Tag Archives: Depression

Depressive Artifact:It’s More Than Just Sadness

I am struggling today and I have no idea why. Maybe it’s all the depressing news contributing to a low mood or my daughter’s incessant shrieks of boredom and blaming me for everything including the Lindburg kidnapping. Or maybe, even though Cymbalta helped lift me out of an abyss, depression artifact remains.

There’s a common misconception that depression is merely acute sadness. Even I believed this, until a couple of half decent doctors educated me on what depression really entails. Unfortunately, even these doctors are so busy covering their own asses and treating my depression conservatively, I am the one flailing in limbo here, being throttled by depressive artifact. A dose increase might help, but it would also help if they’d call me and inform me who I’ve been assigned to since my doctor left and I kind of need an appointment in the next couple of weeks.

Depression is so much more than just feeling sad and hopeless.

It is anxiety. It is lack of focus. Lack of motivation to do things that desperately need to be done. It is guilt and shame and self loathing. It is chaotic thinking, a swirling funnel cloud in your mind, so you can’t organize your thoughts enough to begin to accomplish things. It impacts memory so that you forget something that was spoken 30 seconds before and those around you either think you’re ignoring them or a total flake. It is lack of concern with basic hygiene. It is a rabid aversion to doing anything remotely social involving other humans. It is irritibility. Sometimes inexplicable anger. Sometimes heightened emotions that aren’t comparative to what is bothering you.

Depression is a machine with many moving parts. Nothing works the way it should. Parts that should go up and down move side to side. Stationary parts move wily nily and it creaks and groans like a dying furnace choking on a rusty chainsaw.

The worst part is that, this is your life, 24-7, and the so called professionals often blow off your concerns, your feelings, and make you feel like you’re not even participating in your own care. Because they have degrees and know best yet they spend maybe 15 minutes every two months with you and don’t know you at all. The doctors don’t have to live this way. They’re not left trying to explain to the people around you why if your medication is working well enough that the doctor won’t increase dose, why do you still act so cranky and not want to be around others? Obviously, the doctor thinks you’re doing well enough. But again…the doctors don’t see us struggling after the appointment where we were in a good mental space.

I am grappling with artifact here. It was all I could do last night to get my kid and myself bathed. I’ve been doing battle with myself all week to do dishes and stick a pot roast in the slow cooker and…I got nothing. I go in to maybe run the water…and within 20 seconds, I’ve gone off track and my disorganized brain won’t let me get back on the track. I did manage to clean cat boxes today, but I meant to do that 2 days ago so the accomplishment comes with procrastinator’s guilt.

Anxiety is another artifact of depression. Today I feel it though I don’t know why and it manifests with cold sweat pouring down my side despite multiple applications of anti-perspirant. I wasn’t sweating this way during the 6 straight days it was in the 90’s and the house was 88 inside even with the AC and fans running. Nervous sweat is baffling. And other than the phone ringing a couple of times with irritating telemarketers there’s been no trigger for nervousness. It’s random, it’s brutal, it’s…artifact.

So, no, depression isn’t just sadness. It is furnaces grumbling and rusty chainsaws roaring and you cling for whatever vestige of sanity you can find but…hey, your brain is not on board with this because it’s so disordered.

Depression is hell on Earth, 24-7, and anyone who says otherwise isn’t clinically depressed. A condition that negates your very identity and turns you into a hot mess despite the best intentions of efforts…That’s so sadistic, Satan himself must have created it in conjuction with the Marquis de Sade.

Setting the Poop on Fire

I realized this morning that I’d started to give up.

This long season of depression has granted me an occasional hour or two of relief before rolling back in.  I distract my conscious thoughts with Netflix and sewing, but have lost interest in exploring my surroundings or reaching out to others.  I know I’m in trouble, so this morning I sat down to journal and let all the ugly thoughts out of their cages.

I was about to see my new therapist for the second time, which just made me miss my previous therapist more.  I knew if I didn’t start processing all the “forbidden” thoughts in my head, I’d never stop crying in her little closet of an office.  So, I scribbled away, which is the only way I know to capture the distorted thinking and actually see it.

I lasted ten minutes with the therapist.  Long story short, I felt disrespected and dismissed.  I will not be going back.

Part of me is very aware that my depression could be warping my perception.  Another part of me is mad as hell, and that’s the part that rises up every time my boundaries get trampled.  It’s the spark that lights up my personal Bat Signal.  Or BadAss Signal.

I have work to do.

I texted my sister and will be meeting her and her grandsons for lunch tomorrow.  We also had a very supportive exchange about feeling out of place and longing for things that we’ve likely romanticized.

I called the other therapist in my shrink’s office and just now made an appointment with her for Monday.  I know this woman is at least kind, because my sister sees her and talks about her.  Kind is a good place to start.  Kind is enough.

If my 17-year-old cat can still unload a huge poop, then gallop through the house reestablishing his supreme authority, so can I.

Consider this my psychological dump.

The BadAss is Back.

In Need Of A Good Rant

I managed to rally after my mini meltdown and feeling like a cornered animal Sunday. Rather than allow myself to be undermined by family and the church on matters concerning my child, I nutted up and flat out told stepmonster that she was NOT to take that gift to the donor. I even ignored her heavy handed pushing that “I’ll take her to meet him and be the go between.” NO. Spook is MY family and we will deal with it as a family. I sat Spook down and we discussed it and as I predicted, she changed her mind and told me she doesn’t want to see her dad right now and that the church guilt tripped her when she said she doesn’t see her dad and wanted to opt out of the activity. A church bullying an 8 year old, really fucking classy. But to be fair, I told Spook we can leave the option open and if she does decide she wants to see her so called father, then we will try to make that happen (assuming he’d be amenable and after 7 years of no contact, his interest in his child, or lack thereof, is pretty apparent. He hates me more than he loves her, I swear, what other reason is there not to see your kid except to avoid the ex?)

I was proud of myself for acting like a grown up and making it about Spook’s feelings as opposed to my own. But really, my lack of enthusiasm toward her seeing him is less about me and more about how his patterns of behavior and loss of interest in all 3 of his kids would be potentially damaging to my child. I am her protector and while I have to consider her wishes, I am never not gonna want to spare her pain, even the potential of it. Hey, if anyone is gonna piss her off, it’s gonna be me. I earned that privilege.

Father’s Day was further weirded out and tainted by a very bizarre conversation with my father on the phone. I called to wish him happy blah blah day…and somehow he got on the topic of prostitution and started going on about “All men pay for pussy, one way or another.” I told him he was a pig so he put stepmonster on the line and she started repeating the same thing, boasting that he’s paying for her with all their vehicles and joint checking account. I was like, so you’re basically saying all women are legal prosititutes… Classy. And there was no need for this detour in conversation, it was just bizarre. Maybe dad can claim old age, but she’s younger than me so she’s obviously just…disturbed.

Their spawn, my 23-but-mentally-ten half brother is getting on my nerves, always showing up unannounced to cuddle and hang out with my kid. Yeah, it’s his niece and they adore each other but I still think a 23 year old man hanging with a 7 year old is weird. And I don’t like my safe space constantly invaded, against my wishes. I have tried telling him, and them, that the constant unannounced visits are not wanted (bad bad for anxiety issues) but to no avail. But I know dad and stepmonster and if I go at it too strenuously, it will create some drama where they tell me to kiss their ass-they literally say this to people all the time, and not bantering-and of course, then the barter lawn mowing for meals will go away and yeah, it’s a thing for me, cos I am terrified of power mowers. I will tackle that fear another time, this isn’t the time.

Furthering the stress is stepmonster obnoxiously saying she’s ‘adopted’ my kid and Spook is there more than she’s home with me. Which is bullshit, yeah, she goes there, but rarely for more than a couple of hours and almost ALWAYS because my brother just shows up and says, “I’m kidnapping her.” The other day she was having fun playing in the pool when he showed up and chose not to go with him…and he kept texting me, asking, “You want me to take her off your hands?” NO. She’s my kid, she belongs at home. I do need breaks but if it’s going to lead to stepmonster having some delusion that Spook is her kid and doesn’t love me because she’s going to their house (they have dogs she likes to play with)…I may have to go scorched earth and risk the drama to put her in her damned place. Just because they’ve helped us out with furniture and such doesn’t give them the right to trample me with my child.

Further drama from the maternal faction. Mom is being very salty about dad and them seeing Spook so often when they don’t get to see her much now due to the distance. Well, I sure as hell don’t encourage her to spend massive time with them. Personally, other than calls or them darkening my doorstep against my will, I have little to do with them-or anyone else. My anxiety balance is tenuous and social situations trigger panic so of course, I am isolating. The Cymbalta definitely got me out of the rabbit hole of depression but it is by no means making me become some social butterfly.

I am just so sick of all the drama. And I knew it was going to be this way. Always in the middle since our parents split up. I’m the only one of 3 kids who doesn’t live with one parent or the other, and I like it that way even if it makes me a black sheep. I have to do what feels right for me and living on my own has always been better for my mental health. I like the independence. If I want to run my computers and TV 24-7, I pay the bill, so I don’t have to endure lectures about wasting power. (Yet turn around and give my kid the lecture, oh,what a vicious cycle.)

My brother has been here every day for a week and even Spook said she’d like a break from him. I reluctantly agreed to a movie night tonight with him, he’s totally lusting after our smart TV that streams Vudu movies. (Best $100 I ever spent, I think sometimes, that TV is too cool. I barely use it but it keeps the spawn occupied.)

Hopefully I will get a break from him and them as Spook is having a sleepover at my mom’s this weekend. I need some peace sans people yapping at me. I need to do housework, do some organizing…and ya know, by then, I will be so exhausted physically and mentally I probably won’t accomplish much of anything. But the drama and tension are giving me stress stomach aches so maybe doing very little but recovering is a good thing. IDK, we’ll see.

Today I am in a very low place. Earlier after the barrage of political news (it’s like a car crash, you don’t wanna look but you can’t help yourself) I just started having these dark dark thoughts that suicide is about the only way out of…well, the current state of things in the U.S. There’s so much evil and corruption and plain wrong things happening and I sign petitions but I’m in no position to help financially and I am too isolated geographically to become an activist. So it just festers and claws away at my sanity and will to live because face it, we’re fucked if things continue as they are now. I don’t think there’s a medication on earth to combat all the nastiness going on. It makes me sad, angry, outraged and it makes me feel helpless, something I am not okay with. The mentally health thing to do would be avoid news like the plague and yet that is part of the problem. Everyone is so disillusioned they’re becoming numb, looking away, and it just…Maybe I can’t really change anything but I can at least know I stood up for my beliefs against the evildoers.

Whooo…I needed to vent. Now the mental poison has been purged and I am gonna try to pep talk myself into enjoying movie night for the sake of my kid. But I don’t think it will go well. My brother wants to watch a comedy (he said Adam Sandler and that is a hell to the no for me) and I’m not feeling comical unless it’s a parody movie. I will bite my tongue best I can and endure it and I can always flee the room and take sanctuary in my bedroom crypt. At least the hormones are leveling out and some of that misery is gone. I was a powderkeg there for awhile, surprised I didn’t burn some bridges by going on a tirade.

On a plus side…the mood swings seem to be evening out. I spend most of my time not high nor low, just…well, here. I don’t see much hope on the horizon but then, I’m not plotting my own demise, either. Except for today’s little crash and honestly, if you have a heart and a conscience and read the news of what’s going on out there and it doesn’t make you feel sad…That’s plain disturbing even to someone as disturbed as me.

The Bucket

There are a handful of sayings and analogies that explain this same idea: the straw that broke the back, the drop of water that overflowed the bucket, etc. The meaning of all of them is the same. It isn’t always a big event, or a particularly meaningful one, that can generate a large (and negative) […]

Cornered Animal

Not quite sure how to express my feelings at the moment except to liken them with a cornered animal. I want to lash out, hiss, claw. It’s not mature or rational but I guess my ego feels fragile (how is that possible,I barely have an ego left!) so fight or flight kicks in.

What sparked it was when my brother brought my kid home after church-and she informed me she made her ‘dad’ a card and a gift at church for Father’s Day. Now, we are coming up on the 7 year mark since that man snuck his stuff out of the house and announced his departure with a 20 second “Can’t do this anymore, not coming back” call. He smashed his phone and avoided all contact with us. It took four years and the court to force him to pay a cent on his kid. He’s never once asked to see her, shown her no interest the two times we’ve encountered him in public places…

I’ve been here the whole time, taking care of her, for better or worse. I’m mom and dad both. I am the good guy and the bad guy. I get the joy but I get the projectile vomiting, the hours of homework fights, the food pickiness, the “I hate you!” I get it all and he’s not stepped up once in 7 years and she’s not shown any interest in 7 years. Often, she’s said she’s glad she doesn’t have a dad because she likes it being just us girls.

So for her to come home, announce she’s made her ‘dad’a card and gift and asked stepgrandmonster to take it to him at his job at the gas station when they go there…

I am livid.

I was told they would only deliver it to the donor if I said it was okay.

Well, this puts me in a fucking bind. Because I am not okay with it. The man already abandoned her once. What’s to say he won’t do it again? Or flat reject her interest in seeing him? Or bring more trouble to the table?

THIS is my problem with organized religion, butting their ‘all families must be the same’ mindsets into our private lives. There was no need for this father’s day thing to be inflicted on my kid. And bitch of it is, she is so fickle and flighty, five minutes after they deliver this gift and open the can of worms called the donor…Spook will likely change her mind and say, “Na, I don’t wanna see him now, maybe next month.” And if she does that, then I will get the blame of “She’s keeping my kid away from me.”

He’s been playing that song for years to everyone who’ll listen and it was NEVER true. Can’t see your kid if you never come around, call, or even send a birthday gift. He had time for girlfriends and their kids, but not his own three kids. (Spook has a half sister and a half brother, much older than her by different moms, but half siblings just the same.) I don’t want to be sucked back into the drama, it is so toxic for my mental health.

But I can’t think of me. This is about my child. Yet it impacts me just the same.

So I feel cornered and it’s freaking me out.

I want more than anything to be the bigger person, to be secure in my relationship and bond with my daughter and not have any inkling she’d throw me under the bus cos daddy has more money or lets her run with sharp objects while he plays games on the computer. I WANT to be that person, the mature person who puts the child first. And after 7 years you’d think I’d be there. I have zero feelings for him that don’t equate with toxic waste, and most of that is linked to his habitual lies, self distortions, and the fact he abandoned all three of his kids. Not my ego, not that he broke my heart.

He just contaminates everything he touches, even worse than I do. At least I can maintain a relationship with my kid, he can’t even manage that much with any of his 3. And it’s always the moms’ faults, never his doing. He’s a born victim. And you come to realize that when dealing with born victims, you will never ever come out the better person because they will villfy you no matter how dignified you handle yourself. Still, knowing you’re the better person deep down, you know you kinda gotta bite the bullet and take one for the team. For the best interest of the child.

Except in my opinion, her best interests aren’t served by some religious organization forcefeeding ‘all families are the same, must make dad a card’ mentality down her throat. Making her feel bad when she said she didn’t see her dad and didn’t want to do it at first. That is such utter fucking bullshit. Religous types may mean well, but they’re ignorant and myopic. They don’t know our situation and they don’t know what kind of hornet’s nest this may stir up, especially for my kid, emotionally.

Best case scenario, he wants to see her and okay, we manage not to throttle each other on the rare occasion he can be bothered to play dad. And yeah, I mean PLAY because if you’re not present, you’re not being a dad. Or a mom or a parent. You gotta be there, in some capacity, not just when it suits your ego or boredom.

Worst case scenario, he doesn’t want to see her and she gets her little heart broken wondering why daddy is rejecting her again.

So, hey, society…butt out of people’s personal family matters. One size does not fit all and while your intentions may be good…my kid may pay the price in not good way and this cornered animal is not rertacting the claws.

Reaching Out and Reaching In

A lot has been said in recent days about reaching out when you’re in trouble psychologically. And that’s always a good idea. Reach out to your friends, your family, your therapist, your psychiatrist, your church or synagogue or temple.

hands people friends communication

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com  

Unfortunately, not everyone has those resources. And sometimes when you reach out to them, they do not reach back to you or even respond in hurtful ways.

Sometimes – many times – you’re just not able to reach out. That’s true of me, anyway. When major depression hits me like a truck, I get immobilized. Uncommunicative. Isolated. I usually have the wherewithal to get to my therapist, if my husband drives me, but not much more.

My family and friends can tell when I’m in trouble. And they do reach out, even when I don’t reach back.

My mother always knew when I hit a particularly bad spot because she could recognize it in my voice – it lacked animation, even if I was talking about something I loved. Not that I talked much or felt much. Depression can damp down all your feelings sometimes. You don’t cry, you don’t feel sad. You feel nothing. And it shows to someone who knows how to look and listen.

This is called “flat affect” by psychiatrists. The person’s face, voice, mannerisms do not reflect emotions, sometimes not even anxiety or despair. And sometimes people adopt a flat affect so as not to betray their inner turmoil. (It can still leak out around the eyes, even to relative strangers. And I don’t mean crying.)

My husband knows I’m depressed when I turn monosyllabic. Ordinarily, I enjoy talking to my husband about anything and nothing – things we’ve read or heard, what’s happening at work (his, mostly), funny things the cats did, and so forth. But when I stop responding and communicating, or respond only with “yeah,” “nah,” and “meh” sorts of answers, or don’t laugh or at least groan at his jokes, he knows I’m headed downward.

I stop communicating other ways, too. I don’t post on Facebook or only pass along the occasional pass-along. I skip commenting on posts regarding things I usually care about. I spend hours alone reading, if my sometimes-dubious powers of concentration let me. Or I sleep, and nap, then sleep some more. I certainly don’t leave the house or even make plans to go out. I don’t call friends. I isolate. I don’t reach out, like the memes say I’m supposed to.

I am fortunate to have friends that do reach out to me. John would lend me books, talk about them with me, and listen if I needed to vent. Peggy would call and invite me to visit, even when she knew I wasn’t leaving the house. Pete sometimes IM’s every day just to check in and JB assures me that when he IM’s and I don’t feel like chatting that’s still okay. Robbin calls me and tells me all about her life even when I can’t talk about mine, then says, “Let me know when you surface.” If she doesn’t hear from me for awhile, she calls again and reminds me that I can call her too. (She can also “read” my voice and knows when there’s some topic I’m avoiding.) My husband offers a hug or kisses me on the head. My mother prayed for me. I am fortunate indeed to have had people like these around me when I really need them.

Reaching out to others is good. So is reaching in to the suffering. Best is a combination of both. But that takes work and not everyone is able to do it.

If you can reach out, reach out.

If you can reach in, reach in.

If you’re lucky, you’ll meet in the middle, where hope lives.


Depression Truths: What It’s Like To Wake Up and Think, Dammit, I Woke Up

(***Potential trigger, mention of suicides caused by depression.)

It happened again today. For the last year I’ve been battling ups and downs, sometimes helped with medication, sometimes not. But for whatever ‘up’ I may gain that fools the doctor into thinking I am somehow ‘doing okay’…The bottom line remains: When I wake up in the morning, pried from the comfort (yes, comfort) of even my most whacked out dream…I am disappointed and saddened. It sounds messed up but it’s true.

Depression is a vulture that picks your carcass clean before you’re even dead. It feeds not on death, but on whatever signs of life and hope you have remaining. It taints your emotions so that even good things seem like a death blow. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or successful, intelligent, or surrounded by loved ones. Depression kills, in the form of sucide, a topic I am all too well acquainted with not just because of the recent loss of Anthony Bourdain, but also because my sister’s brother in law hung himself in their basement on New Year’s Day. I’ve lost three friends on line due to depression pushing them to their breaking point. This is no longer some footnote or a matter of ‘weak character’ or ‘taking the easy way out’.

Depression, and sucide, have become an epidemic.

When Bourdain passed, my sister and her mother in law were both thrown back to the grief of their loss on New Year’s Day, feeling responsible, like they didn’t do enough to help K. The only topic I am ‘expert’ on, sadly, is depression, and I made it clear to them that they did everything they could, as did K. He asked for help, he signed himself into a hospital, he was taking the meds, not isolating but staying around his family and interacting…You can pack your day 23 hours and 57 minutes with love and activity to distract from the mental darkness. It only takes that 3 minutes when you’re alone or your mood crashes or it all just overwhelms you…and that’s when you break. It’s no one’s fault. It’s not an easy way out or a weakness of character. The fact is, and religious people can tar and feather me if they want- God CAN give you more than you can handle.

I’ve been fortunate inasmuch as my baseline through all depression has never been suicidality. I’ve had suicidal thoughts,almost exclusive to certain medications that caused them, and I have certainly hit points of self destructive behavior that could have done me in…But I’ve always hung around, waiting for the mood to change, the nerves to calm, believing there’s something better out there, something worth my while. It’s a hard thing to do, keep faith when all hope is gone. When you feel like an empty husk full of sadness, loathing, and hatred. Just trying to convince yourself life isn’t a waste of time is exhausting and it takes enormous strength for most of us. That is where our strength of character shines through. Telling yourself to hang on because it can get better despite droves of evidence to the contrary, not to mention your own mind telling you to give it up…That’s being strong.

For those not familiar with this blog, I was recently put on 40 mg Cymbalta back at the start of May. After multiple med failures and bad interactions and side effects…the concrete cloud started to finally clear and I WAS feeling better. My doctor wouldn’t increase the dose even though she is leaving and at the moment, I am in limbo, no assigned doctor or even a psych nurse for refills. I was doing better but then my monthly PMDD kicked in and sent me back down the rabbit hole. Yesterday was a constant fight just for cause to not stick my head in the oven. Not because things are so awful but because MY MIND IS AWFUL. It whispers awful things, causes me to feel awful things, and the only person who can help with that is a doctor. Because all the talk therapy on the planet isn’t going to combat the imbalance of hormones and brain chemicals.

So I think my feelings of “Dammit, I woke up” are both illogical but understandable. Dreams are easy, even the bad ones. They happen whether I want to participate or not. I don’t have any control, or have to put any effort forth. I don’t have to feel in a good mood, I don’t have to feel guilty for being disabled or like a failure as a mom because I can’t afford to take my kid to go do fun summer stuff…Dreaming is easy and it makes absolute sense I’d seek solace there and want to stay there.

The moment I wake up I have to face all the things I can’t change but am in charge of anyway. It’s a crushing weight. What makes it different from anyone else’s crushing stress is the fact that my brain doesn’t process things properly. Bipolar depression brains are very different, very complex. We can laugh at a funeral and cry because someone complimented us. Our wires are so crossed, nothing that should be is. Maybe this cross of the wires helps me lean away from suicidality. Because I know the tides can change, no need to go drastic. It’s just always a back burner thought if that deity does give me more than I can handle. And yeah, I said deity, because hey, what if today I believe in the flying spaghetti monster but tomorrow I believe in The Church of The Poison Mind headed by Boy George?

Right now, I am down for the count and doing the depressive zombie shamble. My humor is darker than usual, but it’s still there. I guess it’s something to hold onto.

That and the countdown until I can go to bed and back to dreaming. Turning off my emotions and brain for the day is something to truly look forward to.

Fuck you, depression.

The Concrete Cloud

For the last ten days, I’ve been living under a concrete cloud of mood dysphoria. Instead of ups, though, it’s been all downs. Like a competition between feeling sad, feeling hopeless, and feeling angry for no reason other than feeling so damned shitty in every way. Pain, pain, more pain, inertia, sleeping too solidly, barely sleeping more than an hour at a time, no desire to participate in life or accomplish anything. It was like being transported back two months before Cymbalta, returning to the months long misery of concrete depression. The concrete cloud. Day 11, the PMDD ends, the curse begins, and within a couple of days…I will regain my tenuous sanity. Lather, rinse, repeat in a month.

To say this is harsh on my precarious mental state is an understatement. Adding insult to injury is that my so called mental healthcare professionals-the revoving door of them- give no credence to the extremity of my premenstrual dysphoria. Tired of hearing about it? Try living it. The only silver lining in the monthly concrete cloud is they’re not all this extreme. Every so often it’s milder but this month has kicked my ass to hell and back.

It’s been so bad, I haven’t even been noticing my anxiety. Hard to be anxious when every part of you is hurting and your mind is crushed under concretre depressive symptoms. Though even through it, anxiety can be triggered. My kid went 6 days without playing with her friend and all it took was 20 minutes of them bickering and not minding me for me to become reaquainted with my anxiety. Which with hormonal irritation isn’t a good combination.

My shrink picked a really lousy time to stop her aggressive treatment approach and decide, “She’s bathing twice a week, her mood is up, let’s not do anything while she sits in limbo for six weeks and I’m out of here so I don’t care if and when they reassign a new doctor should she need changes.” Feels a lot like being abandoned in a pit of venomous snakes. If she’d given any credence to my PMDD, then she’d have known I wasn’t in an altere state when she saw me so of course, it appeared the meds were doing fabulous. It’s not so fabulous when 15 days of your month are altered, though, and even a minute increase in meds could have helped.

I want out of that psych center hellhole, they can’t keep help and the ones they do get see you ten minutes every six weeks, bill for 25 minutes, and it’s gotten worse instead of better. But hey, with crappy insurance, trying to find a new shrink has proven nearly impossible. Gotta go 100 miles round trip out of the way and I keep hearing, “Not accepting new patients”, or “We only accept your primary insurance, you’d have to pay everything it doesn’t cover” or “We take your secondary but we can only accept patients with two forms of insurance.” Oh and my epic favorite where they take your name and info then call you back and say, “We’re not accepting you as a client.” It’s like a damn job interview trying to find a doctor and be ‘hired’ as a patient.

That’s not just the concrete cloud talking, that’s been going on for years. It’s why I don’t even have a primary care doctor, I got sick of jumping through hoops and being ‘interviewed’ to be ‘hired’ as their patient. It’s ridiculous how many find out you’re also under psychiatric care and suddenly ‘not accepting new patients’ is tossed out. Which is code for either ‘no crazy people’ or ‘this doctor’s too much of an idiot to work with someone who has multiple conditions’. Oh, rural healthcare is glamorous and competent. NOT.

Yay, my anxiety is back, I am breaking out in hives just discussing this crap. My back hurts, the oompa loompas are punching my ovaries, basically trapped in Armpit because I don’t have a dollar to my name and with a bored child…this is HELLISH. I woke up and thought, “Damn it, I’m awake, I want to go back to my dream.” And that’s sad because I was dreaming about living in some weird culd de sac and I’d gotten caught borrowing a neighbor’s motorcycle to run to some bodega type store (I can’t drive a motorcycle and I only know the word bodega from watching Law And Order, so wtf?) where the lights were flickering and it looked more like someone’s garage than a store…And that’s still better than being awake in my life???

The concrete cloud is crushing my soul and my spirit and ravaging my mind and body.

Only up side is a week from now, I’ll probably start leveling out and feeling less like life is a punishment. I might get 20 days of feeling decent-ish. Might not, bipolar depression and meds are a fickle bunch.

The one thing that’s not changed even with Cymbalta is that I still don’t want to wake up in the morning, I prefer my fucked up dreams to reality. That, to me, doesn’t exactly scream THIS MEDICATION WORKS LIKE GANGBUSTERS.

What would be super helpful-and this is bloody crazy, forgive my grandeur- is finding a doctor who actually LISTENS TO ME.

Yeah, yeah. When they told me I was delusional, I nearly fell off my unicorn.

Goal Posts

I started having suicidal thoughts when I was about 9 years old. That is also about the time I started counseling for the first time, although I was in therapy for anger problems (or so I was told). The reason I say that is because everyone was telling me that’s why I was there, but […]

Delusion or Truth.


A vision? Age 4-ish

Nursery school. I am riding a tricycle in the play-yard. Suddenly everything stops, goes blank and distant and I know I have had a “daydream”. I can’t remember what I saw in that reverie but I know it wasn’t there and then, wasn’t real.

A vision? Age 6-ish

Jesus and some of his disciples are sitting around a campfire at night, cooking, boiling water or soup. Some of the boiling liquid spills onto Jesus’s hand but he doesn’t feel it. I conclude from this (at the time) that Jesus has leprosy.


so vivid