Archive for paranoia

Nobody Wants To Hear About When You Feel Vulnerable

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

Last night’s events with my child and the following third night of interrupted sleep…I am feeling very fragile right now. Due in part to the panxiety ninjas swooping down on me. I just feel…vulnerable. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. And our financial situation makes this other shoe inevitable, not a possibility. I keep filling out applications on line and even the secret shopper and such stuff (which apparently is not done anywhere near Armpit). I am starting to think work from home opportunities are all scams. Unless you have a degree and telecommute for a company you were already with. Or maybe porn. If I were younger and prettier I wouldn’t write off that last one. Proving myself capable of caring for my kid means dignity is on hold.

I’ve been texting my sister about Spook’s meltdown and how dad and them contribute to it, telling her to change everything about herself and fit in to country life. Constantly being told you’re great as long as you change this, and this, and that…Story of my life. It’s fucking toxic and results in shaky self esteem at best. I don’t force her to see them, she chooses to, but then I get the litany of complaints about the jerks they are. So my sister will go tell our mom that I am on another tirade about dad’s crew and my mom will go all smug and say, “I knew they’d be miserable there.” DUH. I’ve always been miserably in tiny rural towns, did she think I was gonna wake up in my forties and suddenly change my view? Small towns have been the bane of my existence since I was 10, thwy have given me zero reason to not view them negatively. And since I moved out at 17 to escape mainly my dad, well, yeah, him being a pain in my ass was pretty much a given. But my kid needed a home and we didn’t have a choice, so here we are.

I hate that you can’t discuss anything in this family without it making the rounds to everyone else. And then everyone judging and gloating or getting into arguments. It’s a lonely place to have a family like this. Worse when you’re feeling weak and need someone to bolster you, encourage you, be supportive, and all they can do is criticize. My dad still brings up stuff from when I was 11 years old.I don’t know what their issue is with us having self esteem but they go out of their way to rid us of it. We’re not talking emotional shrapnel over a few recent incidents. No, this has been an insidious brainwashing process over 4 decades. It takes a toll. If those who claim to love you spend most of their time tearing you down, it wears you down.

Today I would like someone to lean on, to vent my problems to. I tried to my mom the other night but she went on a tirade and chastized me for not having money to get gifts for those kids’ bday parties so she and my sister went out and bought stuff. Which put me in a bind when C has his party later this month and I have no money to buy him gifts. It’s like anything beyond hello, how are you, and eating a holiday meal, interacting with them is just toxic to my mental health. I don’t want it to be that way. But it is, nothing to do but accept it.

Panxiety (paranoid anxiety) is a hellish experience I go through multiple times a week. I have tried to explain it to multiple providers only to get that ‘you’ve sprouted two heads and one is wearing a tinfoil hat’ look. Yet people with the problem themselves relate just fine. I just feel, even in my safe bedroom crypt, like I have a big target on me and everyone is armed with shotguns. It makes no sense but it’s been common for over 20 years. Since the Nardil incident damaged my brain. I fight it. Logic is powerless against mental illness.

So yeah, I am a very strong, tough person. Sometimes even a badass if you consider my fierce sarcasm I wield as a weapon.

Right now…I am weak. I am scared to death. I feel like bad things are coming. I feel hopeless.

But no one wants to hear about that. Some things never change.

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Indentifible Anxiety

Posted in anxiety disorders with tags , , , , on January 28, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

I knew bad weather was coming but I had not anticipated it coming so abruptly or making me so anxiety ridden. The winds whistling and gusting outside my window have driven the point home, in combination with the fact that they are letting school out 2 hours early to combat a 15 degree drop over a 4 hour span. The water puddles are going to become sheer ice so I understand them wanting to get the kids home safely before that happens. Negative temps as a high is what we are going to be facing and I am nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Not only do I have an appointment in town later this week on a day where it’s going to be negative two at the time I need to be on the road, but these high winds make the furnace blower start acting wonky. It’s already started blowing cold air, indicating one of the necessary moving parts is stuck open.

One thing about living in the trailer with a constantly malfunctioning furnace is I learned a few short cuts for this sort of thing. Of course, I got dizzy with panic thinking what if this doesn’t do the trick, my landlord is stubborn and senile so he’d want to look at it himself then he’d call a repair guy but this is the season where you can wait days to get someone who is available…It’s easy for the panic to whallop you and your own thoughts carry you away.

Thankfully, I got it blowing warm air again without even having to go down to the nasty crawlspace basement. Living in trailer park skid row taught me a few tricks. It’s no replacement for the fact that the furnace here hasn’t been properly serviced in at least 2 years, if not longer, and the people before us had cats, dogs, kids, et al, so no doubt it is clogged and that is why some of our vents have such low pressure of warmth blowing through them. I am just praying we can get through this winter without needing to have it repaired professionally. The landlord might remember I didn’t pay full deposit and evict us if I bug him too much. Then again, for all I know, he may choose to terminate the lease when it expires March 31rst. I don’t know if that makes me more nervous than the prospect that at his age, with failing faculties, his kids could take over and toss us out anyway without just cause. One thing they can’t throw me out for is late rent, I’ve paid in full every month since we moved in.

Scarier still, sometimes the depression and anxiety of living here, combined with my kid’s misery at this school district, I wonder if maybe subconsciously I wouldn’t be less than offended if they did choose to evict us. We’d have no place to go but back to town on my mom’s sofa, IF her very sick roommate who owns the house would allow it. I just don’t think moving back that district is going to solve the issues my kid is having. She got spoiled in that trailer park where she had half a dozen friends over on any given day cos they all lived there. Returning to town would not mean a return to trailer park life where she has all these minions at her fingertips to entertain her and make her feel popular and complete. I keep trying to get her to explain how they are mean to her here but the best she can come up with is, “They know I pick my nose and they don’t like me.” Well, I tried to break of her that habit and warned and warned her so..she kind of brought it on herself. However, when she says she’s really not into how country they all are, well, that I can relate to. One of the teenage girls yelled at her this morning and I went outside and yelled back, reminding them who the boss of my kid really is. Of course it’s one of the local brats my stepmom and dad dote on but I don’t give a fuck. My kid, my rules. And if you’re country-ness means you’re being a domineering narrowminded bossypants, you have earned our disdain as opposed to if you’d just back off and shut up and mind your own business.

So, see, there, I have identified clearly two major forms of stress causing my anxiety to metastasize. It always helps when you can identify why you are feeling so shaky, anxious, paranoia, panicky. The times when it just comes in like a band of ninjas without a prelude, those are the truly hellish times. If you can ID the causes, you can take steps to learn to cope with them better. If you can’t ID the causes, though, that makes anxiety an invisible attacker you can’t battle.

So I accept that 1.), the impending bad weather and wonky furnace make me very wary and sort of terrified, and 2.) the intrustion of these locals who don’t know me but think just cos they know my dad’s crew they somehow have say over my child, that causes angry anxiety.

Living here, clearly, has not been mentally healthy for either of us. However, I don’t see any other answer except trying to hang on cos living on someone’s sofa in the middle of a break up could be constituted as me being an unfit parent whereas if we have our own home, it is evidence that I am providing her with a home of her own. I worry about these things, mainly because I’ve seen so many people go through ugly breakups and custody entanglements and people will use every dirty misleading trick in the book to avoid paying child support, getting custody out of spite, et al.

Earlier, I had the ugliest thought-but it also came attached to a sense of clarity. As I have no attachment to my brother or stepmom, once my dad is gone…we can leave this place forever, guilt free, and stepmonster can’t do a fucking thing about it. Guilt tripping me only works when it’s coming from my own blood. How awful is it, though, to be bullied into living somewhere indefinitely to avoid the anger of your father, blatantly expressed anger in the form of ‘if you leave this town, we won’t help you move.’ How controlling, how manipulative, how assholey of him. But again, it is exclusive to blood relatives so without him holding us under his thumb…Well, that and the fact I have no money in which to move but we had to move Febrary of last year and I had no money. But I did start getting child support once I found out where the donor was working and turned him in. I can’t wrap my brain around how small an area this is, where even the cashier selling me gas and a can of Mangorita, manages to relay word back to my dad about my purchases…how the hell can no one find the donor’s work place????? And that obnoxious stepmonster who told me months ago, “Mom has her ways, I’ll find him for you”…she’s two years younger than me and calls herself my mom, sooo idiotic and insulting to my real mom.

Ha! 3.) I learned from this post that in spite of my best efforts to adapt and acclimate, the town isn’t the problem. The family I can’t seem to shake is the problem. Their good intentions are gonna drive me and my kid into adjoining rubber rooms.

But this is progress, being able to identify the things that spark the crippling anxiety, make me paranoid and fearful, and seem to be oppressing my daughter and I both. Now, I just gotta survive this cold snap and the psych nurse from hell (not fair to her, but it makes me smile to put it that way), make it to spring, and the clouds will start to lift and I will once again feel strong and back to my hell raising ‘fuck em all’ self.

That’s the worst part of depression and anxiety, identifiable or not. It alters who you are to such a degree, badass bitches like me become meek little mice. I don’t fucking like it.

But I do accept it, identify the causes, and know that I can only hunker down for now and wait it out. I will be back, more badassery than before.

I have to believe that cos me living as a mousy meek spineless wuss makes me want to drink Drano. This ain’t me, this is mental illness.

That veered off track but…it’s honest. It’s all I have to offer.

50 Shades Of Cray

Posted in depression with tags , , , , , , , on January 23, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

Normally, I am opposed to the way my daughter’s generation turns words into barely coherent verbal shorthand. Are we really so lazy as a societ that we can’t spare the energy to finish a word-cra-zy,va-ca-taion,etc. But much as I am to teach her as a parent, I think there’s some stuff I can learn from her, as well. Mainly, to stop getting bent over stupid shit because the only person who is miffed seems to be me and I am only getting myself all ‘aggro’.

My 9 year old, a perfectly normal outgoing kid, got two thumbs up replies to some random youtube comment she left a fellow Minecraft fan and she was shrieking and jumping and just…giddy with excitement, like she’d won an Oscar. And I’m just so damn jaded and disturbed that I failed to grasp why she found that so exciting. I mean…Here comes the fifty shades of cray…

What if the thumbs up was in sarcasm or mockery?

I am damaged goods, obviously. I picked up 5 new followers today alone and rather than think, wow, that’s awesome, people are reading my spewage…my first thought was, “Oh, some autobot is probably signing up random fake accounts”. Followed by, “Oh, crap, did I say something inadvertently controversial so I am getting troll traffic and about to get cyber mobbed?”

To fully understand why my thinking would automatically go to suspicion and paranoia, however, you have to have some of my backstory. Not that it’s remarkable or anything, but I was one of the unfortunate bullied kids for 7 years of school. I was called awful names, had my pants pulled down to my ankles, I was spit on, offered money ‘cos you look like a whore’,I eventually quit just to escape the daily attacks and terror. I’ve never regretted it. I went on to get a GED and I wasn’t a teen suicide statistic, so I saw it as winner winner, chicken dinner. And while it left marks on my psyche, as I hit my thirties, now over my mid forties, I have become less salty about my tormentors because now I know…kids are essentially monsters without a conscience. Especially vile teenagers. No doubt had I worked to ‘blend in’ to my rural surroundings rather than being true to my own heavy metal leanings and fashion, life might have gone easier for me. Then again, there’s always one kid that gets singled out and nothing they do ever changes that fact, I guess that was me. I never had to live with being a fake or betraying myself, at least.

To this day, teenagers make me unseasy. I view them as rattlesnnakes. Beautiful but frightening creatures capable of delivering a death blow.

I’d like to say my personal small motley crew of friends made it easier but the fact is, I only ever really had two good friends. The others made it clear they hung out with me in pity or they were too embarrassed to hang out with the girl getting spit on but they’d see me outside of school…There were times even the people who proclaimed to be friends were my tormentors, doing stuff to fit in by torturing me. My family wasn’t very supportive. My mom told me to tell em to go to hell, my dad said knock em in the mouth then in the next breath they were both saying, no, don’t, you’ll get kicked out…

Come to look back, how did I manage to get out of that minefield of home and school and family and frenemies? But it certainly explains why even 30 some years later, my first instincts are discomfort, suspicion, fear, paranoia. Because nothing good ever came out of being singled out when I was a teenager and in today’s polarized socio-political climate, it’s not a good thing, either, for most of us. Usually the sociopaths and psychopaths do quite well but if you have a conscience, you’re pretty much screwed.

Counselors have told me this is some sort of personality disorder, being so mistrusting and quick to panic and paranoia. Funny, it doees’t feel like my personality is causing the panic attacks and viscerally agonizing responses. That would be my mind and body, flooded with too much sensory overload and a lifetime of learning the hard way that naivete costs too much. I try to see the good in people, but if all those years of abuse hardwired me to perceive everything in a fight or flight manner, well, 35 years of therapy hasn’t managed to fix it. And if being self protective and wary keep me from going off the deep end, then I should be commended for it rather than have it deemed dysfunction.

That being said, the more you try to convince the professionals that you’re ‘not’ ‘this label’, the more they believe that you are paranoia, borderline, antisocial, schizotypal,etc. And the fact they don’t factor in history that brought about these disorders does a disservice to patients. If you’ve been bitten by a dog half a dozen times, is it really insane that you would become less a fan of dogs and more frightened and wary of them? Yet if it’s people you are phobic of, even with good cause, that’s just crazy.

Well, color me fifty shades of cray.

But I think I am gonna take a page out of my kid’s playbook and start at least TRYING to work through my knee jerk paranoia and wariness and ponder the possibility that there’s no prank around the corner, no other shoe about to drop, no one out to malign me, harass me, or embarrass me.

I envy her zest for life and the joy she finds in such simple things. I am supposed to be her role model but it kind of works both ways sometimes.

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)

Unsafe

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , , on November 7, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

It’s very difficult to explain-in a manner in which non bipolar people can understand- when I get to feeling ‘unsafe’. It isn’t delusion, it isn’t paranoia. I don’t think some masked murderer is lurking in the shadows to kill me. I don’t think someone is out to poison my soda or that the cats have donned leather jackets and switchblades in an effort to murder me gangsta style.

It’s more this feeling of emotional nudity, this vulnerability, where if I leave my safe bubble, I am on display, painted with targets, and at risk for…emotional ahhilation? Complete mental break? Yesterday I was forced out of my cocoon and every moment I could think of nothing more than wanting to get back home to safety, to the comforting embrace of binge watching Dexter. I made efforts to remain off the radar and that failed so I ended up running errands for my stepmom which entailed a trip to Hellmart-my nemesis. Then Aldi, which the parking lot alone gives me panic attacks, there’s just too many cars and people moving in too many different directions and I can’t keep my head on enough of a swivel and my attention span locked down. It’s terrifying. And humiliating because for fuck’s sake, I am a bad ass who alienates men by being too harsh for their psyches yet I’m also some shrinking violet freaked out to leave my own home and carry out basic errands?

Well, depression and anxiety are definitely contradictions and I have them in spades.

Today I need to clean the biohazard house. But I can’t stand to look at it so I remain ensconced in my safe bedroom crypt, lost in Dexter’s world, where even the monster has more of a conscience than the creature I chose as my child’s father…Yeah still no movement on that one, the lawyer is useless, the donor strives to be useless, and the court system totally screws over an innocent 9 year old girl who they’re supposed to protect.

When I get that kind of fury bubbling inside me, those are the moments I connect most to shows like Dexter. Is it so bad to rid the world of scum sucking ass trashers who escape the system time after time?Morally and legally, my tether on reality remains strong. Of course, playing judge, jury, and executioner is wrong. But if it brings me a modicum of comfort and it’s just fictional…I’d call it therapeutic AF.

We got a donation to our fundraiser which completely surprised but delighted me because it was coming down to keeping my car insurance active (which the law requires) or keeping the water turned on…This wonderful generous person really made a difference in a positive way for Spook and I. And we’re not out of the woods what with holidays and winter heating bills and hey, I can’t even qualify to work as a gas station cos of my numerical dyslexia cos I failed the basic math test with inverted numbers…So, yeah. If you’re feeling kindness in your heart and generous…consider us a worthy cause. The elections are over but hey, you can still elect to help us. Gift card, social media share, or just ask for a list of things we need to tide us over.

I can’t seem to get going today. I am feeling unsafe ‘deer in the headlights’ right now and I can’t shake it off. I am trying. I am trying to have gratitude for what we do have, I am trying to have wisdom to accept what I can’t change, yada yada…Trying so hard. Depression is a cold hearted bitch, though.Zero fucks given how hard you’re trying or how you fantasize only about sleep or simply never waking up so you don’t have to feel depressed and anxious and unsafe anymore…

Also looming overhead is my car has to go into the shop Friday for a belt replacement and oil change so I have no idea how long I will be without a car. Plus side, my stepmonster offered to schedule it and pay for it because she knows I get $800 a mont for rent, power, gas, water, food-there isnt a spare penny to be found so it’s not like I don’t want to handle my own auto maintenance but….not like the donor left me much choice. I’m already sweating bullets cos Spook is down to 3 pairs of pants that still fit her so I have to keep doing laundry to rotate them for her and every day she is asking for something new that I can’t get for her and….

Really, fictional serial killers makes me feel less shitty than knowing how much I am letting down my kid here. I wonder if the donor feels any guilt.What a joke. I guess that’s why he was so amused by my what he called ‘Jewish guilt” where I flogged myself even for cutting someone off in traffic. I truly felt bad and he just laughed at me, said I was going overboard. Yes, well, having a conscience is a terrible trait in a human. Oh, no it’s not.

Pfft.

A fellow blogger has inspired me to focus even the tiniest bit on what I am grateful for in spite of how effed up life is..
My cats.
My kid.
Warm socks.
Acts of kindness like a donation or stepmom paying to make sure our car is serviced and safe for the winter.
Oh, and this dude from youtube who I have been promoting all over the place cos he’s talented and funny and even made a Die Antwood song not suck by metaling it the fuck up. Check out Leo.

And FYI, I’d totally dress up like Jigglypuff and rock out with Pikachu. Just sayin’.

Back to my safe fictional place. Even the serial killer has a heart for his stepkids and his own child all the while hacking people to pieces. That shouldn’t impress me as much as it does but…I guess I’m a sucker for people who don’t ditch out on their kids.

The Monsters Under My Skin, Under My Bed, and Inside My Head…need evicted

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

ARGH! EEK! THE HORROR! They’ve been warning for a couple of weeks but I got my first look at Google’s idea of an ‘upgrade’ to Gmail and it’s…wretched. Eww, I can’t make heads or tails of it, make it go away, for the love of pegacorn. (Kinda like wordpress constantly reminding me to try ‘their new improved method of posting’, oh, egad, noooo, I am using the same template from 7 years ago, that new one is utter crap.) Oh, and YES, absolutely, I fear and despise change but what it boils down to is, if it isn’t easier for me to use, then it’s a downgrade, not an upgrade and IT BLOODY WELL SUCKS.

Been a few days since I posted, just haven’t been feeling it. Too many racing thoughts and the inability to sort them into something coherent. The good news is MY KID IS BACK AT SCHOOL, WOO HOO, another summer survived of Uzichild firing at my brain daily. Of course, that anxiety has been replaced by the anxiety that she could get sick at school or the bus could crash and what if I step away from my phone and miss the call…Scumbag brain is never ever satisfied unless fretting over something.

We went to the animal attraction the other day. Much as I loved feeding the goats (GOATS RULE!!!!) and seeing lemurs and the white tiger and Capuchin monkeys, I couldn’t help but feel like a real asshole. Animals as entertainment, that’s warped. Though for me, it was more educational and ‘we don’t get to see exotic animals here’. My kid could have used the $5 mom gave her to ride a camel, get a picture with the diaper wearing monkey, but instead…she used it for a pony ride. Those poor ponies looked so sad. But this is the midwest and pony rides are everywhere, personally if I’d had money I’d have gotten the camel ride and a pic with diaper monkey. That’s just me. It made Spook happy and that was the whole point. That and I got a pic of an adorable ring tailed lemur and THE GOATS!!! (I had a pet goat as a child, they have a near and dear place in my heart, as do the llamas, my grandpa had one and it spit on me…it was the last animal he purchased before he passed away so what’s a lil llama spit for a flashback to a good memory?)

So…monsters under my skin. In an asshole move at Spook’s bday party I boasted “I’ve made it all summer with my flea allergy acting up!” See, my kid will have 3 flea bites. Me? This is what I get due to my allergy.

We couldn’t afford flea treatments for the cats so the fleas are feasting on me. I ran out of Claritin non drowsy so I got some benadryl from stepmonster and spent 3 days feeling all stoned and sleepy and still itching like a mofo. And the poor cats, they got an herbal treatment from the dollar store, but it did fuck all so fleas galore. I even had the herbal natural treatment for the indoors the former tenants left behind and…fail. I’m pretty miserable. Like I said my kid gets 3 bites, barely bothers her. Because I have histamine overdose and an allergy to flea bites…I look like I have scabies. Ewww. But been this way every summer since I was 7. The only time it’s less severe is the few times I could get the cats Advantage 2. That shit is expensive but man does it work.

Monsters under my bed…That’s a metaphor for how much I am in denial of certain things. Like housework. It’s just not that important to me. But we’re out of clean silverwear so I should get on the dishes…Except I’ve been TRYING to mow the lawn for 3 and a half hours except the grass is damp and it keeps killing the mower so I have to stop and clean out the clumps of wet greenery. I am waiting til later in hopes it will dry out, I got one side and the front yard done, which is about 1/2 of the entire lawn. Just…grr, I don’t get along well with vacuums or mowers. The mower is dad’s and I saw a puff of smoke come out of it earlier, so I am probably fucking it up unintentionally which will open me up to more paternal berating. It was mentioned how I don’t mow ‘properly’ in long even rows but it’s such a big yard, so daunting, the only way I can make sense of it is to work in small quadrants. So maybe it’s choppy instead of neat little mow lines but if it gets done, fuck it. My shoulder is sore from yanking on the cord to start it and my hands are to the point of blisters from pushing the thing, it vibrates worse than a magic fingers motel bed.

Monsters inside of my head…It’s only been 5 days but I can’t tell a damn bit of difference with the Prozac combined with Cymbalta. On the other hand, Prazosin seems to be helping with the bad dreams. I’m still dreaming, still waking up multiple times a night, but I barely remember my dreams and they’re not what wakes me in a cold sweat so that’s a plus. Or placebo effect. I’m just still feeling anxious and paranoid and yeah, “is it bedtime yet?”. I can’t expect the meds to work overnight and hey, no shitty side effects is a win, but my frustration is at fever pitch. I need to get out of this stagnant mental space. I need to feel some pure joy. (Anyone wanna buy me a pet lemur? j/k)

So…that’s my rant for now. I’d like to note I lost a couple of followers and normally that would make me bummed but then I realize I’m pretty rambling, outspoken, and not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m more like a cup of tea that may or may not have arsenic in it, so yeah, beware before you sip. Who says I’m not self aware?

Here’s the link to our fundraiser, gonna keep it going cos hope springs eternal.

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.)