Monthly Archives: March 2016

Looking For Work In All The Wrong Places

Ready. Set. Sail! Oh man. I’m ALL out of sorts. I really honestly don’t know what to do with my life. I’ve been praying long and hard to the Angel of Fucks to show up and give me some. Lord knows he has a lot of fucks to give! I’m not giving any at the moment. But… More Looking For Work In All The Wrong Places

Hell Is Other People Mixed With Bipolar

I got this brilliant idea last night, in the wake of my depressive state and being sad about that young girl’s death, that maybe company wouldn’t be a horrible thing even if we just sat in silence. So R comes over wanting to watch Justice League Unlimited and I could not possibly give less of a fuck about Superman and Batman or cartoons but whatever…

I was expected him to be all bummed out, this girl was like a daughter to him growing up.

Couple of beers in him by then, his mood was fine. I was still in “gargle bleach” territory. Then I decided, like a genius, to vent some of my personal frustrations.

I tossed out how the child support took a huge chunk out of the food stamps and how hard it is to get by when 80% of my check goes toward bills every month, not factoring in gas and such. And when I tossed out my disability amount…

Off to the races of “self esteem assassination” we went.

He was outraged that I get “that much”. He carried on, “I work my ass off and barely make three hundred dollars more a month while you get that to sit around!”

Yeah, good thing no shovel was around or his skull would have met the sharp end.

I pointed out his wife makes ten times what he does being a professor (six figures a year) and she doesn’t contribute to any of the bills at their house cos she lives out of town during the week so maybe his poverty outrage should be directed closer to home.

Then he started in on how the cut in food stamps “doesn’t sound right” in that “I think you’re lying” tone, which irked me to the nth. Check out the paperwork, motherfucker. And I learned that the reduced amount is only good through April, then once I receive a full month child support I will be reduced to nothing.

YAY.

All the while Mr. “I have ten grand sitting in one bank account to take the whole family to Hawaii one day” and “I own four cars but only drive one of them” is bitching that I get “too much” disability money and it’s not fair because he works so hard and has a degree. (And never mind, 90% of his financial stability and being able to invest and make more came from two relatives dying and leaving behind vast inheritances as well as life insurance policies.)

Hell is other people. Even without bipolar distorting your responses. With bipolar…I can barely stand to be around anyone who isn’t dealing with mental issues because everyone else is busy being a cockweasel rather than seeing…

 

I am trying so hard here. This is no picnic or gravy train. I can barely drag my ass out of bed these days. I can’t sleep at night without pills and keep waking up. I don’t remember the last time I showered. I forgot to pay my power bill and had to set up payments. I am a damned trainwreck here and my “support system” is all but handing me a loaded gun and telling me to do the world a favor and pull the trigger.

Defeated and deflated are an understatement.

Like I wasn’t feeling shitty enough about myself. Feeling guilty for bitching about the cut in food stamps even if it was just making the point I had all along- the child support isn’t helping, it’s setting us back. Then I have to feel bad for not working because obviously I am functioning and raising a kid so I must be perfectly fine. Let us not forget the guilt for not being able to do better for my kid than living in a trailer park and driving a death trap. (I got the title for that in the mail today, winner, winner, salmonella infested dinner.)

GRRRRR.

R also made some snark when I tried to discuss my concern about Spook’s tantrums, relating it to her definitely being my kid cos she’s “80 percent crazy”. Lovely. Followed by more, “Oh, you just need to spank her ass good, my kids would never act that way.”

If I didn’t need him to fix the death trap I’d seriously be considering a much needed distancing.

Seriously…my dad calls disability my “nitwit” pension and laughs about people stampeding on food stamp day…

My mom calls me selfish for still being depressed when obviously having a kid should cure a legit illness. I mean, all those parents with cancer had miraculous remissions due to having a kid, right? No? Fuck you.

I am just…on the edge here. Day six of my stomach rioting, and it’s just stress. I have to eat to try to avoid the lithium nausea but eating makes my stomach worse. My kid had another mini tantrum last night lashing out at me. I am trying to figure out this new insurance thing, but the doctor won’t take her until I get the insurance card from his policy and then we have to discern if they will cover psych services or any meds she may need….

I also have to find new docs for her eye care, dentist, etc…So much bullshit. And I am in no condition to handle it all right now. I am one step from calling my doctor cos the lack of focus, the inability to get up in the morning, and this total lack of hygiene thing…I am NOT doing well just because I am functioning.

Just…ass trash.

Maybe to cheer us all up….

CLICK HERE TO SEE NEWBORN KITTENS


Shot Down By HuffPost!–What Can Help A Mom with Bipolar During Setbacks

  Today’s blog post contains a quiz!  It’s called “Guess Why The Huffington Post Rejected My Submission?” I’ll tell you some possible answers in advance; I guess that’s cheating, but I’ll make an exception. I thought the editor passed due to: a) It should be divided into two posts b) It rambles c) The essential oils section d) Shitty writing Hell, … Continue reading Shot Down By HuffPost!–What Can Help A Mom with Bipolar During Setbacks

Still Living With Bathtub Anxiety

This weeks Throwback Thursday doesn’t go back that far. Originally posted in January of 2014, I’m sorry to say not much has changed since then. Please don’t judge, but I have one struggle that I deal with every day – taking a shower. Go ahead and say it, “Gross!” I must stress that I don’t […]

The post Still Living With Bathtub Anxiety appeared first on Insights From A Bipolar Bear.

Still Living With Bathtub Anxiety

This weeks Throwback Thursday doesn’t go back that far. Originally posted in January of 2014, I’m sorry to say not much has changed since then. Please don’t judge, but I have one struggle that I deal with every day – taking a shower. Go ahead and say it, “Gross!” I must stress that I don’t […]

The post Still Living With Bathtub Anxiety appeared first on Insights From A Bipolar Bear.

The Changing Face of Bipolar

I woke up in the middle of the night for some reason and what was on my mind was how manic I was in my 20’s. Sometimes I question why I don’t seem to have mania any more, and I’m thinking maybe I used it all up in my 20’s.  In my 20’s, the world was full of magic and potential.  The air was crackling with the possibilities of life.  I was full of impulsivity – financially, sexually, and then finally geographically.  At about 23 years of age, I came to the conclusion that I didn’t like my life, and it was because I had always wanted to go to Paris, and the solution was to move to Paris.  So I set about selling everything I owned and bought a plane ticket.  I had very little money and even less of a plan.  Fortunately, I had a cousin living in Paris so I could stay with her initially.  When my cousin Mimi asked me what I wanted to do in Paris, I replied “I don’t know where this is coming from, but I feel like I want to sing!”  I was full of intuitive hunches and my faith in them.  I just knew everything would work out.

At the time, I was sober and very involved in AA, so when I got to Paris I found the American churches and the AA meetings full of ex-pats and made loads of new friends. I was gregarious and full of life – I was a beautiful 23 year old girl – who wouldn’t want to know me!  I walked everywhere in Paris – everywhere I looked was beauty.  Things I had only seen in pictures were regularly showing up in my field of vision.  I felt like I could do anything!

In talking to one of the ladies from one of my AA meetings about needing a job, she said “Well, can you sing? Because there’s this place called the Hollywood Savoy that takes English-speaking girls and you wait tables and then sing in between.”  A light went on in my head.  Hadn’t I said I wanted to sing?  I went right over with her and met the management, and just like that, I had a job.  They let me start without the proper paperwork (I didn’t have permission to work), so the job was very short-lived.  Also, even though I could sing, I wasn’t used to singing with a band and didn’t know how to come in with the intro, and I couldn’t find my key.  I must have looked like an idiot.  Some of the other girls made fun of me.  Oh, the dream and the reality were not matching.  Oh dear.

At this point, I was missing my group of friends and my family very much, and wondering why in the hell I’d come to Paris. I was suffering from culture shock and realizing that I didn’t speak French as well as I thought I did.  Specifically, I couldn’t understand the French that was being spoken.  I was beginning to panic.  Even so, I tried to salvage the situation by looking for a job as a nanny.

One thing in Paris that I had never seen or heard of was “Turkish Toilets” – that’s what they called them. They weren’t toilets at all, but just a hole in the ground that you squatted over to go to the bathroom.  Any time I encountered one, I resolutely refused to use it.  It disgusted me!  I was offered one nanny job in Paris that offered upstairs servant’s quarters for the nanny, but the bathroom was a Turkish Toilet.  Based on that one fact, I turned down the job.

The second nanny job I was offered, I took. It was just watching a baby, and I was expected to do everything to take care of the baby, including getting up with him in the middle of the night.  At one point I was sitting on the floor with the baby, and I was so sad and missing my family and friends, and I started to cry uncontrollably.  Then the baby started to cry.  Then the mother walked in.  Somehow I composed myself and tried to make light of the fact that I was an emotional basket case.

All in all, my Paris fantasy lasted all of six weeks before I called it quits and ran home with my tail tucked between my legs. I was so relieved to be back in my hometown, but also embarrassed because I had told people that I would be gone for a year.  I suffered a deep depression upon my return.  The magic of life had died.  I didn’t know where I had gone wrong, or where to go from where I was.  It may have been the first time that I felt really betrayed by myself, the first of many, many, many times to come.  I would not be diagnosed as having Bipolar Disorder for another ten years, many heartaches, many financial disasters, many failed relationships later.  For now, I would fumble along in life, looking for the magic, believing that something great was just around the corner, thinking that I was destined for great things.

The mania showed a person so zestful, so happy, so smart, so full of potential, that people reflected that back to me. People believed in me and in what I might do.  But the inevitable crashes that mania produced (as well as crashes caused by impulsive behavior, my kryptonite), caused me to be a shadow of that person.  I confused myself, and the outside world, with my two sides.  I thought I just had depression.  Why my therapist couldn’t link my severe impulse control issues with my mood disorder, I’ll never know.  However, it’s all clear to me now.  Although I miss the highs of life, and the belief in magic, I am grateful for the impulse control that keeps me from running my bank account down to zero, the impulse control that keeps me from shoplifting and the fear of being caught and exposed, the impulse control that keeps me from having sex with random strangers and thinking I’m a porn star.  I don’t have as many secrets to hide, and that’s a relief.  In AA, they say you’re only as sick as your secrets, and I believe that to be true.  I’m not too sick.  I am a secret smoker.  Sometimes I use pot, although I try to avoid it.  But that’s about it, for secrets.  You guys know it all.  And you’re still reading!!  Thank you.  And for now, I’ll close with saying take a chance.  Share your secret.  Even if it’s here in the comments.  You’ll feel better.  I know I do.


Filed under: Bipolar, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Mania, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Bipolar, Blogging, Hope, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader

The Changing Face of Bipolar

I woke up in the middle of the night for some reason and what was on my mind was how manic I was in my 20’s. Sometimes I question why I don’t seem to have mania any more, and I’m thinking maybe I used it all up in my 20’s.  In my 20’s, the world was full of magic and potential.  The air was crackling with the possibilities of life.  I was full of impulsivity – financially, sexually, and then finally geographically.  At about 23 years of age, I came to the conclusion that I didn’t like my life, and it was because I had always wanted to go to Paris, and the solution was to move to Paris.  So I set about selling everything I owned and bought a plane ticket.  I had very little money and even less of a plan.  Fortunately, I had a cousin living in Paris so I could stay with her initially.  When my cousin Mimi asked me what I wanted to do in Paris, I replied “I don’t know where this is coming from, but I feel like I want to sing!”  I was full of intuitive hunches and my faith in them.  I just knew everything would work out.

At the time, I was sober and very involved in AA, so when I got to Paris I found the American churches and the AA meetings full of ex-pats and made loads of new friends. I was gregarious and full of life – I was a beautiful 23 year old girl – who wouldn’t want to know me!  I walked everywhere in Paris – everywhere I looked was beauty.  Things I had only seen in pictures were regularly showing up in my field of vision.  I felt like I could do anything!

In talking to one of the ladies from one of my AA meetings about needing a job, she said “Well, can you sing? Because there’s this place called the Hollywood Savoy that takes English-speaking girls and you wait tables and then sing in between.”  A light went on in my head.  Hadn’t I said I wanted to sing?  I went right over with her and met the management, and just like that, I had a job.  They let me start without the proper paperwork (I didn’t have permission to work), so the job was very short-lived.  Also, even though I could sing, I wasn’t used to singing with a band and didn’t know how to come in with the intro, and I couldn’t find my key.  I must have looked like an idiot.  Some of the other girls made fun of me.  Oh, the dream and the reality were not matching.  Oh dear.

At this point, I was missing my group of friends and my family very much, and wondering why in the hell I’d come to Paris. I was suffering from culture shock and realizing that I didn’t speak French as well as I thought I did.  Specifically, I couldn’t understand the French that was being spoken.  I was beginning to panic.  Even so, I tried to salvage the situation by looking for a job as a nanny.

One thing in Paris that I had never seen or heard of was “Turkish Toilets” – that’s what they called them. They weren’t toilets at all, but just a hole in the ground that you squatted over to go to the bathroom.  Any time I encountered one, I resolutely refused to use it.  It disgusted me!  I was offered one nanny job in Paris that offered upstairs servant’s quarters for the nanny, but the bathroom was a Turkish Toilet.  Based on that one fact, I turned down the job.

The second nanny job I was offered, I took. It was just watching a baby, and I was expected to do everything to take care of the baby, including getting up with him in the middle of the night.  At one point I was sitting on the floor with the baby, and I was so sad and missing my family and friends, and I started to cry uncontrollably.  Then the baby started to cry.  Then the mother walked in.  Somehow I composed myself and tried to make light of the fact that I was an emotional basket case.

All in all, my Paris fantasy lasted all of six weeks before I called it quits and ran home with my tail tucked between my legs. I was so relieved to be back in my hometown, but also embarrassed because I had told people that I would be gone for a year.  I suffered a deep depression upon my return.  The magic of life had died.  I didn’t know where I had gone wrong, or where to go from where I was.  It may have been the first time that I felt really betrayed by myself, the first of many, many, many times to come.  I would not be diagnosed as having Bipolar Disorder for another ten years, many heartaches, many financial disasters, many failed relationships later.  For now, I would fumble along in life, looking for the magic, believing that something great was just around the corner, thinking that I was destined for great things.

The mania showed a person so zestful, so happy, so smart, so full of potential, that people reflected that back to me. People believed in me and in what I might do.  But the inevitable crashes that mania produced (as well as crashes caused by impulsive behavior, my kryptonite), caused me to be a shadow of that person.  I confused myself, and the outside world, with my two sides.  I thought I just had depression.  Why my therapist couldn’t link my severe impulse control issues with my mood disorder, I’ll never know.  However, it’s all clear to me now.  Although I miss the highs of life, and the belief in magic, I am grateful for the impulse control that keeps me from running my bank account down to zero, the impulse control that keeps me from shoplifting and the fear of being caught and exposed, the impulse control that keeps me from having sex with random strangers and thinking I’m a porn star.  I don’t have as many secrets to hide, and that’s a relief.  In AA, they say you’re only as sick as your secrets, and I believe that to be true.  I’m not too sick.  I am a secret smoker.  Sometimes I use pot, although I try to avoid it.  But that’s about it, for secrets.  You guys know it all.  And you’re still reading!!  Thank you.  And for now, I’ll close with saying take a chance.  Share your secret.  Even if it’s here in the comments.  You’ll feel better.  I know I do.


Filed under: Bipolar, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Mania, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Bipolar, Blogging, Hope, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader

Hello..is it me your looking for??

Yes world. I am still here. Still kicking. Still depressed. Still pregnant. Still all of the above.

Difference is I’m mending better because I have a really good therapist that I like and I moving my job to night shifts.

This pregnancy has me down a lot maybe because of all the extra hormones I’m feeling but I’m just not that happy about it.

Nothing has changed and everything is still the same. I haven’t been writing because I just haven’t felt the need to write anything anymore. Also some jerk face book my URL so it really sucks to write something when your website has been stolen. 

I’m really trying to be more proficient in all areas of my life but I feel just the same. 

I move my job tonight shifts because I really started hating the customers that came into the job in the morning. I can’t handle mornings anyway so having this baby inside me, getting up early, having to deal with people in their stupid drinks, really set me off. I know it’s horrible because these people are just going about their day normally but for me it is such a  pain in the ass hole. 

Maybe one day I’ll be better at customer service, maybe not, but until then I have to slow down and figure out what the hell is going on with me for real. 

I hope you are doing well and no one is hurt themselves or made themselves feel down more than usual. I hope I can reconnect with the word press world and just become a better person because of it.


Hello..is it me your looking for??

Yes world. I am still here. Still kicking. Still depressed. Still pregnant. Still all of the above.

Difference is I’m mending better because I have a really good therapist that I like and I moving my job to night shifts.

This pregnancy has me down a lot maybe because of all the extra hormones I’m feeling but I’m just not that happy about it.

Nothing has changed and everything is still the same. I haven’t been writing because I just haven’t felt the need to write anything anymore. Also some jerk face book my URL so it really sucks to write something when your website has been stolen. 

I’m really trying to be more proficient in all areas of my life but I feel just the same. 

I move my job tonight shifts because I really started hating the customers that came into the job in the morning. I can’t handle mornings anyway so having this baby inside me, getting up early, having to deal with people in their stupid drinks, really set me off. I know it’s horrible because these people are just going about their day normally but for me it is such a  pain in the ass hole. 

Maybe one day I’ll be better at customer service, maybe not, but until then I have to slow down and figure out what the hell is going on with me for real. 

I hope you are doing well and no one is hurt themselves or made themselves feel down more than usual. I hope I can reconnect with the word press world and just become a better person because of it.


Westward Ho! Day 4

Spokane, WA (7:30 AM) to Port Townsend, WA (4:00 PM).  370 miles.
Notables: Sting’s Roxanne (Symphonicities version)

Between Spokane and Seattle

Well, really, ho-hum.  Another day of brilliant sun, snow-capped mountains, burbling streams.  It’s just all a little overdone, don’t you think?  I mean, on and on with the sapphire sky and pine-fresh air… can’t these Pacific Northwesterners show a little restraint?

We were doing just fine until Seattle.  I saw signs for a tollway and wondered, tollways?  When was the last time I paid a toll?  Do they still have big buckets to throw quarters at as you pass by?  Do I have any quarters?

Since John had no answers, I thought I’d better stop and inquire about proper procedure.  I didn’t want to get chased by Washington State Smokies (Were they even called that anymore?  Geez, I felt old).

Come to find out, the highway cams snap a picture of your license plate and you get a bill in the mail.  More stuff I never knew.

On the FerrySo, I was a little flustered when we got to the ferry.  I thought I told John to take a different route to avoid the ferry, but here we were.  The first time around, Cleese got us in the wrong lane and the Port Authority officer yelled at me (until he saw that I had an Iowa license plate and clearly no accurate help from my British Sulu).

 After I stuffed a sock in his recorded yap, I found my way to the ferry toll and holding area.  Clear sailing from there on (pun only sort of intended).

Looking Back at SeattleI’m finding that a GPS system can get just as befuddled as a human when the details become complicated and change quickly.  Two heads (one nav-sat and one bipolar) really are better than one.

Another hour of twisty two-lane highway through forest and, to my surprise, cattle ranches brought us to Port Townsend and Fort Worden.

I checked in, made my journal (which will hold all the art I make this week), dumped my stuff in my dorm room (which used to be the barracks), and started schmoozing.

dorm

IMG_0364Dinner offered a vegan option (a to-die-for veggie burger).  Teesha made a few logistical announcements and introduced our teachers.

I made a few swaps (traded art bits) with the fun folk I’ve met so far, and came to my room to report and crash.  Tomorrow: ART.Art Swaps