It’s that time again! Comment below and let us know what you write about. Reblog this where you can. MOST IMPORTANTLY, get on and read some blogs that are new to you. Share the blog love…..
It’s that time again! Comment below and let us know what you write about. Reblog this where you can. MOST IMPORTANTLY, get on and read some blogs that are new to you. Share the blog love…..
Yes I know
It was your time
And what a time
For Death did not
Catch you sleeping
You took HER,
On the HOW of it
As in all things,
For Yom Kippur
That choicest of choice Days
Even to let me
Wet your cracked lips
“Ah,” I understood,
“Your food is spiritual now.”
Closed eyes, you nodded,
And I knew
You would be gone.
Just after dawn
Box of wind,
Began to heave
I called them in
I had to share
Your precious last hour
I didn’t want to.
Three breaths from the last
You knit your brow
As a diver
For that great leap
Two more breaths
And you were
I closed the dear eyes
Lowered bed to the floor,
Just in case you haven’t been paying attention during the 5 years that I have been writing about cycling and mental health, being on my bike lifts my mood. Actually, simply looking at other people cycling along does that. I find myself looking at bicycles locked up against lamp posts, railings and the now ubiquitous bespoke bicycle parking that seem to multiply by the week in the city where I live. When there is little of interest in my life, bicycles of all shapes and sizes, in all states of repair, just for the briefest of moments, put their arms round my shoulders.
Does this count as my low mood lifting, improving? You would think so, wouldn’t you? It would make sense because cycling has improved my life immeasurably since I was challenged to take part in a charity bike ride back in the summer of 2000.
But it is not ever thus. The fact of the matter is, that for someone who writes about cycling, extols its virtues, and credits it with my (reasonably) good mental health, I spend precious little time actually turning the pedals. Yes, yes, yes, I know – I do ride my bike most days. Today it was 6 miles, tomorrow it will be 3. Last Thursday it was 30+. But I don’t set aside enough time to ride the sort of miles that make a lasting impression.
But, more often than I would like to admit, the sight of bicycles locked up against railings, lampposts and in clusters at bike parking sites, can make me feel chained up and, well, abandoned, too. I find myself looking at the name of the make on the frame, the handlebars, the tyres, the saddle as I walk past. It feels just like it does when I am in a crowd of people – maybe in the supermarket, maybe on a train or a bus; usually on a busy street. Everyone is going somewhere; everyone has a purpose – except me. Yes, I do know that there will be other people pushing a supermarket trolley with little sense of purpose, and that other people passing their tickets through the barriers at the train station in the mornings and evenings, are also feeling detached, hopeless and, well, adrift. But I cannot see any evidence of that. Which is ever so slightly ironic when you consider that that I am well – versed in the ways of disguise, the arrangement of the face, the taking an interest in others, so that they won’t ask me about myself.
It is like this that we betray each other. It is like this that we shun one another. It is like this that we remain alone, ensuring that no one knows.
Bicycles are not like that. Bicycles, immobile, unencumbered by their riders, describe themselves by their cheap chain locks, their slightly deflated tyres, their dry, rusty chains and the way they tilt, ever so slightly as they wait – for how long? – for their owner to return. I look at them to recognise myself in their variety of frames and handlebars, the range of saddles. I see my better self, I see the person I once was, I see the person I will never be, and worst of all I see the person I am.
My November Guest
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise
Robert Frost (1874 – 1963)
All around the world toni-i-i-i-ight, we have got bipolar… (now with added links and opiñioñatas).
I haven’t test driven this one, please let me know what it’s like if you do. Here’s what they say…
turn2me.org Feeling anxious, sad or lonely? Going through a tough time? We are here to help you are not alone. Lets get talking.
Champs Like Us (baby we were born to spend a fortune on medication)
New Zealand: Bipolar disorder ‘just a fact of life’. At one point during a high mood Turner decided to cut his trailer in half with an angle grinder because he thought it didn’t look quite right. “Just after I’d finished I began to think, ‘Why the hell did I do that’.
South Africa: Popping pills to fight off mental illness benefits society. I’m what my mother used to call “a nut job”. Before you snigger, you probably are too. A Nut Job that is. Why? Because we belong to a very large, and fast growing group of people who rely on doses of industrial strength antidepressants to help deal with this fraught business called life.
Also a South African thing, please don’t forget to follow and support this really valuable initiative. Nanieve Groenewald shares her story in the latest post.
Australia: Tasmanian man describes the highs and lows of living with bipolar disorder.
USA: IBPF – Essay Contest Winners – Read the winning essays from our Middle and High School Essay Contest!
USA – Natasha Tracy:
Anger Is Not a Symptom of Bipolar Disorder, Or Is It?
Time It Takes to Recover from Depression after Hypomania
USA Meg Hutchinson’s journey with bipolar disorder (audio).
UK Leighton Buzzard man opens up about bipolar disorder.
Ireland: Tell Me About It: My wife is bipolar and I long for female company. I have thought about leaving her, but I know she would be unable to cope. Poor things, they’re in their 60s and been married forever.
USA What It Really Means To Be Psychotic: The Difference Between Psychosis And Psychopathy Mental illness and personality disorders consist of an array of complex, hard-to-pin-down disorders that are often confused — but avoiding misdiagnosis is crucial in properly treating them. With all the “psycho” in psychosis, psychotic, and psychopathy, it’s often easy to get them all muddled. In reality, psychotic and psychopathic are two separate, distinct disorders — and labelling everyone who falls under these categories as a “psycho” is certainly a faux pas.
USA Words Count – learning to talk about mental illness.
Our disturbed children are being sent abroad because we can’t cope
Ireland Young Irish people with complex mental health issues are being detained in the UK.
USA Frank Sinatra‘s Palm Springs Home For Sale. Sinatra was a self-professed “18-karat manic depressive” torn between hiding away or hanging with his friends where he could be distracted from the depression.
Culture Vultures (carrion regardless)
USA: Gabriel review – Rory Culkin proves fine guide on headtrip through bipolar mind. Macaulay’s younger brother gives a terrific performance as a 25-year-old struggling with mental health issues in this low-budget gem.
USA: Zoe Saldana has spoken about how her new arthouse indie flick Infinitely Polar Bear provides a “more accurate depiction” of bipolar disorder.
USA Artist Dayna Matlin paints portraits of her late brother Jason, who was bipolar.
USA La Traviata McDonald’s nervy labor of love has set this “La Traviata” in modern times in New Orleans where Violetta is a troubled bi-polar manic depressive, and Fat Tuesday is approaching on the calendar.
USA 25.06.76 (Ayelen Parolin) (dance)
USA Devin Townsend His devastatingly honest lyrics have an unseen emotional depth, especially when one considers his struggle with manic depression (ex.“I wait for the pain/It always comes again/And I don’t know why/And I don’t care why/Anymore”)
USA Preview The ‘Infinitely Polar Bear’ Soundtrack Featuring George Harrison, Ike & Tina Turner, And More.
Headdesk (and facepalm too)
South Africa: Bipolar: misdiagnosis can be fatal. It is estimated that three quarters of South Africans with mental illnesses will never receive any treatment. Julian Turner shares his story of battling bipolar and how it almost ended tragically last year when he threw. himself off a cliff in KwaZulu-Natal. (video)
USA: Faith based fuckwittery: with apologies to the real Christians out there, as soon as I saw his photo and read the first paragraph, I thought “uh oh, God squad,” and his bio confirmed it. Another dangerous man with a snake oil smile.
USA: “If you took your daughter to a mental health professional, your description would probably provoke a diagnosis of childhood bipolar disorder, or whatever they are calling it these days. Ignoring for the moment the fact that there is no good science behind this supposed biochemical malfunction (the specific chemicals or nature of said malfunction having never been unequivocally identified), she is not bipolar. (John Rosemond aka Mr Bobo)” Dealing with daughter’s outbursts and whining
USA: MALIBU BIPOLAR RESIDENTIAL TR EATMENT IN LUXURIOUS SURROUNDINGS AT BRIDGES TO RECOVERY That’s right people, go be bipolar in luxury while everyone else suffers. And they have DSM IV definitions in their info. Ha.
Search, Research, Repeat
Self-Defining Memories Help People with Depression, Bipolar Disorder tl;dr Overall, SDMs are a major foundation in the formation of an individual’s identity. They are reflections of a person’s key life lessons, central goals, values and conflicts. They often guide our decisions and sense of self-continuity. For people living with depression or bipolar disorder, recalling affirming and meaningful memories can help to re-establish a positive sense of self and thereby assist in their treatment.
Psychosis rarely linked to violent crime: Findings of a study have revealed information which is contrary to common belief about mental illness: that violent crimes seldomly accompany mental disorder.
Bipolar Disorder Market – Global Industry Analysis and Forecast to 2020
At-risk children of mothers with bipolar disorder may benefit from early intervention.
Psychiatric Times articles about bipolar disorder.
I’ve been taking Abilify as an add-on to my other psychotropics for about six months now, and I have some pieces of good news to share.
Good news #1: The generic (aripiprazole) is now available! There was a slight delay between the time the FDA gave approval for the generic (April) and the time it went on sale. But now it has arrived in drugstores. (I understand that the same company makes both the brand name and the generic, which strikes me as goofy, but then what do I know about drug marketing?)
Good news #2: Between my insurance and my pharmacy, I now have to pay only $15/month for the generic. The brand-name Abilify was $800 without insurance and $125 with. My insurance is not cheap, though it is still less than the cost of brand-name Abilify. When you add in all my other prescriptions and doctor visits and tests and such – plus all my husband’s drugs and other medical expenses, the insurance suddenly doesn’t seem so pricey. (I got this insurance through the Affordable Care Act, and I hope the Supreme Court doesn’t screw it up for me.)
Good news #3: Despite my tiny dosage (2 mg.) I have noticed significant effects. After six months on the drug, I have more energy, better focus and concentration, and fewer down/useless days (unless I overdo and run out of spoons). (See http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/ if you don’t know what I mean by that.)
I’ve been doing major housecleaning/sorting, going out – actually outside the house – to run errands other than my shrink appointments, and I even went to a party – a reunion of people I used to work with. I wore my new skirt, navigated the social milieu successfully, and stayed an hour and a half. (The next day was one of my no-spoons days, though.)
This is only the third time in my life that I’ve noticed a significant effect from taking a new prescription. The first was Prozac (fluoxetine), which felt like looking at a color television after years of black-and-white. With static. Showing only commercials. The second was Lamictal (lamotrigine), which felt like a switch flipping and turning on my ability to think rationally. And now there’s Abilify.
Whatever side effects I may have, I’m willing to live with. (Unless I get the tardive dyskinesia. That would be a deal-breaker.) This feels like real living and I’m happy about it. I don’t think this is hypomania, either. I think I’m supposed to feel this way. I’m going to run with it.
Of course this isn’t the end of bipolar disorder for me, or the end of this blog. I still have plenty to say about my experiences with bipolar depression, mental health in general, and particularly mental health in the media and society.
Sorry if I sound sappy, but it’s good to be alive and functioning!
Living life through a gauze haze, not being able to FEEL genuine emotion, even though you want to feel it, remember how it’s felt before…Welcome to the wonderful world of psych meds and their side effects. The current culprit is Trileptal. I was on it less than two weeks last time I saw the doctor and told I’d had no side effects. At which point he declared he was going to take away my Lamictal at some point and max me out on Trileptal. I was underenthused.
I am even less keen now that I’ve been on it for a month and faced the full scope of side effects. It’s as bad as the Lithium was and I don’t like it at all. Lamictal gives almost no side effects that I notice, that was the selling point. He says it’s just not working anymore. I disagree because mood stabilizers are there to stabilize and for the most part, I’ve got that. The depressions are the problem. They are treated with anti depressants, which come with their own set of side effects, mainly setting off manic episodes at too high a dose. I’ve been through four or five anti depressant changes, increases/ decreases, in 7 months, including a very reaction the new wonder drug, Latuda. It makes sense my stability is affected.I don’t think it has a thing to do with the Lamictal. Not that doctors care what patients think.
So in addition to the numb gauzy thing, I have zero sex drive, orgasms are a distant memory, my affect is dull and everything I say is in the same dead and nasty tone that people mistake for anger. I’m not really feel any better. I am not depressed. Not well. I am in limbo, unable to feel anything, even my dark cloud over head is pumped full of this psychiatric Novacaine. I hate it. I hate any med that seals up my tear ducts and makes me unable to feel things I have every right to feel. A pet or friend dies, you have every right to cry and be sad. I can’t even have that much with this shit. I should feel love and joy for my kid and my cats. It’s there. I want to feel it. I just can’t because the gauze is so thick. Everything I attributed to coming off Latuda and Prozac simultaneously is in fact a side effect from trileptal. I went back in my blog to track the changes and I was not this bad prior to Trileptal.
It’s so bad that even my writing is affected. And I am not talking about my blogging spewage, that’s just like flu induced vomiting I can’t control. I am talking about my fiction novel writing. My happy place, my outlet, the one thing on the planet I do well. And it’s blocked. Not merely blocked. It’s stunted by the meds. I’ve been in an 8 month suicidal depression and I was a writing machine in spite of it. I get writer’s block, it happens, it’s normal, it sucks…
Last night I FORCED myself to sit down at my desk in the bedroom, open abiword, and since my anxiety is so bad I can’t enjoy music anymore, I put on a playlist of thunder rainstorm. (Which is ironic, since we were having a hellacious thunder/lightning/rain storm, I had the real soundtrack and played a fake on.) I stared at that monitor and blinking cursor and taunting blank page. Decided to just recycle some stuff I’ve already written (like started writing on 2007, and have redrafted about ten times since). It was clumsy typing because you get used to one keyboard on a laptop then switch to an external and it was like reintroducing myself…My fingers were unsure, unsteady. The words poured out. I got five pages. But you know what I felt?
I’ve lost the one thing that’s kept me alive my whole life, my outlet outside the shitty mental illness. I remember how I’ve felt every other time writing those same pages. It was amazing and I was alive and hopeful and…Now it’s like my entire body is numbed with Novacaine. I feel nothing. And it’s worse than feeling everything at a volume of ten. Even my laughter is numb. Things that used to make me crack up, now I laugh but I don’t FEEL it. And unless you’ve had this psychiatric med haze, you can’t understand just how awful it is. It sounds benign and yet it’s not. How can I feel alive and want to live if I can’t FEEL anything?
Even my anger, my fuel for my soul, is hazed. For a writer who needs to channel these emotions to bring mere words on paper to life…It’s creative castration.
I wish the doctors could understand this. It’s not non compliance or being too picky over silly side effects. I don’t want to live my life in a haze feeling nothing. The people around me are mistaking me numb affect and dull tone for rudeness, for anger, for disinterest. A medication should never make you worse to the point people notice you’re “off.”
Less than what people think..is what I feel. I want to feel, need to feel, something. I wrote five pages and felt nothing. I love these characters, I’ve poured 8 years into creating them and their story. They are now stunted and lifeless thanks to me being stunted and lifeless like the meds that are supposed to help me.
This isn’t a side effect. This is a punishment. And this is why a lot of people choose not to be medicated. The professionals need to know this. I think they should have to take the meds, like cops have to be Tasered so they know what it feels like. Let the professionals lose all their emotions and walk around in ten layers of gazes that others mistake as a bad personality.
I’m not living. I am existing. Which is precisely what life without medication is. So what is the point?
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Because my doctor knows best and I apparently get no say in my own treatment.
And they wonder why people shun treatment.
There is a man that comes into my job purposely to get angry at us. I know this because I was warned of him before I even started working.
Mental Illness is at play, I think.
No one comes into someone job to be angry or nasty to others.. I just don’t think that is normal. Or maybe it is..
All I know is that this man has no regard for us or what we do for him.
Now… What am I suppose to do when I see him knowing that mental illness is at play? I’m an mental illness advocate but you can’t just come with ‘hi! Do you have a mental illness? I’ve noticed that you are angry like I was. Do you need help’
Nope. No. No way
Sitting back and watching is the worst.
This was originally posted in June of 2011, four months before my dad died. Not surprisingly, the prayer I offered for him at the end of this piece was never answered.
I see a lot of myself in Dad. He’s always been a Glass Half Empty kind of guy, his thoughts and opinions naturally traveling down the darkest highway. A card-carrying pessimist, his words of wisdom to us kids always carried a bit of the crypt. If we complained about doing our chores, he would say, “There are a lot of things in this world you have to do whether you want to or not” or “Get used to it, life is hard.” Since the time I was in high school, I’ve listened to him bemoan every change in his aging body, never at peace with the natural adjustments any adult male has to make, never able to reconcile himself to the thirty-five year old he thinks he still should be.
I understand this fantasy thinking. I understand the draw of the past and refusing to live in the present. I’ve traveled his dark highway and know all the shortcuts. I’ve watched my dad sit at the Table of Life and accept only scraps, convinced that’s all that’s being served. He prides himself on being fun-loving, but his jokes and teasing carry a sharp edge that has more to do with defense than humor. My dad was never a teacher, never had the patience to explain, but I learned his road map well.
When I’m with my dad, I try to poke holes in his perception, counter the negativity with perspective, try to do for him what I must do for myself. But after a lifetime of indulging his world-view without question, his defenses are solid. At times I see him struggle to consider the possibility of an alternate route. If I hammer hard enough, he pauses in his argument to say, “Is that so?” But, it’s exhausting work, and I can’t keep it up. And I can’t make him willing.
The desire to turn off the dark highway comes from within. It comes from noticing flickers of light on the side of the road, glimpses of intriguing pathways and crossroads. It comes from taking a risk and swerving off the black pavement for once. Then, doing it again. And it takes willingness to ask for directions from people who keep different kinds of maps in their glove compartments.
Father’s Day is tomorrow. My gift for Dad is a simple prayer—to get the chance to take a side road. I pray he finds the strength to stand on a bright lane with grass waving green and high on either side, a glass half full in his hand.
Today is the Summer Solstice: a day that has tremendous personal, as well as spiritual, significance. This year, it’s also Father’s Day, and the day after my first York Pride.
Subjects like the many Pride events taking part across Britain this summer, and LGBT in general, are sadly not a subject I would have felt comfortable discussing with my late, much loved father in law. Nor can I imagine discussing such matters with my own father, who is still alive, in his 90s.
But the times, they are a changin’: in many ways, for the better. And Pride events, such as the one in York – a city already filled with so many wonderful memories – is a colourful, and above all good natured example of this.
Those who know how important Doctor Who is to me will understand I mean no disrespect by saying that the enjoyment and creativity displayed at York Pride in some ways reminded me of the Doctor Who and other sci fi cons I attended in the States, many years ago.
Speaking of creativity, and in case you’re wondering what a “Pride Pud” is:
As for creativity, and colour, well: I could fill the rest of this page with photos of beautiful, colourful, friendly people. People who, depending on age and / or circumstances, know all too well how much pain, and struggle, had to take place before events such as this could become regular, popular parts of the summer festival circuit.
As the people at the Amnesty International stand could attest, the struggle for LGBT rights continues. Worldwide, people are dying because of their sexuality.
Sadly, even in the UK, people from the LGBT community are more likely to have mental health problems. Because as much as we’ve moved on, prejudice, homophobic bullying, and the horrible like still exist.
Which is why Holly the “Pride Pud” creator, and the other ladies from York Mind, were at York Pride. And why Angela Slater, her friends Angela and Steven, and I were there, raising awareness about mental health, and “Time to Change“.
Did it rain? Of course it did: this is Britain.
Did I have fun? You bet your Pride Pud, I did.
Two days of performing to expectations in the dish of petri with dish dwellers and honestly…I feel embalmed times a thousand. Last night tapped me out, then shark week arrived this morning, and I had to go to my family thing and there were people coming and going and dogs barking and phones ringing and I just wanted to crawl into a corner. Then my mother played dirty pool, as usual, and told my kid she could stay the night WITHOUT ASKING ME FIRST so I was in the position of say no and be the bad guy or say yes and be completely usurped. And there was a moment where I came close to digging my heels in. But then I realized…I’d have been doing it for myself because I am all hormonal and it makes me feel lonely not to have her around. It’s not about me, though, so I let her stay. (As it turned out, after I left, she started some drama and my mom went off on dad and stepmonster, then went after my sister with the screaming, so I escaped just in time. Go figure, my monster manipulating people and starting shit, who knew. Apparently no one but me realizes that’s how she is.)
I’m becoming something I don’t like. One of those parents who doesn’t remember how to exist outside of their kid. It’s not purposeful. I just live in so much depressive darkness and having Spook around reminds me I’m still alive. When she’s gone, I’m suddenly stuck back in my dark place alone. Thing is…were I writing, I’d scarcely notice because that’s my lively place. It’s not fair of me to lean on her because I am hormonally sad and have writer’s block and cramps. I don’t want to be that mother. So I left her there to socialize and came home to my dark place, where I marinated in my own sweat, fed the cats chicken scraps from the family meal, then I mowed the lawn because, hey, I felt grumpy anyway, might as well do something I don’t want to do. I still haven’t faced the housework but I did get one thing accomplished at least. Now the landlord won’t be on my case about the lawn.
Last night’s shindig at R’s was…Unpleasant, simply because I hadn’t been warned his eldest daughter, she of the master’s in psychology and unpleasant temperament would be there with her hubby and kids. Ugh. They have a foster kid and I’d never met him so when I went in for food, he was having a screaming mimi and I tried to smile and say hi. And she snapped, “NO, we do NOT give him attention when he’s acting this way!” Nazi. Her presence pretty much ruined it for me, as if my own anxiety and crap mood hadn’t done enough to ruin it. It’s odd because I can pretty much get along with Satan if I really force myself. This woman..NOPE. Because arrogance and a lack of self awareness while proclaiming once’s own perfection just pisses me off. I don’t consider that my personality being disordered. Some people are just assholes. She sat in a lawn chair all night glaring while hubby chased after the kids. (Nothing like being at a shindig to socialized and everyone but me is on their stupid phone.) Even when the wobbling toddler foster kid was climbing up and down the concrete steps, making me a nervous wreck, she just sat there, and he did too,on the phone. I may be helicopter mom, but jebus. If you just want to play on your fucking phone, stay home. That’s anti social behavior to me.
After they left, we went inside and the grandparents (R and his wife) entered into a discussion about how disconnected his daughter seems from both kids, even her own flesh and blood. I dared to voice my opinion on how harsh she was when the baby was having his tantrum and they both quickly informed me I was wrong and that’s why my kid won’t mind me. Well, from what I saw of the know it all and her hard line parenting, her three year old kept saying, “No!” and defying her so…I don’t want my kid to fear me and I wasn’t raised by strict parents, so I have a more relaxed style of parenting.
Just…That boy is 20 months old and in foster care because his biological father abused him so badly his parental rights were severed. More than nice clothes and a clean home, that child needs some TLC. Not some stubborn self righteous woman treating him like a teenager who should know better. Makes me want to throw up. I may not always be warm and fuzzy with my kid but if I am being that stern and hard line, it’s because my kid has ignored me repeatedly and pushed me over the line. That’s just that woman’s norm, and it’s socially acceptable and considered good parenting.
I don’t agree. But hey, I’m just the mentally disordered girl who lives in a trailer park. I don’t have a master’s degree and good job and blah blah fuck you with a barbed wire dildo. And I swear it’s not some inferiority complex on my part. When the little girl wet herself a little, she got a stern lecture and her mom made her go get her diaper bag, strip off her bottoms, put on clean ones, right there in daylight in the drive, doing the “humiliation as a lesson” thing. There is no planet on which that woman’s philosophy and mine will coincide happily. Some people are just oppressive and she’s that for me. I made a mistake telling R I didn’t want to come over when she was there. Now he just plays dumb and says he didn’t know she’d b there and I’m given more reasons to be a misanthrope. Socializing is traumatic enough for me, let alone with people I have no common ground with.
I’m not even sure how the subject came up, I may have said something about not wanting to leave Spook at my mom’s…And next I know, R and his wife, the professional upstanding citizens, are advising me to tell public aid I have a job and need a sitter. Now if that disturbs me with my fucked up morality, what the fuck makes them so socially upstanding? I find the notion offensive, not to mention, if you’ve ever dealt with the system, you can’t just “claim” things. They need ten copies of every thing as well as a blood oath and human sacrifice. I just…I was flabbergasted they’d even suggest such a thing, because it means that’s what they think of me. That I would even do such a thing. “Oh, (eldest daughter) had a friend who got public aid to pay for a sitter and they never even checked to see if she had a job.”
WTF? I bust my ass getting treated for my mental shit, jump through flaming ebola infested hoops to qualify for disability, insistent on honesty as a policy…And here are people basically encouraging me to do something shitty, which is why people on disability and assistance are viewed as such cretins.
Disturbing. People just fucking disturb me. I was thinking it’s my social ineptitude but this..This is just an affront to all that I stand for. To them, it was as if logical and normal as talking about the weather. Which again, what the actual fuck. I have some selective morals and even I won’t do that shit. But I’m the crazy one?
No more socializing for at least a month. That’s what I prescribe for myself. It’s toll is just too enormous.
I was thinking earlier I might try to “force” the writer’s block away, even if I just came up with drivel…But now my head hurts and I am tired and people’d out and I only have so much time before my kid comes home so I should really binge sleep and do housework…But I am drained and my mood is crashing. Undoubtedly, when I go to bed, the cramps and backache will keep me awake, my anxiety will skyrocket and I will be wide awake in a panic.
The whole notion that I *might* be doing better has been blown to hell. For me to be well, this shit wouldn’t have such an impact on me. It’d slide off like food on Teflon coated pans. So much for Trileptal. I know he’s gonna insist on raising the dose. And if I protest…
Meh. I’ll sweat it later. I need Tylenol. Head hurts so bad I am nauseous. Yay. I get a kid free night and as a gift, my body gives me a migraine that will respond only to darkness and silence.
I don’t know whose Cheerios I pissed in, but I’ve been paying for it for wayy too long now.