to accomplish some housework lest they run back and report my messiness is some sort of affront to my child’s well being. (Ever notice how judgey clean freaks are over one missed cobweb or a dusty table? Geesh.) So far the cleaning project is going very slowly because the humidity is making my choke on my sinus drainage and I can’t catch my breath.

And I endured a call with my dad last night and I was a little hypo and on my way to a melatonin induced nap to quell the mania so he assumed I was drinking. Again. (With what money? I phased out my supplier and lost 20 pounds, not going back to that shit.Though at 45, if I do want to have a fruity little yummy drink, I think my parents should fuck off.) That makes me so mad I could fricking spit nails, cos mom does it too. How ignorant are you to have two kids with two different moms diagnosed with the same disorder, on similar meds, and know NOTHING about their symptoms? Bet if we had physical ailments he’d want to gain some information but mental stuff, pfft. My brother simply has ‘problems’ with his anger and me, well, I’m apparently just a lazy useless lump even though I’m the only of his three kids to NOT live with one of the parents after my teens. So his idea of successful independence and mine are very different but this selecive ignorance about his kids having mental disabilities is just disgusting. And my mom went off yesterday saying I never talk to her about my mental stuff and meds so how is she supposed to know…yet when I do try to talk to her, she gets huffy and says her and my sister got off the pills, they’re fine, and I’m just looking for a pill to make me happy.

The sheer ignorance contained in one family is mind boggling and definitely panic inducing. All it takes is their wrong assumptions and it could interfere with me being deemed fit to care for my child. I’ve seen the system in action with too many decent parents and all it took was one ignorant or vindictive person to set off a chain of events that got the kids removed while it was all ‘investigated.’ Living in a world where you’re doing nothing wrong but having symptoms of your disorder that hey, might make me act a little whacky and as I fall asleep on melatonin, maybe my words get slurry but don’t call me at 9:30 on a kid free night expecting me to be awake and bushy tailed.

Being made to feel this way, by the people who claim to live me, plain sucks. I get little credit for what I do right and even their wrong perceptions of me doing something they don’t approve of gets run into the ground ad nauseum. It kind of feels like perpetual suspension in time as a dumb 16 year old they had to reign in and berate ‘for my own good’. I’ve managed to keep a roof over my kid’s head, the power on, food in the fridge, she’s clean and clothed and very happy-and I have done it as a single mom 7 years now, while battling my mental demons but hey, let’s focus on every bad thing I could be doing or may have once done when I was a stupid teenager or before I had a kid and grew up emotionally. I guess I’m a little sensitive to criticism but then again, if it’s constructive, I kinda learn from that. Destructive criticism just tears apart my mind. I love my family, don’t get me wrong. They have some good qualities, and I know any major crisis, like the unexpected move, they’ll be there for me…But it’s not a crisis everyday and the daily tearing me down takes a toll. I didn’t give a damn before mood stabilizers, it’s like they robbed me of my spine and gave me a triple dose of conscience and ‘want to please the family so they don’t take my kid away.’

Wow…I really got off track. But panic makes my mind race even more and it matters not if it’s irrational or downright ridiculous. It feels real to me, and the pounding heart, sweating, dizziness, and sheer terror are very very physically real. So before some well meaning person reminds me that panic attacks won’t kill me, I KNOW THIS. But they do mess up my life and my mind and my body and to me, it’s worse than death. Death is final. Panic is perpetual. And knowing what a rebellious, stubborn bitch I am in nature, it galls me that I haven’t been one of the magical pegacorns who were ‘strong enough’ to ‘beat’ their disorders.

So all I can do is remember to breathe, do my best, take them with a grain of salt, and not freak out about all the things coming up that I truly have no control over.

What I can control right now is watching a long canceled show about a gated community of vampires and witches and hopefully it distracts scumbag brain enough with fiction to put reality-and my lack of control over much of it, into perspective or at least on the back burner.

I really don’t miss the trailer park anymore, but I do miss the distance I had between me and my family. Days and weeks they’d barely call, let alone darken my phone or doorstep and now…there’s no escape. I don’t think with them on the loose, having zero repect for why I need a heads up call and why I feel so threatened and anxious by pop up visits…I don’t think I’m ever truly going to feel safe and calm here. And it’s a shame because I am managing to adapt in every other way and feeling less vitriol for Armpit every day.

Leave it to well meaning family to be the one thing I can’t escape. Just gotta keep reminding myself they are well meaning. Even though their good intentions are paving the road to hell for me.

When Panic Arises From Basic Stuff

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , on February 22, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

In less than two hours we are off to Armpit riding with stepmonster to look at the pktentially new place. I was okay earlier but now that the clock is ticking closer…my anxiety has blown the roof off the top of my skull. What if he won’t rent to me cos I have zero money til next week? What if I can’t get the power transferred without money up front? What if I can’t get the water turned on cos of lack of money? What if I freeze up from panic and he thinks I am some sort of psycho he doesn’t want living on his property?

What if is a natural question but when it hits irrational heights that cause physical symptoms mimicking physical illness…This is a disorder and it is crippling. For a few moments awhile ago the panic rose so quickly and extremely I honestly thought, “Oh my god, I’d rather just die of an overdose than have to keep going through this for the rest of my life!”

And while extreme, it’s an honest assessment of my feelings. I am fed up with feeling under attack by my own central nervous system. I have tried to ‘unlearn’ anxiety and panic and just breathe and blah blah blah but…I can’t seem to out think the physical aspects caused by my enormous anxiety and ensuing panic. It is a form of torture you can’t understand if you’ve never been there.

Adding to my deer in the headlights terror is the fact I won’t be in my own car, I will be completely at the mercy of dad and stepmonster and they are talkers. They want to shoot the shit for hours and I am more ‘get it done and get back in my safe space’. Being captive to their yakaholism is hellish when your skeleton is trying to escape your skin and you just need desperately to feel safe.

I honestly thought-hoped- I would ‘outgrow’ panic disorder. Anxiety is normal, though my level is psychotic, but the panic attacks brought on by basic grown up things, like an unexpected move and being out of control of my own location, this is not normal. And I can’t seem to beat it, even though the professionals have forcefed me the party line that I can overcome it by changing my reactions and thought patterns. Spoken by people who have never lived every moment in a state of terror for no logical reason to their own chagrin.

I just want this over with. Then I just want to get moved and move on. Limbo is not a good place to be for anxiety disorder. Yet right now I am at the mercy of others and in a holding pattern, stuck in don’t stop, don’t go mode. I loathe it. If I could kick its ass and punch it or shoot it, I would in a heartbeat. This disorder limits every aspect of my existence no matter how hard I fight, the only variance is the extremity of the panic.

45 years of this, and possibly another 20…I think wanting it to just stop is pretty normal.

Unfortunately I’m too stubborn to wave that particular flag. So I stay on the panic hamster wheel and everyone around me acts like it’s no big deal and that is insult to injury. Which kind of hinders your strength to keep fighting.

I wish the mundanes could grasp that. Sometimes support makes a big difference and having none…it’s a lonely place to be and it just causes more anxiety. Which I didn’t think possible.