Daily Archives: March 13, 2013
My first granddaughter was born yesterday. 7 lbs 5 oz, the image of her Mama at the age of just barely new to the world. She came like the winds [...]
No, I didn’t mean free for all. Feast for all is accurate because right now, it seems every aspect of my disorders is devouring me.
Never mind having the flu and feeling like shit. Nooo, that’s not enough to stop the mental demons, they have been exercising and they are strong and motivated.
They are doing something weird to the empty trailer next door, tanks and giant hoses and I don’t even know what. But it is enough to have me paranoid the place is gonna blow up from a gas leak or they are exterminating and I am gonna be displaced from my home when they do that here or…God knows there’s no shortage of fodder for the panicky paranoia.
I was gonna try to nut up and go to the shop today…But ya know what? My anxiety reached a crescendo and my depression kind of swept in and it was just like, hey, I have the damn flu, I am gonna give myself a day to fucking recover even if it makes me weak. Because as of late, associating with over achievers like R and workaholics like my dad has had me feeling so utterly weak and self disgusted that whatever thin veneer of self protection and confidence I had is dead and gone. Now there is only self loathing and a sense of why-bother doom. Not so much depression as defeat of the spirit. I am never gonna live up to what polite society expects of “productive” citizens and it just seems pointless to keep trying.
Yet my kid keeps me going, even though I sometimes feel like a failure on that front too. My panic and general mental unwellbeing has stopped me from giving her the “norm” these days, ya know, the jymboree classes and mommy and me classes and sign language videos for babies and…Oh, fuck me, I wouldn’t be doing that shit even if I were a hundred percent. Maybe I won’t get into mommy of the year club, but my kid is having a damn childhood. Let Mensa recruit other people’s toddlers.
The bipolar popped out earlier, when I had this mini manic burst of energy and decided in spite of feeling crappy in every way, I’d try to do some housework. That lasted as long as it took to run a load through the washer. Now I have zero desire to go put it in the dryer. Because that just leads me to freaking out about how much doing all this laundry is gonna jack up my power bill next month.
And money worries lead to overall anxiety. Which is a hamster wheel to nowhere, no matter how much you vow to do your best to just deal with whatever comes your way.
Which lead to the panic…I had to go pay car insurance and the power bill cos they were do and I didn’t want the hassle of being late. There went all my money. And being in the petri dish, with all the traffic, and the sunlight, and the noise, and my kid yapping and asking “Why mommy?” every six seconds (she’s also a backseat driver since I taught her what stoplight colors mean, now she’s sees a yellow hydrant and thinks I should slow down and yells it and that freaks me out even more.) At one point, I nearly had to pull over and remember how to breathe because I was sooo close to just screaming ‘MAKE ALL THE FUCKING NOISE STOP!”
Yeah, that’s coping well. I’m all better, totally stable, give me a job.
Meanwhile, my so called mental health support system is…I am starting to have more faith in the counselor but as much as I like the doctor, I just don’t think most of them have the ability to think outside the book.
Yeah, book, not box. They seem to think every mental illness case is textbook. Twenty thousand bipolar patients manifest with paranoia and respond to an anti psychotic, then ALL of them must. Trying to state your individual case proves pointless. It is frustrating. It is maddening. It is…a path I find myself on so often, it makes me wonder why I bother with meds at all. Just as soon as I do get a foot hold, some well meaning doctor comes along and decides xanax is evil or zoloft is better than prozac and I come undone. Over and over and over.
Isn’t idiocy doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome?
I’m supposed to be the crazy one but that makes absolute sense to me. It’s time to try something different. Like, I dunno, a doctor who throws out the book and the experience and listens to the individual patient.
But I know exactly what is going to happen because it has happened so many times before. I will go in, bemoan the decompensation of changing anti anxiety meds, and in the infinite wisdom of doctors, she will force an anti psychotic on me which will do no good, make me overly sedated, and make me gain even more weight which will be 0one more thing for the doctors to harangue me for.
It sounds like I am narrow minded and creating my own reality and making assumptions but damn it, how many times does it have to happen before I am entitled to assume the worst because it’s all I have experience with?
My kingdom for a clone of my old shrink who actually listened to me. Sure, she labeled me with personality disorders my counselor thinks I don’t have, but in all fairness, shrinks spend ten minutes with you, they make sweeping generalizations. It’s the counselor who sees you for an hour who gets to know you. As far as any disorders I may have go concerning behavior and personality, I defer to the person who has spent more time listening to me and getting to know me.
But I need the shrink for meds.
Yet how can a shrink prescribe properly without knowing someone properly and listening to them as a person?
Another feast for the anxiety.
Force down the panic. Pretend my kid isn’t driving me nuts. Try not to throw up. Forget that I have hives from being so anxious. Forget that I am so pissed off because I am so frustrated.
Life is one big excuse for existing in complete denial because otherwise, how would any of us be able to face what a pathetic screwed up world we live in?
I was reading another blog and the title made me think, yeah, that’s what it’s been like without xanax, just constant static in my head. Which after awhile starts to make you want to cover your ears and block the noise because it feels like every nerve ending in your body is clawing its way out from under your skin.
It’s also apt because the panic used to be a trigger sort of thing. Now, with the exit of xanax, even with the addition of klonopin, it’s a static paranoia and panic. It goes nowhere, just remains constant, bubbling beneath and above the surface.
I once tried to explain to a shrink what I feel like most of the time. Likened it to tuning into a radio station that isn’t quite on the right frequency and there’s another station trying to come in and lots of crackling and static. She took this to mean I heard voices. I do not hear voices. If I did, I would not feel so damn pissed off and alone all the time. At least they would comfort me. That’s not a joke, either, or being insensitive. Hell, sometimes, I wouldn’t even mind being haunted by a bloody ghost if it gave me someone to talk to who’d actually listen. Oh, wait, that implies I believe in the supernatural and that is part of schizotypal personality disorder. So is the way I dress. Oh and the things I like, like skulls and coffins and horror movies.
I am a walking talking personality disorder, apparently.
Perfect statement about my existence.
I’m still feeling a teensy bit woozy, but nothing dire. And it’s warmed up enough (in the house, at least) for me to be happy to chug a few mugs of water to try and flush my system.
Past that, things are alright. I decided to risk my sanity by posting an opinion on Facebook, and it seems to be inciting a good conversation. That’s a relief; I dislike Facebook because I feel people are vicious to each other over the stupidest crap. But as most of my friends are still there rather than saner places like G+, I *try* to politely involve myself as much as I can because I do care about engaging my friends. Granted, I can’t do it that often because the noise ratio is wearying, and my brain balks at letting me filter out too many people (what can I say, the bipolar hates filters). I wish it weren’t — I ofttimes feel alienated because I cannot engage with my friends as much as I’d like, and I watch them play and chatter at each other and am saddened to be reminded that taking care of myself means I have to spend a lot of time on Isolation Island.
*doinks brain* Hey, hey now. I’m trying to say that I’m doing alright, and you pull out that sort of sad self-pitying crap. *grumps*
Ah well, such is life with a bipolar brain. It’s the joy of ever-constant vigilance against that shady friend who likes to sucker punch you when you think things are sorted! Having said that, I’m going to go over here *points thaddaway* and get back to working. That should shoosh you up for now. Also, totally thanks for making me sound like I have multiple personalities, ha ha. But I think that’s common with those of us having bipolar — by personifying our brains and the disorder, it makes it easier to feel slightly less like you’re playing a game of ‘Stop Hitting Yourself!’.
The first thing I remember, after they left me, was waking up in a box. The sides of the box were clear, and I could see, through the half-dark, two white shapes gliding on padded feet to and fro, with stiff white headdresses.
Scratchy wrappings smelling of something that made my eyes water bound me tight and I grew very afraid.
Eric Le Clown graciously asked me to write a piece for his blog Rx Black Box Warnings, so I took the opportunity to write something I've had rumbling around in my brain, oh, forever. This is really how I feel, the locked-in feeling of alienation, marginalization, and, well, being on the wrong planet. P.S. all of this is true.
Yesterday’s visit to the reproductive endocrinologist went just fine. He evaluated symptoms, checked my labs, and levied his diagnosis: yes …
Tuesday was NOT a good day for me. My kid recovered from the flu. I forced myself out into the petri dish. My functionality was limited. R asked me to do a couple of things and I actually told him to do them himself. Why? Because between the ringing phones and the noise of my own pounding heart, it just felt like being pushed to the edge. My gums hurt from grinding my teeth, which is an anxiety induced habit that has returned with a vengeance. (Funny how xanax made it a non issue, kinda like, I don’t know, Tylenol makes a headache go away.)
I lost a ten dollar bill. One minute it was in my hand, the next it was floating away in the wind.
I got a bunch of numbers mixed up when he sent me out for parts and had to call him three times, which he was not amused with.
Then came the woe is me breakdown where I essentially fell into self pity mode and asked what I did to deserve this existence. Which will no doubt be fodder for him one day to discuss with his over achieving family. (Does that sound paranoid? I only wish it were, I am surrounded by back stabbing bitches,most of whom I am related to, so pardon me if I stick to a hard learned lesson on not trusting people with your weaknesses.)
I really had trouble dealing with the public and driving. My mind was reeling and it just seemed like everything was moving too fast and my brain was moving too damn slow. I’m so afraid I’m going to get in a wreck, I probably will. Only this time it will be my fault because I have eroded so much in my lucidity.
So in addition to being unpleasant, I am now rendered totally inept. I can’t even do an unpaid internship properly because my brain is so scrambled. How I manage to keep my kid, cats, and myself alive is one of the big mysteries, although I suspect it’s because I tend to fare much much better if I am allowed to take life slowly and stay in my safe zone (home). Once out that door, though, it’s like I can’t get my feet under me, I just start coming undone.
I hear all of this shit about behavior modification. The brain is a muscle you can train and retrain. I can teach myself to not be this way, I can control my own brain chemistry. This is what I am reading and hearing and so rather than risk being arrogant by discounting it, I put effort into it, maybe it will work.
But it’s NOT working, and I try so bloody hard. I just want to lead a normal quiet life. I am sick of hearing about people “like me” who are “on the public dole”. (Which in all fairness, I worked for many years and paid in, so my disability wasn’t just handed over to me, I have jumped through all the proper hoops and seen all the property medical professionals, but it doesn’t stop people-like R and my dad- from commenting on “well farers” like me. Greatfor the self esteem. Even better for one who’s trying so hard to get their shit together and failing. Remind me again why I don’t just kill myself?)
I came home. Then I got a headache. Followed by chills and stomach upset. Then came the puking. My little angel gave me her cooties. I finally went to sleep after about three solid hours of wishing for death. I woke up at 12:30 am, wanted to go back to sleep, but the chills are still pretty severe and couple that tremor with the pounding heart and anxiety…Oh, and yeah, I did take a Klonopin, so obviously it’s not working or I’d be fast asleep right now.
My counselor called to delay my appointment by another day.
The day after I see her I get to go see the shrink, who I am betting will absolutely discount every word I say and blame all the behavioral changes on something else. You have something happen to you often enough, you come to expect it.
It’s okay. One doesn’t need a script for booze and the fun of having a functional alcoholic friend is he never has a problem providing me with booze. So rather than use a small dose of a drug that works wonders, I will just become a raging alcoholic. Sounds legit right?
I hate the world.
I’d say that’s the fever talking but it’s not. I really do hate the world I live in, the world I brought my daughter into.
And most of all, I hate me because me is so unbelievably fucked up and such a loser, my own brain betrays me on a daily basis.