Daily Archives: August 1, 2013

Shine

Look in my eyes
Realize
I’m back to my old self
Took a break, put it on the shelf
Now I’m here
It’s all clear
What I’m meant to be
You will see
I’m stronger now
My fist strikes – pow
I know what matters to me
I know how to be
I can’t ignore
It made me sore
I’m ready to roar
Unlike before
It’s my time to shine
It will be sublime

Imagine

Take me by the hand
I’ll lead you to a land
The castles are made of sand
It’s a land of imagination
You’ll experience elation
And a change of elevation
It’s a place of hope
One where you can cope
It’s inside your mind
Just reach deep down inside
It likes to hide
Behind the obvious
Take one look, don’t be oblivious
You construct it
Don’t judge it
Let your self imagine
Be your own Aladin

Oh what new fresh hell is this…

I registered my kid for pre-k this morning. And it sucked. A whole new vortex of suck has knocked on my door. I have had 4 years of pretty much doing as I please with my child and now I am entering into the world of having less control over her and her world. I do not like change, I do not like loss of control, and I absolutely do not like dealing with authority figures.

But I have to suck it up.

It was bad enough with the room full of kids running riot and parents. My kid actually behaved pretty well, she was excited. I am glad she was excited. Because mommy felt like she was facing a firing squad.

They have to do a home visit. I do not understand this. I do not like people in my home, judging me. I can’t say I have anything to hide. Not like I have a meth lab in my kitchen or a pot crop in the yard. It’s just that this is my safe space and having it violated by outsiders seems blasphemous. It’s been tough enough with the kids swooping in like little vultures and touching my stuff. Now to have some socially appropriate person come in and judge my housekeeping and decor and methods of child rearing…It is freaking me out.

By the time we got through the various lines, I just wanted out. This one woman had four kids, and one was literally latched onto her leg and she was dragging it across the room while the others bellowed. I felt sorry for her. I also felt utterly panicked. So of course they decide to use me as a test case to sit at their computer station and fill out the rest of the paper work. I hate unfamiliar computers. I hate chaotic environments. I am absolutely incapable of using a damn touch pad to save my life. If it’s more than a two minute job, I require an external mouse. I am just not coordinated, I guess. I kept stumbling through what would have taken me two seconds at home. The panic response just kicked in and I said, ” I have to do this at home, is that okay?” And fled the scene like a burglar fleeing the scene of his crime.

Came home to finish the paper work. My God, what a pain in the ass. If I could have just used pen and paper, I wouldn’t have minded. (Funny, coming from a computer junkie, huh?) But having her application reliant on my brain functioning properly enough to get the forms to go through properly.  I normally have no qualms about my computer skills. But when it’s unfamiliar territory and I am in panic mode and especially as of late with all the brain fade…Paper and pen would have been better.

I know it’s just outside my comfort zone and I will adapt. Maybe not to the authority thing or other parents, since my social skills are lacking. But the other kids…I am good with kids. We saw one of the neighbor kids over at the school and she yelled “Hi, Niki!” Which made me happy, considering her mother stomped over and dragged her out of my yard last night and all I could think is, what, what did I do? Paranoid scumbag brain has already started constructing paranoid theories on this.

In addition to the woman seeming hostile and yapping on her phone, she  basically lifted her kid off the glider by one arm and dropped her on the ground. Then kept grabbing her by the one arm and pushing and dragging her back home. Every time I think I am getting the mom thing wrong, someone comes along to highlight that I am practically Mary fucking Poppins by comparison. I don’t know why people have kids if they’re just going to treat them like shit. I am aware it goes on all the time, my brain just rejects the concept.

Now I am babysitting Damiana and her brother while her mom is at the doctor with the sick baby. R wants me to come in. I am totally freaking about this home visit on the 16th. My brain is on hyperdrive. I should do something. I have a ton of laundry, dishes, et al.But I am just frozen with panic and anxiety and paranoia. It’s like all I can do is sit and chain smoke. And create elaborate conspiracy theories on the other parents and this home visit.

I hate trying to live up to the expectations of others, especially others of a different social ilk. They expect better because they have better. I work with what I have and frankly, a few cobwebs in the corner and crayon on the walls are not high on my priority list. Yet some people (like Mrs R) consider dust to be a catastrophic event. And that’s probably the type who will be judging me.

I freaked out like this back when Spook was born and WIC did the home visit. Of course, we hadn’t been here that long and didn’t have much so there wasn’t a whole lot of mess to worry about. Four years later, the carpet is stained, the place smells musty, a cockroach is seen from time to time (maintenance guy says every trailer has them and the landlord won’t spray.) This is major stress. My kid is my life, ffs. She is healthy and happy, has what she needs. Why should my dust bunny collection have any bearing?

I am aware I am probably making a big deal out of nothing. But then again, what if I get a stickler who thinks crayon on the walls is a health hazard and they take my kid away?

I don’t give a damn what people think of me as a person.

I do however give a damn what people think of me as a mom as it impacts my kid’s friends and my kid’s not being yanked out of my home.

So I will just have to go on a mad cleaning frenzy the night before and hope it’s good enough. If it’s not, I think I will mount a war. I have seen much much worse. Hell, I grew up with much worse. (We had to brush our teeth in the bathtub, the roaches had their own condos, and half the floors were bare plywood as stable as a cotton ball.) Point is, it didn’t kill me. It didn’t harm me.

So why am I sweating this?

Because it’s what I do, I sweat the small stuff and then when something catastrophic happens (like the donor walking out) I rise to the occasion with grace.

How did I get this fucked up?

Oh, yeah.

Life happened.


Choices

Feeling light
It must be right
I’m ready
My hand is steady
It’s time
Time to rewind
Relive and live again
Make a friend til the end
It’s time to live life to the fullest
No more of the dullness
It hurts to be exposed
But it hurts worse to be disposed
It is good to take a chance
In the end, it’s the only time to dance
In life there are choices
Listen to the inner voices
Feel the freedom of being you
It is the only thing to do

There is Hope

It’s hard to believe it has been over two months since I was released from the hospital. A lot has happened in that time. In some ways it seems like just yesterday and in other ways it seems like light years away. In that time I have spent many hours thinking about what happened to me, and more importantly why. I still don’t have answers. I don’t think I ever will. If I’m honest with myself I realize that it all began months before my hospitalization. It may have begun with being laid off. That happened in February. The day after my lay off I felt so much gratitude that I cried. I looked up at the sky and said thank you repeatedly. I felt so blessed to have the gift of time. I had been struggling to be happy in my job, so it seemed like an amazing opportunity. Six months later my view is completely different. I’m having a hard time finding a new job. It has been a process. I will never again take a job for granted. Having a job is a privilege, and one I never fully appreciated until now.
When I first left the hospital I thought I was all better. It takes stepping back to realize that wasn’t the case. The day I left the hospital I was still caught up in my delusions. I still believed I could telepathically communicate the day after I was home. I even heard a voice call my name the next day. I knew I was getting better, but I wasn’t there yet. The weeks after I was home I thought I was back to normal. Now I know that wasn’t the case. In the last few weeks friends and family have started to say I’m back to my old self. I’m smiling and laughing. I didn’t realize I wasn’t doing those things until after the fact. My smile felt uncomfortable – like a new facial expression. That’s when I realized I hadn’t been smiling. Sometimes you don’t know what you’re missing until it returns.
When I left the hospital I was devastated that I had to take my medication. It was my nightmare. Now my medication has been cut down to the point where I feel hopeful. I’m on a very low dosage of Zyprexa and Lithium. When I first got out of the hospital I had such bad tremors that it was difficult to do basic things like put on makeup. It made me feel defective. Tremors are a side effect of Lithium and now that I’m on a lower dosage I’m shaking much less. I feel human again.
I’m not sure what the next few months entail, but I know I’m excited to find out. I’m not scared or nervous like I was. I feel hopeful.

Meeeeeeeeeelting, Meeeeeeeeelting!

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve made that Wicked Witch of the West reference in the past month, ha ha. But it’s apt — I feel like the tag-end of a candle, slumped and misshapen. It’s making it really hard for me to decide whether or not the being physically worn down is depression, or merely the weather. I -am- relieved that my appointment has been postponed until September though — it gives me more time to analyse and decide. While I do think 3-4 months is not a bad spacing for appointments, I seem blessed with having problems directly after them, so… waiting another month is fine by me.

I continue to be in good spirits, though. I’m enjoying my work (’cause doing accounts is fun, honest! *grins*). I’m enjoying my hobbies. I’m enjoying my family. I absolutely cannot complain about any of these things. My brain is slowly starting to come back around to spitting up words, which is fantastic. And the icing on this week’s cake is being nominated for the Versatile Blogger Award by my lovely friend over at A Place That Does Not Exist! I will hopefully respond appropriately to that in the next couple of days; I’ve not had the brain power or time to think about it quite yet.

I do think that there’s a chance my antidepressant will need to be boosted though, if I’m honest with myself. It has been doing an amazing job evening me out, but I have a feeling that a slightly larger dose than my current 50mg might lock me into… remission? Sanity? Normalcy? I don’t think I can ever count any of those things as being me, per se, but I’m still really happy to be in such a good place. Having said that, I could be totally wrong and a bigger dose could tip me into rapid cycling hell again. Once again, I’m glad for that month to think about things.

Righto, I am going to go stick my head in the freezer now for a minute — if I can complain about one thing, it’s that I’d much rather be home in the one air conditioned room we have! *grins*

I hope everyone is doing well.

<3

The post Meeeeeeeeeelting, Meeeeeeeeelting! appeared first on The Scarlet B.

Adventures in Low Income Mental Healthcare Clinics.

The hall of my mental health facility smells like a mix of powder, industrial strength cleaner and floor wax. Each step I take on that baby blue floor toward the elevator is a step further away from myself. By the time I reach the end of the hall where a print of Picasso’s “The Dreamer” hangs outside the elevator door, I’m somewhere else entirely. That same print hung in the Art room at my Junior High and High School. Looking at it makes my stomach drop, as though I’m an awkward and sometimes obnoxious 12 year old girl all over again. I prefer when I have the elevator ride upstairs alone but occasionally there’s someone else getting on who always seems to make comments about the weather. For years…it’s always about the weather.

I reach my floor, sign in and sit down to wait to see my shrink. It’s a people watchers paradise. There’s everyone from a Schizophrenic mumbling in the corner, a bus load of people from a homeless shelter, people discussing where they’re going after their appointment to sell their meds to score some crack, a mother and her children, a senior citizen who seems so confused and lonely, a middle age couple, a teen with their parent to whatever I would be classified as. The two things we all have in common is mental illness and a low income. Psychiatric care and medications in the U.S. is fucking expensive. I’m lucky enough to have gotten into an income based program for my medications about 14 years ago.

By the time I reach my seat, I’m almost completely disassociated from myself and always feel like I don’t belong there…but I do. My madness and episodes of internal stark raving lunacy are no different from theirs. I simply function differently on the outside and make some different choices for various reasons that really don’t matter.

To be continued…