Daily Archives: April 27, 2014

Blindsided

Today started with motivation and energy.

Then I picked my kid up and my energy reserve and motivation have dwindled to nothing. Because she never lets up. She needs constant attention and has to feel every spare moment with yapping. While this may be normal for children her age, I’ve had other parents tell me she takes it to a psychotic extreme. It is not me being too irritable or intolerant. I’m just out of spoons. Which is why I get so down every single night. With no energy or motivation, it makes sense you feel ready for bed.

This isn’t just an energy decrease like when hypomania ends. This is a complete mood deflation. First one in days. I think maybe this is things leveling out without the lithium on board. It’s maddening because I told my dad this morning I was feeling like a million bucks.

Now I feel like a tarnished penny that was left on the railroad tracks.

My anxiety and irritability are through the roof. I’m not interested in anything. Not writing or music or watching shows. I feel restless and I just want it to be morning again because that seems to be my golden hours. Which is bizarre since my brain doesn’t work til afternoon. Guess my body is on a different clock.

It gets so old. Same thing every day. Rinse, lather, repeat.

Every time I think things are looking up and am cocky enough to utter it aloud…Bipolar punches me in the face.

I try to punch back but I apparently hit like a girl.


Delight and Terror

Whelp my dears, my parents’ attack against me has begun as of the other night. Which is to say, they finally took note of my last post; how wicked of me to politely and kindly suggest that I had been mistreated! What a malicious person I obviously am for having feelings of my own! A friend reminded me that I could set up an IP block, so I did — they’ll get a white page now. Maybe they’ll just try from another IP address, but ah well. I long ago accepted that no matter what I do, as long as they disagree with it, it’s ‘wrong’. So it goes, so it goes. All I know is that I will not be bullied out of my spaces. I will not be silenced and forced to comply. It’s new ground and it is terrifying, but I have a wonderful support network reminding me that I’m doing the right thing for me and my family.

 


I have to say though, this post-week has been mainly satisfying. I’ve not felt that great physically, but my sleep has been fairly decent, and my brain is just… well. Skittering, but making connections and processing and figuring stuff out, which is my constant delight. I’ve been able to tune into my family a bit better, which is awesome. I’ve got a great family here, and being more functional within the unit is really, all I could ever want. I can see places now where I was just completely shutting down to avoid risking repeating problematic behaviors, and in general, just… carrying the weight of my pre-recent life was destroying what limited functionality I could muster. Which isn’t to say I wasn’t doing anything, just that I couldn’t do as much as I wanted. I still can’t do as much as I want, but heck, even little things like managing to stay on top of the dishes and leave the house once in awhile are awesome. Yeah, I’m pretty good at masking my lack of functionality, ha ha.

Really though, I’m starting to feel a measure of resilience I’ve never felt before in my life. Yes, I felt more stable than normal last pregnancy, and less stable than medicated this time around, but I can’t think of a time I’ve actually felt resilient. I guess that’s what happens when one firms up the boundaries of their world? Oh sure, I know my brain will find its ways to shiv me, ’cause that’s what a bipolar brain does, but. Maybe it means my future lows will be less severe? I certainly fully intend to get back on my meds the second this kiddo is born — I pretty much completely lost the ability to hold it together whatsoever after Lilbit was born. While I have learned so much since then, and healed a lot of my wounds, I’m aware that my chances of postpartum psychosis and depression are higher than average. Heck, it’s what finally pushed me into seeking diagnosis! Not that I hit psychosis last time, but my depression went from crippling to unreal. I certainly don’t want to see that again.

So tl;dr – things are good, and I have chocolate chip cookies ’cause Lilbit insisted we make a batch so she could eat the dough. Good kid, ha ha.

<3

The post Delight and Terror appeared first on The Scarlet B.

Walls

(addendum to previous post.)
He said that it is healthy for people to build walls and boundaries around themselves.  But it is always other people building walls around themselves to shut me out.  I didn't think I had boundary issues.  I don't think of myself as being invasive or intrusive.  But that's usually the problem:  I don't think there is a problem until it is too late.  My intuition and perception are flawed, damaged, non-functioning.  My early warning systems are dead.  All that's left is damage to clean up.

Are walls good or bad?

I’m tired of being inappropriate

I'm tired.  I'm fed up.  I say the wrong thing.  I do the wrong thing.  I live the wrong way.  I realize 'normal' people make mistakes, but I do the wrong thing all the time.  Just ask my children or my friends or my coworkers or the people I meet online.  Life will be sailing along and suddenly I'll rock the boat.  I'll step over the line.  And ruin everything.

I need asylum.  I need a place to go where I am allowed and expected to be dysfunctional, a place where I am safe and not expected to interact with others in any meaningful way...except to take pills.  It would be nice if there were azaleas and oak trees but right now I'd be content with a cardboard box.

I'm not depressed.  I'm not manic.  I'm not suicidal.  But I am tired.  I feel that if I could just stand still, not say anything, not write anything, not think or feel anything, then maybe I would do no harm.  No additional harm.  I have been so inappropriate all my life that I embarrass myself.  I am appalled at some of the things I have said and done.  Some of it is documented online, or in databases, or people's memories.  It's out there. And the darn thing is, I don't feel inappropriate when I'm doing it...just when I'm looking back on it.

Why can't I just be nice and normal?  Why did I have to be bipolar?  Or why couldn't I be so mentally ill that I don't know what I'm doing...even later.

I'm sorry, there's not much hope or encouragement in this post.  I'm afraid of what my next gaffe is going to be.

I’m tired of being inappropriate

I'm tired.  I'm fed up.  I say the wrong thing.  I do the wrong thing.  I live the wrong way.  I realize 'normal' people make mistakes, but I do the wrong thing all the time.  Just ask my children or my friends or my coworkers or the people I meet online.  Life will be sailing along and suddenly I'll rock the boat.  I'll step over the line.  And ruin everything.

I need asylum.  I need a place to go where I am allowed and expected to be dysfunctional, a place where I am safe and not expected to interact with others in any meaningful way...except to take pills.  It would be nice if there were azaleas and oak trees but right now I'd be content with a cardboard box.

I'm not depressed.  I'm not manic.  I'm not suicidal.  But I am tired.  I feel that if I could just stand still, not say anything, not write anything, not think or feel anything, then maybe I would do no harm.  No additional harm.  I have been so inappropriate all my life that I embarrass myself.  I am appalled at some of the things I have said and done.  Some of it is documented online, or in databases, or people's memories.  It's out there. And the darn thing is, I don't feel inappropriate when I'm doing it...just when I'm looking back on it.

Why can't I just be nice and normal?  Why did I have to be bipolar?  Or why couldn't I be so mentally ill that I don't know what I'm doing...even later.

I'm sorry, there's not much hope or encouragement in this post.  I'm afraid of what my next gaffe is going to be.