Oh, wow a blog faux pas right out of the gate. Not supposed to use multiples of exclamation points or question marks. Let me see how this ranks on my scale of things that I care about…
Right beneath the cobwebs in the corner.
Home right now, waiting for my mom aka sitter to return from the eye doctor. Thus far, Spook and I have braved Wal*Mart. It traumatizes me every time, even when it’s not busy. My kid is a banshee and the only way I can somewhat control her is to use the “channeling satan” voice, which always earns me looks of disdain from people. Whatever. It seems she saves this misbehavior specifically for me in public. For everyone else she is perfectly behaved and civilized. Lucky me.
My anxiety is still creeping off the charts. I took a Klonopin, I should not be this jumpy. I have even switched to decaf in the event the caffeine makes any impact. I am giving this shit a chance and it’s doing nothing for me. I am frustrated. I am TRYING so hard. Because I have the distinct feeling the shrink will NOT give back my Xanax no matter what intelligent logical argument I devise. Some people are locked in their own bias and become immovable objects. Which in the case of a doctor whose purpose is to help me get better is a horrible thing.
Five weeks now of climbing walls, popping off in angry fits, bursting into tears, being excessively paranoid, and feeling little more than blinding panic and anger. NOT an improvement.
I have stopped going out much. I have turned down invites to hang out with people. I jump when the phone rings, which at the shop when it rings pretty regularly is a bad thing. The notion that this is to become my constant norm makes me want to die. Really. This is not a quality of life that I care to continue with. Biting people’s heads off simply because my panic riddled brain is telling me to be paranoid is not optimal. I sound like a broken record, but I am trying so damn hard to not dig my heels in, to be amenable to change, to do what might be a better alternative. This ain’t it.
My kid is talking and won’t shut up. It takes every fiber of my being not to scream DO YOU EVER STOP TALKING? Every sound is like a thousand nails on a chalkboard. Maybe time for another klonopin? Yes, it makes much more sense to take twice the medication for an eighth of the results. Not to mention it’s the crappiest panic medication I have ever encountered. It might be okay for mild generalized anxiety but it doesn’t stop a panic attack or ward them off at all.
Bucket of suck.
But hey…I live to draw another breath. All about perception, right? Which is a good argument. Except half the world uses this as an excuse to turn a blind eye to atrocities. Kids being sexually abused? Oh, well, it’s probably just isolated cases by mentally disturbed pedophiles. Never mind the prevalence. No, it’s all about perception. If you perceive it to not be so horrid, then it can’t be, right?
I really want to strangle people with their own intestines when they cram their optimism and denial down my throat. Thank you, R. One more lecture on “it’s how you view things, your perception is distorted” and I am gonna have to use his skull as a bong or something. Which is stupid since I don’t smoke weed.
I’m off the rails again, aren’t i?
I think the shrink really needs to read my journals and see just how unfocused my thought patterns are, how erratic the mood shifts can be, how consuming the anxiety is.
Unfortunately, for a hundred and fifty bucks, I get ten minutes with a TV screen.
Plus, I’ve been seeing her 18 months, and the shrinks in this area rarely stay on service for more than two years, so I am freaking out thinking I may be breaking in a new psych doc at some point. I shouldn’t contemplate the worst, but the last time I didn’t…My favorite best shrink ever served her two years and left me high and dry. Her replacement was the shrink from hell. It has made me fearful.
I even bore myself with my own inanity.
But I am trying so hard…I just don’t understand why it’s not working.
Maybe I should just perceive mental illness as a good thing and celebrate the fact that I want to drink bleach every day.
Or as I used to tell the Donor when he pissed rainbows with his optimism…You can call a pile of dog shit a lovely flower and say it smells great…But it’s still a pile of dog shit.