Daily Archives: September 6, 2014
In my last post I mentioned my awesome bingeing capacity thanks to the Clozaril I take every night. So I got a CBN Pain Patch from the dispensary to try to force myself to fall asleep faster and miss the food cravings that Clozaril induces. So far, after three nights, I think the pain patch is doing its job, as far as helping with pain and helping me to fall asleep quickly.
I tried an Indica lozenge last night as well, and I woke up in the middle of the night hungry as hell. So I think that’s a “No” on the Indica lozenges.
I had ECT yesterday, feeling kind of flat today. Hope all is well in your world!
Filed under: Bipolar, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar ECT, Bipolar Pothead, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Bingeing, Bipolar, Clozaril, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader
This song really makes me think about I, Me, and… well.. MINE.
Isn’t that what everyone thinks about all the time? I think if you have a mental illness you think about yourself way more than others. This is because you always have to be “ahead of the game” when it comes to your illness. That is why they tell you to go help others or volunteer to get your mind off you… your mind.
Damn, all through the day… I me mine, I me mine, I me mine
Filed under: Music, Videos
£ £ £
1:30 AM. I hobble out of bed and drop a couple of Airborne tablets into a glass of water. My back aches, my feet ache, and there’s a tell-tale scratchiness to my throat. End-of-Summer cold, I grumble, gulping the fizzy water. Crap.
Or is it from Airplane Air?
What? I look at Henry who seems to be unusually clingy, sitting with his tale on my toes. As my eyes focus, I see sacks on my kitchen counter. A big, white plastic bag covered over by the Union Jack shouts “GLORIOUS BRITAIN—Gifts and Souvenirs.” A midnight blue bag is quieter. “Highclere Castle,” it tells me.
I look down at Henry, who is purring now. Emmett is swirling around my ankles. He never does that.
“Wait,” I tell them. “I dreamed I was in England.”
They blink at me.
Reality slides. Could it be true?
In the dream, Richard Armitage stands in rags and make-up to make him haggard and bloody, his face lifted up in profile to the stark spotlight as the audience applauds. Then, he opens his arm to stage right and looks at me. Because I’m only six feet away. And I’m noisy.
In the dream, I sit on a trash bin in the fog of early morning, listening to the ticket-takers at the train station gate joke and tease each other. Their thick country-British accents flow over me like music. I sip my good latte from Costa, London’s equivalent to Starbuck’s, and watch the commuters zip into the car park. Beemers, Volvos, even an elegant Chevy or two. And they dash (all the Brits I’ve seen know one speed—dash) with satchels and iPhones, through the gate to the train. I turn back to the little notebook I’m writing in and make a note.
In the dream, Evelyn and I sit on a wooden bench behind the manor house made famous by Downton Abbey. We watch other tourists cross the square framed by the gift shoppe, offices, a cafe—buildings that used to be stables and workshops. As Evelyn points out the current Lord Carnarvon and the Countess, indistinguishable from the tourists, we drop back into the stories of our lives. We go deep, because we share the intimacy of bipolar disorder. We’re like sisters who own the same family history, a language and context unique to us. With the sun bright on the cask of purple and pink petunias beside us, we reinforce a gentle bond that started years ago on this blog.
In the dream, I follow Edward, Evelyn’s friend, out the back door to his garden. Down a stone path past the drained pond (there are ridiculous laws about water safety everywhere), through the velvet Lamb’s Ear, to his herbs. Sage, Thyme, Mint, more. I reach and stroke them, bringing my hands to my face to smell. I breathe in his County Cork accent as well, the sound of my own Irish heritage, and can feel my DNA perking up its ears.
In the dream, I sit stretched across two seats in an airplane, sun from the window cutting sharp across my lap. My little notebook is open. What happens now? I write. I think things will change. I don’t know what. I don’t know how. This is a marker.
I look down at Henry as he yawns. I’m holding clippings of sage, thyme and mint that are still green. “Yeah,” I smile, “Let’s go back to bed.”
On Friday, September 5, 2014, Colleen Frazer wrote:
I realize that while I promised myself that I would write in my blog(on my blog?) every day for a year definitely isn’t easy.
Sometimes I have little to nothing to say and other times I run on and on.
I wish I wasn’t so snippy. One thing I noticed is that I have no tolerance for the little things Jim does that annoy me. It sucks because he is one of the most amazing men in the world. He shouldn’t have to put up with this crap!
I am so lucky to have him. He is the one thing that keeps me going everyday. Why am I being such a cranky bitch?
I was fine before I started back in fucking meds I was just sad all the time and honestly maybe that was better!
My day started out as…Alarm goes off…”Five more minutes, Mr. Snooze Button.’ Once I finally pried my ass out of bed, I was running on all 8 cylinders. Focused, upbeat, getting shit done. I was even being complimentary of R, which of course resulted in suspicion: “what do you want?”
That’s the thing. I don’t want anything. I am trying to be a better version of me which means making a conscious effort to be less negative, less critical, and focus more on others’ positive qualities. Since most people lack the self awareness to even notice they are flawed and can be assholes, I suppose me recognizing my own problem behavior escapes them.
Whatever. I’m doing it for me. I want to be better than what I am.
Except…the sarcasm stays. I find my sarcasm funny. Fuck whoever can’t take a joke.
I even hit a couple of yard sales today. I got this awesome glitter lamp that looks both red and blue. Finding chintzy kitschy stuff dirt cheap is a high for me.
Then came home and the “witching hour”. That point in the day where the mental stability wears off, the anxiety goes into overdrive, and my irritability reaches fever pitch. Every. Fucking. Day. For awhile, the split dose of Paxil was helping. Now…it does nothing. And my gut tells me it’s the seasonal affect coming on and I want to call the dr office and ask for a prophylactic dose increase to head it off..Except I have zero faith that the doctor will view it the same way. My former shrinks did, hell, they were the ones that introduced the concept to me. This current shrink spews so many puppies and rainbows, I don’t think she has a clue how bad, and suddenly, seasonal affect disorder can hit.
I went from euphoric, to stressed out, to dysphoric, to pissed off. Gotta love shark week. Makes bipolar even worse. I’ve often said to other women, the ones who have had kids, “If you want to know what bipolar is like, imagine being pregnant 365 days a year.” The mental part is dead on. Irrational mood swings, tears and anger for no reason, never on an even keel.
I’m just in this numb but stewing brewing place now.
I clicked on a youtube link about “shocking psychiatry”. I thought it would be a documentary about deplorable mental hospital conditions and treatments from a hundred years ago.
Instead, it was basically a Scientology-esque attack on psychiatry, psychiatrists, and the mentally ill. Mental illness is not real. Doctors take advantage and tell us we are ill for their own nefarious purposes so we are unintelligent weak minded dupes.
I was prepared to dismiss it, that sort of ignorance is history old. i left a comment, because putting in my two cents’ worth is a compulsion for me.
Then I read viewer comments. And one set…me…the…fuck…off.
Paraphrasing, it was of this ilk: “Thank god this video exists to show illnesses like bipolar are man made and not real…”
I hemmed and hawed, wavered. I don’t like confrontation, it sets the panic attacks off. Yet the thought of letting my mental illness turn me into a mute doormat sets off my self righteous indignation.
So I left a semi snarky-but true and pointed- comment.
Now true to my own mental damage, I will cringe and wait for the shitstorm to come. Countless times I have left what I thought were innocuous comments on line only to find a dozen comment replies basically tarring and feathering me. This was a personal reply to someone’s comment and I stand by my words…
It just doesn’t lessen the panic of confrontation. I don’t like to tie everything to my disorders because I am well aware my personality defects are relevant.
On confrontation, though… My personality is fine with disagreements. If I believe in something, no amount of bullying will convince me otherwise. It’s not about doubting my own opinion or having to defend it.
It’s about the ensuing panic attacks.
Talk about a tightrope act and a tug of war in my own mind.
Am I making sense anymore? Doubtful. I’ve begun mindless prattling which I am prone to do because god for bid my mind be able to focus on and follow one train of thought.
Oh, wait, there’s nothing wrong with my mind. Some eeevil doctor has just convinced me, in all my weakness, that I am mentally ill.
The ludicrous factor in that sort of mentality is humorous. You need only meet me once to know without a doubt I am my own person, I have a spine I am not afraid to use, and nothing will be back me down from what I truly believe in. Therefore, the notion that my illness is some seed planted by a shrink is simply asinine.
It’s all so much ass trash.
I am gonna unwind, sleep, and if it’s not raining in the morning, I am dragging spawn and wench along with me to a couple of yard sales because damn it, it cheers me up. For all of ten minutes. But, hey, I’m working with what I’ve got. I should totally get points for that.
I’m a dreamer.
No one gets out of life with their self esteem in tact.
Hell, no one gets out of life alive.
So why are we all fighting so hard to survive and stay alive?