I normally refer to medication adjustments as the medi-go-round but since starting the Lithium while lowering the Cymbalta, it’s been more like a ferris wheel. Go up, up, up, stop at the top, then splat followed by slowly going up higher.
Tuesday night I went hypo manic. I stayed up 27 hours, watched music videos all night, which in itself is impressive. For the last year, music has been a major anxiety trigger in spite of how much I love music. I even managed to take a call yesterday and talked, comfortably, for almost an hour.
But inevitably comes the splat, where exhaustion takes over, your mind is still racing, but your body aches in protest. When you finally get to sleep…You wake up an hour later, feeling pretty damn rested.
Then came picking up my kid and she was on monster speed. I fixed grilled cheese for supper at 5 p.m. because she’d spent three hours wailing about being hungry in spite of multiple snacks. Suddenly she’s whimpering, claiming a stomach ache. I finally relented, not wanting to force food on her if she was truly sick. Not twenty minutes later she makes a miraculous recovery and demands chicken noodle soup. Which makes me wonder if she was ever feeling ill at all or simply didnt like my choice for supper.
We were both asleep by 7 p.m., sad as that may be. I was exhausted. That hour nap didn’t really refresh me enough to withstand hurricane Spook. My new bedsheets (thank you Christmas pegacorn, gift cards are AWESOME), the satin look black ones, came in the mail and I was too cold and tired to even put them on the bed. Standing out in the cold waiting for school dismissal just set cold into my bone marrow and nothing got me warm enough the whole night. I think it’s been three or four days since I showered and I was gonna do that but…Ugh, it took so much energy to just deal with her attitude. I always thought as she got older and more self sufficient parenting would get easier.
Ha. I had more energy and will to live when she was still in diapers. Of course, she wasn’t talking 24-7 back then. High maintenance doesn’t begin to describe her at age 6. By the time she reaches teen years, I will probably be in a padded room screaming for a black straight jacket cos white depresses me.
So, yeah, early to sleep.I was up up at 8:30, ten, twelve thirty, two a.m., four thirty, again at six…Then came alarm and relentlessly hitting the snooze button. (I set it a half hour earlier than necessary so I can accommodate my own morning inertia.) Another rainy gloomy day but it’s warmer than it was yesterday so I am actually out of bed and half functional. Put the new sheets on the bed. Now if I could just get a comforter that isn’t 18 years old with the stuffing falling out… Needy,not greedy.
Saw my first ex husband at a store yesterday. He smiled and said hi. Man, is he looking rough, like Chewbacca is growing off his face and wearing farmer flannel. Of course, I was in my chic slowbwear with my gray roots in all their glory so where do I get off passing any judgment. I think it’s facial hair. It’s just icky. On everyone. Except maybe the circus’ bearded lady, cos ya know, that’s her whole schtick.
Yesterday morning I had a major meltdown just getting my kid to school. I couldn’t even get the car to stay running and warm up, it just kept flooding out and dying. I took an alternate route to her school , figuring fewer stop signs might let the engine burn off some of the flooded fuel. Ha. Died six more times, then we got to the school and there’s a line of ten cars plus a bus in front of us. I had to start the car about ten times cos just idling it died over and over. By which time Spook was hollering about being embarrassed by our junky car. Two assjackyls nearly hit me on the way home, so I was having an anxiety attack and swearing.
Fifteen minute outing and by the time I got home…Basketcase.
How does my condition effect my day to day life?
More appropriately, professionals and powers that be, is how does it NOT effect my life.
Sometimes my neuroses even turn me into a compassionless self centered bitchbeast. Like w
Then dad dropped Spook off the other night and they had power steering fluid dued to a cracked well shooting out of their truck. And all my selfish ass could think was, Oh, please, figure it out, don’t ask to come inside, don’t ask me to give you a ride somewhere.
I’m an asshole.
After the manic high and crashing splat, I don’t think I am gonna push myself too far today. I am already dreading tomorrow night as I accepted and invite to eat ham and beans at Mrs. R’s with them. Well, at least wine is served with dinner there.
I still feel bad for not answering the phone last week when she called to invite (I was in basketcase land, all contact barred for the protection of all). So I figure this week I am gonna give it a shot. Least stay long enough to eat and seem polite before bolting back to my bubble.
I told the doctor that living on disability and never getting stable for more than four months is killing my soul. He gives platitudes, “Oh, we’ll get you back to work, you will get stable again.”
Reassuring after his last edict of, “You’re always up then down, it will always be that way but we’re get you stable.”
Stable means controlling this bullshit mental stuff 24-7 cos that’s what a job requires, you don’t get “bad mental health” days. I feel doomed every time I talk to him. And the sad thing is, he’s a very nice man but his optimism, in the face of all my failures, seems like too much pressure.
Okay, to end this on a less gloomy note…Most probably won’t remember the SNL skit “Toonces, the driving cat” but I snapped this pic of Feet…And suddenly remembered it and burst into laughter.