Daily Archives: April 18, 2015

Mental Maelstrom

Sometimes I can feel my moods shifting. It’s like a gloomy day when you just *know* it will rain no matter what the weather report says. That grayness, that rumble of thunder beneath the surface, the rise of the wind stirring things up.
I’ve come to understand the shifts into the angry modes are generally a byproduct of hormones or stress mostly. I guess it ties in with bipolar but it is heightened during high anxiety or hormonal issues.

Today my kid came out of the gate swinging. I mean, tantrum three minutes after waking. She’s grounded from playing with her friends until Monday, no cookies, no candy. She just went primal on me, kicking, screaming, bawling, punching, thrashing…I didn’t lay a hand on her, all I did was tell her she’d enjoy the school field trip even though it was indeed very scary.
Off she went.

It’s been that way all day. When she isn’t yelling at me, she is clinging to me like static. She makes it impossible to do anything, really. If she can’t have friends, then damn it, someone will entertain her every single moment and it will be me. The noise, the activity, the climbing me like a jungle gym…
It’s taken a toll today.
And now I am entering the “twilight” zone where the mood shifts and I know it’s stress induced. I started thinking about one thing and for the last hour, it just keeps beating against my brain like a hammer hitting a nail. I try to shove it out, bury it under other stuff, but there it is…Lurking, haunting, demanding attention.
So I think…Did it piss me off *this* much two days ago?
I was pissed, sure, but not to this level of agitation. I am in shovel wielding territory. Not toward my kid. No, I’ve redirected the anger or my brain did it for me. My kid is irritating but she has a feisty mom so I have to reap what I sew.
No…I am more furious with the way R treats me than anything. I always have to have a bad guy but I think it this case, sometimes, he crosses the line on quid pro quo using each other.
And I’ve read him the riot act, complete with cursing, when he’s sober (ish) and drunk and it just doesn’t touch him. If anything, me being offended offends him and he goes on the attack like he’s the one being wrong.
On what planet is that not infuriating?

Yeah, Okay, it’s being fed by this never silent child who just spews rapid fire uzi chatter directly to my brain nonstop from waking to the moment she falls asleep. Then she’s up three hours later, doing it again.
Is it any wonder it affects my anxiety, moods, and energy level?
It’s been a long fucking day.
And I feel bad for getting irked because this is probably how I make people feel with all my mood swings and anxieties. They probably find me stressful and irritating and want to shove me off a bridge. (Though most settle for throwing me under the metaphoric bus).
Compassion. Empathy. Patience.
Breathe in, breathe out.
At least I managed to stay in the neutral (“I am doing nothing today and I am NOT feeling fucking guilty for taking a breather”) zone most of the day.
I read a 400 page novel in under two days.
The focalin is proving to be amazing. I fear a dose increase may be needed as it doesn’t seem to have a long half life but…Wow. I haven’t been able to finish a book in under a week for two years. It was like I’d lost my one true love. Now I have it back. The kid negates the focalin in some ways but at some point all her noise is just that, background noise. Parents understand this is the only means of survival or we’d all gouge our eardrums out with barbecue skewers.
But yeah…I read a book in under two days. You want some scary shit about Obamacare and how it and technology are shaping healthcare…Read “Cell” by Robin Cook. I have never been happier in my life to not own a smart phone.

Some things good. Some things bad.
Such is life.
I feel the depressive undertow now. It follows that spark of “where the fuck did this come from” anger.
I had a little calm in my head, even if my daughter wouldn’t allow me to enjoy it.
Now it’s not so calm and well…It is what it is. Bipolar 101.

Still…Stressed as I am, exhausted as I am (yeah, how do you get exhausted by doing nothing, anyway) I’m not in the gutter like I was a few days ago. I think I may just survive once she goes to sleep. Dig around for another book to read or maybe watch something.
Which reminds me of another amazing feat the focalin has provided.
I WATCHED AN ENTIRE 90 MINUTE MOVIE TODAY.
Yeah, that almost never happens, least not with my full attention and without a dozen pauses.
It was about a drug trial gone awry. Very awesome. I tried to watch Bridesmaids cos it was allegedly so funny…Um, yeah, NO. I quit. If I get an hour in without one single laugh…Give me my gore movies anyday.
Yeah, even though some things are still kicking my ass…I think this new med is actually whacking one of the moles in a way that makes it too lethargic to pop up too often.

It’s a start.


Has ‘Slight’ Difficulty With Auto

Woman Has 'Slight' Difficulty With Auto Sumner, Iowa, Aug. 28. Mrs. Clarence Kleiner experienced slight difficulty in backing her automobile

a-z challenge: p

You don’t want me to teach you facts about other facts, you want some kind of behind the scenes view, or opinion, or personal anecdotes, amirite? I am now going to raid one of the bits nots of my memory untouched by medication.

Picasso!

Mr Picasso

Mr Picasso

Despite the fact that he was a complete bastard much of the time, Pablo Picasso is one of my favourite artists. (Also, two P’s for the price of one.) I think far too intensely to spend too much time in “don’t know much about it but I know what I like”territory, so there is (as usual) a whole lot of wordage behind that choice.

I blame/thank a novel called ‘My Name is Asher Lev’ by Chaim Potok, for the start of my awestruck and lovestruck relationship with art; title case Art, in fact. The book is about an orthodox Jewish boy in Brooklyn, who fights hard to become an artist, how his struggle became his family’s struggle and … eh, read it yourself; I still read it every few years.

“Millions of people can draw. Art is whether or not there is a scream in you, wanting to get out in a special way.” 
― Chaim PotokMy Name Is Asher Lev

Rothko, Light Red Over Black

Rothko, Light Red Over Black

The only decent art gallery anywhere near where I grew up, had a little Picasso sketch of a dead horse. Awesomely expressive and eloquent lines transformed what should have bern macabre, into a thing of beauty. I stole the little white rectangle of cardboard with its details on it every single time I saw that sketch. Fast forward from early adolescent larceny to late adolescent pretentiousness, and I began to read artist’s biographies obsessively (to be honest, almost all of my reading is obsessive). I read my way through the impressionists, because there were plenty of books about him in the local library – I even read about Pissaro, which is a largely tedious thing to do. I read my way through impressionist rebellion against tradionalist art, through the evolution of what never credits Australian aboriginal pointillism, all the way to Braque and cubism to Picasso, who is frequently and erroneously credited as the father of cubism. And because I grew up with no formal education in art history, there was no spoonfeeding of history and theory, so I had to think for myself. (Since the advent of Google, I’ve completely given that up.) You could say the impressionists mattered more, or that Braque did, but from a small stack of yellowing library books in a small South African town, I decided that Picasso had surfed in on it all, claimed it, cocked a major snook at the art world and proceeded to outshine everyone else, for a considerable length of time. I continued to consume books and gaze at reproductions and think and talk (pontificate a lot of the time), and yearn, the way only an adolescent can, for the real art scene, with real paintings, in real galleries.

Miro, Dialogue of Insects

Miro, Dialogue of Insects

Fast forward a bit more and I sat on an upturned milk crate, in an aviary full of lovebirds (that has only just struck me as amusing and I’ve had 21 years to work it out), writing a list in a notebook, of all the things I hoped to experience and discover when I flew from Johannesburg to London later that year. The aviary etc was due to my first job after school. Anyway, I had a fairly long list and when I think back to what I can remember of it, it was a good one, I knew myself better then than I do now (I am currently restraining myself from launching into a discussion of the universality of it), and one of the items was something along the lines of see lots of real art. Well, my whole life at that point had been a journey from precociousness to pretentiousness (not much has changed).

Fast forward to the 20 year old me in London, mostly experiencing abject terror, but clinging valiantly to the goal of becoming a snarky, intellectually arrogant twat. I was fortunate enough to end up staying with an aunt who painted, whose son was at the Royal College of Art at the time and who seemed to be all that I had dreamed of. In other words, she was pretentious, well read and intellectually arrogant. I loved her to bits immediately. She used to take me to exhibitions and after a few rooms, she’d fix me with a penetratingly myopic look, ask me what I thought and was even genuinely interested in my impressions.

Monet, Haystack series.

Monet, Haystack series.

The first exhibition I ever went to in London was a good one, a major retrospective of Monet, at the Royal Academy of art. And the irony in it has only just occured to me. it was a very, very busy place to be on a Saturday morning and my gob was smacked and my gast thoroughly flabbered at the sight (or even the notion) of crowds in an art gallery. I hadn’t thought I’d like Monsieur Monet very much, and I didn’t. Row after row in room after room of haystacks and gardens, which looked to me, as though they’d been painted every time the sun shifted. In a sense, of ciurse, they had. It gave me a fast lesson in light, but I was relieved to escape the jostling crowds and I still thought impressionism was wank. It remained, however, im the time line I keep in my mind, as an amazingly revolutionary stage in art history, as well as being absolutely pivotal in the progression to Picasso and everything after. Dora Maar said, “After Picasso, God.” She may have been talking about his appeal as a man and his sexual prowess, as well as his art, but the fact remains, Picasso mattered – and he still matters.

“I looked at my right hand, the hand with which I painted. There was power in that hand. Power to create and destroy. Power to bring pleasure and pain. Power to amuse and horrify. There was in that hand the demonic and the divine at one and the same time. The demonic and the divine were two aspects of the same force. Creation was demonic and divine. Creativity was demonic and divine. I was demonic and divine.” ― Chaim PotokMy Name Is Asher Lev

After the Monet, my aunt dragged me willingly to other galleries, other exhibitions; the only one I remember with any clarity, was in the (horribly Soviet seeming) Barbican, a thorough and thoroughly impressive collection of 20th century Jewish painters. I already knew and loved Chagall, thanks to my mother, but I’d never even heard of people like RB Kitaj. Chagall and many overtly religious painters made sense to me, the rest were an adventure. Oops, digression.

Picasso!

Meryon, Franz Kline

Meryon, Franz Kline

My dear, strange and sainted aunt took me to the Tate. There ought to be a fanfare and some footmen along with that statement, because my life changed in a heartbeat. Scraping the barrel of my brain, I seem to think we’d gone there to see a Richard Long exhibition (crap, Andy Goldsworthy pwns him completely), but I don’t know, and what’s more, I don’t care. As soon as I set foot in the abstract expressionism room, I had a name for my -I want to say passion, but it sounds wanky – for whatever had taken up joyous residence in my tiny mind years before. From that first visit, I remember Dali’s lobster telephone, a black brushstroke of an abstract by Franz Kline called Meryon Pollock’s Summertime (which if I remember correctly, was the only painting I actively disliked), Joan Miro’s Dialogue of Insects, that tall red and black one by Rothko, and Picasso. I keep using exclamation marks to demonstrate how astonishingly enthralling he was. Is. But I gotta do it again, Picasso! There were a couple of little ones, I think, though they may have been elsewhere, a blue one amd a woman in a shift … whaaatever … everything paled in front of the big, acidic, expressionist wonder that is The Weeping Woman.

Weeping Woman 1937 by Pablo Picasso 1881-1973

Weeping Woman 1937 by Pablo Picasso 1881-1973

Picasso! Picasso! Picasso! It seemed fucking enormous to me; I’d only ever seen it on postcards. It sucked me into its frame and beat up my eyes and mind. What a challenge, it was the end of my nauseating attitude to art and the start of a cheerfully worshipful one. Huzzah! Picasso! A freakout of a geekout, have I expressed my excitement enough yet? There was a guided group standing in front of it, and while I attempted a subsonic growl and waited to get closer, I started to listen in. I’d sort of heard of Guernica and the Spanish Civil War, but they’re just not hot topics in the tropics, so I learned a little about European history, a little more aboit Dora Maar, whose face is the foundation of the painting, and a whole lot about analysing and interpreting paintings. For once, I stopped checking to see whether my aunt was giving me the indulgently amused look, for once and for the first time that I remember clearly, I was in my body, instead of hovering around trying to get a bird’s eye view of my self conscious self, within the context of everything else. I learned how to connect my emotions with external things fully and I fell harder in love with paintings that people say “my three year old could’ve done better” about. I begannto believe that my intelligence might not be fraudulent after all.

It’s still there, my epiphany in the Tate and I’m still impressed by it. I guess it was my first artgasm.

Every artist is a man who has freed himself from his family, his nation, his race. Every man who has shown the world the way to beauty, to true culture, has been a rebel, a ‘universal’ without patriotism, without home, who has found his people everywhere.” 
― Chaim PotokMy Name Is Asher Lev

Here is a really cool article that explains Picasso properly, Large Legacy of the Little Spaniard.

 

Multiple Mental Health Diagnoses: Frankenstein’s Monster

frankenstein__s_monster_by_chidog_01-d305x90

I am so flustered by those, especially celebrities, who think they are being so open and brave by admitting they have a mental disorder. Because they are so quick to toss in, “I take medication and look at how successful and well I am doing.”

Bipolar one-mood stabilizers.
Bipolar two-mood stabilizers and anti depressant
depression-anti depression
anxiety-benzo of choice
attention deficit-pick a stimulant

ONE diagnosis is fairly simple to manage.

BUT when you have multiple diagnoses…It’s not that easy and I resent it being portrayed as if everyone with mental illness has one single issue.

MY diagnosis over the years:
Dysthymic, bipolar one, bipolar two, chronic depression, cyclothymic shifts, panic disorder, anxiety disorder, personality disorders, attention deficit, nervous stomach, agoraphobic…
Everything but the bloody kitchen sink.

Multiple diagnoses mean your case is going to be tricky to medicate properly. Because if you look at it as being Frankenstein’s monster and you are this entity consisting of all these various parts and they all have to coexist, cooperate, and respond to each medicine properly…
It becomes less simple.
I’ve likened my condition to playing whack a mole. No sooner than the bipolar is under control, out comes the anxiety. Or the depression will emerge. Then the ADD will demand a higher dose because everything is so out of whack.
People have no problem understanding the concept of how electronics work. They like hard science. If this one part fails or isn’t provided the volts required, it shuts the whole item down.

Human brain isn’t any different.

I once had a car that just stopped going. Four hundred dollars, three mechanics, new parts…and still nothing. Out of desperation I took it to a guy who charges seventy five bucks for diagnostics. He determined it was A FOUR DOLLAR FUSE causing all the problem.
One it was replaced, everything went back to working order.
One little fuse can shut down an entire machine.

So if you consider mental illness that way each condition has to have a working fuse for functionality…One failed fuse and you’re down for the count. Tracing down that fuse can be, as I found out, time consuming and expensive.
Cars come with schematics.
Human brains do not.
Least not the multiple mental health diagnosis brains.
We all respond differently, have different value fuses, different triggers and stressers.
It’s an inexact science because humans are inexact. For all that is known about the human brain, there is much not known. Even the literature says “it is thought” about how all these psychotripics work to alter brain chemistry,

It’s a game of Where’s Waldo in a place you’re not even sure Waldo has ever been. Finding it…Pegacorns.
But we keep trying. Keep trying to sew all our Frankenstein-y issues together and find a way to make it all work in concert.
We are never given enough credit. I’m not talking awards.
But there are people with completely stable physical and mental function who are struggling to keep up with the world and life in general. If they falter even with all their faculties tip top…
How can mentally ill people not be regarded as trying even harder considering we’re running at a detriment from the word go?
Instead we are stigmatized, judged, labeled, looked down on. Like our brain’s failure to fit the cookie cutter mold is somehow our choice and we are rocking the boat therefore deserve discrimination.

I didn’t create this monster anymore than Dr. Frankenstein’s monster created himself. This was someone else’s brilliant idea, whether you believe in hard science, evolution, creationism. I never made a conscious choice to be a patchwork fucked up. I never once imagined my life would be a never ending cycle of mood swings and panic attacks and manic episodes and complete breakdowns. I never once thought I’d fall so fa down the rabbit hole I’d end up on disability.
No. I wanted to do so many things when my mind was in the right place. Start an animal shelter so no pet ever has to be euthanized again. Become a counselor because only people who’ve been there can really understand it. I wanted to help people. To be more than the sum of my flaws. To escape my upbringing and have a comfortable life where I wasn’t trying to live on $20 for the next two weeks.
NONE of this was ever part of my plan.
People with dire physical ailments likely feel the same way.
No one decides, “I’m tired of life, it’s too hard, so I am gonna get cancer.”
Yet the concensus on mental illness seems to view it exactly that way.

Ignorant is no way to go through life.

It is, I suppose, the ignorance is bliss party line that perpetuates it.

I think the Frankenstein’s monster analogy is a good one. You can’t just sew a bunch of random parts together and expect to get a fully functioning man. Monsters are created that way.
And my mental illnesses are my Dr. Frankenstein.


ECT

I recently had a suicide attempt, on my birthday, with a belt and a door jamb. I failed because I...

The post ECT appeared first on Pretending to be What We Are.

Big Day!

It’s an important day today for my girls–the middle one is taking the ACT for the second time, and the youngest is going to a new dance competition in Hattiesburg.  The middle one had the flu when she took the ACT last time and still made 29 on her first time out, so she is actually excited to be taking it well and to see how high she can score this time :)  The youngest is, as always, ready to dance her way through another day.  Her hair is up and we are waiting to get her makeup on in just a little while.

Next weekend will be big with the high school Awards Day and the Band Banquet that the middle one is involved in and the local dance competition that the little one will go to as well.  They’re all big weekends and weeks coming up until the end of school.  It’s a busy time of year for us, and I always wonder how I’m going to get through it.  But this year I feel confident that I will.  I feel good most every day and hope that it continues on through the rest of spring and through the summer as well.  The summer is shaping up to be a busy one—camps, trips, competitions, etc. are taking up a lot of our days.  We vacation in St. Louis this year and have a competition in Biloxi in the midsummer.  My oldest will be home, and we are not sure how she will be spending her summer.

All in all, good things seem to be coming our way this year.  Thanks goodness for a good mood place so I can enjoy the spring with my family.  Have a good weekend!


along with the daze

Some days in the brain.

Greyday

image

Grey leaden, rain laden skies today; 50 non-fucking shades of pantone 877 C. Everything feels and sounds muffled; quiet and faraway turtle doves, the fridge is louder than nature right now. Sorry nature. There’s enough wind to turn the acacia branches interesting, but not enough to play whack-a-mole with my serotonin levels. Thank. Fuck.

I wrote myself a little litany the other day, a kind of manic depressive mantra.

You don’t hate yourself, you’re depressed.
You don’t love yourself, you’re manic.
You don’t like yourself, you don’t know how.

I can’t remember why I wrote it, if indeed there was a reason. Cereal box soundbite for the morbidly bipolar, maybe. Perhaps I should make it songshaped, go back in time and get young Kylie to sing it.

Heavy leaden, rain laden skies today,
Can’t see a thing in these fifty shades of grey.

Or maybe

You don’t hate yourself, you’re just depressed
And don’t blame yourself if you fuck up when you’re stressed
You don’t love yourself baby, you’re just really manic
It’s a shitty place to be, but don’t let it make you panic
You don’t love yourself, because you don’t know how
It’s not your fault, not your plan, bipolar take a bow

I can’t be arsed to edit or extend it. I usually catch all my typos after I publish blog posts, unless I’m having one of those days where the word ‘life’ ends up as ‘lice’ every single fucking time. Have a nice lice, what are you going to do with your lice, what is the meaning of lice.

I hadn’t written any rhymes from 2008 till yesterday, and now today. Ughhhhhhh. Bah. It’s like having measles. I’m just really shit at it.

{clang, clang, clang went the manic depressive}

He held her shadow to his soul. (A. Leverkuhn)

Windsday

image

My serotonin is now being slapped hard by the wind. It was the first cold night, the first cold morning. (Brace yourselves, southern hemisphere homies and homos.) The sky is pale blue, unsaturated, unlike summer. I hide when the wind blows; you either enjoy it, or it beats you up more than physically. I could link you to the research, but this isn’t a fucking linkdump. I’m very rattled and even more sweary than usual. Môre is nog ‘n dag. I need a unicorn to smack or a kitten to kick or something. (No…of course not, it’s just a way to describe idk quite what.)

I have the shakes badly today. This paragraph is a bit later than the other and the sky is slightly less pale, there’s a weak sun, but it’s African and so it’s still strong enough to light up the white clouds rather prettily.

(What happens to undedicated love songs? Perhaps they follow ballpoint pens and single socks through a rip in the space time continuum. I think I’m plagiarising Douglas Adams there.)

Later still, a very fresh walk and then a quiet, cold, slow dusk. It’s the first time I’ve had to break out the winter woollies; by that I mean something made from wool, as opposed to a light long sleeved tshirt. The only time I get uninvited surprise visitors, is usually a man wanting to have a look at the solar power system. Yup, I’m a solar celeb. Lucky me. It happens because although there are plenty of solar geysers around, almost everything runs on the ex state now corporate behemoth we lovingly call Eskom.*

I’ve been reading a little …

If we went back, I still wonder, could we change the story somehow? Could we take a right turn instead of a left? Seventeen months after her death, I walk through New York and watch the trees bloom once more, and she cannot. I think about how things turned out for each of us, and I recognize that it might be different for me next time. I don’t know what story to tell myself about that. (Meghan O’Rourke – The Long Goodbye)

I can’t focus well at all at the moment and I fuck up tons of words anyway. I forgot to squeak an outraged wtf at my shrink about it the other day.

I just looked up and sunset was happening in a deep and vivid pink all over the wide sky. I hotfooted it out there to take its photo, because the African sun doesn’t fuck about, it gets up, does its job and goes to sleep hot, fast and efficiently. None of your Joseph Turner leisurely pastel events. It’s so showy here, I love it. Not the most impressive sunrisesandsets on the planet, but mine. Home. It took me 43 years to be able to say that with conviction and without even knowing where my passport is.

It’s dark and I’m tired. It’s circadian crash and burn o’clock.

Slurday

Not only did I crash and burn last night, I also lost the ability to function properly. Couldn’t stand light, couldn’t stand, couldn’t type without it looking as though it was from the desk of a drunk Polish physicist. I looked at it this morning and half laughed, half cringed.

Frieday

I still wonder why the hell I was so fucked up that night. It was like being on too many meds, but I wasn’t. There wasn’t even any alcohol around. The last time I felt that way, it was definitely too many meds. I don’t like myself then; I’m foul. Too fecking tired to write more.

Splatterday

Journalling is weird, I have a strong urge to say things like, Day 142, still no sight of rescue. Provisions dangerously low and the first mate has starting eyeing me with what I can only describe as hunger. Now you could see that as a sign of lunacy, or of a joyously literate childhood. Whichever it is, I’m bored with this now and so I shall post it and move on to equally tedious things.

* Eskom: even more lovingly known as ‘ek’s dom’, which rhymes and means ‘I am stupid’. As a business, it’s in such a shit state, that they’ve implemented load shedding, which are planned power cuts. They’re due to something that I like to think of as DIY Robin Hoodism. Eskom gets ripped off wholesale by informal settlements (shanty towns) that drop a whole clusterfucked nest of cable from a power line, which then gets split off to shacks etc. It’d be lovely if only the risks and consequences weren’t so awful. Anyway, Eskom loses profits and thus declares load shedding for two hours at a time, with a fair bit of frequency. Affordable electricity would probably work better. My superior solar reaction is to first switch on every light I have and play music. Once I’m sure the poison pygmy neighbours have noticed it, I switch everything off and thoroughly enjoy a gorgeously velvety dark night, punctuated only by celestial things instead of the fucking streetlight that makes like the Gestapo all over my stoep and into my room.

Seriously, you could have accomplished any number of productive things in the time it took you to read this brainwank. Plus, I stole your sheep while you were distracted.

image

Marya Hornbacher’s Research about Mental lllness

What do you know about mental illness? By Gabby Abbott | Apr. 15, 2015 | 285 Submissions Author Marya Hornbacher is working on a book about mental illness. Her book will profile the lives of people who have a mental…

Depression: When The Dark Night of The Soul Stays Through The Morning

bpnurse:

This is perhaps one of the best things ever written about depression. The author is a pastor who writes a lot about mental health, the LGBT community, and the challenges of living an authentic Christ-centered life in the 21st century. Enjoy!

Originally posted on john pavlovitz:

TroubleSleeping

I am worn out from my groaning. All night long I flood my bed with weeping and drench my couch with tears. Psalm 6:6

People speak about a dark night of the soul. 

It’s a place where both light and hope flee together; where a black heaviness settles upon your chest and makes your breathing short and labored. 

In those loneliest of hours, your demons both real and imagined, get the upper hand and faith is elusive.

I know this place well.

I have spent far too many nights in that blackness acting as the prosecuting attorney against myself; listing off the countless failures and flaws that have brought me to this desperate moment.

When you’re there in the shadow places, the case against you and against the future seems iron clad. You feel anxious and overwhelmed and totally justified to be both. You conspire with the demons to make yourself believe…

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Mental Illness Fallacy: “You’ve got nothing but time.”

When you are on disability, people seem to think that you have nothing but time. To do their bidding, to dance when they pull your strings, to cater to their whims or tend to your own business according to their time table.
With a multiple diagnosis mental health disability…You don’t have much time. The stable periods are few and far between. If you rapid cycle, the day or two you feel solid has to be relished and you have to suck the marrow from its bones before it vanishes. It’s just a fact of bipolar. For every stable hour or day, there will be ten of the opposite. Not pessimism, experience.

I am sick of being told, “Why can’t you do this for me, you’ve got nothing but time.”

90% of my time is spent in some sort of mental health corner of hellish dysfunction. I might be stable 2% of the time. That leaves 8% of the time where I am merely functioning and the daily toll means the higher I function, the harder I crash land when I shut down.

So this nonsense that you have all this free time pisses me off.

90 percent of my life is spent in some sort of altered mental state. That’s even with meds. Because they help but don’t cure and people don’t get that. At all. I had those two manic weeks last month, having depressive periods only at night. Then I’ve had four weeks of “I wanna die” depression.
I have plenty of time to be jerked around by my multitude of mental illnesses.
What I don’t have is plenty of time for stability and stable activities.

I melted down this week. I just pushed myself until I couldn’t anymore. And sadly, I was pushing so hard for the benefit of others. Seven hours on a laptop from 2002 that’s so antiquated it doesn’t even have built in wifi. All the hardware is failing, the OS is corrupted. It was seven hours of my life and all at R’s demand so he’d have a different shop computer and he couldn’t even buy me a pack of smokes. He did, however, bitch at me for not working miracles, not performing on command,and not meeting his time table. He even questioned my “doa” diagnosis even though I had it confirmed by two other tech geeks.
And not even a sammich for lunch.
Just an irritated attitude that I couldn’t pull a pegacorn out of my ass.
I ended up giving back that other laptop he gave to me. It’s old but fully functioning and gets him off my dick. (and yes, sometimes when I am pissed off, I have a metaphoric dick and people need to get off it.)Shame, too, because it was the fully functioning laptop he promised me three years ago. I have a dying desktop and that was going to be my replacement. Because Mr “seven grand in one bank account” is sooo poor he can’t spend a hundred fifty bucks for a refurb desktop.
This is not venom. This is just agitation at the way he makes unreasonable demands of me and lately I’m not getting shit out of it. Like that half hour car repair he did means I owe him my soul for the next six months.
I am not without gratitude.
But seven hours of my time wasted with him gnawing on my ass cheek the whole time expecting miracles…
Yes, I am pissy.

Then of course, I had my father on my ass about raking my yard so he could haul the leaves away. I tried to explain the chest cold and the pulled muscle and the agonizing pain so I’d do it later..And he lectured me and told me to grow up.
Fuck it’s my yard.

I also have to manage and referee my kid’s social life which involves dealing with ingrate children who have no respect or concept of rules. They are bickering every five seconds and I am trying to be laissez faiure but the added anxiety is not needed.

I burned the candle at both ends all week. And it took me four “mental health” days of minimal functionality just to crawl out of the abyss into today’s “semi high functioning” state. I sorted laundry Mt Vesuvius (keep hoping the pegacorns will fold it all for me) and I mowed the lawn. I got some groceries. Took that laptop to R Sole, not that he was grateful and acknowledged basically doing a take back. He just swore about me not being able to cure a computer that was outdated ten years ago. “It just needs reformatted.” Yes. But it has to stay on and not overheat to get that done. And the touchpad is broken. And the drivers are not upgradeable. And sometimes, you gotta stop beating the dead fucking horse. Right in front of him, I said to Kenny, “He’d probably try to reanimate a corpse than admit there’s anything he can’t fix.”
I wasn’t feeling the warm fuzzies mainly because I wasn’t receiving them. No wonder R’s girls are overacchieving monsters. I can’t even imagine what he’d be like if his own flesh and blood failed his demands.

My dad and stepmonster were here as soon as I got home from picking up my kid. I had a bunch of groceries to put away and they were insistent that I stop everything to help my 20 year old high school graduate brother fill out on line job applications. He doesn’t even have an email address. I just told them to do it themselves once he got an email. And then his mom says, well, I keep track of everything he does, we’re still his guardians, so I’ll use my email.
But I am somehow deficient because I was in too much pain to rake a yard?
Well, my dad always did favor physical labor over anyone actually using their mind to do something. Those are wussies. Real men and women do the dirty work.
Hey, I got no problem with dirty work.
I do however have a real problem with the unfair way my dad treats his three kids, and is so hard on my sister and me while basically catering to a son who obviously has problems if he needs a legal guardian at 20.

I’ve gone off on a tear. After feeling so…well, better, earlier. People seem to exacerbate my issues. Their demands and expectations are too much. I hang by a frayed thread most of the time, have no support, and I am surrounded by all these so called good people who just it so much worse.

Bygones. My day was okay, if you leave out all the people stuff. I can feel the mood shifting from functional, though. This petri dish people thing drains my battery fast and good. I’ll need all weekend to recharge.

But apparently I’ve got nothing but time.
(IDGETS)