Archive for paranoia

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)



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.


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.)

A Bunch Of Random Shit And Mental Health Problems

Posted in depression with tags , , , , , , on August 14, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

***Disclaimer*** (Skip this post if you hate kids, fundraisers, and chaotic, rambling thoughts.)

I wore a bra today.

TMI? Perhaps. And honestly, it wasn’t because I was feeling the ‘well groomed’ thing. I had to go to the store where sexting pervo works and I didn’t want to fuel his pervo issues by being braless.

It’s sad, thinking that wearing a bra, which a gazillion women do every day because it’s expected’ is some momentous event. But when you’re depressed, it’s these little things that feel like a mountain has been successfully scaled.

So the FUNDRAISER has completely stalled even though we are still way short of our goal. Trust me, I wouldn’t mention it were it not necessity. We just existed 4 days on water and ramen and while that’s more than some have…I’m narcissistic enough to still ask for help. Though IMHO, it’s less narcissism or entitlement and more, hey, I have a kid here and the move fucked me on so many levels….As Spooked used to say before she learned to enunciate correctly, HELK! There are worse causes than Mustacchio Girl.

(The mustache came off a birthday card sent to her by my beloved wordpress friend, Deon, tyvm, Mr. M, we lurve you!)

Birthday ghoul.

New ‘do, courtesy of dad’s faction who had a coupon for the salon.

Please help her get what she has to have for school.

NOT a scam, receipts provided upon request, gift cards also accepted if you fear giving cash. Trying to help my kid here, not score a manicure and a dime bag.

So, where was I…bra, yeah.

We went to town today. She was supposed to have an eye appointment but it was scheduled so late in the day and she was being so obnoxious about going, I said fuck it and canceled it. (One L? Two? IDK.) I forgot my phone and didn’t realize it til we were 4 miles away. Normal anxiety in the dish skyrocketed to paranoia and panic, lest the car break down or whatever and we have no way to reach someone. Gotta think, OMG, how did I survive before cell phones??? It’s sad but at least I was concerned with being stranded, not Twattering or updating my fuckfacebook status. My phone has become a security blanket I guess. Though I prefer to think of it as another fail safe, like how I carry a gallon of gas at all times in the event I calculate mileage wrong and run the car out of gas. Of all the things to be broken on a car, it’s my shit luck I’d get one with a broken gas gauge. Math is not my thing.

I took my kid to get her hair done, courtesy of dad and his woman’s idea of a birthday gift. Went into the chain store and paid no mind, said, “I don’t want you asking for a buzz cut.” And of fucking course, the hair stylist is a chick with a buzz cut. I could have died. Leave it to my dumbass to be a total douche, lucky she didn’t scalp my kid and say oops. God, that was unfortunate. I didn’t mean anything bad, I mean, lots of people have crew cuts and pull it off. But they’re not a 9 year old girl with renowned ‘buyer’s remorse’ who change their minds an hour after getting what they asked for. Still…Open mouth, insert both feet, socks, shoes, and all. My bad.

Fortunately the sexting perv wasn’t working today. We got what we needed and came home. And with no lifeline AKA phone and my paranoia and anxiety attacks…it was none too soon. This is another place where I think living in Armpit is psychologically damaging. I am so anxiety ridden I rush to get back my safe space and then once home, I am bored because town is soooo (12 miles to town center) away. But when we lived in town, I could go out, freak out, and still get home in within 5,10 minutes. Now…it’s 20 minutes minimum plus the cost of gas if I want to go back out after I calm down. It’s like the distance is allowing the anxiety to control me further and this is something I can’t just ‘snap out’ of.

But HEY, to my credit…I actually fired up the gas mower yesterday and mowed the lawn. Without being forced. Because I wanted to avoid the noise and guilt of dad and his brood coming to do it. Plus, I was getting something from the shed, decided to give it a whirl, and the damn thing started instead of flooding, so I went with it. Now this yard is HUUUUUUGGGEE, like an hour even on a riding mower, so of course, I took it in sections then took breaks so maybe I mowed off and on 3 hours…BUT I FUCKING DID IT! I have been terrified of gas mowers since I was ten and saw my mom cut her leg open on one…Never used one prior to 3 weeks ago…And I mowed the whole place, what even dad calls ‘they hayfield’. YAY ME! I suppose I shouldn’t be so proud of doing something a zillion others do daily but when you’re overcoming a fear you’ve had 35 years…it kind of IS a big deal. I didn’t want to do it, it is a little easier to let others do it, but what isn’t easier is listening to them screaming and guilting me. Plus, it blows the shit out of them calling me lazy. I’m not lazy. Just some days, I am limited.

Which brings me to my next rant: rapid cycling moods being labeled as borderline personality disorder. I don’t buy it, never will. While I can accept that I exhibit traits from borderline personality, I think it’s paired so closely with bipolar that it’s like trying to distingish between two donuts. Maybe if you have 10 hours to study each one for differences you can find subtle ones, but if you see someone for a few minutes every few months…You’re not going to differentiate bipolar depression symptoms from borderline disorder. It’s not me wanting to avoid another diagnosis, it’s a statement of fact. MANY bipolar people cycle so rapidly it reeks of borderline. But rapid cycling is just that-rapid cycles of moods. Just like anxiety disorder ebbs and flows.

Oh, a bright spot, I should have lead with this, but my brain is especially disordered today, perhaps due to the fact I woke six times during the night with anxiety over a trip to town. I managed to get a shrink appointment for Thursday afternoon. I wasn’t expecting it because they made it abundantly clear they had NO openings…Fortunately for me, I’ve been going there as long as the receptionist B, has been working there and she knows me, I don’t cry wolf, so she told the remaining doctor that I could have a cancelation’s spot and she assured the doc that I don’t say I am doing poorly unless I really am. Thank you, B! I’ve never met Dr. T and this is a one time appt as she is leaving in October (that’s THREE docs in under a year that have left this place) but I figure if I just go in, tell the truth as I see it, it will be okay. I worry about these things, not because I am obfuscating anything, but because some shrinks are so jaded, they approach patients, especially first timers, with suspicion, looking to catch you in any inconsistency. (Ha, I sound paranoia, EXACTLY like someone trying to lie their way through would sound, fuck me.) I just know I got an appointment by the grace of Pegacorn, I’m not gonna squander it by putting on a show. I quit drinking, I eat less, I move around more, and I still look forward only to bedtime while my mind races so fast I can’t get sleep…The truth never changes, though a disordered mind can certainly put things out of order or in the wrong words.

Sad notes…We had to pet taxi our cat Hex because she no longer wants to care for her 5 kittens. And Smitten, the cat my sis had the fundraiser for, was euthanized even after undergoing extreme surgery for breast cancer. It only bought her 2 extra months and she was pretty unhappy. 😦 My sister is destroyed, but Smitty was an old kitty, double digits, so the poor girl fought her best…She is at peace now, thankfully.

Okay, so I guess I’ll call it a wrap even though I am sure there are topics I wanted to broach. I apologize for the rambling rants but it’s mental vomit, must be done. I will leave you with something to smile at. Okay, you will smile at the cat, not me, but me and Vex are sort of a package deal.

And, cos I’m a jerk obsessed with helping my kid any way I can.

She’s gotta have socks and undies, ffs, they don’t grow on trees and I made the poor choice of paying the water bill and buying food.

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.

Panxious Much?

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , , on June 4, 2018 by morgueticiaatoms

So anyone who even occasionally reads a post here has probably noted that I blend words to create new terms that actually aren’t legit psychiatric terms (yet). Inspired by my daughter’s love for My Little Pony and constant recitation of Pinky Pie’s term ‘nervous-cited (nervous but in an excited way)…And based on my prior coinage of the term panxiety (anxious paranoia), I am now declaring ‘panxious’ an applicable term for some states of mind. Anxiety with a twinge of paranoia, and not the kind where you wear a tinfoil hate to ward off the government trying to read your thoughts via your microwave or whatever.

Panxiety is random but plentiful in my world. Today, I think, ‘panxious’ it more accurate. I have nothing bad going on. My kid is even taking a self imposed break from playing with her friend so in spite of annoying me, it’s pretty much the norm. I warded off my dad’s faction by saying she was grounded for being rude to her little friend C, and it’s true. I am more willing to be the bad guy and ground my kid than let her keep telling that 5 year old how he does everything wrong and she’s sick of him and doesn’t want to be his friend. Because I know my kid and an hour after her declarations, she will start fussing about missing him and I am willing to be the bad guy ‘grounding’ her so his feelings aren’t hurt and the friendship harmed by her knee jerk mood swings and harsh words. Flip side, I know inevitably I will get a text asking if he can play and I do have trouble saying no and being the bad guy. Clusterfuck, I know.

I think what set off today’s panxious state is that we woke up (oh, man I slept like a log last night, complete with bizarre dreams and a couple of wake ups, but…it was good) my daughter asked if I’d been in her room touching her back, then she asked why there was a bag of newspapers on my computer cart. And it only meant one thing: While we were sleeping in this morning, my half brother went ahead and came inside to leave the papers and check on her. Not only is this super creepy and he’s been told not to walk in even if the door is unlocked…in his simple mind (emotionally a ten year old, with a major porn fetish) I am sure he saw it as letting us sleep in and being kind. But my kid was sleeping in a shirt and her undies and half the time, I do too, so the invasion of our privacy is just uncool. I shouldn’t have to live on lock down because this 23 year old doesn’t grasp basic manners. I’ve talked to dad and his mom about it and…they lecture him but it never changes.

So someone just coming into your home while you and your child are asleep seems like an appropriate reason to feel super paranoid and anxious. And Spook was horrified that he could have seen her in her undies, so that’s another reason his barging in is unacceptable. Her home is her safe space and he has no right to invade it and make her uncomfortable and embarrassed. I rarely locked the doors at the trailer park and people didn’t just walk on in, so I didn’t think it’d be a big deal in Armpit. Wrong. Family is toxic at times.

But while that may have been the trigger…the panxious feeling isn’t dying down. I still feel edgy, like any minute the door is going to burst open or there will be a knock (landlord really wants his security deposit and I can’t pay water and insurance and buy food all in one two week period, so that’s another stressor). Ringing phones are always a major trigger. (I watched a show the other day that tried to explain the difference between triggers and stressors, but um, yeah, my mind didn’t retain any of it, so if I am using them wrong, my bad.) I am very uncomfortable with paranoid thoughts because it’s never been my default. And it’s not even legit paranoia where I do have on a tinfoil hate warding off the government or thinking people are out to kill me. It’s just this unsettling ‘bad juju’ feeling. Panxious.

I am gonna ride it out and hope it dissipates over the day. Xanax should help, but I never feel good about taking it. (Thanks a lot, Xanax abusers.) Maybe later I can do a more positive, less neurotic post. While taking a ride on my pegacorn, solving world peace, and learning to love the taste of mayonnaise.

Yeah, pegacorn ride and world peace are far more likely than me liking mayo. That stuff is narsty.

So of course, my kid loves it.

Maybe I should put on a foil jumpsuit, just in case she’s out to get me.


Figure as long as I can mock my own irrational mental states, it means the depression hasn’t robbed me of my humor.