Daily Archives: September 13, 2015

Supposed to Be Better

The last time I made a Safety Plan I did it in an appointment with Sadie.  She had asked me to bring in some possible templates to use, and the one she preferred started with 3 lines for listing “Warning signs that a crisis may be developing”.  One of my warning signs is “start making […]

Increased Seroquel dose, under my doctor’s supervision. 

Increased my dose of Seroquel from 50 mg to a 100 mg. Emotionally, feel better already. The pain is almost gone. My heart doesn’t ache so much.  Physically, feel dizzy and tired. Mentally, feel about as sharp as a lump of dough. But the physical and mental issues will resolve in a few days and hopefully the emotional symptoms will stay away and I can be at peace in my own skin. I won’t be crying and heart broken over every thing that reminds me of my son or every thought I have about him. That’s what happens when you feel bad, thoughts attach to the bad feelings and then it’s a downward spiral if you don’t stop it with medication. If I’m not already feeling bad, mood wise, I can control my thoughts. But when my mood plunges, it takes me along for a nightmarish and painful ride into hell. That’s when Zoloft used to help. Now it’s Seroquel. And in a few days, I hope, I will be as right as rain, the distilled water kind, not the acid variety. Here’s to another day in our lives. May we get what we want and want what we get and live happily ever after. Well, who knows, somewhere, someone must be living a fairytale life!


Story Corp

Just found out about this thing called Story Corp. Such a great idea. We can all do this for our blogs as well, interview people, relatives, friends, and post the interviews on our blogs.  

https://storycorps.me
HOW IT WORKSChoose someone to interview.
 Pick great questions. Find a quiet place to record. Listen closely.

 When you’re finished, share your interview with the world.

 Help create an archive of the wisdom of humanity.

  


Stop The Raft, I Wanna Get Off

[Here’s where I’d tell you about the violent panic attack I had last night, how I couldn’t make it stop and how I woke up feeling guilty and ashamed of myself for losing so much control. Today, I don’t feel like I can access the parts of my brain that allow me to write how I normally do. I barely feel like I can access my brain at all. I told myself I was gonna refrain from posting my creative projects here as much as possible, but they sneak in when my wiring gets loose or something. This one’s fairly spontaneous and minimally edited. I’m really fucking sad, y’know?]

_________________________________________________________________________

In Thrace, the man who went to hell
Was shredded at the joints.
These women wanted his notes
Is that right?
Plucked clean, already from birth
And wasn’t he beautiful?
He pled, didn’t he
For the snakebit heel of his wife
That went first
Chaffs tangled underneath her mortal slump
Is that right?
Each folding nexus, just for her that shouldn’t be there
An undamned eye sees a reverence if at all
I see gravity, I don’t know how else
Is that it?
When you return from me
You’ll notice the lack of gods, I think,
And wonder, why were you even there?
Eyes to the roof of the sky, shedding shoulders at the cuff
Who needs them?
Euridice was the coin on his tongue to trade for sticks
The more beautiful I am, the freer my passage
But I won’t be beautiful
I don’t see the need
Notes plucked clean slur into the mud
Then what have we?
Folded chaffs
Missing gods
Redemption, even mine, is mine to waste
The tatter of a misremembered myth
Is mine to screw into the earth
I’m a liar too, you know
I’m above and below you too, you know
In all ways
And always a hard C at the very end
The limbless man awaiting hell, he says to me aloud:
Well then, good luck

-LB

Tagged: bipolar disorder, creative writing, depression, guilt, panic attack, poetry, sadness

Stop The Raft, I Wanna Get Off

[Here’s where I’d tell you about the violent panic attack I had last night, how I couldn’t make it stop and how I woke up feeling guilty and ashamed of myself for losing so much control. Today, I don’t feel like I can access the parts of my brain that allow me to write how I normally do. I barely feel like I can access my brain at all. I told myself I was gonna refrain from posting my creative projects here as much as possible, but they sneak in when my wiring gets loose or something. This one’s fairly spontaneous and minimally edited. I’m really fucking sad, y’know?]

_________________________________________________________________________

In Thrace, the man who went to hell
Was shredded at the joints.
These women wanted his notes
Is that right?
Plucked clean, already clean from birth
And wasn’t he beautiful?
He pled, didn’t he
For the snakebit heel of his wife
That went first
Chaffs tangled underneath her mortal slump
Is that right?
Each folding nexus, just for her that shouldn’t be there
The undamned eye sees a reverence if at all
I see gravity, I don’t know how else
Is that it?
When you return from me
You’ll notice the lack of gods, I think,
And wonder, why were you even there,
Eyes to the roof of the sky, shedding shoulders at the cuff
Who needs them?
Euridice was the coin on his tongue to trade for sticks
The more beautiful I am, the freer my passage
But I won’t be beautiful
I don’t see the need
Notes plucked clean slur into the mud
Then what have we?
Folded chaffs
Missing gods
Redemption, even mine, is mine to waste
The tatter of a misremembered myth
Is mine to screw into the earth
I’m a liar too, you know
I’m above and below you too, you know
In all ways
And always a hard C at the very end
The limbless man awaiting hell, he says to me aloud:
Well then, good luck

-LB

Tagged: bipolar disorder, creative writing, depression, guilt, panic attack, poetry, sadness

Disconnected

I don’t know how else to explain what I’m feeling today. Just disconnected from everything and everyone. Almost like I’m on the outside looking in. Apathetic, shut off, shut down…But under the surface my anxiety is boiling, heading toward a panxiety episode. Calm before the storm, the next calamity is coming…And after the last couple of weeks, one would have to admit I have just cause to be paranoid and wary. Shrinks and therapists say fearing the worst hinders life and isn’t healthy yet so many times I’ve been lost to a depression or haze and been caught off guard. Had I kept up my vigilant stance of anticipating the worst…It wouldn’t have crushed me so bad.

My way is my way and it’s bizarre and contradictory of normal therapy…I just find it useful to me.

Thus far this morning, I’ve talked to my dad on the phone (he’s been civilized again.) I managed to do the Mt Vesuvius of dishes that have amassed the last few days. Which sucked cos I actually had this dream and it seemed so real, where I’d already done the dishes…Hate doing dishes. Hate hate hate it. Love sticking them in a dishwasher though I’ve never owned one, just used others’.

I made a big pot of ghoul-ash (sue me, Halloween is coming, I’m letting my freak flag fly) and delivered some to mom and her roomie at the hotel, then located sis and their team of movers at the burned out house to drop some off to them. I despise cooking for others. Mainly because everyone has their own preference and it’s impossible to please everyone. My mom is super picky, she doesn’t believe in seasoning beyond salt and pepper and she prefers everything fried rather than baked…Ugh, I don’t envy my sister the task of cooking for her the last 20 years.

I wasn’t apathetic last night. I’ve been watching Sons Of Anarchy because I don’t do anything trendy, I wait til it falls out of favor then get into it…And they killed off Tara with a kitchen pokey fork thing to the skull and I just know Jax’s scumbag mom is gonna get away with it…I was fucking livid. Yes, I take shows that seriously sometimes. Now that they’ve pissed me off, I’ve decided I’m not gonna bother watching the final series ending season. Maybe one day but not now. I’ve got enough evil in reality getting away with shit, I don’t need to watch it, too.

I really should get off my ass and do some housework. When even I am ashamed at how bad it’s gotten, that’s pretty bad. It’s weird cos I read all these posts where people carry on about “filthy housekeeping” and I roll my eyes, thinking, wow, I don’t want to meet this fussy butt. Some of us just have other priorities. My theory is the five second rule becomes the five minute rule to eat food off the floor. Builds up the immune system. Okay, I don’t let my kid eat off the floor but still…I think this trend of turning children into helpless little snowflakes who are practically put in bubbles to avoid germs and smoke and pet hair and peanuts and pegacorn poop…It’s created a bunch of wussies with no immune system. You gotta build one and if nothing dirty is ever fought off, you can’t build it up.

Yeah, yeah, bring on the tar and feathers, whatever. I’m too disconnected to care. I just want to get caught up a bit, then say fuck it. Long as we have clean dishes, clean clothes and a pathway down the hall…Meh.

I can’t remember when I showered last. Thursday? Friday? It got cold suddenly and when I am cold and not sweating, I don’t even think about a shower until my hair starts feeling gnarly. That’s the depression. I used to be a total fashionista snot, even if my fashion was my own style and not the trend. Now I’m doing slobwear. And not able to give a damn. That’s pathetic.

“How does depression affect your ability to lead a normal life?”

I’m so tired of being asked that. LOOK at me. I’m the walking friggin dead here, two steps from donning a floral print muumuu and getting so fat they have to remove the wall to hoist me out. When you get to that point of apathy, it’s a bad sign.

And the weird part is, I AM feeling better at the higher Cymbalta dose but then, I was so low, it’d be damn near impossible not to feel some improvement. I just loathe the idea of starting another med. Stick with the devil I know. Yet if I continue to slide as the weather changes all the while the doctor insists it’s loss of sunlight…GRRRR.

I guess my disconnection can be turned back on and into anger when I think of how catch 22 everything is.

Laundry. I should do that. Convince myself I was productive today so I can go to bed early and sleep. Except that’s plagued with the bizarre dreams. Another week of the dish and school pick up in front of me. I’m not the only one, others have complained about the hassle, too, especially when it gets bad weather and we either sit in our cars while the kids stand outside in the cold waiting for us to run the traffic jam to get to them, or we park a block away and the kids have to trudge through the cold.

Superintendent never did respond to my letter with the Mapquest milage, asshole.

Breathe, Morgue…Breathe.

Okay, I’m not disconnected from my anxiety or anger.

I’d much rather be connected to something positive yet I think losing Abby and Arsenic broke me in some way. I’m afraid to bond with anything or anyone now. Least not to that degree.

So much ass trash is life.


What Was I Thinking?

When I was a kid, I had irrational thoughts all the time. I think most kids do. They were harmless – even amusing.

It’s when you’re older that they become problems, or even dangers.

My younger self wouldn’t eat rhubarb because I knew that some part of the plant was poisonous and I didn’t want to take a chance. (I still don’t eat rhubarb. Any vegetable that needs that much sugar to make it palatable hardly seems worth it.) I suppose that could be considered an early OCD-type thought, since it was about potentially toxic food.

Another paranoid idea I had was that when someone threw a cigarette out of a car window, it could cause a major fireball explosion if it just happened to land underneath another car that just happened to have a leaking gas tank. I always looked around and braced for disaster when I saw someone fling a death-stick onto the road. It might as well have been dynamite, as far as I was concerned. (And I was very concerned.)

Yet another irrational fear (looking back, my irrational thoughts were almost all fears) was based on the fact that I had no idea how plumbing really worked. I was afraid that if I flushed the toilet right before I brushed my teeth, the waste water somehow flowed past the tap and could end up on my toothbrush.

(Another plumbing-related misconception dealt with sex (though not conception), but we won’t go into that now. Let’s just say that they never covered it in health class back then. For all I know, they still don’t. I had my mother buy me a copy of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask so I could find the answer.)

In my teen years, my irrational thoughts became more delusional, and more related to my by-then-shaky mental health. At some point it was recommended (I think by the high school, though I don’t remember the circumstances) that I should visit a counselor. And they were right. I certainly should have, although in retrospect, child psychiatry in those days was fairly primitive and I most likely wouldn’t have received a correct diagnosis or treatment. I don’t think bipolar type 2 even existed.

I’ll say this for my parents: They consulted me on whether I wanted to go or not, which was not what I would have expected. I declined.

My “reason”? I somehow thought that having such a thing on my permanent record would keep me from getting into a good – or perhaps any – college. (When I started applying, of course, no one even asked.)

And once I was in college and knew that my sanity was truly on shaky ground, my life goal was to graduate, and then work enough quarters (at pretty much anything) until I qualified for Social Security before I was put away. I was convinced that was likely to be my fate. I’m not sure why I thought that having Social Security would have helped.

None of those irrational fears were ever addressed in a timely manner. Except the sex one. Yay, me! for finding some accurate information on that one and Yay, Mom! for facilitating my enlightenment.

If you’ve noticed a trend of increasing irrationality and increasing potential for sabotaging my own life, you’re not wrong.

*** TRIGGER WARNING ***

The rest of this is tough stuff. You know what’s coming, so stop now if you’re not ready to hear about it.

When I had my major meltdown ten or so years ago, I had the worst irrational thought of all. My mother had just died, so my thought processes were pretty scrambled anyway.

Then my husband did something that I thought was unethical and likely illegal as well. Then he said he’d do it again. I managed to talk our way out of the first instance as a simple mistake, but his statement that he might do it again haunted me.

I catastrophized, of course. This time, however, the potential catastrophe loomed large and to me very real. If he did repeat his actions. there would be no possibility of smoothing things over. He would be culpable. And I would be in the position of needing to report it.

Then he would lose his job – at the very least – which was at the time loosely related to the legal system. They wouldn’t be able to overlook it.

I was unable to work at the time, trying to get disability, and we were barely staying afloat. Without his job, we would sink.

So I thought that, if he did it again, and I reported it, and he lost his job, the only thing left for me to do was kill myself.

Like I said, pretty irrational.

I had a plan, though. In fact, I had three or four different plans and I couldn’t decide among them. Indecision is part of what kept me alive.

As it turns out, my husband did not choose to repeat his actions, and I was spared the necessity of choosing among mine.

Soon thereafter, I got help. I never mentioned the suicidal thoughts till they were long gone, so I never even had to fear the dreaded lock-up that I had anticipated all those years before.

I kept one of the intended means of exit for a while, though. Just in case.

It was a major day in my healing when I finally let that go. That irrational thought had been dismissed and conquered.

 

 


Filed under: Mental Health, Uncategorized Tagged: bipolar type 2, childhood depression, delusional thoughts, husband, irrational thoughts, mental illness, my experiences, psychological pain, suicidal thoughts, trigger warning