Daily Archives: June 14, 2013
It’s hard to imagine I was waiting for this day¹ to come, or how profound of a change I would feel when it did. I had no idea the turmoil and […]
Much to my surprise, Spook’s first sleepover was relatively painless. I did not have any problems with Damiana aside from her tattling, asking for food constantly, and uttering my name every ten seconds. The girls had fun, and we played this morning before we had to leave. Kids looove playing zombie, for some reason, even though I am told it is inappropriate to encourage children to eat brains. Maybe it would be more socially acceptable if they were vegetarian zombies and ate grains? Anyway, it works, so I’m not arguing with it no matter who sees fit judge me for it.
I was awake til almost 4 am. The kids slept, but I have issues sleeping with “people” in my home. Always been that way, I cannot relax outside my comfort zone and another person is just outside that zone. I don’t over analyze it, I just accept it. Felt like the walking dead this morning, though the zombie playfest certainly woke me up. I got bruises on my upper arms from two girls as rough as any boys. But it was fun.
Hit a couple of yard sales, procrastinating going to the shop, until his wife called me to ask me to go there since he wasn’t answering his cell or the shop phone. He does that a lot, because ya know, he’s at his job and people don’t grasp that, they just call and pop in like he’s got nothing to do. I’ve seen his tantrums when people interrupt him. Unless I need a kidney transplant and he’s the only match on the planet, I’ll not be bothering him during business hours. He can throw a tantrum to rival my kid’s.
He was in a mood. They had a fight last night and he spent the night at his friend’s house. So since he was mad at her, and I have the common trait of you know, having breasts as well, he decided to take it out on me and start saying shit about how I do the same things she does and we don’t listen and…
I was just like, “Dude, don’t take it out on me because you’re mad at her.” He did apologize, but once again, I entered into that territory where I was afraid to so much as breathe too loud in case it upset him.
Karma, I suppose. I get that this is kind of what I am like ALL the time with the bipolar, but in my defense, I have done soo much work toward walking away, being silent, riding it out without acting out…So if I have a mini blow up once a week whereas I used to have ten, I see that as vast improvement. Not that I am given any credit for it by him. The stress of having to be perfect mood wise is getting to be a little too much for me. My stomach was in knots all day because of this shit. It’s become very unhealthy for me mentally but with the car needing work…The bridge shall not be set aflame yet if I can just bite my tongue.
So, to recap, mood up, mood down, mood level, mood up, mood wayyyyy the fuck down, mood level, mood wayyy the fuck up, then way down…I think I am being an idiot about the Lamictal still working. Although this is uber rapid cycling even for me. I keep trying to discern triggers, like if someone made me mad and it caused my mood to change. But it’s nothing so logical. No rhyme or reason.
Once my mood shot up, though, and Kenny was there, we all joked and had a good time.
Spook and I were invited by Mrs R to come over tonight. Most of me really doesn’t want to, but I do love watching Spook play with their granddaughter and the baby seems to like me. Since my mom basically said I was going to screw my kid up and make her antisocial like me, I have been going out of my way to stress myself out so my kid can have a normal childhood with friends and stuff. I shouldn’t pay my mother any mind, but when it comes to mothering my kid, I am determined NOT to let my critics be right about me in any way. I may be screwed up. It doesn’t mean I will “infect” my kid.
I am surrounded by insensitive compassion lacking idiots.
The tenseness of the situation earlier kind of set me on this anxiety course. I had super damp armpits all day, in spite of two types of anti perspirant. The weird thing is, I don’t stick, it’s just that cold sweat pours out of me. It always has. I even tried that damn prescription stuff that seals your sweat glands off, supposedly. No match for the anxiety monster and my traitorous body. It is humiliating to always be *that* person who has pit stains.
But then again, I have always been *that* person. The awkward one who is left out socially, teased, spit on, the girl who gets her period and doesn’t realize it so she has a stain on her pants…(7th grade and it still fucking haunts me!) It’s like the social graces god and genetics just decided to screw me without a kiss. I don’t choose to be this awkward duck, but the quack seems to fit.
In spite of it all, I try to focus on my good qualities but it gets really hard to remember you have any when your own mother rejects you and someone who claims to be your friend can’t get over the ONE thing you can’t change about yourself that has nothing to do with your personality. I keep telling myself I am a good person (not great, but good) and I am smart and I am compassionate and I am a good mom…
And as long as I avoid other people, I believe it all and it’s enough.
If I go around other people…BOOM, the insecurity becomes a malignancy that devours me because I never wanted to be annoying or mean or negative or any of the bad stuff…I want to be me, in all my dark sarcastic glory, and be loved for it or in spite of it. The fact that I can’t overcome it all, or as the people around me say, “grow out of it already” makes me feel like this giant loser who doesn’t deserve to breathe air.
I want to not care.I just can’t seem to turn off that part of myself. I wish I could because it is making me absolutely miserable.
Oh, well. Another week survived without burning bridges.
Sometimes it’s the little victories you gotta cling to.
Irony of ironies yesterday — it took me a long-ass time to get my poor blog to post. I’m not sure what the deal was, but it was timing out any time I tried to do anything behind the hood. Hopefully that’s past, and I can continue on without having to pull my hair apart wondering what could be wrong.
Things continue to be good and decent-feeling. I’m holding it together enough that there’s a generous mood buffer, I’m getting things done, and I’m feeling… satisfied. Such a strange word that is, and one that I don’t get to use that often. It only strikes me as odd at how infrequently I’m able to say it when I *am* able to say it! It is a great word, one that conveys the warm fuzziness that contentment (rather than happy//up) can bring.
I was chuckling yesterday at what I consider one of the ultimate signs of me feeling even — I’ve got The Sims 3 up and running on my desktop. I love running non-stop Legacy games, so having that game up is probably the biggest sign of cheerful status quo in my book. It means my brain has quit having little stroppy fits of ennui, which is always a relief (since me hitting states of ennui are precariously dangerous, as explained in the past). I’m knitting every night, I’m actually thinking about leaving the house this weekend… it’s pretty good. For now. I know not to count on it staying this decent, but yanno — I’ll always enjoy it while I can and will do my best to -not- shoot myself in the foot.
I hope everyone is having a snazzy day, with good fun planned for the weekend (even if it’s just chilling at home, ’cause that is totally awesome in my book).
Sooo, ya know how I was on an even keel when I wrote earlier prior to the shrink appointment?
Yeah, about that.
Got through the appointment. I’m not sure if it’s the telepsychiatry thing with the delay in speaking or because she is foreign or what, but trying to explain my issues to her is like climbing up a hill coated in Astroglide while wearing flip flops.
“You want to hurt yourself, you are suicidal?”
“No, during my period, I just feel like I should die, then once it’s over, I am fine.”
“So you are depressed?”
“No, I feel fine this week, last week, I had this menstrual dysphoria thing going on…”
“So you aren’t depressed…Why do you have so much trouble with your menstrual cycle?”
Then I tried to explain the panic and paranoia and she wanted examples of what sets it all off. So I mentioned the article about Google having this “tattoo” design that stores your passwords and such…And it turned into this big, “You think the government is going to put a tattoo on you against your will?”
Bloody hell, woman, speak English!
Finally came to an accord. She is prescribing a very low dose of Seroquel for 7 days a month to smooth over the dysphoria/menstrual issues. Otherwise, everything is staying the same.
I just went with the truth. Once the curse ended, I was okay. That may change, it usually does once summer ends and seasonal affect kicks in. I will save the mood stabilizer change til then.
So I got to the shop per his request for my presence…And I was sailing along, feeling super tough and forward and not at all weepy or whiny…
Then slowly, I felt my mood begin to slip. A little. A little more. More still. I offered to run an errand, ya know, change of scenery. Slip. I played a peppy hair metal song that always cheers me up. More slippage. I ate lunch. Slipping…I read some funny stuff…
No dice. I ended up face down in the mood gutter. Of course, R asked why I sighed, then why I was quiet…He doesn’t want an answer, not the truth so I ignored him, changed the subject, mumbled incoherently.
Then he made a statement about people not paying him for his work, “I’m not their lapdog…” And off handedly I said, “Nor am I yours…” I really didn’t put any thought behind it, had no agenda, meant nothing snarky…It was meant to be an agreeing comment.
Instead he asked, “Is that a shot at me?”
Well, The Donor used to make constant accusations of everything out of my mouth being some sort of “shot” or “dig”, so needless to say the wording and assumption did not sit well with me. I defended myself, but my mood just went further down the drain, and he took this dismissive attitude toward me, kind of like a snort of derision, and from there…
I was quiet. Monosyllabic. (He was on a rant earlier about how his wife never shuts up and won’t listen, so I was already quite uneasy so much as whispering a single word.) I became very distant, I definitely had this silent hatred vibe going on…I just wanted out of there. I was burning alive and just needed space, to not be there, to n0t have the whole fucked up situation triggering what was already a bad state of mind.
But I toughed it out. Though the entire time all I can think is FUCK YOU CYCLOTHYMIA, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU!
I was doing so well, even thought maybe it was time to look into classes or something…Because ya know, I had three solid mood days and that’s totally a sign of being cured. I got cocky, blaming it all on shark week, when in fact, cyclothymia doesn’t go away. The meds help manage it, but it’s always there, lurking beneath the surface, prepared to do its bipolar thing and either make you act like a drunken manic loon or a depressed human version of Eeeyore and everything in between. Shark week definitely threw me into psychotic territory but the bipolar mood swing was already there.
By the end of the day, I was grumpy, hot, and just disgusted, with myself, my brain, R, everything. Went to get my kid and she wouldn’t stop watching tv and put on her shoes. I asked nicely three times. By the fourth time the satan voice came out and I asked her if she wanted to be grounded for a week. Wrong thing to do. My mom went OFF, telling me what a grouchy strict witch I am. Whatever. I want my kid to respect me and mind me, I don’t much care if she likes me.
Came home. Had a yard full of kids in ten minutes. Said fuck it, my day sucked, how much worse can it get? Spook has Damiana spending the night. The kid (her friend) is driving me insane, she is always hungry, always wants something, always tattling on Spook, telling my floor is nasty, one of the cats pooped in the box and it stinks (poop general does smell bad, derp!)…But it’s a good exercise for me. No matter how crazy my kid makes me, it’s better than this child. Not saying she’s without good traits. Just saying, I lack the patience to deal with such a needy kid.
Now…a half hour til I can put the heathens to bed and go drink bleach.
That’s a joke. My counselor says people just don’t get my dark humor. I am inclined to agree. Plus, with the mood swings, I don’t always know what tone my voice is. I may sound angry and simply be distracted or whatever. Just existing peacefully amongst other people has become a full time job. Worrying about my moods, my vocal tone, my attention span, my wording, my humor…Jesus. Is it any wonder I am at my most happy when alone? Less pressure.
I am trying soo hard to do better, to be less harsh, to be more sociable, to be less…me.
But it sucks and if I have to accept people as drunken narcissists or braindead rednecks or whatever, but no one has to accept that I have a mood disorder…
I cannot fathom where I got an attitude about it all.