Daily Archives: April 4, 2014

Update on the Panic

Welp….I actually have not had insurance for 1 month.

I’m seriously panicked.

But…I’m doing hard-core searching for insurance now.

My father though…I wish he could have just told me that he had canceled my insurance. That way I could have found new insurance in March. So now I’m trying frantically to get it now…a month out.

At least now I’ve learned it was a month ago. So I have a definitive date as to when I lost my insurance. That gives me something concrete to work with. But it also means I have to cancel all my doctor appointments until I get new insurance. And hope that my new company is for all my doctors (I don’t want new doctors again).

So that’s a quick update.

Once I’m not panicking so much, I’ll write a more detailed post. Right now though, I’m a bit too nervous to write anything.

Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide



It seems like forever since I've written in this damn blog thing. I remember years ago reading the word blog somewhere, and thinking WTF is that shit? Do they ever get read? Do people comment or say nasty, terrible things? How the hell do you do it?

I went for the easy peasy one I saw first - Blogger. I can't remember the name of that first blog that I did, or when I did it. I do remember having a few other BP readers. I can't remember how that happened. I guess google used to have a kind of search available that you could do to find words in profiles.

I was doing painkillers with my other meds then, and hanging out in a hot tub in winter daytime with my ancient iPod. I was manic sometimes, and when I wasn't I wanted those painkillers BADLY. I was drinking ("socially") at the time as well. The blog was my outlet, I guess. I didn't like where I found myself or who I found myself with.

Anyway, all that is long gone, including the cold, cold motherfucker that came to me in the psych ward not to visit me, but to tell me that he wanted me to move out. What a prince. I still hope his house burns down with him in it, drunk as hell. I wonder if I have PTSD or something from that whole experience. I can't remember the address or phone number there. A POX ON HIS HOUSE! CURSED FUCK FROM HELL! Yeah. Still fucking angry.

Today, though, I'm feeling tired, and had to force myself out of bed with the help of the cat. I kept reminding me that I actually felt HAPPY for a little while while I was walking outside alone in the dark, and that I had better get my ass up and do it! I was as quiet as I could be and snuck into the bathroom. JFC, I looked like hell. I did what I usually don't do - put on a bit of makeup to try to hide some ugly, just to give me a bit more confidence to get outside.

The weather was perfect outside - clouds, but no rain, and not freezing cold. I couldn't find the moon, but it felt nice to be outside in the fresh air (yeah right), and be free from walls. I was not caged in! I could move about and not crash into things, like I do here (which explains the bruises - I'm clumsy or off balance). I walked as slowly as I could to the coffee joint just to be... free, or feel like it.

The usual small crowd was in the starschmucks, and I gave them a coffee bag that was out of date - no longer good for a free coffee, but I knew they wouldn't notice, somehow. I knew they wouldn't even look at it, especially since I come in there all the time with bags. In fact, I have a whole paper shopping bag full of empty bags that are out of date that I saved when I lived in my old studio. Hoarding. It didn't feel like it to me though, because throwing them out would feel like throwing away free coffee. The bags that I gave to my homeless neighbor were all current, in case someone looked. So I'll continue to give them their old bags. Good thing they haven't changed their packaging in years! Ha!

As for my usual horrible problems with anxiety, I forgot my meds on Tuesday night, so I was too fucked up and freaked out to even think about going to the shrink on Wednesday. Thursday, I seem to have timed my anxiety with the treadmill, because I took my seroquel and clonopin, got on the treadmill, and wondered what happened to the anxiety. It was pretty rough going though. I had a hard time singing "99 Bottles of Beer" a million times in my head to myself. It was so hard to count backward, and I'd lose track of where I was so often, that I think I repeated myself 100 times easily. After I was done, I was still wondering if the anxiety was still going to come and get me; sneak up on me like an evil creepy monster outside of my peripheral vision. I was mildly anxious and paranoid. Something I could handle, but sure as hell was not comfortable with.

How is the marriage going, or where is the marriage going? I don't know. Things are never quite the same in actuality as they are when you're reacting and writing about it all. Well, marriage only seems like a word to me, with little meaning. I haven't even been attracted to the spouse since... I can't remember. So are we at least able to build on our old friendship? It's difficult when someone that's fucked up and in denial doesn't understand your behavior and speech as much as he should at this point. He's probably too caught up in his own shit. I'm trying not to be with mine. I'm trying to understand his shit. I'm trying to explain to him why it's hard for me to answer some of his questions, how it takes a while for me to find my words, how I "ramble" as he said this morning.

This doesn't mean I'm letting him get away with shit. It means I'm going to force him to start talking about his shit, or start trying to understand mine more by discussing it, and trying to explain it to him, whatever I can do when I can get his attention and time. No walking away shit. No going to bed angry. He's very irritable, which makes me irritable. It sucks. At least we can have our Game of Thrones marathon and smoke breaks together and try to talk outside.

I long for a night's sleep that feels like 8 hours, not as if I just closed my eyes and blinked. I don't usually feel too tired, I just feel like my brain hasn't had enough time to rest. Fucking pisses me off.

... Aw shit. Just when I think today's going to be ok, he mentions taking a loan out on his 401k so that we can move from here?! What the hell? He's still laid off! Who does that? This isn't England! We don't have anybody to fall back on here. And I don't want to move. I don't want to be forced to be the one to do the "house-hunting". SO FUCKING STRESSFUL!!! Fuck!

I just took a bit of seroquel, but I can already feel my face starting to burn up, and the muscles in my calves feeling weird and kind of sore. He wants to move so bad, he should be the one that looks for a place to move. Now that I'm getting taxes taken out of my SSDI, I'm getting shit for money each month, and I've got medical insurance, shrink bills, tv, phone, internet, electric, etc to pay for, plus sending money to my daughter, like I wanted to. He'll be just as miserable on the same meds without therapy, and stuck with me in a new place. Your demons follow, of course. Shit shit shit. WTF can I do?

FUCK!









A Lie is a Lie

I caught someone in a lie today. They don’t know I KNOW they are lying.

Also, my bosses at work want me to LIE about who I am in order to get along with them.

My landlord LIED on text message saying that we are “always late on the rent”. We have never been late ONCE in 2 years.

These things should bother me. They should make me so upset that I cuss and scream, and show off.

but.. nope. I am letting these things ride. I mean, don’t things come in 3s? My mother told me its the medication, I agreed. Real me, would have: called out the liar (with a mega curse at the end), Told my phony bosses to shove it up theirs, and went to my landlord house with all my receipts and dared him to EVER TEXT ME LIKE THAT AGAIN.. but.. nope.

You catch more things with honey.


Filed under: Ranting

Andrew Solomon on Depression

This is an excellent episode, that was sent to me, of Ted talk with Andrew Solomon. I immediately knew that I must share it with you all. Let me know

The post Andrew Solomon on Depression appeared first on Depression and Bipolar Disorder:.

I Am Alien

 

alien woman head

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. Then I found that I could wriggle one hand free, and soothe myself by sucking the largest one of the digits.  This took away some of the fear.

After the half-light memories, I remember no more until much time had passed.

They had told me that I would not remember them, when they dropped my astral body into this receptacle, this mobile vessel that the natives here call “human.”  But I do have faint recollections of my real people, mostly in the form of feelings of kinship, and an understanding that surpasses words.

Although my memories of what happened after I left the box have been erased, I have seen a home movie of my first steps at the age of nine months post-emergence.  The movie shows a small native female running away down a sidewalk, falling, picking herself up, and running further away, until the large native identified as “my mother” runs and picks up the small one, carries it back to the starting point, and sets it down; whereupon the small female commences running away again.  The natives surrounding the movie camera are heard “laughing.”  The small female was me: trying, as soon as I attained locomotion, to run home.

Several years later they took me to a building full of native children, and a large female overseer gave each one a paper covered with shapes, and color sticks, and commanded all to fill the shapes with color.  I saw no point in this meaningless exercise and turned the paper over, so that I could draw a picture of my real parents.  The overseer objected strongly to this, and made me stand in a corner; this was a relief, as that way I did not have to participate in their ridiculous activities.  From then on I learned the ways of achieving the corner, and did spend most of my time there, dreaming of home.

At night I sat by my window for hours, pleading with my parents to come and get me, explaining to them that they had left me on the wrong planet for too long.  I heard them from afar:  Not yet, not yet.  Your job is not finished.  Not yet.

My native “parents” did not know what to do with me, since I refused to associate with the native children, whose language was simple and crude, whose games ridiculous, and who, at the age of six, could read nothing more complicated than “Dick and Jane.”  By that time I had read a good deal of my parents’ library:  Herman Hesse, Gunter Grass, Franz Kafka, which was my favorite, especially Metamorphosis.  This was by far the best thing about this world: books, because they took me away, for a time.

The animals were a relief from loneliness. They have great wisdom and do not require speech to explain their thoughts and wishes, which are many and subtle.  The natives have terrible misconceptions regarding the animals: they think that because the animals cannot speak as they do, that they must be an inferior race.  This is wrong.

In my readings I discovered that there are special doctors for people whose minds work differently from those of the rest of the natives.  In these times they are called “Psychiatrists,” but in earlier times they were called “Alienists,” because those who do not conform to the norms of this world are considered “strange,” or “alien.”  I also learned that beings originating from other planets, like myself, are called “Aliens” as well, because we are strangers in this world.

Upon a time, there were great houses called “Alien Asylums,” where Aliens were sent for safety.  I thought, perhaps, that in an Alien Asylum I might find some one like myself, from my own planet.  I wanted to learn all I could about these places, and to see if there was one nearby.  So I got out the great book called “Encyclopedia” and looked up “Alien Asylum,” and was shocked at what I found there.

The Aliens were tortured in a ghastly fashion, with straitjackets and cold sheet wrappings and electric shocks.  I decided that I would not go there; in fact I decided to try to mimic the natives so that they would not know that I am an Alien.

I did so by spending all of my time at my studies, or in reading famous books, or in working with the animals, so that they could see that I was a very good native.

Many years passed in this fashion, but then something—I do not know what–happened that damaged my gyroscope, and I found myself one moment flying toward the sky and my home planet, and the next moment crashing to the ground.  I was unable to right this malfunction, and soon it became known to the natives, who carried me against my will to an Alien Asylum.

Fortunately the Asylum was not like the ones in the Encyclopedia.

In fact, it reminded me markedly of my first days at school, where I was given the papers with shapes and the color sticks, and told to color inside the lines, if I wanted to get out.  I refused to participate in this absurd activity, and they gave a bad report of me to the Alienist.  He ordered them to make me swallow pills, many pills every day, that made me feel weak and dizzy.  But then I was no longer expected to color either inside or outside of lines.

When they released me from the Asylum, the Alienist sent me to be “Tested.”  A kind native woman asked me many questions and gave me puzzles to solve.  I solved many puzzles, until there were no more left.  Then she asked me to look at pictures of native faces, and tell her what the people in the pictures were feeling.  This I could not do, because I am not a native and I do not use their modes of communication.

After we finished all the tests, I returned to the Alienist for his report on their outcome.  He told me that I had Asperger Syndrome and Bipolar Disorder.  He explained to me what those things mean; but it was nothing that I did not already know.

I am Alien.

Alien spaceship


You’re Just Like Me: MARCI

This week my guest blogger is Marci. Marci’s blog is all about ways to help you cope with your mental illness. She also blog challenges so you can get to know more about her. Love it!

Hey Marci! :)

_______________________________________________________________________

So you have a mental illness.. Which one? 

I have schizoaffective disorder- bipolar type and Borderline Personality Disorder.  Schizoaffective disorder is a mental illness that has components of schizophrenia and a mood disorder, in my case bipolar disorder.  Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is one of the personality disorders that is more of a way of being that effects your entire life.

When were you diagnosed & how old were you?

I was diagnosed with Depression and Insomnia at age 11, and put on antidepressants and sleep medication.  Since then I have been on many different medications and been diagnosed and re-diagnosed.  I was diagnosed with the BPD at age 18 though I did not find out about it until a few years later.  I was diagnosed with the schizoaffective disorder when I was 26, about 6 years ago.  Between the depression diagnosis at age 11 and the schizoaffective disorder diagnosis at age 26, I was diagnosed with a number of mood disorders and psychotic disorders, including the various types of bipolar disorder and psychosis Not otherwise specified.

How do you cope with your mental illness?

I go to counseling appointments once a week, therapy once a month, and take medication daily and see a psychiatrist as needed for medication management.  I also blog, journal, use DBT Skills, listen to mindfulness recordings, and try to keep a structured schedule with distraction, responsibilities and fun.

What are 3 words that you would describe how your illness makes you feel?

Unique, unstable, frustrated.

What are some ways you relax from your illness?

Blog to vent and get things off my mind.  Take baths and sometimes listen to mindfulness tracks on my iPad.  Do things with friends and try to have a somewhat normal life.  Scrapbook, journal, and keep up with hobbies.

What is some advice you would give to your fellow soldiers fighting this fight?

Every day is different, try to take each day as it comes.  Keep fighting; there are good days and bad ones.  Know yourself and know your symptoms, that is the best way you can take care of yourself.

Tell us your blog or how we can keep in contact with you:

My blog is at: http://marcimentalhealthmore.com/

And I have a Facebook page for my blog at: https://www.facebook.com/marcisblog

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Continue reading

Whiffs

My brain is still struggling to pull out of a depression.  I am what is called a 'rapid cycler,' so this has been a long and especially deep depression, for me.  In addition to what is going on chemically in my brain, I am failing to see a purpose to my life.  I have no goals.  I have no reasons.  Folding that basket of towels is about as purposeful as it gets.  Bleak, is a good word.

Even when I am reminded of what I used to do:  paint, write, take pretty pictures, I recall that part of my life with dim interest.  For all practical purposes, I was not "successful" at those endeavors.  I made no money at it, certainly not enough to even pay for the materials.  But more than that, I received mixed messages as to whether or not I was even any good at it...my painting, for example.  Was my artwork effective?  Did it bring anyone Joy or Healing?  I doubt it.  I dragged it to art shows and dragged it home again.  It piled up in the basement until I gave it away to Goodwill last month.  I had spent a lot of time and money on it.

But I am getting off track.

The gist of all this is that I am no longer compelled to go back to what I have tried in the past...even my writing.  Even though I write here on my blog, very few people read it...and usually, no one comments.  Does that matter?  Apparently not, because here I am.


It is gloomy here in my head.  I do what needs to be done.  I take my pills, I drive my daughter to work, I do the dishes and laundry, I write the blog.

I glare out the window as if the landscape is supposed to present me with something.  But it is cloudy...the ugly, glaring, white kind of cloudy that hurts your eyes and forces you to turn away.

And then I get a whiff...like a whiff of bread baking, or fireplace smoke, or the tea olive in Charleston where I grew up.  I have a whiff of interest in what goes on...the little bird at the feeder, the cat's steady breathing, the blooming thrift at the end of the walk.

And then it is gone...as quickly as it came.  However, I know, whether I want it to or not, my brain is shifting ever so slightly, like an old train's rusty wheels being nudged to move.  I am not sure I am ready.

Whiffs

My brain is still struggling to pull out of a depression.  I am what is called a 'rapid cycler,' so this has been a long and especially deep depression, for me.  In addition to what is going on chemically in my brain, I am failing to see a purpose to my life.  I have no goals.  I have no reasons.  Folding that basket of towels is about as purposeful as it gets.  Bleak, is a good word.

Even when I am reminded of what I used to do:  paint, write, take pretty pictures, I recall that part of my life with dim interest.  For all practical purposes, I was not "successful" at those endeavors.  I made no money at it, certainly not enough to even pay for the materials.  But more than that, I received mixed messages as to whether or not I was even any good at it...my painting, for example.  Was my artwork effective?  Did it bring anyone Joy or Healing?  I doubt it.  I dragged it to art shows and dragged it home again.  It piled up in the basement until I gave it away to Goodwill last month.  I had spent a lot of time and money on it.

But I am getting off track.

The gist of all this is that I am no longer compelled to go back to what I have tried in the past...even my writing.  Even though I write here on my blog, very few people read it...and usually, no one comments.  Does that matter?  Apparently not, because here I am.


It is gloomy here in my head.  I do what needs to be done.  I take my pills, I drive my daughter to work, I do the dishes and laundry, I write the blog.

I glare out the window as if the landscape is supposed to present me with something.  But it is cloudy...the ugly, glaring, white kind of cloudy that hurts your eyes and forces you to turn away.

And then I get a whiff...like a whiff of bread baking, or fireplace smoke, or the tea olive in Charleston where I grew up.  I have a whiff of interest in what goes on...the little bird at the feeder, the cat's steady breathing, the blooming thrift at the end of the walk.

And then it is gone...as quickly as it came.  However, I know, whether I want it to or not, my brain is shifting ever so slightly, like an old train's rusty wheels being nudged to move.  I am not sure I am ready.

Before & After

moodswings

This was life before Zyprexa……

moodswings2

……and here’s life since Zyprexa.

Looks different, doesn’t it? This is the mood chart from Psych Central that I use daily in addition to Optimism Online. I do this one because I visit the site daily anyway, and sometimes it picks up the subtler changes that Optimism doesn’t. But no matter which chart is the best in a given situation, one would have to be blind not to see that the first screenshot looks like a bad road map of California, and the second looks mostly like a long stretch of interstate highway. It may not be as exciting, but in my experience the ride on a smooth, straight road is always better….not only for me, but for everyone around me.

The pinkish-gray line represents my anxiety levels (there’s always some of that hanging around, even on my best days), the blue represents depressed mood, the green is for sleep, and the yellow, mania. As you can see, the anxiety was out of control, sleep was iffy, and the term “manic depression” is obvious in the yellow and blue tracings.

I don’t want to make that trip again, even though I’ve learned to my sorrow that it’s as inevitable as the tide and the best I can hope for is longer and longer periods where the lines converge. For now it’s enough just to see them grow straighter, and to know that even the hardest, bumpiest road has an end. :-)

 


Fort Hood shooter was Iraq vet being treated for mental health issues

Fort Hood shooter was Iraq vet being treated for mental health issues

I am sorry for the people lost in this tragic accident.

That being said, this is another example of how the media portrays mental illness. Tomorrow, everyone with a mental illness will be looked at in a different light by people who don’t have mental illness themselves. I not saying your mother, brother, wife, or child. I am talking about the “world” view.

I wish in cases like these, they tell you what mental illness is, how it can affect a person’s mind and life. I wish they would let us talk.

 

 


Filed under: Death, News, Ranting