Daily Archives: March 27, 2016

Happy Easter!

My sister was just in San Francisco and was kind enough to buy me some Ghirardelli dark chocolate-covered espresso beans. Nothing says “do ya think I’m sexy” like a mouth full of coffee grounds, which is what I look like after chewing on a few of these.  However, they DO give me a certain energy, a verve, a joie de vivre, that caffeine all by itself hasn’t done in a long time.  It’s like I found a new drug!  Eat four or six or ten of these, and your procrastinating days are over!  You’re in the shower, you’re dressed, and you’re walking, not driving, to the grocery store to brave the hordes of other procrastinators who didn’t get their Easter groceries earlier.  Ah well, the sun was shining, and I floated on a cloud all the way there, avoiding puddles in my too-big white pants (yay, weight loss) and my easter-egg colored tie-dyed t-shirt!  And lucky-fucking-me, they weren’t out of my favorite, Hawaiian Rolls.  Those soft & gooey rolls just beg for a big dollop of butter and to be dipped in gravy, which I also bought.  Now if I can just figure out how to endure the chaos of the whole family getting together, nieces and nephews screaming and literally shaking the house.  If I thought I could maintain my composure, I’d get stoned.  But there’s the danger that I’d forget to talk, or that I would say something wildly inappropriate, which would give me away.  Or, the family might think I’m on the verge of a psychotic episode, even worse.  So, I’ll go into the family gathering sober, hoping that my frail father doesn’t have the energy to have a temper tantrum about anything.  Oh, the joy of family.


Filed under: Bipolar, Bipolar Pothead, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Bipolar, Hope, Humor, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader

Happy Easter!

My sister was just in San Francisco and was kind enough to buy me some Ghirardelli dark chocolate-covered espresso beans. Nothing says “do ya think I’m sexy” like a mouth full of coffee grounds, which is what I look like after chewing on a few of these.  However, they DO give me a certain energy, a verve, a joie de vivre, that caffeine all by itself hasn’t done in a long time.  It’s like I found a new drug!  Eat four or six or ten of these, and your procrastinating days are over!  You’re in the shower, you’re dressed, and you’re walking, not driving, to the grocery store to brave the hordes of other procrastinators who didn’t get their Easter groceries earlier.  Ah well, the sun was shining, and I floated on a cloud all the way there, avoiding puddles in my too-big white pants (yay, weight loss) and my easter-egg colored tie-dyed t-shirt!  And lucky-fucking-me, they weren’t out of my favorite, Hawaiian Rolls.  Those soft & gooey rolls just beg for a big dollop of butter and to be dipped in gravy, which I also bought.  Now if I can just figure out how to endure the chaos of the whole family getting together, nieces and nephews screaming and literally shaking the house.  If I thought I could maintain my composure, I’d get stoned.  But there’s the danger that I’d forget to talk, or that I would say something wildly inappropriate, which would give me away.  Or, the family might think I’m on the verge of a psychotic episode, even worse.  So, I’ll go into the family gathering sober, hoping that my frail father doesn’t have the energy to have a temper tantrum about anything.  Oh, the joy of family.


Filed under: Bipolar, Bipolar Pothead, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Bipolar, Hope, Humor, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader

I’m Not Brave – I’m Stubborn

Don’t forget! March 30 is World Bipolar Day!

Kopf durch die Wand

One of my friends, who is overweight, recently told me that when she was at the gym on the treadmill, a stranger came over to her and told her she was “an inspiration.”

My friend felt insulted. She was working out for herself and for her health, not to inspire anyone else or to be taken as a symbol of I-don’t-know-what – perseverance? attitude? effort? hope?

I feel sort of the same way when people say that because I am open and public with my bipolar disorder that I am “brave.”

I’m not doing this because I’m brave. I’m doing it because I’m stubborn.

I am who and what I am, and I’m willing to reveal a lot of it because, frankly, I can’t hide it and don’t want to. I’m not average or typical. Not normal, mentally or emotionally.

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with the concept of “normal.” Desperately wanting to appear normal, but knowing viscerally that I am not. Wondering what it’s like, but knowing that I’ll never know. Wondering what it even means, or what it means that I’m not. I haven’t found answers yet, and at this point I don’t think I’m going to. It’s probably a waste of my time to try.

So, if I’m outside the “norm,” which I am, I may as well admit it. And since writing is what I do, I write about it. I’m not doing this because I’m “brave,” I’m doing this because on some level I have to. I’m stubborn.

I’m stubborn enough these days to have made a sort of peace with the concept of “normal,” even though I still don’t understand it.

I’m stubborn enough to acknowledge my difference and give it its proper name – bipolar disorder.

I’m stubborn enough not to care when I say that and some people flinch or back away.

I’m stubborn enough to reveal things that embarrass me because they are part of me and part of what I’ve lived and lived through.

I’m stubborn enough to get tattoos proclaiming my status as “mentally ill” and using them to open conversations and educate others.

I have not come to embrace my stubbornness easily. I’ve tried to fake “normal” and hide my differences. I’ve gone to my shrink and just referred to “doctor appointments.” I’ve made Prozac jokes even though I was taking it at the time. (For this I am truly sorry, as I later learned that one of those jokes made another person afraid to admit that she took Prozac too.)

I’m not trying to be an “inspiration.” I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone else. I’m doing what I have to do for me. If someone else finds some good in it, that’s fine. But that’s not why I do it.

I am bipolar.

I am a writer.

I am stubborn.

Taken together, you get this blog.

Bipolar Me.


Filed under: Mental Health Tagged: acting "normal", bipolar disorder, bipolar type 2, blogging, mental illness, my experiences, public perception, stigma, World Bipolar Day

I’m Not Brave – I’m Stubborn

Don’t forget! March 30 is World Bipolar Day!

Kopf durch die Wand

One of my friends, who is overweight, recently told me that when she was at the gym on the treadmill, a stranger came over to her and told her she was “an inspiration.”

My friend felt insulted. She was working out for herself and for her health, not to inspire anyone else or to be taken as a symbol of I-don’t-know-what – perseverance? attitude? effort? hope?

I feel sort of the same way when people say that because I am open and public with my bipolar disorder that I am “brave.”

I’m not doing this because I’m brave. I’m doing it because I’m stubborn.

I am who and what I am, and I’m willing to reveal a lot of it because, frankly, I can’t hide it and don’t want to. I’m not average or typical. Not normal, mentally or emotionally.

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with the concept of “normal.” Desperately wanting to appear normal, but knowing viscerally that I am not. Wondering what it’s like, but knowing that I’ll never know. Wondering what it even means, or what it means that I’m not. I haven’t found answers yet, and at this point I don’t think I’m going to. It’s probably a waste of my time to try.

So, if I’m outside the “norm,” which I am, I may as well admit it. And since writing is what I do, I write about it. I’m not doing this because I’m “brave,” I’m doing this because on some level I have to. I’m stubborn.

I’m stubborn enough these days to have made a sort of peace with the concept of “normal,” even though I still don’t understand it.

I’m stubborn enough to acknowledge my difference and give it its proper name – bipolar disorder.

I’m stubborn enough not to care when I say that and some people flinch or back away.

I’m stubborn enough to reveal things that embarrass me because they are part of me and part of what I’ve lived and lived through.

I’m stubborn enough to get tattoos proclaiming my status as “mentally ill” and using them to open conversations and educate others.

I have not come to embrace my stubbornness easily. I’ve tried to fake “normal” and hide my differences. I’ve gone to my shrink and just referred to “doctor appointments.” I’ve made Prozac jokes even though I was taking it at the time. (For this I am truly sorry, as I later learned that one of those jokes made another person afraid to admit that she took Prozac too.)

I’m not trying to be an “inspiration.” I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone else. I’m doing what I have to do for me. If someone else finds some good in it, that’s fine. But that’s not why I do it.

I am bipolar.

I am a writer.

I am stubborn.

Taken together, you get this blog.

Bipolar Me.


Filed under: Mental Health Tagged: acting "normal", bipolar disorder, bipolar type 2, blogging, mental illness, my experiences, public perception, stigma, World Bipolar Day

I’m Not Brave – I’m Stubborn

Don’t forget! March 30 is World Bipolar Day!

Kopf durch die Wand

One of my friends, who is overweight, recently told me that when she was at the gym on the treadmill, a stranger came over to her and told her she was “an inspiration.”

My friend felt insulted. She was working out for herself and for her health, not to inspire anyone else or to be taken as a symbol of I-don’t-know-what – perseverance? attitude? effort? hope?

I feel sort of the same way when people say that because I am open and public with my bipolar disorder that I am “brave.”

I’m not doing this because I’m brave. I’m doing it because I’m stubborn.

I am who and what I am, and I’m willing to reveal a lot of it because, frankly, I can’t hide it and don’t want to. I’m not average or typical. Not normal, mentally or emotionally.

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with the concept of “normal.” Desperately wanting to appear normal, but knowing viscerally that I am not. Wondering what it’s like, but knowing that I’ll never know. Wondering what it even means, or what it means that I’m not. I haven’t found answers yet, and at this point I don’t think I’m going to. It’s probably a waste of my time to try.

So, if I’m outside the “norm,” which I am, I may as well admit it. And since writing is what I do, I write about it. I’m not doing this because I’m “brave,” I’m doing this because on some level I have to. I’m stubborn.

I’m stubborn enough these days to have made a sort of peace with the concept of “normal,” even though I still don’t understand it.

I’m stubborn enough to acknowledge my difference and give it its proper name – bipolar disorder.

I’m stubborn enough not to care when I say that and some people flinch or back away.

I’m stubborn enough to reveal things that embarrass me because they are part of me and part of what I’ve lived and lived through.

I’m stubborn enough to get tattoos proclaiming my status as “mentally ill” and using them to open conversations and educate others.

I have not come to embrace my stubbornness easily. I’ve tried to fake “normal” and hide my differences. I’ve gone to my shrink and just referred to “doctor appointments.” I’ve made Prozac jokes even though I was taking it at the time. (For this I am truly sorry, as I later learned that one of those jokes made another person afraid to admit that she took Prozac too.)

I’m not trying to be an “inspiration.” I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone else. I’m doing what I have to do for me. If someone else finds some good in it, that’s fine. But that’s not why I do it.

I am bipolar.

I am a writer.

I am stubborn.

Taken together, you get this blog.

Bipolar Me.


Filed under: Mental Health Tagged: acting "normal", bipolar disorder, bipolar type 2, blogging, mental illness, my experiences, public perception, stigma, World Bipolar Day

The Devastation of Inner Emptiness (Brilliant article!)

 One of the sad truths in our society is how empty many people feel, and the devastation their emptiness causes others through their resulting addictive behavior.We have all heard about the sexual acting-out of Anthony Weiner, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Tiger Woods, Bill Clinton and John Edwards. We all know about the many famous people who end up in treatment centers for alcohol and drug addiction. 

The question is: why? Why would someone who seemingly has everything destroy their own life, and the lives of those they are close to, with their addictions to sex, alcohol or drugs?

It’s true that these high-profile people seem to have everything that our society deems important for happiness and self-esteem – money and all that money can buy, relationships and fame. What is it that creates the desperate need to act out addictively when they have so much?
While they have much externally, internally they are bereft – empty. And the cause of this inner emptiness is one thing only – a lack of love. But it is not a lack of love from others. These people often have the love of many people, such as spouse, children and friends.
Inner emptiness is caused by the lack of love that comes from a narcissistic, entitled mindset. The lack of love that results from trying to get love, rather than be loving to oneself and with others. When a person’s intention is to get love, attention, and approval externally, they create their own inner emptiness. While the sex or the alcohol or the drugs might fill them temporarily, or give them a feeling of aliveness and wellbeing temporarily, it can never truly fill them in any deep and consistent way.
The thing that all of these people lack is an intent to take responsibility for loving themselves – for filling themselves with love so they have love to share with others. They have learned to substitute their various addictions – sex and other processes, alcohol and other substances – in place of genuine love. But because sex and alcohol, drugs, food, and other addictions are not love, the person never feels full inside. And because they are not loving themselves, their hearts are closed to others’ love.
When our intent is to take responsibility for our own feelings and learn to be loving to ourselves, our heart opens. When our heart is open, we can genuinely experience love from others, and, more importantly, from our Source.
Our Source IS love. Love is what we live in. Love is the intelligence of the universe, and is available to all of us when we open to it. But love from your Source cannot fill you when your heart is closed.
What Opens the Heart to Love and Fills the Emptiness?
Whether your heart is open or closed to love depends on your intent. At any given moment you are either intent on:
Protecting against your painful feelings with some form of addictive, controlling behavior, or
Learning about what is loving to yourself and others – about what is in your own highest good, and the highest good of others.

The intent to protect against painful feelings closes the heart, leaving you feeling empty and alone inside. It takes courage to be willing to compassionately feel your painful feelings of life – your loneliness and heartbreak – but unless you have the courage to learn to feel and lovingly manage these painful feelings, you will turn to addictions as a way of avoiding them.

The intent to learn about what is loving opens your heart to love. The intent to learn and love leads to taking loving action in your own behalf and in behalf of others, such as being kind and compassionate toward yourself and others.
When your intent is to get something from others – sex, approval, caring or compassion – you will feel empty.
When your intent is to give love, caring and compassion to yourself and others, you will feel full. This is what heals addictions and fills the emptiness.
Margaret Paul, Ph.D.


The Devastation of Inner Emptiness (Brilliant article!)

 One of the sad truths in our society is how empty many people feel, and the devastation their emptiness causes others through their resulting addictive behavior.We have all heard about the sexual acting-out of Anthony Weiner, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Tiger Woods, Bill Clinton and John Edwards. We all know about the many famous people who end up in treatment centers for alcohol and drug addiction. 

The question is: why? Why would someone who seemingly has everything destroy their own life, and the lives of those they are close to, with their addictions to sex, alcohol or drugs?

It’s true that these high-profile people seem to have everything that our society deems important for happiness and self-esteem – money and all that money can buy, relationships and fame. What is it that creates the desperate need to act out addictively when they have so much?
While they have much externally, internally they are bereft – empty. And the cause of this inner emptiness is one thing only – a lack of love. But it is not a lack of love from others. These people often have the love of many people, such as spouse, children and friends.
Inner emptiness is caused by the lack of love that comes from a narcissistic, entitled mindset. The lack of love that results from trying to get love, rather than be loving to oneself and with others. When a person’s intention is to get love, attention, and approval externally, they create their own inner emptiness. While the sex or the alcohol or the drugs might fill them temporarily, or give them a feeling of aliveness and wellbeing temporarily, it can never truly fill them in any deep and consistent way.
The thing that all of these people lack is an intent to take responsibility for loving themselves – for filling themselves with love so they have love to share with others. They have learned to substitute their various addictions – sex and other processes, alcohol and other substances – in place of genuine love. But because sex and alcohol, drugs, food, and other addictions are not love, the person never feels full inside. And because they are not loving themselves, their hearts are closed to others’ love.
When our intent is to take responsibility for our own feelings and learn to be loving to ourselves, our heart opens. When our heart is open, we can genuinely experience love from others, and, more importantly, from our Source.
Our Source IS love. Love is what we live in. Love is the intelligence of the universe, and is available to all of us when we open to it. But love from your Source cannot fill you when your heart is closed.
What Opens the Heart to Love and Fills the Emptiness?
Whether your heart is open or closed to love depends on your intent. At any given moment you are either intent on:
Protecting against your painful feelings with some form of addictive, controlling behavior, or
Learning about what is loving to yourself and others – about what is in your own highest good, and the highest good of others.

The intent to protect against painful feelings closes the heart, leaving you feeling empty and alone inside. It takes courage to be willing to compassionately feel your painful feelings of life – your loneliness and heartbreak – but unless you have the courage to learn to feel and lovingly manage these painful feelings, you will turn to addictions as a way of avoiding them.

The intent to learn about what is loving opens your heart to love. The intent to learn and love leads to taking loving action in your own behalf and in behalf of others, such as being kind and compassionate toward yourself and others.
When your intent is to get something from others – sex, approval, caring or compassion – you will feel empty.
When your intent is to give love, caring and compassion to yourself and others, you will feel full. This is what heals addictions and fills the emptiness.
Margaret Paul, Ph.D.


Fact or Fiction?: People Swallow 8 Spiders a Year While They Sleep. (Hint: Phew, thank goodness!)

 
Rod Crawford has heard plenty of firsthand accounts of spider-swilling slumberers. “Once or twice a year, someone tells me they once recovered a spider leg in their mouth,” says Crawford, the arachnid curator at the Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture in Seattle.Luckily for all of us, the “fact” that people swallow eight spiders in their sleep yearly isn’t true. Not even close. The myth flies in the face of both spider and human biology, which makes it highly unlikely that a spider would ever end up in your mouth.

Three or four spider species live in most North American homes, and they all tend to be found either tending their webs or hunting in nonhuman-infested areas. During their forays, they usually don’t intentionally crawl into a bed because it offers no prey (unless it has bed bugs, in which case that person has bigger problems). Spiders also have no interest in humans. “Spiders regard us much like they’d regard a big rock,” says Bill Shear, a biology professor at Hampden–Sydney College in Virginia and former president of the American Arachnological Society. “We’re so large that we’re really just part of the landscape,”

More than anything, spiders probably find sleeping humans terrifying. A slumbering person breathes, has a beating heart and perhaps snores—all of which create vibrations that warn spiders of danger. “Vibrations are a big slice of spiders’ sensory universe,” Crawford explains, “A sleeping person is not something a spider would willingly approach.”

From the standpoint of human biology, the oral spider myth also seems ridiculous. If someone is sleeping with her mouth open, she’s probably snoring—and thus scaring off any eight-legged transgressors. Plus, many people would likely be awakened by the sensation of a spider crawling over their faces and into their mouths. Shear can attest: once, while camping, he awoke to find a daddy longlegs crawling on his face.

Spider experts concede that a sleeping person could plausibly swallow a spider, but “it would be a strictly random event.” People who claim they’ve swallowed spiders never seem to have any concrete evidence. “People tell me this happened to them, but they threw it (the evidence) away—flushed it down the toilet, usually,” Crawford says. There’s also a sore lack of eyewitnesses for such a frequent event as eight spiders a year. So even if you heard or read this spider statistic from a trustworthy source (such as a Snapple cap), you can rest assured that it doesn’t have a leg, or eight legs, to stand on.


Easter Bunny….Brain…Hurts

Well…I just finished hiding the eggs for my kid to hunt in the morning. Kinda hard finding places to put them where the cats won’t go batting them around like toys. Ugh. My head hurts. We are an hour post hell spawn tantrum and I am just…exhausted.

68 minutes. That’s how long the tantrum lasted. I know because I recorded audio the entire time. From the moment I told her it’s 7 p.m., time to come inside and stop playing with your friends for the day…Off to the psych races she went. Screaming, growling, hissing, clawing (she took some skin off my hand). I put her in her room, she beat against the door claiming I’d locked her inside. I had not. I wish I could but not lock…She went insane. I tried everything. A swat on the butt. Talking calmly. Holding her so she couldn’t thrash, as I was taught when I worked daycare. I tried tickling her. Distracting her. Drawing her attention in another direction. She kept carrying on about how she wants sandals. No connecting the dots, she was just feral. I walked away after laying down my edict “play time is over, you will lose privileges every minute this goes on”. She chased me, hit me, punched me, ripped at my shirt and pants. She threw things at me. It was like facing off with a possum. I have the recording to prove it. I am not making shit up. I am not beating this child nor am I screaming at her.

Oppositional defiance, ADHD, baby bipolar, whatever you want to call it…There is a problem here. This is the second mega bout this week. Facing a summer of this every time I try to draw a line on playtime makes me want to lock myself in the looney bin. Because while bipolar gives me a special understanding, patience, and tolerance of those who act, well, looney, even though they are good people…Ugh. NO. I can’t do 68 minute battles every night in which I can’t even escape my kid because her friends tore one of the doors off my bedroom and there’s a curtain there, I literally cannot lock her out of my room.

The good thing is…once I finally got her to calm down…She was recalcitrant and suddenly I wasn’t mean or stupid anymore, she just wanted me to feed her and tuck her in.

And as exhausting and grueling as the 68 minutes was…I have to understand. Because I see my bipolar bouts in her behavior. I am not labeling her with my disorder. I am just saying…I don’t see a bad kid in her. I see something off kilter and she acts badly, but I can’t hold it against her and dismiss her. No. Too many have done that to me during epic manic bouts when I went aggro. It’s frustrating, a little scary, but I HAVE to be understanding without condoning. Because…Bipolar. I’m not always a good person. I have adult tantrums, though not as much with the mood stabilizers. No, the worst of it is in the past but I never forget it. I feel shame, remorse, unworthy of being forgiven for all those episodes…even if I couldn’t operate on logic due to a bipolar shift and a bad doctor giving me a wrong diagnosis and wrong meds.

My kid lucked out with me for a mom in this capacity. I won’t absolve her of poor choices but I sure as hell will have the intelligence to take into consideration that faulty wiring could be at play. Next doctor appointment, I plan on asking for a referral for her to my psych. Maybe she just needs hardcore counseling, IDK. Of course, her medical care is in limbo while I wait to find out if donor’s insurance is going to allow her onto his policy which means I don’t know if I can use Medicaid for her now or if they will bill me…Fuck.

I am not looking forward to Easter aside from the food. I’m still salty at my mother for her fit about my car the other night. I took her meatloaf Thursday and she snarled, “Did you use onion? It was good but I didn’t taste any onion.” Yeah, well, I don’t use a bag of onions for  a meatloaf like her. Just so…fucking rude and ungrateful. And I get to go spend time with her and the rest of my fucked up family and all those bum friends of my sister’s and I have to get up first thing to start cooking my chicken and noodles to take….When I truthfully don’t give a damn. My mom is burning bridges with me that are not going to un burn, ya know. Now that I don’t have to kiss her ass over the whole driving her car/insurance bit…Yeah. I am pretty close to declaring myself an orphan.

I had the displeasure of some Just Energy employee knocking on my door today. Every year some new electric outfit comes around promising lower rates if you switch on the spot. Twice I have done it with other companies, only to find my power bill increase and get threatening letters and calls about early termination of a contract costing X dollars. NOPE. I told this guy I was happy with Direct Energy. He got snotty and pointed out I was being overcharged and ALL my neighbors had switched to his service and received a $25 gift card for doing so. I said, “I’ve been through this every year I’ve been here, I am staying with Direct. I may be getting hosed but at least I know it.”

And this c*nt stomps off like a child having a tantrum and snarks, “You do deserve to be hosed!” And he was even snotty when the kids tried to talk to him about having a party. He said, “OH, well, that’s just great!” with his back to them and kept stomping away.

I was flabbergasted. In fact, I was so pissed at his behavior, I looked up the number for his company, intending to turn him in for his hard sell and rudeness. Of course, no one in a supervisory capacity is there on Saturday. So if I do get a gift card from these fuckers like he claimed should have already been sent, I will be using that number to register one hell of a complaint. I don’t know his name, but I can describe him and they keep track of what employees are walking through which neighborhood. I am gonna hang him by the balls for being such a dick.

The most insulting thing is, I went to their site and they seem to have a good deal. I may have been interested in signing up HAD their employee not been so pushy, rude, and insulting. Just…unfuckingreal. He needs to be fired. My neighbors consist of meth heads, pot heads, gamers, and raise-pitbulls-to-fight types so telling me they all switched was really fucking stupid on his part. The way he behaved, I have to wonder if he got some sort of commission if he could get EVERY house to switch and I hindered his $$$. Fuck him. Hard sells don’t work for me or on me. And frankly, these companies should not be allowed to dispatch people to knock on our doors. Send us information. Let us do our research and make an informed choice. Don’t expect me to hand you my power bill on the spot cos you say to and hand me something to sign. Nope.

On a happier yet…unexpected note…I woke up to Nightshade giving birth in my bed. I didn’t even know she was pregnant. Sigh…I managed to get her into the pet taxi before she had delivered, but still…What a way to wake up. We have three babies. One is black, one is black on top, white one bottom, and the third is mostly white with black markings like a cow. They seem full term, healthy, and thus far Shady is feeding them and being a good mom. She’s had 2 out of 20 kittens survive cos she’s a lousy cat mom so we shall see….

My car still isn’t fixed. Whatever R did last night didn’t make a damn bit of difference. Of course, I think I know what the problem is based on my research and the fact my previous Grand Am had the same problem. MAF sensor gone bad. That would explain the loss of power during acceleration, the poor gas  mileage, the gas smell, all of it. Of course, R wants to hook it up to son in law’s little diagnostic code thing but having had the same problem on the same car and finding the fix on line…I don’t think we need the gizmo. Of course, I am just a dumb girl. If I had the damned money  and another mechanic, I’d fix it myself. The MAF sensor can be had for $30, swapped in under an hour, but nooo, let’s let Niki drive a death trap while we wait for some piece of shit diagnostic tool to tell us nothing is wrong with the car when there is clearly something wrong with the car.

Yeah. I’ve had 2.0 mg of Xanax today (Spook was playing with her friends for six hours, I earned every mg) and I am still stressing out. That brat talked me into letting them play in her room and she decides while I am in the bathroom…to climb inside the closet to reach for something on the shelf…And she completely caved in the closet bottom. One more thing I am gonna have to figure out how to fix. No more indoor play. She doesn’t do this destructive bit unless they are around. Least not big scale destruction. It’s like she has to go out of her way to impress them with how much she can get away with.

I feel buried alive here. But rather than focus on how that feels, I am gonna turn off my brain, watch some mindless stuff, and try to get to sleep without melatonin. This time change, and all this hot/cold weather has me struggling more than ever to get out of bed in the morning. I am oversleeping every day practically. How the hell does that even work, me becoming less functional in the morning during spring…

On a happier ending note…I attended my first yard sale today for the season. I had some change so I couldn’t get much but I spent fifty cents on a purple glass topper for a jar candle since the cats broke my mosaic one I had. THis one fits and it’s purple glass. It just felt necessary to do something “me”. Trying to find the road back to normal after a nearly two year long depressive bout.

I know one thing for sure. I am doing sooooo much better without Cymblotto. I’ve been in withdrawal for nine days with mega random brain zaps and that woozy head thing but…Oh, that stuff was not just making me more nervous, it was actually dragging my mood down, I swear. I doubt the doctor would validate that but…

Fuck ’em and feed ’em to the fish.

Onto watch a documentary about haunted asylums. Yeah, I’m dark. I have been since I was six, it just fascinates me.

And makes me ever so grateful that the one time I had to be in a psych hospital…it wasn’t one of these snake pits. The haunting actually classes the joints up, they were so bad.


I went to another specialist

Today I saw the urologist about the kidney stone, which, as it turns out, are on both sides. They probably have been there a while. I can remember having the same kind of pain last summer but I didn’t know what it was. He also said there were 3 healed spinal fractures that showed up that I didn’t even know about from the osteoporosis.

Being in pain and having additional health problems sort of contributes to my foul mood, though, and very much gives me mortality-related issues, especially with the bleeding profusely from places that aren’t ever supposed to bleed. The hydrocodone was also putting me in a very unpleasant state of mind, but at least it decreased the pain. The tramadol does nothing at all for the pain, which also sucks.

I guess I’m just sitting around now, waiting for the stones to pass, and they are probably too big to pass which means they’ll get stuck. If they get stuck, I’ll probably be in horrible pain and it will clog things up in there so I need emergency surgery, which also causes me some anxiety.