Daily Archives: March 25, 2013

I Want a New Drug

The song popped into my head, and it’s semi-apt for a subject line… so nyah.

I don’t really want a new new drug, but I sort of wish I already had my upped dose of the Seroquel. The last day or two has had a lot of anxiety squigglings; whether the bipolar is creeping to hypomanic or something else, I know not. It’s probably my ‘fault’ for yesterday, though I’m not actually going to beat myself up over my brain beating me up. Paranoia is a nasty enough bitch as-is, especially when it is completely unwarranted.

But as I was saying to heatherbat yesterday — it doesn’t matter how much logic I fling at paranoia, it still does the same shit time and time (and time and time and time) again. It doesn’t matter that I can know that say… I have an opinion; it’s not going to automatically solicit abuse and hatred. I can know that. I can repeatedly force myself to approach the things that trigger the paranoia and anxiety and upset to find out there is nothing there… but it doesn’t stop my brain and body from responding as such. It is frustrating, to say the very least. And it’s a fairly constant thing that pretty much every email and chat notification and post notification triggers that paranoia and anxiety to varying degrees. I just don’t mention often because I’d get as sick talking about it as everyone else in the world would get hearing about it, ESPECIALLY since doing the ‘right’ things haven’t done anything to fix it. Last thing I need atop my own brain’s bipolar freaking out bullcrap is people piling on ‘helpful’ suggestions based on the assumption that I’ve not tried the prescribed self-treatment. ¬¬

Hopefully, my soon-to-be increased dose will swot down this little bit of sprung-up paranoia enough for me to be able to manage it a bit better. It’s definitely not that bad (and I’ve only exceedingly rarely been full blown, and that tied with drug use at that), but like most of the coping I do, it’s frustrating and wearying when it springs up.

<3

 

The post I Want a New Drug appeared first on The Scarlet B.

Another installment of the panic files-why do I answer the phone?

So the midwest likes to mix things up weather wise, which is why four days after the start of spring, we just had 7 inches of snow dumped on us. This made for a very humdrum not-going-anywhere day for me. I like those days. I can breathe on those days. It was going swimmingly, I was even going to try to write, which has been blocked for a couple of weeks now. (In my xanax-less state, I couldn’t speak coherently, let alone write.)

Then the phone rang, and it was R, and like a dumb ass I answered and now my calm is gone, my depression is back, and I am totally stressing out.

In spite of a fucking blizzard and everyone being snowed in, I am still expected to drag ass out into this shit tomorrow for his convenience because apparently he’s had a few beers by now and was on some manic coffee beer spiel about all the stuff he wants me to do tomorrow. Including bring in that damn  certification book. The man really is clueless. I’ve barely been back in the stratosphere a week now, and already he’s pushing me more and harder.

And I can’t breathe.

In fact, I don’t want to go at all. Were it not for him basically agreeing to buy my kid’s Easter basket if I help him out, I’d probably be screaming fuck off at the top of my lungs because I am obviously melting down. Again.

I need controlled chaos.

The chaos he brings is anything but controlled. It is anything but manageable.

Now my entire equilibrium is screwed. I don’t care about writing because now I am just panicking and all I want to do is go crawl into bed because of everything that I am going to have to do tomorrow just to get out my door. (There’s an ass ton of snow, I will have to dig my way out my front door which will take an hour) and…

Damn it all to hell, why did I answer the fucking phone and ruin what otherwise would have been a really nice braindead day of watching Being Human and playing with my kid and cats?

I know I shouldn’t let reality affect me this way, but damn it, it does. And I hate it. Not reality, it is what it is,  but my reaction to it. I can deny the anxiety and try to pretend it doesn’t bother me, but it’s always there, like the hum of a fluorescent light. This is why every job I have ever had has not ended well. Because the longer the pressure is placed on me, the more pressure that is piled on me, the more I start to melt down. Which starts a cycle of self loathing for being weak and pathetic which leads to more anxiety…

Fuck.

And things were looking up.

Phones were invented by the devil, and my brain, which told me to answer the phone instinctively, needs to die in a fire.