I admit this with no pride whatsoever…
But sometimes, I lie.
I told R today I had to leave at 3 o’clock for an appointment because the anxiety was getting so bad, I was freaking out inwardly. And since he’s not very interested or supportive in that respect, being honest does not work. He essentially tells me to suck it up and put on a happy face. That is pretty much the world consensus attitude.
Would that the world could handle the truth and respect mental issues for the crippling hindrance they can be, white lies and fibs would not be necessary.
Since the truth serves no purpose…
I can live with an occasional lie to save my sanity.
Oh, yes, I know…A panic attack isn’t going to kill me.
All the same, I’d rather not test that theory every second of my life. For every nine times I step up to the plate and face the terror and panic, there’s that one time where retreat to safety is necessity.
Today was that day for me.
And while lying causes a severe cognitive dissonance in me as I so value truth…Sometimes, you just gotta say what the fuck. People simply don’t view mental stuff as pertinent or important. The lie is more for them than me. If they’d accept the truth, I would happily dish it out. My top self edict for the past twenty some odd years has been not to allow the world to shame me into hiding my conditions like they are dirty and I’ve done something wrong. Honesty, for me, is like confession. You get in front of something, it lessens the chance if it biting you on the ass.
Not being able to just say, “I am having a panic attack and freaking out and I might die if I don’t go home to my safe little hovel within the next ten minutes” sucks.
I have tried the truth. The truth was part of what made me R’s ex girlfriend. Some people-most people- simply cannot deal with mental issues. Too much work or too complex to grasp or too depressing, who knows or cares. It’s their fucking problem, it just blows that I am usually the one to get hurt in the process of them figuring out they can’t handle someone who has my issues.
Okay, that was the panic and idiocy portion.
Onto the mood stuff.
Yesterday totally sucked from every angle. I was sick with a cold, hacking up a lung, feeling feverish yet freezing, and it put me into this gray depressive state where every second of the day felt grueling and neverending.
After being up until 2 am with coughing fits thanks to Mucinex doing its thing…
Today, I was manic. Jokey, happy, bouncing off the walls energetic manic.
Morose to manic. In a 24 hour span.
Now I am calm, mellow, the panic has died down (though I am still jumpy as fuck, courtesy of the Cymbalta, about the only bad side effect I have noticed.)
Up, down, all around.
I try not to take others on the roller coaster ride. Sometimes, this means keeping people at a distance while I work through the severe and rapid mood shifts.
Of course, the downfall of this is being told by my family how unfriendly and anti social I am, and I never just visit, blah blah blah, I think I am too good to spend time with them, yada yada.
Since my mom and sister opted to accept depressive misery as “just life” rather than take meds, they have sort of looked down upon me, as if I am weak or something. So trying to explain to them my mental states as they vary from hour to hour is pointless.I am so sick of “suck it up” and “snap out of it”.
There’s even this little annoying voice in my head (no I don’t hear voices, this is…well, my voice, saying what others have said, trying to self bully) saying, “Oh, grow the fuck up and quit being a child, life is tough, grow a pair and deal, you can’t run home every time a panic attack kicks your ass, you pathetic little bitch!”
It’s not helpful, but it plagues me.
Then I have my family adding to it.
And my so called best friend who simply prefers to never ever talk about my disorders unless to point out why we broke up…
My support system is nil.
Yet I feel bad for a white lie.
Doesn’t that say something about my character?
I don’t want to lie.
But the truth does not solve anything. It makes people bully me, as if doing so will somehow cure me and make me act in a socially normal acceptable way.
That just makes things worse.
So I tell a fib here and there.
And feel shitty.
It pisses me off because if I needed to run home because I forgot to inject insulin or something, that’d be acceptable.
But if I forgot to take my psych meds…Well, that can wait until later.
Then you spaz out and get a lecture on why didn’t you take your meds.
All around me, catch 22.
My existence, is catch 22.
If this comes across as whining, it is not intentional.
I am just so fucking frustrated.
I’m not broken.
Why can’t anyone see that and have an ounce of empathy?
And yes, I would like some cheese with my whine.
Mild cheddar, preferably.