Daily Archives: May 28, 2012

little white lie

okay, i know i said that XBF and i talked all night and that’s mostly true.  mostly.

when he arrived i was disoriented and confused, so i kept my physical distance from him.  i actually felt incapable of making decisions to some degree, and so at one point when he tried to lean in and kiss me, i told him i felt uncomfortable.  it also seemed misleading to be kissing him when i really have no idea what’s going on.  so he stopped.

then when i woke up sometime around 4 or 5 in the morning and we started talking again, the strange sensations had seemed to subside and i found myself openly staring at XBF.  i had noticed the night before that he lost a bunch of weight and his face had taken on a more chiseled appearance.  clearly the working out and eating healthy are paying off.  i mean, even before this i could lock in on his features and it was just like a rat pressing a lever.  i’d look at him, and my brain would shoot off dopamine.

reward, reward, reward.

now i found myself just completely doomed.  i got lost in the shape of his nose, the line of his jaw, the tone of his skin.  the sensation of looking at him was pleasing, like someone was giving my brain a massage.  i started feeling a little high again, except this was a different animal entirely.  it was a familiar feeling, but i was having trouble placing it.

i don’t remember how, but then we got on the topic of me having sex with a woman, and then threesomes.  XBF isn’t comfortable with either idea (…i know, i think he’s an alien too), but i was feeling a little feisty so i asked him if it wouldn’t turn him on to see me go down on a woman (i didn’t put it so politely but you get the idea).  and he said yes but wouldn’t i be uncomfortable seeing him have sex with another woman?

maybe, maybe not.  it is a fantasy of mine, after all.  i just don’t know that i could execute it.  in any case, i had a sudden flash of this image in my mind and all of the sudden that feeling of being high shot up and i couldn’t breathe.

i was fucking HORNY!

this may not seem like a big deal to y’all, but i’ve been coming out of the depression from HELL and my sex drive hasn’t been the same for nearly a year.  a YEAR!  and for someone whose sexuality has been a central part of her identity since pretty much puberty hit, you can imagine how disturbing the loss might feel.

HALLELUJAH!!

I was back.  I kind of wanted to cry tears of joy, but instead i decided to carpe diem and enjoy the moment.  if you know what i mean.

afterward, he asked if i’ve been reading Fifty Shades of Grey.

i’ll take that as a compliment.   :)


Barter sex

My sex life began with a bang (no pun intended) on April 22,1970.  I was a sixteen year old virgin.  I will tell the story of that rape on my new blog, the one I keep threatening to start, any time now.  I’m working the kinks out of it.

After that, I ran away from my artsy-fartsy home on the east coast, ran all the way to California to be a hippie, and promptly got raped again, in a big white metal bed at the home of a friend and her family. Guy walked right through the door, climbed on top of me: “Don’t make any noise and you won’t get hurt.” Where DO they learn that pick-up line?  I left the next day, thingy chances on Highway One heading south to Santa Monica, where my friend had a friend who said she knew of a place I could crash. Only that didn’t work out the way it was supposed to.

After a few days of abject homelessness, too scared to sit down anywhere, too scared to go to sleep on the side of the road for fear I’d get raped again, I was offered a great deal: I could sleep on a cot in a crowded garage where a rock band practised, provided that I would sleep with the band members.

At that point it seemed like the best possible arrangement, since I would have a guaranteed place to sleep, and the people I would be having sex with were a known quantity and not just random people grabbing me off the street or coming in my window when I was asleep.

One kind of sweet thing was that the bass player took a shine to me and asked all the others to stay away, after they had each had a turn or two.  So I “belonged” to Spacey Tracey.

There wasn’t a bathroom in the garage so I used the yard.  The lady who lived in the house left her back door open for a while, so I would sneak in there when she was at work and use the bathroom, take a quick shower (I got to stinking pretty bad with all that sex and no shower).  Also I had no food and no money.  The cot in the garage was the barter deal. Tracey didn’t seem to notice or care that I was getting pretty gaunt.

On one trip through the dark kitchen of the lady’s house on my way to the bathroom I noticed that there was a bowl of those pastel poufy after dinner mints on the kitchen counter.  I grabbed a handful and stuffed them in my pocket.  That whole day I sucked on them very slowly, feeling them dissolve on my tongue, feeling the surge of sugar into my blood, a tiny flicker of energy enlivening my flesh.  My mind was dead, though.  Gone.

Once I discovered the mints I made sure to grab a handful every day.  That was all  I had to eat.  The band tried to get me to drink some Boone’s Farm Apple Wine one night.  It barely hit my stomach before coming up again.  Didn’t make much mess, though:  nothing in there.

Well, the lady finally wised up that I was helping myself to her bathroom and mints.  One day the back door was locked.  I told Tracey, sadly, that I would have to move on, or starve to death.  I was terrified at the prospect of leaving, because every night for a couple of hours I had Tracey’s body to cling to, and that was my whole world.  Yet I was truly starving, and had to find a saner situation where there might be both shelter AND food in the offing.

What’s interesting to me in retrospect is that I never asked Tracey for food.  I felt too ashamed and worthless to ask for anything more than what was offered: a place out of the rain, reefer when offered, the companionship, such as it was, of the band, and the barter arrangement with Tracey.

Later, when Tracey found out I was pregnant, he offered me money to help with the abortion.  I tried to reassure him by telling him it wasn’t his, but his face fell apart and I realized that maybe he had loved me, a little.

Copyright 2012 Laura P. Schulman all rights reserved


a day at a time

i’ve been meaning to announce something but i keep forgetting.  fortunately, today this is not the case so here goes it: i’ve been invited to syndicate my posts on the Bipolar Blogger Network.  Raeyn, the lady in charge over there, put it all together to provide a web resource to people diagnosed with bipolar.  We’re working on compiling lists of resources, like support groups and references, to make available to the public.  i just had another idea which i’m going to record here since my memory is so fickle as of late.  it would also be useful to have a library of sorts with book recommendations and reviews by our bipolar bloggers.  keep an eye out as this website takes shape over the next few months!

secondly, happy memorial day, at least for my U.S. readers.  i hope you are all enjoying your holiday and please do take at least a moment to reflect on and honor our troops.  for those of you who are international readers (hello UK!  hi Canada!  welcome Australia, Germany, Puerto Rico, and Kenya!  :: waves ::), my apologies for my apparent nationalism in honoring holidays and hope you are having a lovely monday.

announcements, check.  time to get down to bidnis (business).

yesterday i made like a social butterfly and had not one, not two, but THREE separate social engagements.  in one day!  this has got to be a record for the past year.  i felt like a crazy lady for most of it because of the hypomania but i did my best to tone it down since, you know, we were in public.  it’s kind of interesting, because feeling so high, it’s like i’m there but i’m not there.  i’m like mother fuckin’ schrodinger’s cat.

i did pretty well with lunch, working mostly on slowing down my speech, reducing the fidgeting, stifling the manic-sounding cackles i wanted to emit… by the time i went to target with my friend (yes, she brought me to TARGET during a hypomanic episode! DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!!), i was on another plane, in part because i had just gotten into it with XBF on the phone.  in defense of my friend, she did ask if going to target was a bad idea in my state of mind and i assured her that it was not and that i would be okay.  i underestimated, however, the powerful laser beams target uses to draw you in and ended up walking out with chocolate chip cookies, a skirt, and a dress.  not bad, considering my history with “Le Tar-jay”.

we then went to a frozen yogurt shop and i tried like 3 different flavors in the same taster before my friend pointed a sign literally a foot away from my face that read ‘only one taste per taster cup’ or whatever.  oops.  so i told her i had decided on the fruity flavors and promptly walked over and got VANILLA after a change of heart at the last second.  i topped my vanilla yogurt with captain crunch cereal, gummy bears, and rainbow sprinkles, looked at my cup and thought “even my yogurt looks manic”.  we sat down and the colors of the walls and paintings in this yogurt shop were just blowing my mind right out of my mind.

once we finished, she dropped me back home.  i started writing my denial blog post and called back the XBF.  he answered the phone and it sounded like he had been crying.  it was sad.  two hours earlier we had hung up the phone and he was crying, and now he was still crying.  i’m a sucker for tears, so within 30 minutes he was at my house…

hold up!

how did this happen, you ask?  after all the BS i’ve been posting, with the “no way jose” and all else, why would i let XBF within 30 yards of my home?  oh it gets better, just wait.

after he didn’t respond for two days, i was fucking annoyed.  it’s a weekend for god’s sake so it’s not even like he has the school excuse.  i had bitched about this at lunch with my friend who agreed that XBF is seeming less and less worth my time, and by the time i got home i felt not only pissed off, but now also entitled to send an email that said “forget it. i’m over it.”

which i meant 100% at the time by the way.  so again, how did he get into my house??

prepare your mind to be boggled.

he came back at me with an equally entitled response which made me so mad i couldn’t just LET IT GO.  he wrote,

________ I’m in school and focusing on it. Id love to talk to you but you seem unable to talk to me like it was the old days. Instead you continue to send me stressful and hurtful messages. Youre stressing me out and its not fair. If you are unable to even sit with me in person im smart enough to know thats a stressful situation i shouldn’t be focusing on. Look, I love you and im happy to give as much time as you need to “prepare yourself mentally” or whatever but its not cool to try and control every aspect of the situation if its at the cost of my well being. I have no idea whats been going on with you recently and im sorry youre as upset as you are. But for real, you need to start learning to show me respect. Maybe think about how things you say and do might affect other people. Im tired of these knee jerk emotional respones. I don’t deserve it.

game on, fucker!  i responded,

Dear XBF,

Just to be clear, what I asked was to talk first by email so I could get my bearings and then we could meet in person.  In just the last week, you have flipped your interactions with me twice 180 degrees and that made me uncomfortable.  I think that should be understandable given what I’ve been through in the last month.

If anything, what I am unable to do is continue dealing with your mixed messages.  I do not like you assuring me that I can trust you and that you will work through this with me one day, two days later telling me you don’t want to “enable” me and will “let me know what you’re going to do in a few days”, and then 3 days after that sending me an email that you love and miss me like nothing has happened.  And then when I ask you to clarify by email you don’t respond for two days… on a weekend.

So yes, I support you being in school and support you focusing on it.  I’m pretty sure that’s why I helped you do so much in school over the past year, like plan your class schedule, communicate with instructors, complete online quizzes and write papers.  Please do not speak to me as if I have been the major barrier to you in school; I take quite a bit of offense to that since I probably account for your two passing grades of the last YEAR.

XBF, you are so missing the point.  It’s that its not all about you.  Which I can’t seem to get through your head.  You have no idea what is going on with me because you can’t even be around me.  I try and communicate and it’s like talking to a wall.  Let me summarize: I am sick.  Sick in such a way that is going to be transformative for my entire life.  I would think you would understand but you seem to concerned about yourself to worry about that.

I cannot believe you are having the gall to tell me I need to respect YOU right now.  It makes me sick.  I suppose now that you’re not feeling sick all the time you think you can speak to me like that.  Don’t forget who encouraged you to get better, and who was there when you were at your worst.  Too bad I can’t say the same for you.

I wasn’t trying to “control” the situation.  What I said is legit.  I am done.  We’ll work out the exchange of belongings in a few weeks.

i don’t think more than 6 minutes passed and he was calling me.  it was such a short period of time that i wasn’t sure he was calling about my email so i answered and asked.  what followed, i can’t really say.  remember, i’m feeling like i’m in two places at once.  XBF has brain damage so his reality can be a bit distorted at times.  he’s also six years my junior so his lack of experience does seem more salient in times like this.  trying to follow the conversation was like trying to walk through nearly-dry cement.  you’re not really going anywhere.

this made me feel even more crazy, so you can imagine my relief when my friend called to go to target.  it was like i became even more hypomanic because what little scaffolding i had grabbed on to was up in the air.  i felt like a snow globe that had just been shaken.  the only thing i can remember from the conversation is XBF saying “i miss my best friend. i just want my best friend.”  it really struck close to home for me.  i think that’s where i started to crumble.  i told him i’d call him back later after my adventures to target.

i did and he came over and we talked for about 2-3 hours and then i tried to sleep for a bit.  i woke up a short time later and couldn’t fall back asleep, and he had been awake the whole time since his sleep schedule is off.  we started talking again and continued for another 3 hours or so. that’s how we are; once we were on a 6 hour road trip and i barely noticed because we spent the entire time talking to each other.  there have been many a night where we find ourselves still talking as the sun rises.

nothing has been decided for our relationship, but we negotiated an arrangement that met both our needs.  i agreed to watch the Avengers with him and to hang out and spend time together, and he agreed to hang out a separate time and to really listen to what has been going on with me.  this is just one of those situations where i’m going to have to take it a day at a time.


Manic I am, Sam I am

Sun 5/27/12 11:18 am

I have been up since 5:50 am. No reason, stupid brain just woke up.
I have actually accomplished more thus far than I did all last week.
It
is
called
hypo
mania.

I lack the happiness and throw-caution-to-the-wind-mindset that comes with full blown mania.
Still, I am a bundle of distracted energy. I can’t focus on reading a book to save my life (I’ve started reading three different ones in hopes one of them will capture me and hold me hostage but no such luck.)

It is heating up outside and inside, but not too unbearable yet. That comes later, toward three pm, on into late night, doesn’t cool down til 2, 3 am.
That is part of why my sleep pattern is so screwy, I purposely lay down for a while early on so I can enjoy and accomplish stuff once it cools off.

Azazel and Nightshade both have been crawling all over me (what is about cats sticking their butts in your face????) and my laptop, and now I am all itchy.
Of course, my ear has been itching and the paranoid panic receptors have been going off, telling me someone is talking trash about me.
Now it’s my nose, which means company.
Bahhhhhhhhh.
DOES NOT WANT.

Have I mentioned I hate holiday weekends?
I call them hellidays.
Especially the ones people use as an excuse to cook out and get drunk.
Memorial Day is supposed to be to remember the dead. Judging from keg sales the last few days, I’d venture to say everyone wants to forget the dead and just eat greasy brats with as much beer as their innards can store.

Yes, I am a judgmental grinch. I own it and hump its leg.
My mood is just…blah. I am exhausted and hot and sweaty and I have no money, no gas in the car, so I am basically trapped at home.
No booze.
(Yeah, I know, not necessity, but until those fuckers next door are gone, it keeps me from grabbing a shovel and beating them all to death.)

The other day, Spook had her toy horse face down on the carpet and was trying to put her jeans on his hind legs.
That was funny as hell.
Yes, I know, everyone thinks their own kid is funny.
Mine just is.
To me, anyway.
When she does the “sexy and I know it” “wiggle wiggle wiggle” it is Hi-LARIOUS, to quote Jayne from Firefly.

I was looking at my kid pictures today and realizing just how much Spook looks like me. When I get them scanned, I am going to post them here side by side. She’s my mini me, except she prefers Spiderman whereas I prefer Iron Man.
Oh, and she’s a dog person.
I’ll love her anyway, no one is perfect. :P

Oh, another thing, when I am hypomanic, I tend to talk a lot or write a lot, and fast, and it’s disjointed. I am aware of this, no one needs to point it out and correct me. From what I understand it is not exclusive to me personally, but is a common behavior in bipolar disorder. So if you only judge me against others with bipolar, we’re all normal and you normal people are weirdos. :)


Manic and panic and hot glue, oh my

5/28/12 2:23 a.m.

Hypomania…it’s what’s for dinner.

Eh, I dunno, it sounded funny in my mind, like those commercials for pork or something.

Anyway. Yes, it is almost 2:30 am and I am awake, burning cd mixes, moving shit around from hard drive to flash drives, just being hypomanic in general. Earlier I was playing with the hot glue gun, fixing shoes and picture frames and hair pieces.
Oh, and working my way to an iron lung with my chain smoking while battling bronchitis and hacking up my chest innards.

YAYNESS!
Life is grand.
No, the only thing grand about life is that it is a big cesspool.
Oh, not entirely, but I kinda like grumpy me better than happy positive me.
I mean, there are plenty of upbeat people out there, why should I have to sell myself out be one of them just because it’s more pleasant for others?
I mean, does anyone try to make my life more pleasant by changing who they are?
I’d be happy to never have to hear a racial slur again.
I’d adore never having to hear the phrase (spoken by my own father last night) “She’s pretty for a heavy girl.”
No one makes my life more comfy.
So fuck ‘em, if I wanna be grumpy and crotchety then let me be.
I can be, like Matlock, vaguely amusing and endearing.
(I said so!)

Hmm..What can I burn, glue, rearrange next…
This is actually the third time I have been up in the last six hours.
I hate the Elavil. Least the sleepy hangover.
Can’t argue with it easing my nervous stomach, though.
Bah.
Must everything be a double edged sword?

I got panicky earlier, complete with pounding heart felt in every fiber of my being. When the bad anxiety attacks hit, it’s like I have a pulsating heart in every part of my body, down to my fingertips and toe nails. It is disconcerting. More baffling is I don’t know what triggers that panic half the time.
Tonight I think it might have been the barking dog next door and my spinning mind.
It sucks to start falling asleep…
then jolt awake, like being zapped. Over and over again.
Makes the heart race even more.

I need to make another skull tree or something funky. Being weird makes me giddy. Though I don’t find myself all that weird, others are the ones obsessed with saddling me with that label. I think I am…eccentric. But beauty is in the quirks, and wow, I should be a raving beauty queen with the plethora of quirks I have.

Stand back, people. Manic woman with a hot glue gun on the loose.


Fat-o-flage

Camoflage.
Hunters and soldiers dress themselves according to their surroundings to blend into the scenery, to obscure themselves from plain view.
I,on the other hand, have elevated Fat-o-flage to an artform.

It is a necessary evil for those of us who have always been sort of heavy, when even at our smallest we were still considered “fat” and harrassed. I learned early on to wear baggy blouses with tight leggings, giving the illusion of skinny bottom and indeterminate top size. it also served as a deterrent to the age old problem  of chesty women: guys who seem to think our eyes are down there. Can’t gawk at what is hidden under voluminous fabric.

I have been termed chubby my whole life.
I have always had a pot belly. When I was 12, my pediatrician told me I could do all the sit ups I wanted but my belly was in part to genetics as both my parents had a belly.
Now, some factions will say this is a bullshit excuse for overeating and laziness.
The only gluttony I am guilty of is Dr, Pepper and Cake vodka.

The most magical part of fat-o-flage, after the diaphanous shirts, is a tummy flattening girdle. That way if your muffin top makes you self conscious you can smoothe it all down so that it at least looks uniformly plump.
Another trick I have learned, even though I certainly don’t need the padding, is padded bras give you “shelf boob” which keeps your shirt from clinging to your belly and makes your boobs stand out.
This is at odds with what I used to practice, but given a choice, I’d rather have my boobs stared at than have some perfect strange note my pot belly and ask my due date. (It has happened more times than I care to admit.)

I do NOT like the term fat.
I used fat o flage as a humorous term.
I prefer to be called fluffy.
Like a big fluffy kitty cat.
It is bad enough to feel self conscious at every moment, but to go through life feeling like you must wear muumuus to keep people from commenting on your weight sucks.
But I always liked baggy shirts so I guess it’s no hardship for me.

One thing about it.
Fatoflage, as far as girdles go, is not a comfortable artform.
In fact, if the government wanted to get these suspected terrorists to talk, they should stuff them into a girdle or bustiere with boning in it.
And an underwire bra with the wire stabbing them in the arm pit.
And thong underwear so they could become intimate with the wedgie from hell.
And stiletto heels so they could become crippled and plead for mercy if they spilled their secret.

Being a woman is a lot of work. Being a heavy woman, indulging fatoflage, is even harder work.

But it beats looking like a stuffed sausage who needed a pit crew to stuff all the jelly rolls into a sizes too small outfit.
Some females need to learn that size 12 does not mean buy a size two.
Because if their skinny jeans ever split at the seams, someone could lose an eye.

Least with fatoflage you’re actually being helpful. In the event of a disaster, you can offer to tear off strips of excess fabric for people to use as blankets.
MOOOOOO.MOOOOOO.


I hear voices…and they don’t like you

Sat 5/26/12 11:56 pm

I don’t mean to make light of something that medically, is not funny. I’ve had auditory hallucinations before (thank you cold turkey Effexor withdrawal) and they are most certainly not funny. (Though my t-shirts alluding to hearing voices are kinda funny but I’m just warped that way.)
So when I use the phrase “hearing voices” please understand it is a metaphor for that voice we all have inside us, the one that changes allegiance according to our mood and how things are going in our life. I am not mocking and intend no disrespect to anyone who does literally hear voices.

Today was just one of those sucky why-did-I-get-out-of-bed-days where everything I touched seem to turn to shit. And in that weakened mind frame, I found myself getting pulled under and bullied by that inner voice which told me I am a loser and I deserve misery.
I mean, I’m so horrid my baby daddy even abandoned his kid to avoid dealing with me and that which I have wrought. (Yeah, I know, that voice is an asshole, but that asshole wields a lot of power when I have days like this.)

Less loud, and less assertive, is the tiny voice, reminding me everyone has bad days, it’s not fatal, blah blah blah.

I hate days like today. It puts me in a  weakened mental state. That opens the door for the bad voice basically telling me I’d be doing society a favor by killing myself.
I don’t believe that, but that damn evil voice can be convincing, especially on a day where nothing is going in a direction to prove otherwise.

I can honestly say this inner voice thing wasn’t as bad on Lithium. But then on Lithium, I pretty much was numb to my bone marrow, like Novacaine to your jaw, so I had the same feelings for sucky and good things alike.
As much as it can hurt to actually feel things, it’s better than not feeling.
Now I just have to learn coping mechanisms for being able to feel things that I did not feel prior to the med change.
Neverending vicious cycle.
By the time I work this out, these meds will quit and it will be time to start another hamster wheel attempt at stability.

Okay, bad voice is talking, and it’s not wrong, but it is cashing in on my past med failures,so I will pay it attention due a grain of salt.

Just…
Sucky days…
suck.

And there you have my great wisdom.


Stop knock, knockin, knocking on Morgueticia’s door!

5/26/12 Sat 11:22 pm

In what has always proven to be opening a can of slimy slithering icky worms, the mere act of interacting even minimally with neighbors has somehow turned my yard and front step in to their territory to call upon me. Can they borrow this, do I have that, et al.
I hate it.
And every time there is an unexpected knock on the door, I jump ten feet out of my skin and my heart palpitates like Freddy Krueger and Jason Vorhees are on the other side of the door wanting to gang bang me with a claw glove and machete.
DOES NOT WANT.
I am not anti social,  not matter what my mother, the amateur insane shrink, says.
But I DO value the sanctity of my safe zone and to have it invaded, especially by those whose only interaction with me has been via that yard sale fiasco, really pisses me off and heightens  my anxiety.
And it’s not like they’re wanting my company.
They want me to give them things, for free.
And so has been the bane of my existence my entire life as far as befriending any neighbors I have ever had. I always end up becoming the one who is called upon to give rides, to babysit, to borrow all of sundry from but never repay. I’ve watched it happen time and again, just like my old building where a girl bummed a smoke…then started coming over four, five days a week to do it, yakking my ear off about her love life.
No good deed goes unpunished.

Tis bad enough that my anxiety repeatedly puts me in the position of having to have a doctor write a note explaining to landlords that I require a phone call warning me of visits or else I get physically ill…Now the simple benign act of trying to make a little cash getting rid of my old crap has somehow put me on the radar of the 9 people living in this one trailer down at the end of the court. Ya know, the ones with the dog named Poon Tang.
Um…Not to be a bitch or rude or anything, but…I don’t want to make friends. Not ones who just take and take and never give and irritate the piss out of me while exploiting my mental issues.
DOES NOT WANT.

It is just such a delicate fabric weaved about me, trying to juggle the stressors of daily life and single motherhood and the last thing I am equipped to cope with is this socialization thing, especially a one sided friendship.
So now…in addition to my general paranoia of knocks on the door, I am living in panic of random knocks on the door from these people.

Goes to show what going outside gets me.


Like a Sieve

I realized that I yet again forgot to tell my doctor about my past hypersexuality. It’s probably not important in the scheme of things, but it’s one of those things I kept meaning to mention. I’m still quite accepting of the Bipolar 2 diagnosis, and figure that the sleeping around like mad was fuelled by drink, loneliness, and lack of sleep more than anything else. But after realizing that it was one of those things that is a good indicator of Bipolar, I keep thinking it should be on record. Even if it doesn’t matter in the scheme of things. I’ll probably forget it every time I go in anyways, ha ha.

Otherwise, I’m just ticking through my Monday to-do, enjoying being in the one air conditioned place I have easy access to that isn’t the supermarket, and thinking about DSM-5. lifeonaxis1 over at Mood Disorder, Not Otherwise Specified linked me to the proposed revisions for the Bipolar spectrum on the back of a comment discussion about how prevalent Bipolar people seem to be in the life of a Bipolar person, and me mentioning that I needed to see what the changes were going to be. I’m not really sure why I want to go over it or what I’m going to find… it’s not like I’m suddenly going to be discounted as Bipolar or anything. My husband helps makes sure of that; he comes to the appointments with me and makes sure I don’t get away with muttering it off like it’s nothing. I do think it’s something, I do think it’s a prevalent influence on my life, but I had to keep my head down for so many years that it still feels a luxury to say, ‘Wahey, not all there.’

And that’s actually a big thing for me – being able to admit to weakness. It feels counterintuitive, yanno? To say that I am down, I am fragile, I need space. I’m too used to hiding it all behind a big thick wall, which seems to invite people throwing their full spite and might against it. But perhaps this expanded self-honesty is working better because I made those efforts to try and cut out the nastiest folks from my life, the ones who thought it mete to try and beat me down to build themselves up. I can’t understand living that way… it strikes me as rather empty and sad. But I guess that’s pressing the Easy button compared to actually looking inside and fighting through that morass. Or something.

Need more coffee. Gonna get on that.

<3

Disproportionate reactions

One thing which is shaping up to be a serious challenge already is my lack of control over absolutely disproportionate reactions, mainly in the anger department. Several times over the last days I got very much worked up about stuff which really was not worth it,  and with which I would have dealt in a completely different way still a few weeks ago.

One example, my husband staying out late for the end-of-season dinner of his football team. It was in a place from where he could walk home, I know he doesn´t drink anything but a few beers and I trust him to stay out of trouble.

Still, after 11 pm I suddenly started to freak out. I started to call him on his mobile, and when he didn´t answer (completely understandable, given the music and noise in similar occasions) I really lost it. I tried to call every 5 minutes, sent him lots of text messages, and probably would soon have dressed and turned up at the place in person and obviously embarrassed the hell out of myself and him in the process, but fortunately he finally had a look at his phone and the about 50 missed calls and called me back. At which I totally berated him and shouted at him over the phone. He came home, and I shouted some more. He wasn´t happy, understandably. I did calm down eventually, and apologized, but yeah. I cringe every time I think about it.

In a few other occasions I just felt burning anger in situations which over the last two years would have left me completely relaxed. It scares me, this flaring up, and the feeling of wanting to throw stuff against the wall. I think I need to keep that under strict observation, and try to find ways to cope with it. Like, taking a few deeeeeep breaths before opening my mouth, most of all :D .

I think it is the control thing. This is one of my heaviest issues, not having things under control, and the medication sure watered that down. Any situation I feel like things are not fully under my control, now makes me freak out, and I have no idea how to deal with it. I think it is time to think about therapy again, not the occasional woo-woo stuff, but something more serious.