Archive for seasonal affect disorder


Posted in anxiety disorders, bipolar depression with tags , , , , , , on March 27, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

My slowpoke child fights me every morning when I remind her of the time, saying I am ‘pressuring her’ and it makes her scream at me. I say bullshit. She knows this is going to happen and still she piddle pokes and alternates between “I can read the clock” and “I don’t know how to tell time!” She is exasperating to the nth. Every. Single. Morning. You’d think if even cats and dogs can be trained through repetition a 9 year old could learn, too. Nope. She is stubborn as hell. Her parting gift to me today was to not tell me she loved me and scream at the top of her lungs because the bus was two minutes out and I dared remind her to hustle. It’s almost like living with the donor again, where he told me to remind him cos he forgets, then screamed that I was picking on him by reminding him. WTF, Canada? Is this inbreeding, tying the hands together so every situation is a no win? And I don’t even expect a win, just coopration and civility…

I did not post yesterday because I started the day out in a bad mental space. I took a melatonin, thinking I could sleep through it. It took 4 hours to kick in. Thankfully I set my alarm for 3:15 because I never know if my kid’s Tuesday after school church thing is going on or not so I make sure I am here. (The lady that runs it will text or call my dad’s house and tell them, but not me, wtf rednecktopia?) Good thing, cos she decided not to go as she had a headache.

We actually had a good evening. She offered to help with some housework and mopped the kitchen then did dishes. The downside was it didn’t free me up any or lower my stress level as she kept overfilling the sink and sloshing water everywhere on the floor which highlighted the areas that the mop didn’t really clean. So in a way, her helping makes three times the work for me, but I can’t bitch that she won’t help if I don’t give her the opportunity. She got a bath while I cooked supper, we ate together at the table (a rare thing since she almost never eats what I do) then we watched some Mash and Frasier together. I was amused by the look on her face when I explained the draft to her to explain why the doctors on Mash were in Korea. She was like, did they make girls do it? That may be the only plus of being considered the lesser gender, they underestimate us so they discount us out of good and the bad. Which enables women to be ninjas and the patriarchs never see it coming. I LOVE being the lesser gender.

I put her to bed at 8:30 then tucked myself in. For the third night in a row since getting the melatonin with B6, I slept the entire night, waking only once or twice. And I couldn’t be bothered to get up, even for a drink or to use the bathroom. Come alarm time, I only hit snooze twice and was up reading email at 6:50. I guess that’s a sign that the seasonal depression is starting to (oh so sloooowly) lift. The ensuing screaming match, which I didn’t scream, I just used my low channeling satan voice, so it was her screaming, really didn’t set my day off in a good space. I guess I am going to have to start getting her up earlier, which punishes me. I can get dressed, brush my hair, feed the cats, and out the door in 20 minutes, tops. That is how much of a morning person I am not. Anything to get that extra push of snooze.

In my email was the usual Wednesday Psych Central newsletter. I open this every time with trepidation, wondering if something I read will result in my demoralization. Occasionally useful information is there, but today was not one of those days. Instead I get “Little Things That Can Get You Through Depression.” Oh what a simplistic world this writer must live in. And while she may be telling her story, it is not everyone’s story. If anything, I found her article belittling to those of us who endure months long clinical depression.

Do any of us want to go out in public looking like something the cat horked up? No. There are just days when putting on clean clothes and running a brush through the hair takes up all your spoons/sporks. The ability to hold a job with any stability is something I admire and wish I could pull off but no matter how many times I try, it takes more spoons and sporks than I have to spare. If my mental state were static, this might not be the case. But I rapid cycle so no sooner than the mania comes on, the depression sets in and I am no longer myself but a husk, unable to enjoy the simplest things. I haven’t watched my favorite shows in weeks because I cannot focus or get interested and rather than taint them with my distorted depressive views, I just say, another time. Depression without wonderful people surrounding you? What a fucking joke. Bottom line is, some of us don’t have a support system and sitting in a coffee shop or going to smile at the cashier simply isn’t in our current skillset. Self isolation isn’t always a symptom of the depression, but a choice to not spread the misery. Key word, being ‘choice’ and studies are now saying choosing isolation (in teens, anyway) is very different than the depression/angst devouring you.

I did agree with the having a pet to care aspect. In my case, I have a child and pets and I function for them alone some days.

I am, however, infuriated by the thought this will be read by people in a truly crippling depression and lead them to feelings of self loathing and despair because their experience is not her experience. (Just tied some hands there, didn’t I, you have the right to speak but if I disagree, it’s dangerous..How…Trump of me…ewww.) But for those in a similar state it could be a beacon of hope. Wtf, sunshine spewing counselor, how do I not see everything in shades of gray? I’m so busy trying not to invalidate others than I never validate myself.

Well, the hose in the basement snapped and I have no idea what it goes to. I don’t dare call the landlord or my family lest they see just how cluttered the place truly is. I need to figure out a self fix and figure out where the water is coming from. We haven’t had snow or rain. There are no things upstairs leaking water so it has to be some sort of drain and aside from bathtub and washer, I can think of nothing that would still be draining the next day…Ugh, I hate this fucking place. It’s too much for me to manage on my own. I have a football field of a yard that I have to first detwig before I can even think of mowing this summer. It’s all overwhelming and I miss our little trailer that was overwhelming, too, but on a different level. This is my dad giving me a reference and me fucking it up. Which should be all the motivation I need for getting the landlord in to fix this leak but the sump thingie is helping it from flooding and it just looks like a repair to a plastic hose. Though why anyone would have a flimsy hose to drain things that hold gallons of water is beyond me…

I hit on an idea last night. A place to go where the seasons wouldn’t be so grueling, the job market is more open, and it’s just big and small enough to suit our needs. I have a friend of 20 years who lives there, he might be willing to provide reference or what not, though not likely. He was more interested in talking music and sex than anything of substance. Nothing bad about him, he’s a great guy, just a little single minded and I’ve evolved into what I am- a 46 year old woman with fluctuating hormones and a ton of libido killing meds. Still, it’s not a bad thought. It’s far far from my family. I’ve never spent more than a couple of months somewhere else and always due to money, not me giving up and wanting to come back to this hell hole. If I were to do things right and go there with a job and place to live already lined up, with plenty of money on hand (ha ha ha as if that will ever happen) but…just the notion, for the first time ever, of where we could go, seems like a light at the end of the tunnel. My kid wants California but that is just too expensive no matter where you go. And that Earthquake thing. Ha, says the woman living in tornado country.

But yeah, I am back to wanting to just primal SCREAM in a therapeutic way and I’ve given myself permission to sleep through this lingering winter depression if that is what it takes to get me through. No guilt, no shame. I have tried toughing it out conscious, but some of my worst depressions were worked through with excess sleep. That I still get up and care for the kid and cats and do minimal housework and bill paying and such, that’s what matters. Not how I deal with the depression, just that I find a way to deal. Right or wrong, survival is the name of the game. Everyone has a method, this is mine right now. Next cycle, it could be my old standby of refusing myself the privilege of much sleep.

I see the NP tomorrow. Not looking forward to it. You have to have someone willing to meet you halfway for compromise to work and this woman ain’t giving an inch. I am going to push them on the anxiety issue. Surely they don’t deem Buspar an evil as it takes weeks to truly kick in. But it would be better than antihistamines that do fuck all to quell anxiety. I am trying to compromise my own standards and quality of life to be compliant. I hate every minute of it, of course, but I am fucking trying.

Okay, busted hoses. Ugh, can’t I just go back to sleep? Oh, wait, I gave myself permission so I guess it’s an option. Though after several nights of decent sleep, the melatonin is due to stall out. All meds do, even supplements. I find it so curious that 10 mg pills without B6 do nothing to put me to sleep yet 3 mg, with B6, helps me sleep quite well for awhile. My system is ten kinds of fucked up in how it processes stuff. If I am that sensitive to an herbal, this professional impatience when I don’t respond typically to their pharmacopia is easily explained.

I just know I need this winter/spring combo weather to stop. I am sick of being cold all the damn time when my kid is running around in a tank top and shorts. I am sick of sixty during the day, 29 at night, so I can’t even turn off the heat and anticipate lower costs. Though in a week or two it isn’t gonna matter but I am not gonna prattle about that shit. Today, anyway.

Okay, xanax time. Never a good sign when you need it right out of the gate but that’s what it’s there. Because it is needed, not because it gets me high. It calms me to mellow so it’s the opposite of a high. Too bad I have such ignorant psych care.


How Wicked Can One Woman Be?

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , , on March 17, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

That whole No Rest For The Wicked thing (awesome Ozzy album, also)…How bloody wicked can I be to deserve such torturous interrupted sleep even when completely drained? I was awake every ninety minutes last night and then up at 7 a.m. shivering in this ice box of a house to feed the insistent cats. I stayed up because Beakman’s World was on. Yes, that’s my shameful Sunday secret, I am 46 and enjoy Beakman’s World. (Bill Nye is a little staid for my tastes, I like goofiness.) The spawn is at church and seemingly less grouchy than yesterday.

Apparently when she stayed at my sister’s the roommate former methheads had company over (they don’t even pay rent, wtf) and it was pot party central upstairs so my sis took Spook out of the house for awhile and didn’t get her to bed til after 1 a.m. Some kids can do the late nights and little sleep thing, I always could. My child…NOPE. And I gotta say, without seeming like I have a stick in my ass, I am very uneasy with all these people unrelated to us who live there and smoke pot with my kid in the house. I’m satan if I have a cigarette, but it’s cool to go Cheech and Chong these days? I’ve always been uncomfortable with that aspect of my mom’s and sister’s home and associations. Personally I say tax weed and let people fry their brains. But the mom in me spazzes out at the thought that my kid’s getting secondhand weed smoke from the ventilation system and she could pop positive on a drug test. It bothers me. But I smoke a menthol and I am unfit. The world has gone topsy fucking turvy. And no lectures on the benefits of pot versus cancer sticks, I get it. I’m not on my high horse. Ha ha ha, see what I just inadvertently did there. I really am funniest when not trying to be.

I should be doing housework. Instead I am binge watching Unsolved Mysteries. Or trying to, I think I’ve been through 7 episodes and haven’t watched a single one to the end. I am bad about that some days, it’s like I am so inwardly restless I can’t finish things outwardly. It helps if you can get 7 solid hours of sleep at least once a week but since they lowered my Xanax that has been a pipedream. I have more trouble slowing my brain and relaxing my body now. The Atarax doesn’t do a thing for that stuff, just helps with the anxious itchiness. Which I have tried to tell the NP from the get and she won’t listen. Maybe since I spoke with the director things will improve. Waiting til June just to see a telepsychiatry doc seems like a very long time but my complaint wasn’t issued formally or by name so hopefully I can just maintain the status quo with this nurse. If nothing else maybe she won’t spend the entire appointment with her back turned to me typing on the computer. That’s just rude.

And I’ve come to expect it in this area. We were standing in line at Aldi the other day, me and Spook both with our arms full cos we didn’t have quarter to rent a cart and there was one lane open with four people ahead of us with cartfuls of stuff and we kept dropping things and they opened another line. The chick behind us, with a cart, darting over to that line while we were still shuffling and picking up stuff. That was when my volatile gene erupted and I said, “The people in this place are so fucking rude!” Chick wouldn’t even look our way. Rudeness is just not something I respond to with any grace. Mainly cos I fail to see any reason for it. Please, thank you, excuse me, here, you go first since you don’t have a cart…Basic human niceties. My outburst wasn’t my finest moment but she had it coming.

I know, what am I teaching my kid? Well, please, thank you, excuse me, unless you want mom to start channeling satan.

I increased my Lexapro to 20 mg yesterday. I honestly thought as we neared the official end of winter and start of spring my mood would start lifting. But all this cold wet gloom really isn’t conducive since my bigger problem is always feeling cold as opposed to lack of sunlight. In a couple of months I will be rioting because I am marinating in sweat. I swear there is something wrong with my body’s perception of extreme heat and cold.

Ok, that’s about all the half ass focusing I can do right now, it only took 90 minutes to do this post. And I ended up saying nothing of substance. To quote Marilyn Maonson, babble babble, bitch bitch.

Conscience Crisis

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , on March 16, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

About the only thing the donor ever got right about me is that I DO have a major guilt complex. And the saddest part is, I have zero reason for much of what guilts me. I am authentic, honest, my story does not change because the truth and facts do not change. How beaten down and how many times does it have to happen to lead to this level of insecurity, self doubt, and crisis of conscience? I don’t think I am malleable but somewhere along the line, I apparently was slipped the Kool-Aid in my sleep and now I’ve been brainwashed to feel guilt over telling the truth simply because it’s not a pretty truth. WTF indeed. Think this whole thing started with an email where my friend’s bf told her she was being suckered by me but I never asked for anything from her, she offered to send my kid a slime kit and asked me what sort of girly stuff I like in jewelry. (Skulls, skulls, dragons, and more skulls, not girly at all.)

It doesn’t bother me at all if people call me for what I am. Moody? Yep. Bitchy? Yes. Ranty, scatterbrained, neurotic, and unable to get my shit together? Guilty. A bit of a clutter hoarder? That is me. Horrid housekeeper? I own it. Virtually unemployable? This is where I am, I own that, too.

But I am not suckering anyone. I have all the paperwork to show to justify every cent I have tried to raise to keep me and Spook afloat.I offer to provide receipts or have the costs directly paid as opposed to being given cash. I don’t solicit flat screen TVs or fancy clothes or toys for my kid. I don’t ask for anything that I can get on my own or have plenty of. And every time I resort to asking for any kind of help, my self esteem goes out the window and the guilt monster comes to devour me. Because I want to do better than this. I am just in some shitty situations all around and my best isn’t cutting it. My kid and I have food but I am struggling to provide food and litter for the cats and I am walking dogs (I even put up a video on youtube to prove I am doing this) and running errands for family to try to get a few bucks here and there for small bags of food and litter. But yeah, for the furkids, I will grovel. I thought just writing on all my blogs and asking for freewill donations to support that writing might seem less scammy and more motivating to help but turns out, I know nothing about people.Maybe if I ran a political campaign where everything is a lie and people just accept this but give freely..Wow, I’d have to have my conscience completely removed to pull off the gig of politician, gross.

NONE of this would be necessary if the state did its damn job and kept the deadbeat parents paying. And if they can’t pay, sell off everything they own, take their driver’s license, and stick ’em in jail. Hold them as accountable as the custodial parent is held. Teach them a lesson to live up to their responsibilities. I am trying to hold up my end alone in every way. (And no, I don’t want an award, I don’t think I am special, there are lots of single broke parents out there, some with more than one kid, no family, and often no place to live and not enough food to eat, so no, I don’t consider my case unique, sadly.No kids should ever go hungry or homeless and that it isn’t unique is a terrifying statement about this country’s priorities.)

But yeah the ONLY reason we are in the current situation is because of the donor. Six months he hasn’t paid a dime, and he was already 6 months behind before that, so if they’d just make him cough up the $4000 that he basically robbed Spook of by not paying. Oh, and if you doubt this, I actually have supporting documents showing he hasn’t paid a cent since September something last year, plus the back support he still owes. I have proof of my entire income, proof of the monthly expenses, proof that Spook and I are real and not living in the lap of luxury. I drive on ’01 car that cost my dad $450 at auction, it has over 225,000 miles on it, a broken gas gauge, and the heater makes a grinding noise on high and the wipers only work on high. If I scamming anyone, I am very bad at it, or otherwise Spook and I would be living in a warm climate as someone’s roommate or live in domestic or I’d be trying to hook some wealthy old guy.

I thought being honest was enough. I mean, you have 8 years of blog posts right here to see that my story never changes. Because facts don’t change, there is no scam when you tell the truth.

Okay, this was not the post I was going to write but it’s the one I am going to post. I just needed to vent because I felt a little maligned even though my friend’s significant other is wise to be wary of net scammers though saying she’s a sucker seems a little harsh to me.

I am not a scammer. My guilt only stems from being made to feel bad for needing help and having the audacity to try and seek it out. That and how many times I have to tell my kid no, we can’t afford this/that/the other. Failing her is the worst fate I can imagine. I can’t afford the luxury of self esteem and dignity at this time. All I can do is be truthful and keep trying. If I weren’t assertive and tenacious, I’d have been wormfood years ago. I won’t feel guilty for being a survivor.

And the mental healthcare sadism continues

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

For the shorter version…Got a call from number I didn’t recognize, panicked, let it go to voice mail. Two hours later I worked up the nerve to check said message with a pounding heart and sweating palms. It was the psych center clinic director (I thought it was the anti benzo doctor who was director, but I guess not.) She said to give her a call between 2 and 4 p.m. to discuss the concerns I raised about the center.

Hour after hour waiting. Screwing up the courage to make the call. To leave a message. Then the grueling sweaty palmed ricocheting heart and paranoia and fear. The need for it to be over with either way.

I tried two more times for it to go to voice mail again. 4 p.m. passed. 5 p.m. passed. No return call. Radio silence.

So once again I feel completely ignored, discounted, and my disdain for the entire medical field and administrators decompensates because no one with an iota of knowledge on panic disorder would put someone with said disorder through another night of anxiety, not knowing what shoe is about to drop, is this a good call, a bad call, will she even get back to me tomorrow? I feel frozen like a deer in headlights and my mood is very low and fearful and I am edgy and wouldn’t let my kid have a playdate today cos I was waiting for this call, and by not getting the call, I got more anxious and irate, could not handle another kid.

Guess the lesson to be learned here is answer every call even if you don’t recognize the number.

Or here’s a radical idea-if you say call between said hours and aren’t available and can’t return a voice mail…just don’t say you will in the first place.

But then again applying logic to a field where they charge $12 for two Tylenol and psychiatrists are now moving toward a treatment model focusing on interviewing your family, friends, and coworkers as it is more accurate than interviewing you…Logic is out the bloody window.

Much information can be gleaned that way, but they fail to recognize that others come with their own bias, their own belief/disbelief in mental health issues, and they often have zero clue what you are internalizing so placing this new level of importance on that seems ill conceived, ill advised, and well, mentally ill.

Back to wringing my hands nervously while my belly does flipflops. These people are either completely inept or they are sadists putting me through all of this crap.

Is There A Correlation Between Seasonal Depression And Body Temperature?

Posted in seasonal depression with tags , , , , , on March 8, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

Yesterday, in my infinite lack of wisdom, I dared to Google an answer to this question, or at least see if more information is available on the topic.

I found a bunch of articles where supposedly intelligent psychiatric and psychological professionals postulate that THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS SEASONAL DEPRESSION.

Well, I immediately started looking for contact forms because I am living proof that it is very very real and how dare they say otherwise! Then I calmed down because it is too much trouble creating more accounts with more passowrds and to what end? If these so called professional puppets don’t believe SAD exists even with all of the evidence that says it does, nothing I say will change their minds.

I have battled winter depression since I was 14 years old. The doctors have often thought this simply tied more into my bipolar two mood disorder and the lack of sunlight, as opposed to being more than ‘the winter blues’. The psych care here is bad, and lately, it has gotten even worse, so I am fortunate when they get my meds right and don’t try to kill me. (That is not a joke, a recent screw up by their practitioner could have landed me in the hospital with serotonin syndrome if I didn’t have so much knowledge on the matter.) The incontrovertible evidence that seasonal depression is real is the patterns over the years that never really seem to change. Towards September when we near autumn, I start to downward spiral, slowly at first. By mid October and in spite of my passion for all things Halloween, I am barely functioning. From there it just gets worse and housework piles up and I am filled with shame and self loathing but can’t ‘snap out of it’.

I do not dispute that sunlight does play a role in our moods, especially seasonal depression. However, this artificial light therapy is about the only treatment they’ve come up with in 40 years. It failed for me, big time, and the doctors simply cannot accept this. It is somehow my fault. When I have tried to explain the true problem for me, personally, I have been dismissed and have met with either apathy or disbelief. But this is not some grasping at straws thing I just came up with. I’ve been battling this disorder over 30 years and it seems to me that my worst days are the ones where I cannot get warm. It starts about mid October and lasts til the start of April. Until my body ‘fee’s warm, I find myself chilled, shivering, layering clothing (I have on two pairs of pants at the moment and am still freezing) and of course, that wonderful old standby, Fort Blankie. Getting up and moving around only seems to work on the days when there is sun providing warmth for the house and the temperature is above 40.

The pages that came up on my ‘it does not exist’ search indicated there has been a minimal study of this sort of thing and it ended up being concluded, based on taking the temperature multiple times in people with SAD and without and there being no difference in their readings. Well, I am not here disputing a thermometer. But there is something different in my brain and body that causes me to feel cold six months of the year even when others are comfortable.

My daughter is running around in a t-shirt and undies. The thermostat on th furnace reads 66, and I have it cranked to 73 but I think it’s on the fritz. Still, if she can trot around half clothed and it doesn’t bother her yet I fought getting out of bed an hour just to avoid the feeling of being soo cold…I think it bears more research and study amongst the professionals. I know one of the physical causes for this disparity of actual temperature and body and mind’s perception of it rests with the thyroid but as my tests have always been normal, this does not seem to be the case for me.

This is very real, very miserable for me. Yet if I am warm enough for a few weeks, my mood lifts (even if anxiety skyrockets) so there has to be something going on here with my mind and body. They may not know what but it’s not psychosomatic or drama. I do wish they’d explore the topic more in psych literature as it could be a huge breakthrough in treating seasonal affective disorder. Heaven knows they need a new way other than light therapy or a type of therapy designed for trauma survivors which is almost laughable in concept when used for seasonal depression. I think they know very little about it and thus deem it unimportant. Even places that claim to specialize in treating seasonal depression are staffed by people with so little expertise, their unanimous advice, through ten of their staff members as they can’t keep help, has always been ‘buy a light lamp, it’s just the lack of sunlight causing your depression.”

If that is the best the psychiatric field has to offer those who suffer from this crippling disorder, then I truly understand why so many have moved away from traditional treatment and toward experimental or self medicating with chemicals easily available. The very drugs that are deemed bad are actually showing great success in treating many forms of mental health issues and the evidence of effectiveness without major risks isn’t strong…Things like CBD products and experimental ketamine-based treatments may put a big dent in big pharma.

Until then, could I have some warm saline pumped into my body so I can feel warm for awhile? It truly is that extreme.

Neurotica Rants

Posted in anxiety disorders, depression with tags , , , , , on March 6, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

Thought I’d revive a blast from my past before Morgueticiaatoms was ‘born’. Back when I first started using a computer the boyfriend at the time had AOL as a provider so I set up two accounts, one for email, one for just spewing venom and brimstone and fire. In recent years Neurotica has been replaced by my new superhero name, Snarkasma (No, I don’t wear a cape and I don’t believe I am a super hero,pfft) but after a quick but harrowing trip to town…I feel Neurotica is rioting and wants to come out and play. Or rant, as it were.

First off, last night was an unblessed hellride because no amount of melatonin was knocking me out. I eventually nodded off in the middle of Perry Mason but by then I was downright pissed off. It should not be that difficult to fall asleep, it is a basic biological function, ffs! I woke several times during the night. When I got up, I had oompa loompa ovary agony as well as feeling like my spine was gonna snap in two. I am talking real pain, not imagined or dramatically perceived. I thought in spite of needing to run to town to pay a bill (well half of it, I’ll get my disconnect notice next week) I was going to spend another day in Fort Blankie curled up in the fetal position shivering and suffering. I took some ibuprofen and it eventually kicked in enough that I forced myself out the door. I sure as hell did not want to, but I thought even if I could only pay half the heat bill at least doing so on the due date might curry a little favor. (It’s my delusion, leave me alone.) I had to make 3 stops and I could have used a couple more but I just wasn’t up to that challenge on this day. It took me ten minutes and 4 stockpeople at the store to just find the kiwi fruit my kid asked for. I was gonna get a chicken and make noodles but my god, the cheapest one they had was ten bucks. That is fucking highway robbery for non organic run of the mill chicken. I wouldn’t pay it for organic, anyway, I am too poor to give a damn about that stuff.

While out and about I got a phone call. From the school’s automated system. Get this- their basketball team is going to some sort of regional thing upstate so they are actually canceling the whole day of school so people can attend. Negative 5 degrees out, they still have school. Basketball game, they actually let school out. I didn’t even think the state allowed that kind of shit except for the actual players. Unreal. I did feel a little twinge of parental shittiness when Spook told me her classmates were pressuring her to go and she had to explain that we simply don’t have the money. 😦 She left out the most important part. I fucking hate sports. They bore the shit out of me. To each their own and all, but I remember vividly the donor having a tantrum one year because he couldn’t watch his superbowl so he only cemented my hatred for sports and rabid sports fans. Spook claims an interest in sports but as she can’t sit still 5 minutes or go 60 seconds without yapping, I don’t think it would be enjoyable. Stepmonster took her to a softball game last year and aside from the food they bought her, all she did was complain it was too hot, too crowded, too boring. So yeah even if I had $11 for a ticket and good enough tires to drive 3 hours up north…I’d be inclined to say…nope.

One thing that truly does make me feel like a shitty parent is that Spook asked my mom for school supplies for her Easter gift. She did not tell me she needed things because she knows I simply don’t have the money. I was knocked for a loop when my mom told me and I felt about an inch tall. Because my mom is happy fun ball ‘let’starve for two weeks but buy Spook lots of fun gifts’ so a child asking for school supplies was just an affront to her, well, happy fun ballness. I’m not sure how to get her the supplies she needs and buy cat food and cat litter, but I guess I’ll have to swallow pride and ask dad and stepmonster. They’re pretty good about buying necessity over happy fun ball garbage so she can get what she needs and grandma can continue to blow money on, well, garbage. To Spook’s credit, however, she has not expressed a single concern about getting stuff from me for Easter EXCEPT she is worried that we won’t be able to do our traditional plastic egg hunt. I don’t know how but I will figure out a way to get some cheap ass eggs and filled them with candy and what nots and hide them around the house for her to fund. Been doing it since she was 3, it truly is our tradition. Who knows how much longer she will be interested in kid stuff before she becomes a hellish tween and teen.

On the way back on the interstate, over the radio, I heard a loud POP in my wheel well and panic just ran riot. My heart could have burst from my chest like the alien from Alien. I have two front tires showing belt so a blow out is always on my mind. I just wing and prayered it til I pulled up outside the house. I was too panicked to even look if the tires were low or whatever, I just needed to come inside to my safe space. Likely it was a rock or something on the road and it got up in the wheel well at 65 mph and made a ruckus. Panic and logic simply aren’t friends.

I toyed with the idea of stopping at the Hell Hole Behavioral Health Center. Not because I want their crap ass services but because I really do need advice on this psych nurse deal. Least time I turned a doctor in, I got bounced completely as a client so I want to handle it wisely and in a mature, rational fashion. For all the good it will do, chances are good I’ll still end up with her nasty conclusions on my dysfunction in my file. Laughable since she’s spent 45 minutes total with me over 5 months. I wouldn’t trust her to diagnose or medicate my cats. I just don’t want to burn more bridges and I come out the one singed and blackened. I don’t know if that makes sense but it is what it is. I’m not a conformist but when it comes to medical/psych stuff, therapy has programmed me to always second guess myself so…it’s a sucky position to find yourself dealing with.

And that I guess is all for now.

If you are interested, please do read my short fiction story Final Performance. (Trigger warning.)


Posted in depression with tags , , , , , on March 6, 2019 by morgueticiaatoms

I was reading my weekly Psych Central newsletter while Spook was getting ready for school and it kind of sent me into a downward spiral. Some of it is valid, comforting even. Then you get articles written by people who have ‘overcome’ their mental health issues enough to maintain stable employment and relationships and all the while saying never compare yourself to others…it’s almost like you are obligated to do so and ‘stop accepting so little of yourself just because you’re mentally ill’.

Anyone who thinks I expect little of myself has no knowledge of me at all. Over the last 8 years, I have busted my brain and back trying to be mother and father to a small child with very little help from family and friends. I have been managing a never ending succession of doctors and psych nurses, plain bad therapists, and my treatment resistant depression. I have been up against a wall as far as money goes courtesy of being forced to move from a place I could afford to a place where I am not going to make it without a job or child support. Through all of this, I have kept going, working through the trauma of it all, keeping a bright demeanor for my kid and trying to make her laugh and have a happy enough childhood. I’d say if anyone does not expect much of themselves, it would be her donor, who can’t be bothered to support her by court order and can’t be bothered to even be part of her life after being gone 8 years. I am trying my best and being told that I’ve given up, even by my psych nurse, and yet that man is ten years older than me and has failed to support or father any of his 3 children. So again, maybe my ability to hold a job is on shaky ground, but no one has the right to say I have not pushed myself to the brink trying to be a good single mom.

I agree 100% that a well fitting job can help with the depression and inflate your self worth. Yet finding the right fit that doesn’t drive you to another breakdown is not easy. And you need to be in the right frame of mind with some stability under your belt or you are almost certain to fail. That has been my personal experience. I get to feeling good for a few weeks, think I am ready to take on the world, then go in full blast only to end up basically being to resign or be fired. How many times does it have to happen before it ceases to be ‘you’re letting fear of failure hold you back’ and people see it for what it is? Admitting you have limitations during your worst episodes seems pretty brave and wise to me. Today’s behavioral based therapy, however, seems intent on force feeding us tough love and all but resorting to leeches in an old school ‘tough it out’ mentality. While exposure/immersive therapies work wonders for some people, for those of who have been traumatized repeatedly by various things, this sort of therapy is furthering the trauma and almost like mental health professional approved self abuse. One size does not fit all and when they try to further that agenda with vulnerable people..

I think it ceases to be psychotherapy and becomes psycho-therapy. First do no harm. One size fits all therapy causes great harm and makes me question who is truly ‘psycho’. Because I know sticking my hand on a hot stove will burn me so I avoid doing it, somehow I am enabling myself to avoid pain? They really don’t see how lowest common denominator their new methods truly are. Logic has left the building, replaced with, “Of course you shouldn’t put your hand on a hot stove, that is common sense, but if you just ride a roller coaster 10 times in a row, you’ll overcome your fear of X in no time.” HUH?

The term psycho-therapy is also fitting as one of the articles in the Psych Central newsletter was about horror stories of patients who were further abused by narcissistic therapists. Wow, just…wow. I guess I don’t have much reason to complain compared to their experiences. People, even those with degrees, are monsters. If your professional is as disordered as the patients, you likely aren’t going to flourish under their care. There is a common theme in those personal stories, though. That whole social programming thing where we aren’t supposed to rock the boat, we are supposed to be good little kids and the doctors or authority figure is always right so if you question them, you’re the problem…What a load of garbage. Mentality of that nature is what leads to abuse by therapists and doctors and an assortment of others who are supposed to be there to help the vulnerable.

I’m not one to throw the baby out with the bathwater, so to speak. I won’t say I’ve sworn off therapy forever. I just find what is available under my insurance to be a very bad fit, in past personal experience, as well as their new ‘behavioral health’ model. I will keep an open mind but at the same time, I will not be in denial about the fact that therapy has actually made my existence more difficult. I am constantly filled with self doubt, questioning my own feelings and motives, invalidating those feelings, and rather than feeling grounded and like there is a lifeboat in this vast ocean of mental health issues…I feel like I am drowning and the professionals are sitting ashore with binoculars and score cards, giving me numeric grades for my floundering as I drown.

Any therapy place that leads you to feel that way is practicing very bad medicine and they are likely in need of their own services. Or maybe that’s why they suck at their jobs, because they do treat themselves.

It just really hurts, and sucks, that a field I used to have such faith in has become so laden with whackadoodle terms and ideas and one size fits all approaches. Worse is that because I am strong enough in my own identity and beliefs, that by not caving to their brave new world theme I am so however even more disordered. WTF?

Fox Mulder was a genius for his ‘trust no one’ policy. He was also a bit whackadoodle but that was what made the character so awesome. The very quirks and disorders that get us labeled are so very often the things I find most interesting about people.

What label does that get me this week? Schizotypal? Borderline? Paranoid?

It’s hard to take the field seriously anymore when they can’t even accept individuality without labeling it a personality disorder.