First things first. Because this is my blog and I am allowed to set the things I find most important.
I updated our story today, a simple read costs you maybe ninety seconds, just look for the most recent update.
I wrote a couple of posts this week I was particularly proud of and of course, they languished so I am going to post links to part one and part two of Stripped Down Naked. If you’re going to read some posts but not others (and yes, I am a flood poster some days, no one can keep up), at least read those two. They are no holds barred honest regurgitations of unmasked emotion.
I don’t normally encourage people to backtrack, but I put a lot of myself, minus sarcastic tough girl masks, into those posts so it might be worth a read if you truly want to understand me a little better.
Yesterday was an uphill battle to get to town and run errands, and of course, I forgot several of the very things went for-and I had a list. But six stores including Hellmart…lucky all I forgot was a couple of things and not wound up committed to the Rubber Ramada. My kid went to grandpa’s to play for a few hours and of course, I had all this stuff I was going to do but…Much as Cymbalta is making a difference, I still feel the depressive inertia, not to mention that all out exhaustion and cramps of my PMDD so…I binge watched shows (a comedy, shock shock!) and then her absence and waiting for them to return her sidetracked my plans to nuke myself a frozen lasagna for supper. By the time she got home, my resources had dwindled. I managed to bathe her, get her to bed, then I bathed (twice in one week, woo hoo!) and then it was time to try to sleep without melatonin. I am starting to think it may be what makes me hit snooze six times every morning. But ninety minutes of toss and turn…I caved and took 3mg. And ha, snooze and I carried on our affair this morning. Hate that crap. Hit snooze once or twice, fine. Six times? Something is amiss.
So far today I have accomplished nothing other than the finale of Grey’s Anatomy and catching up on the episodes of 9-1-1 I missed. Oh, I did put a load of laundry in the wash. Maybe once I purge all the shitstorm in my mind I will accomplish more.
I thought today was going to be calmer because at first it was gray and cool out. Now the sun keeps playing peek a boo and people have their lawnmowers out which plays hell on my noise sensitivity (the other day it was people using band saws, chainsaws, table saws, grrr, so much noise.) I am trying to roll with it, cos I don’t have a choice but it still grates on my nerves.
I have often referenced the ‘noise’ and ‘little voices’ in my head in this blog. Occurred to me I might be doing a dual disservice. It’s not mockery of those with disorders that do include auditory hallucinations, nor does it mean I have them.
The voices and noise I hear are real, but they belong to people. Family, friends, strangers, acquaintances, articles I have read, shows I have watched. Most of them are not saying positive things and living with that constant barrage of criticism and reminders of how inferior I am is tough.
I keep indulging my Google-itus (ya know, since I can’t hit the library anymore as a non resident without shelling out $60 for the year), looking for ways to thicken my skin, to toughen up, to not let these assholes get inside my head with their insults and unhealthy comments and negative opinions. I swear, I was more of a bad ass at 14 than I am now at 45. Back then, even being bullied on a daily basis and living with overly critical screaming parents, I wasn’t so vulnerable to them getting inside my head and making me feel insecure, unsure, and doubt myself and my own strengths and motives.
I’m not entirely sure when my armor fell off and I did start soaking it all up like a sponge. It doesn’t mean I believe it, though courtesy of so much damn talk therapy, I’m reluctant to not at least entertain their notions as I could lack self awareness and be in denial of my own bullshit. For every way therapy helped me learn better coping mechanisms on some stuff, I think it also tore down the very armor that kept me from becoming this wishy washing bucket of self doubt.
It’s not like I am even hypersensitive. I consider it a compliment to be called a bitch because, hey, I rock the bitch thing sometimes, intentional or not. I don’t even get that bent when called weird or crazy. But when people start chattering in my ear, and that chattering sticks around in my brain, whispering that I am lazy, shiftless, useless, don’t want to get better…They’re dead wrong. I am none of those things. So why do I let them get in my head, and why do I let it bother me?
Because the mind is a lot like the immune system. Much like you can’t fight off infection with a weakened immune system, when your mind is under siege by depression and anxiety, you lose your Teflon coating and things no longer slide off. They stick and they cake on and you have to soak them and scrub them and still can’t get all the icky bits to come off.
One more reason many bipolar people prefer mania or hypomania even with the bad outcomes. Feeling ten feet tall and bulletproof and too happy beats the hell out of constant self doubt and being mentally poisoned by people who may mean well, but obviously have no grasp of mental health or of those of us battling mental health issues.
Anyone else get ‘the voices’ like I do? I’d love to hear from you. Maybe together we could bolster each other and come up with ways to combat the counteproductive input the voices from well meaning people feed us.
Today my dad’s voice is in my head, telling me about job openings. Never mind I’m not qualified for them, have been on disability many years, and have bad references for reliability. Never mind that I am still struggling and hardly in a stable place and even the doctor agrees this isn’t the right time to venture into the job market. No, my dad cares nothing about facts, just making it clear I am lazy and useless in his eyes and a majority of the world shares his view so until I ‘get over it’ (mental illness) and get a job…I am a disappointment and an embarrassment.
I can the same to him because I wanted a dad who loved me as is, didn’t flinch when I hugged him, and didn’t get distant and edge away when I was upset and cried.
Guess we both got let down. But I can’t get in his head the way he can mine. Some people just don’t have the conscience or ability to feel empathy or see that their own path might not be the right path for others.
I’m on my own with the voices and put downs and expectations.
Therapy did as much a number on my head as my dysfunctional family, otherwise I’d be stronger than this. If this is the professionals’ idea of emotional maturity and progress…I give them an F.
Silver lining- Cymbalta has helped enough that while down, I am not shattered. I will take any improvement I can get.