Daily Archives: May 29, 2015

fuckapalooza, loser

This whole bipolar story is fucking me right up today. I think I’m still mixing episodes; it’s either that or I’m just manic. I keep thinking back to advice I’ve been given about not self diagnosing. I get the point, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do instead? Halp.

Know what I hate about the up up upness of whatever the fuck shape I’m in right now? It’s completely untrustworthy. Thirty thousand silver pieces of me lay jagged and scattered on the floor this morning, while I tried to wake up. I’d said I’d go into town with a friend to help her with some stuff – two trips there in the space of three days is already my idea of teeth grinding hell. I’m always early for everything (“five minutes early is punctual”) and I was late, rushing, gathering slivers of myself. My self. The friend’s stuff all fucked out, one of the two things I’d decided to do did too. The roadworks going both ways were interminable, the light was bright and the tar was hot.

I’ve already cocked up the order of events… It doesn’t matter. Today was proof that shit happens, and shit kept happening. Nothing major, no train smashes – just niggly, irritating, unnecessary little things that could easily have been no trouble at all. Of course they’d have been far less trouble if I hadn’t been feeling like a snot nosed and fractious asshole. So yeah, the sun was bright and I was bright and brittle. Maybe those silver slivers were a broken window, a broken mirror, or just a splintered me. Doesn’t matter, mosaics are fashionable again. My friend was freaked out by the obstacles in her path, i was on about seven different planets of my own at the time. The things weren’t the thing though, the slivers were the thing. They always are, it’s just that sometimes they group themselves into oh so very pretty patterns.

There’s the happy up, because the sun was warm and pretty and colours in general were looking good. My sense of humour felt almost functional and my brain was sharp. Of course my brain was sharp, it was at least one of the slivers that littered the day. The happy went no further than the warmth of the sun on my skin; bright was too bright and sharp can shed blood. There’s the energy up, because there were things to do. But the slivers and shards were getting in the way and puncturing wheels and jamming cogs; the energy was jumping erratically and accomplishing sweet fuck all. There’s the up you rev yourself up to when you want to make everything alright for everyone and you don’t give a damn what it’s like for you. There’s the up that you ride, that feels like riding the wind. It’s an ill wind. And the sentence ends there.

Eventually all the ups feel like fuckups, because you can’t trust any of them not to trip you up and fling you face down to bleed all over your own fragments. You can’t trust the ups not to go too up and keep going up until you’re too far up to do anything but fall. Face down. Shattered bones. Shiny, silver slivers of your own bones.

If you’re following any of this, you’re likely as fucked and fragmented as I am right now. And this is me on the max dose of tranqs that I can have. No, don’t call the mounties; once upon a not so long ago, I’d have been trying to think my way through and out of this pressured thought and speech bollocks. These days it’s easier and lazier. It’s just bipolar. Just take the pills. Just distract yourself from one half of your life and sleep through the other. Do not ask what life is for, or even what it’s about.

Blather

Wince

Defeat.

Up until the word thirty, in the second paragraph of this post, I thought I was going to write coherently.

I can actually be coherent now. I wrote out the jangling babble in my mind, I’m still clashing badly with myself and everything around me. I haven’t coped well all day and I’m doing no better now. Everything I think and say and do at the moment, is off. Sometimes writing like this gets me to some kind of new conclusion, sometimes it gets me back to being myself – and sometimes it just distracts me for a while, from the fact that (actually no, fuck all of this, I’m not finishing that fucking goddamn sodding sentence).

FUCK.

The Storms in Your Mind

Aral 6

The Storms in Your Mind

Rivers flowing from your anguished eyes

Tectonic shifts in your heart

The plates smashing, grinding, breaking

Your son, a piece of your heart, a piece of yourself

You have left behind

Heaviness and heaving, pain in your chest

Unkempt and undressed

I was just with him yesterday, and now so far away

This is not the way it should be

My son should live with me

Then the weather would be fair and calm

No winds no storms

But a tiny voice cries out: Yes it is the way it should be

He has to live his own life and find his own way

You are in close contact, with him often

This is just your illness, making you feel too much

And I listen, and I listen, trying to calm the storm in my mind

Trying to quell the tears in my eyes

trying to stop my heart from aching

trying to stop feeling too much, too intensely,

trying to be the normal me

to give my son room to be the normal him


Loose Ends

I have a student challenging her final grade out of my composition class this spring.  She claims she never saw a paper I gave her an F on.  Trouble is, that paper was turned in with all the others of that assignment to higher-ups for review and safekeeping–and I don’t really know how to get hold of it to prove to her that she made an F.  I’ve written the official I sent it to over email and asked that she pull it and send it to my department head, but I don’t even know if that’s possible.  We will have to see.  The girl is very VERY upset she made a C on the class, and I don’t really know what I can do to help her since I feel like she deserved the grade she got.

I’ve dumped it into my department head’s lap and hopefully if the girl wants to discuss it further, I can stay out of it since I resigned.  But we will see what happens.  I really try to not let my personal feelings affect how I handle students because with the bipolar, it’s hard to rely on my emotions, but she was VERY rude in her last email and that doesn’t make me inclined to cut her any kind of break.


Pre-Shrunk

I see the shrink in just under two hours. I am not excited. As per my usual, I was so anxious the night before I didn’t get to sleep until after 1 a.m. and I woke several times then when the alarm went off I hit snooze…It’s like moving through so much sludge. That and the fact I had only cigarette was just depressing. Pathetic but true. If I didn’t smoke, I’d be a world class flesh carver. The anxiety’s got to go somewhere.

I took care of the smokey treat thing this morning with a prompt visit to R. Not a word from him in 7 days and I didn’t exactly get the feeling I was being welcomed though I can’t recall a thing I could have done to offend. Who knows. But I got my smoke supplies and enough gas to get to the dr appointment and all I have to do is look up some parts and fetch him lunch. I can deal. Honestly, the week’s break from his drama was much needed. Just get irked how he expects me to drop everything for him yet when he doesn’t need anything from me, he’s okay to pretend I don’t exist. Narcissists.

What I am not sure I can deal with is a summer of my kid. Yesterday was…well, it wasn’t constant, it came in short bursts, but if it was a preview of my entire summer…I’m doomed. I let her play outside. She wanted her bike out. Fine. One of the training wheels came off. Now she wants them both off, only mommy doesn’t have the proper tool to remove the bolt which has rusted in place. Enter screaming mimi out in the yard. I brought her inside and made her sit on the couch and calm down. I quietly explained that I was not trying to be mean, I simply did not have a tool that would remove that bolt. She’s a kid, she wants it now, she wants it all, logic be damned.

I let her play on Neopets for awhile. She even sat on my lap and had me show her how to play some of the games. That was nice. Then her little heathen friend comes knocking. They’re not outside together sixty seconds and my kid is running back in. “I’m hungry. I’m thirsty.” I asked “Are you or is your friend demanding stuff?” She  says it’s her. I told her no. Next thing I hear is her running outside telling her friend, “Mommy said no I can’t give you food.” Brat lied right to my face. So thinking if I was the bad guy they wouldn’t blame her, I stepped outside and explained, “Hey, it’s very rude to come to someone’s house and ask for food. I would share if we had it but we simply don’t.” My kid lets out a blood curdling scream and starts yelling at me that I scared her friends off. Yeah, if they split as soon as being told no freebie food, it was all me.

My kid is so needy and desperate for friends, I swear she’d rip out her still beating heart if they demanded it. She keeps saying, “If I don’t give them things, they won’t be my friend.” It makes me furious. Those aren’t friends, those are freeloading little brats. Two years ago, I was in a good place mentally and I let her have all these kids over. On any given day I’d have ten kids in my yard. And she’d want a snack so I’d have to feed them and it was seriously putting us in a bind. Then came them destroying her stuff, busting in our doors, breaking in our window, stealing our mail…So yea, I am definitely scarred and on red alert when it comes to her “friends”. I don’t want to be that grouchy mean mom who won’t let the friends have snacks or use the bathroom and yet…Once bitten, twice shy. So all my kid’s anger comes back on me…

That was just one day.

Once I got her corralled inside, fed her, bathed her, and read to her..She went to bed without too much fight. By then, of course, I had no fight left in me. I needed a shower desperately, my legs need a weed whacker and I just..had nothing. Many times as my head would spin, I’d tell myself, “You’re awake, get up and do something, be productively miserable.” I just never could work up the will. Though I think I know now why my brain wants me in my crypt by 8pm. Sooner I lay down and start tossing and turning, sooner I can be asleep around ten or 11. I wait too long then I am tossing and turning until 1 a.m.

I made a list of what I want to talk to the doctor about. I always do that. They’re always hurried and ready with an explanation for every tiny thing. Yet no answers. Prozac, six months, still living in a fog…FFS, admit defeat. I wanna try the Cymbalta again. SNRI’s seem to do better for me during depressive bouts. Of course, I think he’s just gonna hear I’ve had no fatal reaction to the Trileptal, up it, and tell me it’s all anxiety and hypomania. I wish these shrinks could feel what it’s like to be treated so dismissively and walk out with less clarity than you went in with.

I am sweating buckets, humidity is thick. I should shower. I just don’t care. Why be pleasant looking on the outside if inside all I feel is dead and ugly? This is not me. It simply is not me. This is me when depressed for long bouts. So why isn’t he DOING something to help me? Or am I being too demanding wanting to feel better?

Ugh. Time to make the donuts. Or at least go serve time in the dish and have my morale beaten down further. For once, I just want something to go well, let me walk away feeling as if there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Kind of an oxymoron when dealing with psychiatrists.


Brain Constipation

I realised last night that I haven’t been blogging at either of my public blogs, and had a bit of an anxiety spike. But then, things have been busy. The littlest one is cutting three teeth at the same time (!!!!!!), and the big one has been off school for half-term. I’ve had a great time with both of them around the house, but it’s also nice when it’s just myself and Littlerbit. I’m getting a taste of that right now because Lilbit is visiting her grandmother, and as Littler is napping, I’m free to try and pick my brain.

I’ve also been doing things offline and, le gasp, outside. I finally got up the spoons to hit up our back garden in a big way, and I’ve been nose to the grindstone trying to get the weeding caught up and to get some things planted — in this case, mainly produce. I had wanted to do the same at our previous flat, but the garden was a windy vortex and pretty much anything we tried to establish blew away. There was also knowing on all levels that it wasn’t going to be our final/permanent home as much as we liked it, so ‘why bother’ apathy certainly was the easiest way to go.

And really though, we did like that flat, but our current residence is more emphatically ours. My in-laws encouraged us to get all the decorating redone before we moved in, and so we moved into a house that was pre-stamped as ours. There’s still things that we can do in future, like an extension, and we derive enjoyment on speculating on that for some future day. Planning. Being able to plan things. To have something worth improving that is our forever home is bliss. I look in the back garden and take pride that we’ve made something beautiful (and soon, literally fruitful). I enjoy the meditation that is weeding and caring for the garden, even if my back doesn’t as much. I’m adverse to the idea of exercise per se, but movement framed as movements is a beautiful thing to me. Calling it exercise robs the joy.

I guess that I can say then that I’m mainly doing okay. I have patches of disassociation where I have to slap my brain into accepting that I have an awesome life and a great family, but it normally isn’t severe enough for me to be more than mildly annoyed and has been a feature of my brain-life for as long as I can remember. There isn’t too much in the way of depression, though anxiety has been bad, and my sleep has cycled around to being a bit crap again. The latter is partially my fault for staying up late a couple of nights recently, but should hopefully smooth back out without too much effort. Hopefully.

Hope all is well out there for everybody.

<3

Runners Wall

It has been a less than ideal week. A chain of unfortunate events triggered by an unexpected tooth extraction and culminating in some gnarly medication interactions (oh Lithium, life would be so dull without you). I’ve pulled a back muscle and possibly an intercostal muscle vomiting. Because despite how much practice I have had, I puke like a savage hybrid of Linda Blair (in contrast to Hubster, who vomits like the Queen – dignified, silently, and very very rarely). The other night my kid woke up petrified because he thought there were monsters in the house.

There was, child. There was.

Anyway, so I’m chilling at home on my own today, shuffling around like Ozzy Osbourne and seriously contemplating the hole in my life that stone cookware and the “Ahh Bra” could fill. While attempting to be productive I decided to pay our bills and found all the prescriptions for our first injectable cycle next week.

And that’s about when I lost it.

I cried and cried. Which was not only painful (pulled muscles FTW!) but pretty unusual. I don’t really cry. As in truly cry, with tissues and red puffy eyes and snot and grossness, properly. Laugh inappropriately. Yes. Shed a few forlorn looking tears at appropriate moments. Perhaps. But not this gut wrenching howling shit. Thank God I was on my own. It was like Linda Blair all over again.

Then I realised that I’m just….tired. So tired. Emotionally that is. Though probably physically as well. My life for the past few years has been doctor, medication, hospital, repeat. I get the rare stuff. The weird side effect. I can’t even bloody well go and get a tooth extracted without all sorts of drama. I just want it all to go away.

I have hit the runners wall.

Why can’t my body cooperate? Why can’t I do something crazy, like, ya know, eat a piece of bread, without consequence. Why can’t I be one those women who just decide they want a baby, then BAM 9 months later they are presented with a squishy newborn? Who feel joy when they see a positive pregnancy test, not dread..already preparing to lose it. Why do I have to start this journey of invasive treatment when I have already had so much medical intervention? Why do I have to spend this extortinate amount of money on something that has around a 50% success rate – maybe less. In what other universe would we pay thousands of dollars for something we may not receive? Or that we may lose afterwards anyway?

Hope. That’s why.

Last weekend Hubster and I went to the clinic so I could learn how to inject myself. We really had no idea. I thought it would be one of those pen things like Diabetics use. While one medication is administered like this, the others involve cracking open ampoules and mixing powder with a watery solution. SO MUCH ROOM FOR PHAFFERY.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no qualms about physically injecting myself, but my name should be “Rachael Fumble Fingers” (Reason #103 why I could never be a surgeon).  I can imagine so many scenarios where I smash ampoules and have to hair like a bat out of hell to the compounding pharmacy across town to get replacements. Or I lose needles, get the dosage wrong, inject air into myself. The possibilities are endless. I just keep telling myself “If heroin addicts under heavy sedation can manage to inject themselves intravenously, I’m sure you in a (allegedly) conscious and informed state can figure out how to stab your stomach.” Surely.

I just feel myself hitting that wall. I think the past events of the last few years have caught up with me. I’m tired. The other morning I woke up and as Hubster kissed me good bye I told him “I don’t want to adult today. I may or may not be arrested for diving into the ball pit at IKEA. Just a heads up.”

Meanwhile my near four year old told me over breakfast that he couldn’t wait to be an adult because then he wouldn’t have to hold anyones hand in the carpark. It never ceases to amaze me the intensity in which children want to grow up. The biggest compliment I can give him is that he is “grown up.” And then you really DO grow up and suddenly you start buying anti-aging creams, getting cagey about your age, and recounting the “good old days” where your biggest problem was whether to choose the chocolate or rainbow paddle pop (still a dilemma. To be fair).

But I have had my cry and “poor me” whinge. Now, I will put on my big girl panties and do what I need to do. This is it. Three cycles and we’re done, whatever the outcome. We have had so much stress and disappointment and waiting. Now we are getting the help we need. It’s time. Time for me to “woman” up.

I have hit this runners wall in various situations before, and I have always managed to break through to the other side.

You can say many things about me. But I don’t give up easily.

hitting-the-wall1


Runners Wall

It has been a less than ideal week. A chain of unfortunate events triggered by an unexpected tooth extraction and culminating in some gnarly medication interactions (oh Lithium, life would be so dull without you). I’ve pulled a back muscle and possibly an intercostal muscle vomiting. Because despite how much practice I have had, I puke like a savage hybrid of Linda Blair (in contrast to Hubster, who vomits like the Queen – dignified, silently, and very very rarely). The other night my kid woke up petrified because he thought there were monsters in the house.

There was, child. There was.

Anyway, so I’m chilling at home on my own today, shuffling around like Ozzy Osbourne and seriously contemplating the hole in my life that stone cookware and the “Ahh Bra” could fill. While attempting to be productive I decided to pay our bills and found all the prescriptions for our first injectable cycle next week.

And that’s about when I lost it.

I cried and cried. Which was not only painful (pulled muscles FTW!) but pretty unusual. I don’t really cry. As in truly cry, with tissues and red puffy eyes and snot and grossness, properly. Laugh inappropriately. Yes. Shed a few forlorn looking tears at appropriate moments. Perhaps. But not this gut wrenching howling shit. Thank God I was on my own. It was like Linda Blair all over again.

Then I realised that I’m just….tired. So tired. Emotionally that is. Though probably physically as well. My life for the past few years has been doctor, medication, hospital, repeat. I get the rare stuff. The weird side effect. I can’t even bloody well go and get a tooth extracted without all sorts of drama. I just want it all to go away.

I have hit the runners wall.

Why can’t my body cooperate? Why can’t I do something crazy, like, ya know, eat a piece of bread, without consequence. Why can’t I be one those women who just decide they want a baby, then BAM 9 months later they are presented with a squishy newborn? Who feel joy when they see a positive pregnancy test, not dread..already preparing to lose it. Why do I have to start this journey of invasive treatment when I have already had so much medical intervention? Why do I have to spend this extortinate amount of money on something that has around a 50% success rate – maybe less. In what other universe would we pay thousands of dollars for something we may not receive? Or that we may lose afterwards anyway?

Hope. That’s why.

Last weekend Hubster and I went to the clinic so I could learn how to inject myself. We really had no idea. I thought it would be one of those pen things like Diabetics use. While one medication is administered like this, the others involve cracking open ampoules and mixing powder with a watery solution. SO MUCH ROOM FOR PHAFFERY.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no qualms about physically injecting myself, but my name should be “Rachael Fumble Fingers” (Reason #103 why I could never be a surgeon).  I can imagine so many scenarios where I smash ampoules and have to hair like a bat out of hell to the compounding pharmacy across town to get replacements. Or I lose needles, get the dosage wrong, inject air into myself. The possibilities are endless. I just keep telling myself “If heroin addicts under heavy sedation can manage to inject themselves intravenously, I’m sure you in a (allegedly) conscious and informed state can figure out how to stab your stomach.” Surely.

I just feel myself hitting that wall. I think the past events of the last few years have caught up with me. I’m tired. The other morning I woke up and as Hubster kissed me good bye I told him “I don’t want to adult today. I may or may not be arrested for diving into the ball pit at IKEA. Just a heads up.”

Meanwhile my near four year old told me over breakfast that he couldn’t wait to be an adult because then he wouldn’t have to hold anyones hand in the carpark. It never ceases to amaze me the intensity in which children want to grow up. The biggest compliment I can give him is that he is “grown up.” And then you really DO grow up and suddenly you start buying anti-aging creams, getting cagey about your age, and recounting the “good old days” where your biggest problem was whether to choose the chocolate or rainbow paddle pop (still a dilemma. To be fair).

But I have had my cry and “poor me” whinge. Now, I will put on my big girl panties and do what I need to do. This is it. Three cycles and we’re done, whatever the outcome. We have had so much stress and disappointment and waiting. Now we are getting the help we need. It’s time. Time for me to “woman” up.

I have hit this runners wall in various situations before, and I have always managed to break through to the other side.

You can say many things about me. But I don’t give up easily.

hitting-the-wall1


Feeling awful at 1000’s of feet in the air…

 
Leo playing with his incredibly young grandma  lol

On my way from Buffalo yo Louisville. All of a sudden, as the plane ascends, I am experiencing plummeting moods. Believe me, I am thankful it is not the other way around, but leaving my son in Buffslo is always a heart rending process for me. He’s fine now, thank all the gods in heaven, I am generally fine in Louisville, but this separation from my son, every time it happens is  heart breaking my dad for me. I was just sitting at the gate and sobbing. Probably not a good idea in this climate of the “t-ism” word. I am sitting in my seat and feeling weepy, trying not to cry. I feel bad. Is this bipolar disorder? Is it over attachment to my son, my only son? Is it just worry about him, since we have been through so many trying things together? Is it simply missing him? It may be a combination of all of the things I mentioned. And writing about it is helping, putting things into perspective. He is fine, I will see him soon. I will see my friends on September. Buffalo still feels like my home. And we Cancer people are very attached to our homes. When I go there, I know it, there is my bank, my Wegmans, my friend’s house. The street I used to live off of. Sob. My university, the stores which were my favorite. Of course, my son is there, and I spend as much time with him as possible. His apartment is impeccable, I made sure of that 😊, we talked about his going to get an MA in American history, so he can teach Legal History. I played with Leonidas, such a sweet boy. I saw my friends. My  uncle. It was a wonderful visit. I should be happy. And I am. But leaving is the hardest, most heart breaking  part. 😞 Just wish so much we could all live together. In a family and friends colony… Sigh…


That Sweet Spot

Yes, boys and girls, that sweet spot between “blah” and “yee-HAW!” really does exist, and I have finally found it. Actually, it found me and sort of snuck in under the radar a while back, and I’m just now recognizing it for what it is: stability.

I love it here. This is where almost every mentally ill person wants to be. It’s even better than hypomania, because it’s genuine and it probably won’t cause the crash-and-burn effect like hypo/mania does. I’m not foolish enough to think it’ll last forever, but I’m sure going to enjoy it while it does. I’ve rediscovered my natural optimism, which I’d thought I’d lost forever. I wake up in the morning feeling good about the day ahead, without either being overexcited or dragging my sad, sorry carcass out of the bed. And I go to sleep at night (for the most part) without ruminating endlessly on my worries, of which there are far fewer than there were even a few months ago.

This must be what it’s like to not be bipolar. I’ve had periods of remission before, but this time I’m living in the here and now and not waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s taken a lot of time (and med changes) to get to this point, so perhaps I appreciate being in this place more than the average person…..because now I am the average person. I’m not a “mental case”, not “unwell”. I’m just me…..imperfect, quirky, rational ME. And I think I can live with that just fine. :-)