Daily Archives: March 8, 2013

Paranoia attack

My shrink’s office just called to reschedule my appoint AGAIN. That’s twice now. I am having paranoid thoughts that maybe the doctor has just tired of dealing with me.

The receptionist asked if I was doing okay. I told her the klonopin isn’t working but I suppose I can make it another week.

Sure, I am yelling about using intestine as jumpropes but hey, it’s all good.

Is there something more sinister going on? Maybe my insurance is about to be canceled because I don’t know…I smoke? I can’t find meds that work? My soon to be ex says I’m not really disabled, just a bitch?

THIS is why I like xanax. It wards off these insane crippling panic thoughts.

Seriously, why would they cancel two appointments then tell me the day they can  get me in they only have one opening?

It seems wrong.

Now my equilibrium is askew. And I still have a full day ahead of me to make nice and pretend to be functional when all my panic receptors are on red alert and all my brain can do is try to figure out why suddenly I have been pushed to a back burner with the doctor. Are there people in town crazier than me who are more worthy? Am I not crazy enough? Should I just strip naked, put on a tin foil hat and walk down the main drag so someone will GET that I am not faring so well here just because I am out of bed and functioning at a deficit?

Sure, I know my paranoia is probably unwarranted.

If logic trumped mental illness, I wouldn’t pump all these stupid drugs into my system trying to find my way out of the fucking abyss.


One is Not the Other

One thing that has been strongly reinforced to me in my journey of self-discovery is that all our experiences and feelings are unique unto ourselves. This has become especially relevant since finding out that I had bipolar, because it went a long ways towards helping me understand the chemistry and reasoning behind why I felt certain ways and at certain strengths.

From http://kazza.id.au

In the last week, I’ve had to think specifically about frustration and anxiety as relates to my bipolar brain, and how it relates to others in general. As you loyal reading folk know, I’ve been mulling over a dilemma of sorts this past week, and it’s gotten me to points of wahgarbling near-rage from not being able to express how I was feeling and why I needed people to step back. I’m sure we all have moments where we’re so frustrated at trying to make words make sense that we go off the deep end, but that was the default for a large swathe of my life. It has only been the past year that I’ve felt… cogent. Which is great, because it means I’m able to (for the most part) train myself out of descending into throwing rage-poop. It’s not something I wanted to do, and being able to stop the potential train-wreck feels wonderful. It’s not made my fear of offending go away; I still cringe at any single notification, whether it be a private message, an email, a comment, or a messenger messenger. I pray that response goes away some year, but I’m not sure it ever will.

One of the ‘good’ things (as I am one to take good from bad and make the most of my experiences) is that I can recognize it when friends are hitting that same wall. It stops me from being hurt when I shouldn’t be, and generally has gone a long way in helping me not lash out at people who probably are bemused to watch their own train of reason derail in an inglorious burning fashion. It feels good to not rise up; after all, bad breeds bad, good breeds good, and I desire to make the world a brighter place on the whole. And if I’m wrong and someone is just trying to be a troll, well… don’t feed ‘em, ha ha. But I do prefer to believe that people on the whole desire to be good and do good, and I’m happy to not make their discomfort worse in situations like that. I know how it feels for people to think that you’re just trying to start a fight, or who the crap knows what.

Whatever the case, I do my best to remember that most wise mantra of the 1980s — be excellent to each other. It truly is the way to go.


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Not my finest hour

It was a long stressful day. Culminating in a trip to the dollar store, where my kid defied me at every turn, ran around like a banshee and screamed that I was hurting her if I tried to hold her by the hand or pick her up and carry her. People were staring. That’s not my paranoia. By the third person gawking at me continuously no matter which aisle we were in…I snapped.

I said, “Let’s go because the next person who stares at me I am gonna use their intestines for a jump rope.”





I could make excuses, rationalizations, apologies.

I’m not going to.

My kid has me ready to resign as mommy. Earlier at my mom’s she told me she didn’t want to come home with me. She said she didn’t like me.

I try so hard for her and I know kids, especially toddlers, are an ungrateful lot because they don’t grasp the concept of gratitude or the world not revolving around them…

But it really hurts to love someone so much and have them punch you in the face emotionally ten times a day. I’m barely keeping my head above water and it feels like my own kid is against me, wanting me to go over that edge.

Distorted thought? Panic talking? Too much stress?

I thought about calling the counseling crisis number, just to have someone to talk to, see if they have any ideas what I should do. I mean, I am known as the emasculator of men, I make grown men and women cry because I am allegedly so mean (I prefer the term brutally honest.) Yet with this mini me from hell, I am but a joke to her. Her disrespect and humiliating me in public hurts in ways I can’t begin to put into words. I want to quit this mommy gig.

Hell, I want to quit this life gig.

I should make the call but then there’s a record of me losing my marbles, which can be used against me to prove I can’t handle being a mom.

I can deal. But it’s gotten harder since the med change. And there are just some days where you feel so utterly hopeless that things will ever change, that you will ever be able to reach that cyclone called a child…My counselor assures me this is normal.

I still feel like an ogre.

And I really need to stop threatening to snap people’s necks and use their intestines for jumprope. It’s one thing if it’s a joke. Tis another thing when I am just going off the rails with paranoia and panic.

And it’s utterly unnecessary is the sad thing.

I hate myself.