Archive for pms

Nap And Nightmares

Posted in depression with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on January 24, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

I unintentionally took two brief naps today. I woke from both bathed in sweat and fearful.

I’d like to say it was some slasher flick horror scene that I had dreamt.

Nope.

I dreamed about being younger and when my mental state caused everything to go to shit and I ended up living with either my mom or my dad’s crew.

Fact I woke bathed in sweat but not at all overheated has to tell you just how horrific these memory/nightmares are for me.

The shrinks want to pile on Prozasin or whatever to stave off the dreams.

Except what I am dreaming is what I have had to deal with my whole life. For me ending up in homeless shelter would be less traumatizing. Even in my dreams, my parents behave the same and there is always some twist to make it worse.

I also felt shitty napping while Spook was home on a snow day but I can honestly say based on the TV programming schedule, I was never out more than 45 minutes and I had already warned her that during my monthly curse, I sleep a LOT, but should she need me, wake me up. Guilt is still heavy.

I got five texts tonight from family and friends who totally forgot my birthday this week. I don’t want to hold a grudge but my hormones are in ‘let’s swing a metal mace and bat at their skulls’ space so I pretend it wasn’t hurtful.

I have been so preoccupied trying to see the brighter side of things it gives the impression that I a suffering from “depression lite”. Onn the contrary, most of my time is spent thinking the world would be better off without me and that I am so damn tired I just want to go sleep and stay there til..the masses stop being asses.

I am finding no joy yet grasping for anything to counter balance this blackened soul version that is being perceived.

But since when I am responsible for how others perceive my writing, my feelings, my life at this time?

Things suck from the inside of my blackened mind.

Whatever rays of sunshine seep in, my mind is convinced are lights from an oncoming train.

Depressing? Negative? A downer? Hells yeah.

But welcome to reality for some of us.

Maybe next week my hormonal dysphoria will abate. Maybe the weather will be less cold and gloomy. Maybe my mind state will improve and things won’t seem so pointless.

Today is just not that day.

Now it’s nearing 9 p.m., my kid has already crashed, and I am ready to retire to Fort Blankie myself.

I wish I dreamt of machete wielding hockey mask wearing monsters.

But alas, my horror stories are based on facts within my own family, a nightmare I can never wake from.

You gotta wonder…if her reality sucks so much yet her dreams are so traumatizing she’d prefer sleep and nightmares…This woman is not having a good mental health day.

Dysphoric Doll

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , , on January 24, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

Wish I could say I felt better today than yesterday when I was breathing fiery wrath over feeling utterly ignored by everyone. That simply isn’t how depression works. Or hormones, for that matter. The ovary oompa loompas are squishing randomly and my cramps seriously fucking hurt. When you’re in pain, you don’t feel so shiny happy people.

We got more snow and they canceled school again today.

I woke in the middle of the night and could not get back to sleep so in desperation I took 50mg Trazadone. Oh, I slept 4 solid hours after that. Of course, now I feel like I am wrapped in gauze and walking into walls and my brain is in the slow lane. Add the cold and snow and cramps onto it, all I want is to curl up under Fort Blankie and stare mindlessly at TV shows I’ve watched a thousand times before. And hope maybe I sneak in a power nap before my kid comes to show me her latest creation in her Minecraft world.

I have a newsflash for the rainbow puking optimistic folks: SOME DAYS ARE JUST BLOODY GARBAGE.

And yay, I get to go tell the shrink next week that again, I am not feeling better, next med, please. But what haven’t I already tried aside from bee venom, hallucinogenic toad licking, and electro shock? The one drug I might have luck with isn’t in generic form and no way my ass trash insurance company is gonna shell out $1200 a month for it. Back on the medi go round, unless this doctor wants to throw a curveball and increase the Cymbalta one final time to max out. But I submit that 5 months and three dose increases, this isn’t my magic bullet. Which bloody sucks cos once upon a time, it was THE magic bullet, I felt so good on it.

Undoubtedly, I will also get the ‘you just need more sunlight and exercise’ spiel, because that is every doctor’s solution to seasonal depression. If you’re neurotypical and don’t experience depression any other time but winter, maybe that stuff works fine. But when you’re bipolar and your mood states swing to extremes year round the added stressor of unpredictable weather kicks your ass. And no matter how awesome doctors may be, they can’t change the weather or my body’s response to all the cold, snow, rain, sleet, gray gloom, and whatever switch is thrown come change of seasons. It’s internal and if I thought it would work, I’d find a big metal spork and start digging into my own brain to weed out the part that causes this shit.

This is so frustrating. I want so badly to feel good, to be productive, to feel hopeful.

My reality is that everything seems dark and bleak and pointless and I must wonder on an hourly basis why I even bother, I am obviously a perpetual fuck up who needs to be written off.

What the scumbag brain does not take into account is how long we’ve been doing this dance and I know it lies and distorts, so I just hang on and keep tying knots in my frayed rope and hang on some more because eventually…The mood tides will shift and even if not depression free, I tend to end up in better ‘fighting shape’ to do battle with all the lies my mind tells me.

Today is not gonna be one of those tough girl days.

No, this is gonna be, “I’m hungover from sleeping pills, my back hurts, the cramps are killing me, and I feel so utterly useless I think I should just quit writing all together because no one cares therefore I must suck at it so why bother, oh, and why bother thinking I have a future at all, hand me the funky Kool-Aid” day.

LIES LIES LIES LIES, scumbag brain.

I may not be mainstream writing material but I still have hope I will find my niche with people who appreciate scrambled eggs and tossed salad style rants with morbid humor and lots of swearing.

And if you can hold onto that hope and that defiant ‘fuck you, depression, you’re a fucking liar!” indignation…

You’re down but far from out.

I just feel so…alone. Not lonely. Alone. Like no one is pulling for me and that is where I could use some help now. Honestly, is it asking too much for the occasional comment of empathy or encouragement? It helps more than anyone can ever know. But I guess this mental dysphoria just brings out my inner needy bitch (I thought I slayed her a long time ago but she just keeps reappearing, damn whore).

(And FYI, I DO understand why many do not comment, it feels too much like socialization and sometimes you got nothing to say, so hey, I get that…One comment every other month even if just an encouraging emoji would be cool. Balance out all the spam I get from people wanting to sell me male enhancement drugs.)

Fort Blankie is calling my name. I saw this graphic on another blog and I was just like whoa, yea, exactly like that. We can’t escape our minds or our guilt. Very inspirational. Forgiving yourself knowing all your mistakes…that’s not an easy task. (And I apologize for not linking to the blog it came from, but until my brain unscrambles from Trazadone, I just…can’t remember.)

Let’s Redefine The Word Poor

Posted in anxiety, bipolar depression, depression, poverty with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 23, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

I got so offended when people kept referring to us as poor then I realized…Some people are ignorant of dictionary meanings. So lemme explain the difference between ‘struggle and cash broke’ and “true poverty’. Because even a whack job like me is bright enough not to let depression lie to me and make things seem worse than they truly are. So many have so much worse.

REDEFINING THE WORD POOR
————————————————————————————————————————————
My monthly income: $848

Monthly Expenses

Rent $400

Heat and Power- between $120 and $320 depending on season

Car insurance $47

Water bill $69

Internet and phones- $74

Gas in the car- $40

Pet supplies- $35

Household items (toilet paper, shampoo, et al) $25

That comes to $924-and I did up the heat bill to reflect this month’s bill of $235 and I did get a break with my car insurance 9 months on, 3 months off but what it boils down to is…

Too many expenses, not enough income. By societal standards, we are indeed ‘poor’. And my kid’s friends are not shy about reminding us at every turn that we are ‘poor’. We are also treated to food shaming because we qualify for food stamps, whether the deadbeat donor is paying or not. (No one is harsher on ‘wellfare people’ than my own father) and my kid gets free lunch. I drive a 2001 Chevy Lumina with over 230,000 miles on it. 98% of what we own is second hand via yardsales, auctions, and people getting rid of stuff. And I am not ashamed to admit on occasion when someone has moved out, I have gone dumpster diving just in case they got rid of anything that was still usuable.

I take further heat from all factions, it seems, for being on mental health disability. This angers me because I started working when I was 16. I always tried to work. When my mental health eroded I was basically told I could resign and get a good reference or they could fire me and it wouldn’t be such a good reference. I tried for years to get disability but it wasn’t until I had a reaction to antidepressant that left me drooling and incoherent in a psych ward for a week did my application get granted. I nearly died and I came out with great mental deficits in addition to what I started out with so to me it felt like I’d done all that I could do, I am in fact disabled. Funny how people disagree with that and put you down for it. My dad’s the worst, calling it my ‘nitwit’ pension. Over the years, I have repeatedly tried to work in whatever small capacity I could, even if it was dogwalking. Disabled does not mean shiftless and lazy. It means DISABLED. As in my conditions hinder my efforts to exist in the ‘normal’ bubble of employment where stability is a must and I have very little stability. Instead of being shamed for playing the hand I was dealt, I think people should either commend me for my efforts or keep their mouths shut. I am well aware working would mean more money and bolster self esteem and all that good stuff. Right now, I haven’t bathed in a week and am barely getting two hours uninterrupted sleep at night so it does not seem the right time to go telling employers all about how stable and reliable I am.

I am trying my hardest, and it seems like society-and my family- cannot wait to knock me down a few pegs on a daily basis. Maintaining your self esteem when it was low to begin with becomes a dire task in light of daily putdowns.

If nothing else, the donor walked out on me and my child 9 years ago and not once tried to contact to see her, even when a judge wanted him to sign off on the court ordered visitation. He ‘forgot’. I’ve been here with Spook (my daughter) from the moment of conception. I have done everything in my power to give her what she needs, some of what she wants, and plenty of love and empathy and compassion. I tell her I love her frequently (my parents never did that) and I give her lots of hugs (my parents did not do that, either) and I am always telling her, you are so smart, so funny, so creative, so pretty. Because my parents never did. I have managed to break their cycle, as a single ‘poor’ parent with a plethora of mental disorders. That should be worth something. I am not saying people should be lauded simply for caring for the kids they brought into the world, I am just saying…the donor’s 11 years older than me and has 2 other kids he didn’t help raise, didn’t support, and has no contact with and he was allegedly fine and upstanding and mentally stable. Yet he couldn’t handle the pressure of raising a child with me on limited funds. For not crumbling to pieces, for putting my child’s needs ahead of whatever was rioting in my head at the time- that takes strength of character.

And this is where ‘redefining the word poor’ comes into play.

We are pretty much always broke so we are cash poor. But when I look around and see all that we do have- roof overhead, heat, furniture, food in the fridge, tablets, computers, Tvs, clothes, our cats…I feel like a heel for saying we are poor. We aren’t rich or even well off, but we do not have it as bad as some people who don ‘t know where they will be sleeping tonight or when they’ll next be able to feed their kids a meal.

Our wealth comes from making the best of what we have and struggling through the stigma attached to ‘being poor’. Maybe all our stuff is used or off brand. Maybe the furniture has seen better days. The car has definitely seen better days but it still gets me from point A to point B. (At least until March when I have to renew my sticker and the new jackass governor jacked the fee from $105 to $152, OUCH, I don’t know how I am gonna pull that rabbit out of the empty hat.) My daughter and I are decent people, with good hearts, and we mind our own business and cause no one problems. We are richer than words can say if you take into account our gratitude for what we have even if less than ideal and unimpressive to others. We appreciate what we do have. We absolutely adore and appreciate the friends we have who have over the years helped us so generously. Cash poor but rich with gratitude for what we do have. So many people take things for granted, get pissy when denied the newest iwafflemaker or whatever Apple has released, and bemoan that they have to drive a car from last year. The horror!

Sometimes, Spook and I have our silly ‘if we won millions in the lottery’ game. I want a big house far from my family near the water, possibly in Maine or Delaware, with a moat filled with hungry gators and crocs to ward off visitors. I have fantasized since childhood about having a fridge with ice maker and water thing in the door. Heated in ground pool. A housekeeper since my depressions turn to biohazard conditions fast. Spook wants a house with the little witch hat turrets and an elevator and an escalator. I want my own skee ball lanes AND a giant ball pit. She wants a Husky dog. My dream cars would be a Dodge Hellcat or 1976 Caprice Classic. (I like old cars.) She wants a convertible. I want another pet snake since mine passed away 20 years ago. We dream and we dream sort of big, but even in our wildest fantasies…we’re down to Earth. With millions and our frugal ways, I could start up a no kill animal shelter and food programs during the summer when kids can’t get school lunch and their parents can’t buy them food…So much good could be done.

So, yes, we are cash poor.

But in the ways that matter most, we are wealthy beyond our wildest dreams.

That being said, buy me lots of cups of coffees so I can replace this laptop before it completely gives up the ghost. LOL.

Redefining the word poor is not simply to make us aware of how much we actually do have, it is to let the world know that their entire notion of what ‘poor folks’ means has nothing to do with reality. Needy is not greedy, and cash poor does not mean we live in a cardboard box.

So if you want to get politically correct, let’s call it ‘income challenged’.

And let none of us forget all that we do have and to feel grateful because our threadbare carpets or 2017 model TV might seem like a big deal and so you feel poor…Some people live in their cars, on the streets, in shelters. Some people go days without eating or rummage garbage cans for half eaten food. Some people cover up at night with newspapers on top of them and stuffed inside their clothes for insulation.

I know writing this is unlikely to draw much attention or change anything, but I feel better having gotten it off my chest. Spook’s friends calling us poor has rubbed me the wrong way for months now and I understand why. Because with everything we have, how fortunate we truly are, calling us poor is rude, insenstive, and insulting to people who truly are poor. That is what offends me.

The way the poverty stricken are treated by society should offend us all. We are all forever one bad break in life away from ending up there ourselves, in need of compassion and a handful of coins to get a cheap sandwich. Without pity or insults or looking away or looking appalled. One day that could through some twist of fate be you, your child, your grandchild, or your elderly parents.

Kindness costs nothing. I don’t know why we don’t show more of it to others.

I’m Your Superbeast

Posted in anxiety, bipolar depression, depression with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 12, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

Yep, I HAD to work a Rob Zombie song title into the post. Accurate description of me as of late.

I loaded up on melatonin and half a benadryl and slept til 3 a.m. I was agitated so I took 100 mg of Trazadone. I kept waking up but I could not force myself out of bed. Finally managed it at 10:30 when my kid told me the dude’s dog was here and I needed to call and let him know to come get him. That dog must really like my kid, this is the 4th time Mac has come right to our house and he lives 2 miles out of town on a farm so that was not a brief trip.

I was half stoned, half hungover from the Trazadone. And by stoned, I mean my brain was operating on 2 out of 8 cylinders and just foggy. My body felt leaden. And I still have cramps and a backache from hell so I was cranky AF. My kid was surprisingly cleaning her room though I got irked that she promised to do it three days ago and was just now doing it. Improperly medicated, Trazadone wrecked, and hormonal, I told her if she doesn’t start doing what I tell her when I tell her to do it, I am gonna take away her beloved tablet.

From there it just became a whole ordeal, I should have kept my mouth shut but I am so damned frustrated with the way she ignores me. Only me. She does fine following directions in a timely order at school so her problem is with me and I don’t know why, beyond moving us to Armpit and her just being defiant and stubborn. The cats inside and out had no food or water, which is one of the things I have been preaching 7 years. She wants her own cat, she wants a dog, but she won’t feed them or water them daily, she won’t litter train cats and if she isn’t in the mood, she won’t walk dogs…I am just trying to teach her a little responsibility. She calls it screaming and abuse. I have made a concentrated effort to keep my voice soft but firm, using sentences and “I feel” statements rather than fighting and attacking. Makes no difference to her, she is just on the defensive 24-7.

So she had a meltdown and I started tearing up and it’s just like, thank pegacorn I can go get my meds tomorrow cos I really need them. (I had to bum ten bucks from R for the copay, turns out my dad isn’t giving me cash for my birthday so..change of plans.) Eventually things calmed and we talked and all is good now.

I did a load of her laundry and have it hang drying. I made lemonade and tea, since we’ve had to give up soda cos we are broke. I emptied the litter boxes and refilled them.I called my mom to ask how she enjoyed her birthday night out with a friend who took her out to eat and to see an Elvis impersonator and it was nice to hear she had fun. (Anyone wanna take me out to eat at Marco’s pizza and to a Motionless In White concert? LOL.) I asked her for cash for my birthday since my dad gives zero fucks what we need and she said it would be after my birthday when her check came but she’d try to give me ten. That’d at least be gas money and enough to get melatonin and benadryl. I am really kicking my ass now for buying myself those boots as a self birthday gift, but after 9 years…I deserve a decent pair of boots that I truly love so I am gonna stop feeling shitty about it. I honestly though birthday money would make up for it but…more changes of plans, life goes on.

I just feel a little off today. Not as depressed as the last couple of days but certainly not a whirlwind getting stuff done. Least I have been up and functioning and just watching tiny bits of TV and mostly listening to Octane or Turbo. Yesterday was so black in my head not even heavy metal was cheering me up. That is sad. Sadder still is my mom was out til 1 a.m. having fun at age 70 and my ass was in bed at 9:30. Wow, I am a wild woman.

These cold gloomy winter days really drain me. It’s only 4:17 p.m. and I already feel like it should be ten p.m. I am just hanging onto the thread of factual hope that in about 10 weeks spring will be here and hopefully with it, a change in my mental state. Because if the seasonal depresion starts lasting during spring and summer, I am bloody well doomed.

A couple of funnies just to say, hey, I am not entirely a downer.

Bless The Mess That Is Me

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , on January 10, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

No sugarcoating it. THIS WEEK HAS BLOODY WELL SUCKED. I have been stricken with a plethora of irritating but life impacting physical ailments that further impact my ability to sleep and basically function. I bring some of it on myself. I was hungry so I ate some chili around 11 p.m. last night and I woke in agony with heartburn and a rolling tummy around 3 a.m. Did not get back to sleep. Eventually some of the pain eased but I am also battling some fucked up sinus issue so my head hurts, my ears hurt, I have drainage and just feel like my head is an overinflated balloon. On top of all this are the ovary oompa loompas randomly squishing my innards and causing debilitating cramps and backache. I did at least manage to get my kid off to school and I took melatonin and I slept from 8 until my dad called and woke me at 12:30. I told him how sick I have been and for once instead of telling me to suck it up, he said I sounded pretty sick with the sinus thing. Yeah, I have little voice and keep getting hit with blinding throbbing headaches behind one eye, it’s definitely not happy fun ball time. But true to form, he made it all about how he’s been battling a sinus problem for 2 years now because his doctors at the VA are so incompetent. Least it was a brief call for a change. I MUST sound really bad if my dad is shutting up and telling me to get some rest because I sound like I need it.

I left the house for the first time in 3 days and went to the gas station. I scraped up some change and got a 2 liter of the $1.19 cola, thinking caffeine withdrawal might also be part of the headaches. God knows the Cymbalta withdrawal is hellish, too. Brain zaps. Hate it. Soda is, for me, such a comfort. I know I overdo it, but I went 3 days without anything but tea or lemonade or water so I earned some cola. I feel more alert, at least. Pressure in my head seems to be dulled. I will take any tiny win.

Last night and ‘socializing’ with R was…Meh. Pretty much every store in town was out of Mangoritas so I had to drink nasty Strawberritas but whatever. It didn’t taste good so the only plus was its eventual numbing effect. And boy,did I need it, cos he was on a political tirade for an hour. He really thinks democrats are the evil of the earth and Trump is the American savior. I admire such dedication and passion for a belief but I just can’t…Can’t get political, honestly. My life became a fucking misery when politics were introduced into my consciousness by an old friend who was so Obama-struck, we used to joke that he and his girlfriend used condoms with Obama’s face on them. Misery. Because every time I dare think, hey this person might be good…Politicians are what they are, they do some good, they do some bad, but for the most part it is a world I don’t want any part of. So an hour of pompom waving and being told everything I think is wrong is not my idea of a fun evening. There for awhile he’d let up on politics.I hate to censor people and tell them they can’t say this or talk about this but he really has been making me miserable with his Trump bromance. And even when I said none of the democratic candidates impress me, either, basically waving the white flag to let him feel like he ‘won’ his argument…he kept going and going and going….He could give those mobs of screeching K-pop fangirls a run for their money with his worship of Trump.

Personally, I just want to disconnect from it all. If that makes me a terrible American, I am just gonna have to own it. Toxic situations and topics are just a hindrance to my mental health treatment progress and I have to be able to say-enough, this is not good for me.

I was supposed to go to town today to get all our prescriptions but honestly…3 days of gloom even if in the 40’s and 50’s (in January in the midwest, global warming isn’t real,my ass, something is going on with Mother Earth to make the weather so topsy turvy.) Then being up all night in pain and waking up still in pain…Not gonna happen til Monday. I gotta go to the office to get Spook’s paper script and they aren’t open weekends so…we can both wait til Monday. I still have plenty of Lamictal, Wellbutrin, and Xanax and I think I can stretch the melatonin and benadryl 3 days.

I just don’t do physical illness with any grace. Probably because I’ve always been pretty damn healthy physically. When mind and body both are off kilter, it does sort of turn me into an amplified monstrous version of my ranty self. Least today the rage-y ness of the last few days is just a dull frustration. I don’t feel like Z Whacking anything today.

I can’t wait for bedtime. And Saturday mornings where I know I don’t have to be up early and instantly functional as a mom. My kid is to the age she can grab a breakfast snack and play on the tablet if I want to laze in bed an hour or so extra. Of course, it makes me feel like a shitty parent but as long as her needs are being met, I don’t see how I am failing as a parent.

Is it bedtime yet?

One thing about being physically sick- my anxiety dies down. Or I am just too miserable and in pain to notice it. It’s always there and I do still get hit by the panxiety ninjas but it’s not a repeating amplified freak out thing. Thank pegacorn.

Have a lovely Friday.

Dear God, even my most sincere statements sound sarcastic even in my own head.

Sarcasm is my super power, what’s yours?

Feeling Alone and Being Lonely Are Two Different Things

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , on January 9, 2020 by morgueticiaatoms

I want a Z Wacker sooo bad right now. I am filled with hormonal anger and dysphoria and my iffy med state. I gave up soda and NO, tea or other caffeinated drinks do not count as caffeine because it is the damn flavor and carbonation I like in soda. Now, after thinking I had all week to just drop out and feel hateful and vile and and shitty, R is coming over tonight to ‘visit’. He said the magic word. Mangoritas. If I ever needed OUT of my own head it is right now. I have cramps and have been battling migraines but have no painkiller. I ate chili last night and endurd 20 hours of gut agony in spite of taking 3 Pepcid. This week is just utter ass trash and I WANT MY FUCKING Z WHACKER! Some people can afford a bag to hit or join a boxing gym. I just want my Z Whacker so I can go batshit on our already dying of fugus issues trees in the yard. Just get OUT some of this vitriole that is suddenly sweeping me up in its maelstrom.

I was managing yesterday. Listening to new music, trying to text and email and ‘be present’ amongst the normals. Guess what? I sent out 4 emails and 6 texts in the last three days and got NO replies!!!! And I am the one who is anti social? Okay, people get busy, but ya know, if you can’t reply in 3 days, do NOT fucking dare say I am the bad friend. You’re obviously too busy to include me in your life or I am just that insignificant that I don’t even warrant a three word auto email or text reply. Whatever. You’re hurting all TWO of my fucking feelings. Rudeness, however, is simply, well, fucking rude and fuck you, too. R was supposed to be out of town this week so I sent him a text telling him to let me know when he got back. Instead of that, he waits a few days and puts me on the spot and says he will be here tonight. What the fuck is that? Ignore me three days then I am supposed to feel honored and jump at the chance for your greatness to grace me? And pathetic being that I am, I see even the inconvenience as a win for me because at least you’re bringing me the nectar of the alcohol gods to help me forget I am in physical pain and in mental hell.

I am really not a lonely person, at all. I get bored sometimes. Sometimes I get to feeling a bit social. Sometimes I’m just trying to adapt the whole normal human affect and ‘like’ company or whatever.

But I am not lonely.

However, and most people lack the emotional IQ to discern this one, I feel so very alone. No likes on my posts, no return texts, no emails returned, not even an irritating call from my family. But then I try to let someone know I a feeling real bad here and could use a little basic compassion to boost my mental state a little…

AND I AM ALL FUCKING ALONE.

Which is why I bemoan the old days of depression chat rooms because back then, no matter what time day or night, I always had a place and people to turn to so this feeling alone never became so prevalent I fell further down the rabbit hole. Now everything is APPS and even the support ones are filled with trolls or people looking to get laid or tell you how you’re the awful person who won’t listen to their stories of self injury for six hours straight.

I am not sure I have ever felt this alone in my 47 years.

Some of it is me, hormonal, meds fucked up, in pain, trying not to think about the delicious tingly crispness of soda on my tongue…But things have changed for the worse on line in many ways. And I fucking hate using my phone for communication. LOL. How fucked up is that? Everything is an app and my even my ‘fat finger’ keyboard does not make it easy for me to talk to people via text and I mainly use it to look up things. My computer keyboard has always been my communication device. But other than gamers it doesn’t seem like people are too big on line with computers for the purposes of making friends or having mental health support.

I know, grow up and adapt, times change.

And if my only options to adapt are a format I am uncomfortable using and running into a rash of people who are more toxic than me…

Maybe feeling alone is what I have to adapt to.

Okay,bring on the narcissistic republicans clowns, I force fed myself a sufficient dose of metal music via Sirius Hair Nation, now I feel more badass than whiny bitch.

But alas the Trump fanboy won’t show for another 2 or 3 hours which means god knows how many more mood swings and opportunities to start going back to feeling fragile and wimpy. And hey, I LOVE fucking Wednesday 13, but even I don’t wave the pompoms and talk the dude up the way R does the orange hued dumpster fire. Sounds like a 14 year old boy band fanboy and kinda grosses me out.

Least today I slept. A LOT. After oversleeping and my kid coming within 15 minutes of missing the bus because I change an alarm tone and set the snooze pace wrong and wow…After not sleeping for four days, all I did today from 9 a.m. til 3 p.m. was sleep. And I am ready to sleep some fucking more. My nightmares are better than my current mental state.

Being alone truly doesn’t bother me 99.9% of the time.

But when the mental health demons start stampeding my brain…Feeling alone is probably the worst feeling on Earth. The only saving grace is knowing IF you can ride it out and not let the dark thoughts drive you beyond the point of no return, you can make it even if you are all alone.

For my daughter, I plaster on a smile and give her hugs and don’t lay any of this at her doorstep. Just blame the cramps and force more smiles, maybe a lame mom joke.

But this 3 day migraine coming from being without my Cymbalta is kicking my fucking ass. Antidepressant withdrawal even unintentionally is a bitch. Hopefully the doc can have it all straightened out by Saturday and I can get my meds back on track.

It’s only January 9th and already 9 days of 2020 feels like an entire year because nothing is going right.

I WANT MY Z WHACKER. My birthday is January 22nd, hint hint hint?

I doubt I would ever use the thing but I sure as hell would put it up on a nice shelf in my living room just to show my devotion to Z Nation and maybe remind a couple of idgets that crazy people armed with awesome weapons should not be trifled with.

I’d name the Z Whacker Addy, of course, and hug it and kiss it and pet it and call it George…

Don’t ask.

More metal needed. Of course, ballads bring me down so I am gonna try Octane. I could use a heavy dose of some angry Motionless In White.

But yeah. Feeling alone does not equal lonely. Otherwise I’d be thriled with having company.

Sometimes the most alone feeling on Earth is when you are ‘with’ peoplem who don’t understand mental health issues and treat you like a wimp who needs to suck it up.

So yeah. Alone doesn’t even really mean you are by yourself.

It just means you’re totally on your own even in a crowded room.

I’m about to cut a bitch for a Dr. Pepper or a Cymblata, whatever gets rid of this fucking headache that won’t go away.

Anti depressant withdrawal is a real thing, for those who don’t know.

Inexplicable

Posted in anxiety, depression with tags , , , , , , , , on November 26, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

I am feeling extreme anxiety today, to the point of a churning stomach and hives. I can’t explain it because nothing has really triggered it. I even managed to go to my dad’s without too much trauma. Yet…here I am, at the corner of anxiety attack and panic episode. I am reluctant to take a Xanax because my once bountiful stash has dwindled and can’t be replenished if I don’t restart my hoarding and self discipine, ie: self punishment and withholding of what could make me feel less…like a cornered animal. I will get to taking one shortly but man, that last psych center benzo nazi regime really got into my head and now I feel shitty for taking more than their low dose even though the new doc put me back where I need to be. Talk about conditioning. Not that it’s anything new. I’ve come across several people in my life with preconceived notions that anyone who took xanax at all was addicted and needed rehab to fix their problem. Yet they saw how altered my behavior and demeanor were once xanax was on board, they changed their tunes, amazingly. Well, not one of them, but that’s a sordid password protected mind fuck of a mess from 11 years ago.

Conditioning, ick. I like to think myself as unmalleable but it seems I put myself in a supplicant position,personality wise, a little too often. Not often enough for anyone to mistake me for a doormat but often enough that they play on my psych diagnoses and corner me, making my every reaction to their shitty behavior about my mental issues. Cos saying, ‘sorry,I am being a jerk’ is just asking too fucking much from neurotypicals. I should apologize for things I can’t control but they never have to be sorry for a damn thing. They haven’t conditioned that outrage out of me yet. Sooo bloody tired of being the one to get therapy and meds and make changes and grow as a person while those around me prove to be immovable objects. On an evolutionary scale, this is disappointing, even in my new ‘woke’ state about my own contribution to my social and emotional issues. Maybe I don’t always recognize when I am being a bitchbeast but when I do, or it is pointed out, I have the decency to say, “I’m sorry” instead of going on the attack and saying shit like,”Don’t be so sensitive” or “learn to take a joke”. Or I wait til after I apologize to go sarcastic. Because I truly DO feel bad when I behave badly and make others feel shitty. Good thing I have a strong psyche because apparently all the conscience lacking in those around me has been instilled in my mind…cos I even feel bad for them for being such jerks and not even being smart enough to know they are being jerks.

My mind is such a clusterfuck.

So…another morning where I could barely get up with my kid. I could not get warm. I went back to sleep as soon as she was on the bus. This napping thing has become daily when she is not home and it’s pissing me off. I started staying up later and taking melatonin at the last minute in hopes it might help me stay asleep but…all it has done is bring about the naps. I really don’t want to go back to going to bed at 7:30 so my brain is calmer by 10 p.m. I am trying to wean myself from the benadryl and melatonin, cutting the dose 3/4 in hopes of not being groggy in the morning and going back to sleep. I just want to sleep sans pills for a change and yet…if I do that, I am still awake at 3 a.m. I have had this sleep disturbance for 20 years, I can’t explain it.

I couldn not fix the stepmonster’s laptop because the problem is with her ten year old router and her Win 8 OS not playing nice together. They weren’t too awful, aside from calling me and waking me from my guilty nap and guilting me into coming over. Though maybe my dad contributed to the anxiety. The conversation:

“Your car is making a bad sound in front, if you keep driving it that way, you’re going to tear it up.”
Me: “So what should I do?”
Him: “Keep driving it. Next time you go to town, stop by afterward so we can feel if you have any hot spots near your tires.”

BRAIN IMPLOSION. Keep driving it, tear it up. Hey, go drive it. What the actual fuck?????

I need to go to town tomorrow to get stuff to make chicken and noodles for Turkey day. Maybe that impending ordeal of two trips in tow days is adding to my anxiety. That and my kid’s pain in the ass friend who cannot get it through his head that when he calls and I say no, she isn’t hanging out today, it does NOT mean ignore me and come to the door so I have to tell her no again and bring about her wrath on me because you’re a spoiled, apparently deaf brattleaxe. He really stresses me out. And it’s not like I don’t feel for the kid, he is on the spectrum and has zero friends, but man…annoying as fuck. And being told no only to show up anyway and act hurt that I said no again…I don’t want to have to talk to his mother but it may come to that. And he is two grades ahead of Spook so I don’t even get the peace of mind thinking, hey, worry less, she is with an older kid…In this case, the older kid is less mature than my kid.

Okay, so maybe I do have things to explain the anxiety but hives and a burning stomach ache? Seems extreme.

Doctors ran tests and it was always the same conclusion: you internalize stress and it impacts you physically.

Bloody lovely.

I guess as it nears time for the moody return of Spook, I think it may be time to take a Xanax. And ego check myself for calling her moody when it’s a pot-kettle-black situation.

Self awareness fucking sucks.