Tag Archives: mental health

Why I Didn’t Get Depressed When I Got a F**k Off Letter

Brenda was a friend to my husband and me for many long years. We partied with her, and talked with her, and grieved with her and supported her when her marriage ended.

I became closer to her than Dan had, although he had met her first. Then we grew apart. Then I heard that she had given up on me. I wrote, asking for one more chance.

Recently, she sent me a three-page letter. When a mutual friend asked what it said, I replied, “Basically, ‘fuck off.'”

I’ve written before about the friends I’ve lost due to my bipolar disorder (http://wp.me/p4e9Hv-2W) – the pain and loss I sometimes still feel, my unsuccessful attempts to apologize or rebuild the relationships, the continuing rejection, the knowledge that those important people are gone from my life forever.

But this time, the rejection didn’t seem to bother me as much.

Why? I wondered.

I know that people sometimes do drift apart, and there was an element of that in the death of the relationship.

I knew that I had refused many invitations and stood her up many times. But apparently, when I did show up, I brought along an extra person, “my misery.” It seems like a trap: don’t accept an invitation, or be unwelcome when I do because of my constant companion, which I was unable to just leave at home. In those days, and sometimes still, the Black Dog was always with me. But Brenda saw it as something she couldn’t compete with, something that was always more important to me than she was.

In a sense that was true, though I didn’t see it as a competition. It wasn’t like I valued my disorder more than I valued her. Feeling miserable was important to me, in the sense that it seemed ever-present, but it was important to me in a bad way – the thing that dragged me down, the thing I fought against, the thing that did make my life a misery. But it was a misery I could not put down, much as I wanted to, even for people I cared about. At the depth of my depression, it was simply a part of me. I am sometimes amazed that I came through it with any friends left. But I have.

To be fair, Brenda also blamed her own misery after her divorce as a contributing factor to our parting. Then there would be four of us present – two people and two miseries – and evidently it was too much.

Most perplexing to me, though, was Brenda’s contention that her growing religious fervor and burgeoning political conservatism contributed to her decision to cut ties. I freely admit to being a liberal and to disliking organized religion, but I have friends who feel otherwise and yet remain my friends. There’s lots we agree to disagree on or simply choose not to talk about. Even my mother and I had profound differences but never gave up on each other.

According to Brenda, her religious and political leanings required “personal responsibility” – including responsibility for one’s moods. As she put it, despite her reactive depression, her happiness was a choice. One that she made and I didn’t.

She compared mental illness with high blood pressure and diabetes – conditions that one must take personal responsibility for treating and trying to control. The fact is, I was trying to control my disorder, with therapy, with medication, and once almost with electroshock. I know she knew this, as once we went to the same therapist.

And that’s why I said, “eh” when I got the letter. By Brenda’s own criteria I was doing my best. And that’s all anyone can do. I couldn’t go back and change my misery, or try harder to find relief. And I couldn’t simply choose to be happy, which I don’t believe is possible for most people like me. If you can manage it, more power to you, and to Brenda.

I think what bothered me most about the letter is that Brenda has a degree in psychology and is teaching psychology in college now. I wonder what her students are learning from her.

 

 


Filed under: Mental Health Tagged: bipolar disorder, depression, friends, mental health, mental illness, my experiences, public perception, social skills

The Bad Thoughts Are Whispering…Loudly

Not that anyone should ever need to think or say it…If you spend enough time in a depression, you start recognizing when your thoughts aren’t your own anymore. You realize all those bad things whispering in your mind are simply depressive artifact. And logically you know this and know it can be corrected *if* you can stumble on the right med combo…

The fresh hell is waiting to find that combo and being forcefed bad thoughts by your own mind the entire time.

The Bad Thoughts started whispering when my kid woke me at 6 a.m. on the first day of summer vacation from school. I literally could not pry myself out of bed. Which lead to, you are a shit mom, get off your ass, your own mom worked swing shift and still got up with us girls every single morning!.

After that it was Spook asking every ten minutes for 5 hours if it was time to go to Grandma’s for her sleepover. Bad thoughts pointing out, Even your own kid can’t wait to get away from you, do her a favor and kill yourself, you useless bucket of monkey spunk.

After I finally took her to mom’s and came home…I just kept thinking of the clock ticking until I had to go to the shop. And R called and he was just heading to the airport in CA and was shocked nothing new had come in all week, as if people not wanting to pay to fix busted shit is my fault. Not to mention he’s already so far over his head with two jobs, why would you want more work???

Finally, the clock watching got to be too much, I couldn’t focus on anything, so I just went to the shop fifteen minutes early to make the calls instructed to make. And for a brief period, I wasn’t hearing the bad thoughts. Then K returned from his trip down south and I was reminded…

R has this awesome new job, traveling across the country, K is preparing to move down south, and wtf am I doing but stewing in depressive juices and self loathing? And believe me, more than anything, I want to pull myself up out of it, I want to work and feel better about myself and look forward to getting out of bed and doing something good with my life.

Depression simply doesn’t agree or care.

Once home…I returned to binge watching Lucifer (I missed the entire season due to the depression, can’t have that abyss tainting my favorite shows, no no no, and also, depression wants you to get as little pleasure out of life as it can suck away)…And then I see an episode about a dead musician and they mentioned he was sleeping on someone’s couch and that took me to…

When I was 16 and ran away from home to Hollywood, CA. I was so mesmerized with the hair metal scene and miserable in my midwest hell, I just worked until I had some cash and I bailed. And it wasn’t until there that I learned what “sofa surfing” and “couch tour” meant. It wasn’t nearly as “cool” as it sounded when uttered in magazine interviews by hair metal musicians. Money ran out quick in Hollywood and I ended up rooming with a hooker. Kind soul she was, she found my diary and of course, my idiot ass had all my pertinent info written in it, and so she called my parents who then called the lost kid network and they dragged me back home kicking and screaming.

And tonight I flashed on that couch tour and whether Nina did me a favor or not. Was dying there at 16 any better than dying here at whatever age? Not like my life has counted for shit unless being deeply depressed wins peace prizes.

I KNOW it’s depressive distortion. I hate it. I fight it with everything I’ve got. But honestly, between that and putting up the facade for everyone around me so they don’t have to face what a mess I truly am…It’s pretty easy to hear the whispers and start believing them.

I think that part is likely what drives so many with mental health issues to self harm and even suicide. Battling your own mind is beyond difficult. And eventually it just wears you down until you wave the white flag.

I’m not doing any flag waving, but I admit…I can’t wait for my appt Tuesday to ask the nurse if I can get back on Cymbalta. That has been the quickest acting most helpful anti depressant for me and I NEED my life back. I’ve lost the will to go to yard sales, for fuck’s sake. I skipped months of my favorite shows because I didn’t want to taint them with my depression. I’ve robbed my kid of a semi sane mom who doesn’t go through the motions but actually LIVES life. I want that back, even if it only lasts a few months.

I need to be stable and I need to progress and move on, like everyone around me is doing. Being left behind because my own brain seems to want me dead…It’s devouring my soul and making me an even angrier, more bitter person.

To quote Helloween, “I want out.”

I said I was always big on hair metal…Sofa surfing, nope.


The End Of All Days

Okay, so maybe nothing that dramatic but it is the last day of school which means for two and a half months…my already fractured brain and fried central nervous system will be held hostage and assaulted daily by Spook and her merry band of desperadoes.

On one hand…Yay, no dragging ass out of bed to meet her school schedule.

On the other…her yelping to play with her friends at 9 a.m. seven days a week.

I tried to get her into a summer program. Apparently “Is there a scholarship available because I can’t afford full price” means you don’t even warrant an email reply from the Y. Maybe I can find things for her to do, but I just resent being driven from my safe space to escape all these kids. Great, she has friends, she is popular.

It just never ends well. Her, around her friends, means she becomes more mouthy and disrespectful and argues with me every time I say no to an extreme I don’t even see when her friends aren’t around. And to make matters worse, these kids show up before 10 a.m. and are still knocking at 8 p.m. wanting her to play which makes it stressful for me to give her a supper time, a bath time, a bed time. The minute they show up, she goes off if I say no.

And as I told her yesterday when she said she didn’t like me because she mouthed off and I made her come inside…My job is not to be your friend, it’s too teach you right from wrong and keep you safe.

AND IT IS A SUCKY SOUL EATING THANKLESS JOB.

In addition to pre summer dread is the post summer dread when I have to pull blood from a stone to get her new school clothes and all the supplies then attend all the start of school stuff that get me so stressed…Two and a half months away and still enough to give me a stress stomach ache. Not that my mental health care provider seems to think any of this is a problem cos last time he saw me 4 weeks ago, I was having a less insane day thus he took it to me I am doing much better, here’s a nurse, talk to her, you’re A Okay.

NO I am never gonna stop harping on that. 24 years of psych care and never once was I shunted off onto a nurse. She might well be more understanding, hell she could suggest the magic bullet that gets me six good months, IDK. I just think it’s shitty to stick a patient in an 8 month seasonal depression in a position of feeling like they’re not even worthy of seeing their own doctor.

The anxiety is getting to me all over the map. I woke at 3:30 this morning amidst a pile of cats in my bed and realize…my softer mattress is helping my back pain, it’s playing bed Twister to avoid crushing a cat that is making me wake up all sore and feeling crooked. But there was no getting back to sleep immediately. I tried for an hour and a half. Stroked a kitten hoping purr therapy would work. By 5 a.m. it was 0.5 Xanax time. Which gave me a half hour to nod off and ninety minutes to sleep, give or take. When my sleep is disrupted like that, it usually means I am going to have a really shitty mental health day. It’s not the amount of sleep I get, it’s how much uninterrupted sleep I get. Not that the professionals understand that, either.

I took her to school, put gas in the car, and paid car insurance on line. Now I am gonna watch the season finale of Special Victims Unit because I do so love when fiction mirrors reality and I am reminded what this country has come to. A bunch of hate mongering assholes who think Muslims are all terrorists which is akin to saying all people with blue eyes are Hitler petri dish mutations.

I may be mental but the world is a cesspool of ignorance and it doesn’t take sanity or a brain surgeon to see that.


No, YOU Started A Meet-Up Group!

WHO is this person and WHO started a Meetup Group for persons 50 and over?  She sounds like a fucking centenarian!  My God!  The scandal!  Trying to meet people her own age!  And in her own town!  And an Introvert, mind you!  It seems I’ve drunk the kool-aid about it not being good to be isolated all the time, I guess.  Maybe I miss having more friends / social contact than I have now.  Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and think what a bad fucking idea this was and ask for my money back.  And maybe I’ll grow a tail 🙂  Well what the hell.  I started a Meetup group.  Forgive me for cutting this short.  I’m compulsively monitoring Meetup to see if anyone has joined my group yet.  I’ll keep ya posted 😉


Filed under: Bipolar, Bipolar and Meetup Tagged: Bipolar, Bipolar Disorder, Blogging, Depression, Hope, Humor, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader

Manifest Anxiety

I have run the emotional gamut over the last 4 days from too depressed to be awake to wanting to die to “I’m okay-ish” to today’s “I was fine then the anxiety started gnawing away at me and I had to go out near people and now I am either having a nervous breakdown or a psychotic break”.

Mixed state. Icky.

Sunday my will to live was nil. The bad thoughts were kicking my ass and I was starting to believe their lies, especially when my kid was hosting 6 different kids and shrieks were the ambient noise. That day I managed to wash dishes and fold six baskets of laundry, not out of will, but out of desperation to drown out the depression and its lies of how worthless I am.

Monday was survivable.

Yesterday…I hadn’t eaten in 36 hours, took my meds, and started throwing up. Then my stomach started to churn and not even milk and Pecid were taking it down. I got excessively sleepy and had to stumble through the day ticking off minutes til my kid was asleep so I could escape to dreamland, too.

Today didn’t start out bad. But then came time in the dish and traffic and oh, some dumbfucks parked in the middle of the road arguing about who was the shittier driver. That was pleasant because confrontation sits so well with me. That ratcheted up the anxiety to fever pitch.

Part of this week’s anxiety is being at the shop 4-6 while R is out of town. It’s not that there’s anything to do. Whatever was asked of me was done Monday and now it’s ghost town aside from talking to elderly people who wander in and seem to just want conversation. No, I think it’s the responsibility factor. Like someone trusting their child to you when you’re in the middle of having a seizure and a heart attack as well as being dosed with roofies. I have enough with my kid and cats and home…But ya know, I am forcing myself outside my comfort zone for a friend and also, giving the depression and anxiety the middle finger. Fuck you, I can and will do this, even if it lands me in the Rubber Ramada.

Price for this forced functionality and rebellion is immense. Because I sit home and wonder, did I lock the door, did I turn everything off, did I forget something…Crushing responsibility at the moment. But when not mixed, when not getting my ass kicked by a seasonal depression that’s lasted 8 months…it wouldn’t be a big deal. I am capable enough. At this time, though, I am also altered so much, putting on pants is a challenge.

Of course, I can’t tell anyone around me that. I have to pretend to be just fine because Niki is too smart to be depressed. As if intelligence has fuck all to do with depression or bipolar. I can’t tell my family how bad it is because then they will start thinking I am unfit to care for my child. Yet as I fall apart, my kid is still fed, clean, clothed, going to school, and has friends. No, I am the one I am unfit to take care of. I do the bare minimum for myself because that is what it takes to be a competent mother while in this hellish state of mental unhealth.

Not a word there? I just made it one.

So two more days after today and hopefully R will be back and I will be free of added responsibility. Because I am wearing down and breaking down and I don’t even get to tell my doctor about it, he’s so busy I get to see the nurse in spite of an 8 month depression that’s barely been alleviated due to the fact the midwest still thinks it’s late winter. FFS.

Writing this has given me a headache.

I am gonna tell the nurse I just want to go low dose Cymbalta. I’ve been on it two or three times and the high doses always make my anxiety go insane. I am thinking this time with the Wellbutrin (if they can be mixed, cos you can’t say it’s so just cos the internet said it is) maybe I can be skyrocketed out of the abyss. Cymbalta has done it for me before, one of the best meds ever used by me if you discount high doses causing mania and anxiety. I just hope it’s not a case of “I have to talk to the doctor and he’s gone for 6 eons so you can’t get a script til he returns from Planet Neomaxiezoomdweebie”.

And I best not hear “outpatient therapy”, either. I am beyond the point where talking and art therapy are useful. I am up and ambling about and my anger is keeping me alive…I just want some damned balance and maybe the will to live. Because the way things are going with the new president…the disabled are going to be disposable and I’d like to have my mental ducks in a row before that happens.

And by disposable, I mean, bye bye benefits, not that the Trumpire wants to suck our blood and kill us.

Hey, don’t look at me, college humor came up with that nickname for him. I just like it.


To Bird Or Not To Bird

zebra finches

I am struggling mightily with the impulse to buy some pet birds.  It’s Spring, and I hear the beautiful birds singing, and I just want all the birds!!  I have had Zebra Finches before (other birds too) but I like Zebra Finches because they are zero-maintenance.  They don’t want to be held or cuddled or paid attention to in the least – they just live their precious lives in their cage and if you get a male and a female they make precious babies!  OH!  How I want to get some!  Then I could just sit in my chair and watch my birds.  And avoid studying.  Oh.  Yeah.  That.

Part of me says “Wait until you pass your certification, then this will be your reward” which is a great idea but fuck me I don’t want to study!!  I have just rebelled and rebelled and I haven’t studied for a week!  This isn’t good people!!!  I’m supposed to take the test at the end of the month!  This is my own deadline but it’s for a good reason, I need to go out and get a damn job!  Have I mentioned how I feel about getting a full-time job?  I know I have.  I feel like SHIT about it!  Oh lawd I think all this shit is tied together.  Could getting pet birds possibly help me in some way?  Could I become homeless with pet birds?  These are the things that pop into my head.  I dunno, I just think pet birds would contribute to my home harmony.  That sweet little song . . . C’mon people talk me into it!

Well that’s about all for this week except we had a damn snowstorm in the middle of May and I had to say What the FUCK, Colorado?!  That sucked.  It is beautiful today, though.  Snow all gone.  Hope all is great in your world.


Filed under: Bipolar, Bipolar and Studying, Bipolar and Work Tagged: Bipolar, Bipolar Disorder, Blogging, Depression, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader

The “Am I A Horrible Person Debate?”

So it’s no secret that I am absolutely a TV junkie. I binge watch like a pro and sometimes, the characters start to feel like family and friends. Not in a ‘lost touch with reality way’ but in a comforting way.

And then there are episodes of shows that trigger me. This week there have been a couple.

One episode was centered around a missing schizophrenic. His psychiatrist said, “I’d rather be alone with a paranoid schizophrenic than a bipolar or borderline patient.”

And logically, I know it’s fiction, just a TV show. I also know there are doctors and ‘mundanes’ who actually think like that and believe it.

It bothers me. Because I’m not violent. I am volatile but since a proper diagnosis and mood stabilizers, I no longer have the outbursts of throwing things then hiding in the bathtub n shame. Even then, I didn’t go after people. Walls hit with shoes, plates broken to vent frustration, sure. Like ten years ago. To hear that bipolar and borderline disorders are classified as having a propensity for violence really pisses me off. While some patients may lean that way, the sweeping generalization that ALL are dangerous…NOPE.

So one more thing that leaves me wondering…Am I a monster? If I’m not one now, am I eventually going to snap and become one because apparently, that’s how even the professionals view bipolar disorder?

The other show that got me locked in a loop on my own worth as a person involved a father who had walked out on his daughters and he told his adult daughter, “I had to leave, there was no way I could have stayed with your mother and survived.”

And right back to…I ran the donor off, I was a monster, I did everything wrong and logic was out the window for most of it due to pregnancy, not being medicated, being wrongly medicated. And of course, I did that horrid thing of projecting some of my own issues on him without even realizing that’s what I was doing. I begged him to stay even though deep down, I knew it was all wrong and I’d known it before I was even pregnant with Spook. He was the one telling me I was a quitter, give it more time, nothing is wrong, he’s happy with his family…

He said that right up til 3 days before he walked out by sneaking out his stuff and a 30 second call saying, “I can’t do this anymore.” What was I supposed to believe when I was so mislead? How could I be a monster when I was simply believing what I was being told?

And while trying to hang on even though he made it clear his wasn’t strong enough to handle my mental conditions and it was dragging him down..I was wrong but my reasoning was pure. I didn’t want to give up on one more thing. I didn’t want to be a quitter, again. I didn’t want my child punished by having no father just because I am difficult.

Looking back, it’s all so clear. Especially now that karma has bitten me on the ass and my daughter pretty much erodes my self esteem and sanity on an hourly basis. Is that how I made the donor feel? If so, wow. I am a monster. Not that he didn’t bring some of it on himself, always monitoring my every expression and asking are you okay and not letting up even when I said ten times to let me ride out the mood swing, it;s not your fault. That would set a sane person off being battered rammed constantly and especially when he made my condition all about him, as if it could be boiled down to what did he do wrong.

Rationalizing my own poor behavior, right?

No I accept responsibility for my bad behavior. I do not accept his weakness, not being able to cope with my conditions which were made known from word go. I do not accept that I am so monstrous it entitles him to abandon his child and not even attempt a relationship with her. Do I want to deal with him? Hell no. But when my kid asks what she did wrong to not have a dad like other kids…I’d walk through fire to give her a dad even if it kills my soul. Because it’s what you do when you love someone. You stop caring all about yourself and you sacrifice, you suck it up

I will apologize to him for my bad behavior. Not being bipolar, I didn’t ask for that. But my personality quirks that hurt him..I feel shitty about that. I own it. I can only try to do better and be better.

So am I horrible person? I’d like to think no. Troubled, flawed, difficult, sure. But a horrible person wouldn’t think twice about how they contributed to the failure of their relationships. They would blame the other person entirely. That’s a horrible person.

But maybe making that judgment is what makes me horrible.

Sometimes, I think all the therapy actually made me worse as opposed to better. Constant analysis of my behavior, past, present, future, analyzing those around me, wondering what disorders my shrink has so how does he have the right to label me…

That much awareness is kind of stifling and self defeating.


Caregivers Need Care Too

While there are professional caregivers, family members often provide care and support for those with bipolar disorder and other mental illnesses.

My husband of 35 years is my caregiver. He does a spectacular job – making sure I have my meds, taking me to my appointments, running the errands that I have no spoons to do, keeping the house quiet when I need to sleep, making sure I eat at least one nutritious meal a day.

It’s a lot. And there are things I can give him in return. Things he needs.

Appreciation. When my father was dying of cancer, my mother was his primary caregiver. One day she came to me, wanting me to tell her that she was doing a good job. She knew that she was. She just needed to hear it from someone else, someone who could tell her that her excellent care had been noticed and appreciated.

Appreciation – validation – is the thing that caregivers need most, to replenish themselves, to allow them to keep doing the things that are so vital for their charges. And it’s the easiest to give. When you’re in the depths of depression, it may be difficult to remember to say “thank you,” but it means a lot to your caregiver.

Now I’m mostly out of my depression (usually), and I say “thank you” a dozen times a day. And he always responds, “You’re welcome, friend.”

Alone time. Primary caregiving can be a full-time job. I know that one thing I need in the process of healing is alone time. Dan needs it too. He needs time off, even if that’s just time to retreat to his study and watch a movie or go outside and dig in the garden. I can always reach him if I really need him – for example, if I have a panic attack – via cell phone if nothing else. But, as the saying goes, you can’t pour from an empty vessel. That’s part of the reason that he’s able to give me so much of what I need.

Couples time. This doesn’t necessarily mean sex. It means time spent together, doing something other than dealing with mood swings and trauma. It’s a little gift we give each other. Sometimes I sit through a movie I don’t really care for, just to give him the gift of snuggling on the couch. He got me color-and-bake ceramic mugs that are great for creativity and distraction. One rainy afternoon we sat together and each colored one side of the mugs.

Life stuff. Dan does most of the chores and tasks of daily living, but I do what I’m able to. I earn money. I pay bills online and do most of the other computing, except what he does for leisure. I help with cooking to the extent I can – sous-chefing, finding recipes, breading or mixing or inventing dressings and sauces, making grocery lists. He can ask me for help too.

Sharing my spoons. When I do find myself with a few spare spoons – a little extra energy occasionally – I try not to be selfish with it. When I have spoons to spend, I like to shower and dress and go out for lunch. But the other day, I showered and dressed and went for a walk in the woods with Dan, something he’s been longing for. My spoons ran out pretty rapidly, but he appreciated that I made the effort and shared one of his delights. It was another gift that cost no money.

In other words, when you have a caregiver, don’t think it’s all one way. Your caregiver needs care too. Small or large, what you are able to give will be appreciated.

 


Filed under: Mental Health Tagged: bipolar disorder, caregivers, husband, mental health, mental illness, mutual support, my experiences, Spoon Theory, support systems

The Self Pity Monster

I suppose the title is a misnomer, because the term self pity is not my description of this phase of a depressive bout, it is what society at large seems to think. This current phase of “Why me, I suck, life sucks, I don’t deserve to live, I fail at everything” is NOT self pity. It is self loathing. It is desperation. It is ‘hanging by a thread and my brain wants to drive me to off myself with its depressive distortions’.

I started today out low but okay for depressed. It was cold and wet and I skipped yard sales. Actually, it wasn’t even an option to skip them, I simply didn’t have the desire or will to go out. And I haven’t turned down an opportunity for yard sales since I was 6 except during a depressive bout. Around one p.m. I took my kid to her grandmother’s for a promised playdate. I hadn’t bathed (the cold and gloom made my motivation about hygiene nil) and I was trying to ward off my mom’s comment the other day about how I can never stay, always have to go, too good to visit them…15 minutes in, my kid actually told me it was time for me to leave, I was hogging her aunt and grandma. And my mom snarked about how my kid isn’t the boss of me, I am the adult. Hmm…this after she made a bitchy comment about “you’re tougher on her than I was on your girls, I’m glad, I was a pussy, I let you walk all over me.”

Um…Reason why I am cracking down on my kid is because she is getting out of cute mindless kiddie age. She made an 11 year old cry at school the other day and 2 teachers had to intervene because she asked an adopted kid where she “came from”. This girl’s parents had signed away their rights and she’d bounced around foster care…Of course, my 7 year old didn’t know better. But it’s really not an appropriate question regardless of your age and Spook was playing victim because the older girl told her to ‘shut up’. Rude on that girl’s part but then my kid would have a tearburst if another kid pointed out her father’s absence from her life. Spook’s old enough to learn tact and empathy and compassion. I don’t know why that is considered ‘tough’ by mom’s standards but…Her seemingly positive support of me was attached to *that* judgemental tone indicating somehow I think I am a better parent than her.

I loathe going around them for that reason. The judgment.

I had a quiet day, following some errands in the dish. During which I had one of my usual “Wal-mart only” weak and dizzy spells. I think part of it is the road work on the main drag and the stress of the closed lanes and navigating traffic. But it unnerved me enough to come home and regroup. Then spend the day anxious without any real explanation.

When my sister brought my kid back she came inside to see the kittens and the ‘self pity monster’ kicked in. Because my sister is a housekeeping goddess and I broke the vacuum again this morning so I couldn’t even claim clean floors…and she made a comment about the strong scent of my Zen wax melts. Then I noticed my kid was in different clothes and had been bathed, as if I somehow neglected her. (They failed to mention she went fishing and got dirty when with them, my paranoid brain just jumped to conclusions.)

And so it started. Another minor tearburst in front of my kid because I caught her in a lie (and she just won the character award at school for honesty last month). Then came “I can’t do anything right.” Then it was “The doctor will want to lock you away, your own family thinks you can’t even keep your kid clean.” Followed by, “You’re buried alive here, you are never ever getting out from under it all, you’re as good as dead.”

Thankfully, though weak and getting its ass kicked, my stubborn rebellion streak spoke up and reminded me, when things are bleakest and you’re at your weakest, it’s time to not give up and not give in, ever.

Am I feeling it strongly? Nope. But it’s still there, reminding me that I am NOT depression’s bitch. Even though I really feel like I am down for the count.

One more lie depression tells.

So while the world at large may consider this the self pity monster…I pity only my child for having a mom with such a screwed up brain. I blame myself for something I cannot control.

Thanks for the social programming, world.Fuck you too.


Break

I did the unthinkable, the unforgivable, as a parent last night. I cried in front of my child. I am the grown up, I am supposed to protect her and make her feel safe and yet one too many stressors and I just…broke. I wasn’t sobbing and hysterical, I just teared up and sort of whimpered, “Why can’t something just go right?”

According to that last child psychologist who put every bit of my child’s behavior at my doorstep because she senses my depression and anxiety thus I am The Problem…I am probably the least fit parent on the planet. God knows, you can beat your kids, starve them, neglect them but god forbid you have a legitimate mental condition that causes you to behave in ways contrary to your own nature and beliefs…you are unfit. What that woman did to me psychologically with her “3 visits, your kid behaves in front of me, you’re the problem” bullshit is criminal. That after the therapist who diagnosed as borderline after 2 visits and 20 years of every other therapist saying not otherwise specified. They all want to rewrite history, they all want to label me after a couple of visits…

And THEY are the reason I no longer trust therapists or even believe in them. Once again, that is all on me, as I am mental and thus they are right, I am histrionic and unable to handle the truth about myself.

See, it’s not enough my brain lies to me, distorts things, and tells me how so much is wrong with me I should just off myself. NOPE. I get therapists who pretty much confirm what the scumbag depression is telling me. And this is supposed to make me better but instead, it has made me so much worse. Therapy used to be a good thing for me, back when I could rant and rave and not have myself labeled with a personality disorder during a hypo mixed phased or a deep depression. Because sorry, when you’re hypo and irritated, everything does become black or white. People are evil or they are good, there is no in between. That is NOT borderline, because six months later when the meds are working, you see the shades of gray. That is chemical imbalance, damn it.

But no, thanks to a couple of shitty therapists in a row who were supposed to help me…I’ve lost my faith in the therapy process and come to rely solely on blogging, research, peer support here on wordpress, and medications. We all know how well the medications work for me. Though to be fair, the mood stabilizers and anti anxiety meds are old reliable. It’s the anti depressants that fail me again and again or I have bad reactions and because I’m part of .001% who reacted that way, I must be making it up because big pharma and the docs say those aren’t known reactions…

I am rambling. Good. It means my anger is overriding the weepiness. I cling to my anger because society respects it more than genuine emotion. Anger and hatred get good press, look at who is our president. FEELINGS, like sadness, empathy, compassion, tears- those get the bad press, those are FROWNED UPON IN THIS ESTABLISHMENT. So bring on the anger, let it keep me simmering and above the surface.

As for last night’s break…It just stemmed from a week of kittens dying, my Mira computer overheating and me too stupid to clean the fan, the floors are caving in to the point my bathtub and toilet are going to be on the ground soon even though the maintenance guy pointed out it needed fix and stupid me assumed maybe since he saw how bad it was with his own eyes maybe it would actually get done…and then there’s my kid, perfect angel for everyone else on the planet, who just constantly defies me and bickers every time I say no and even after seeing me cry and me weepily asking, “Can’t we just be a loving family and respect each other?”…it took an hour and a half to get her to stay in her bed and quit making demands of me…

Who wouldn’t break?

Right, it’s just me. The therapists thought so.

I am buried alive here with everything that is wrong and while there are definitely some sucky problems..Six weeks ago, it wasn’t this bad. And I attribute this to being on a singular anti depressant regimen. I need dual anti depressants when it gets this bad and yet..I can’t bring myself to call the doctor’s office because their short staffing has made it a nightmare to just get refills let alone accomplish starting a new med without an appointment.I see the nurse in ten days, I can tough it out, right? Because what’s worse than feeling so broken due to depression is calling the professionals for help and feeling neglected, rejected, and pushed aside like you’re just an annoyance. And while that may be my interpretation, distorted by depression…it just feels shitty when your doctor, who you count on to help you get through this shit, is running an outfit less organized than the McDonald’s drive thru.

What hurts the most is knowing back around March 19th, I was doing pretty damn well. It only last a couple of weeks but it gave me hope that I could rise from the depressive ashes. Except the seasonal dragged me back down the second the weeks of gloom and rain and cold returned and it was like going through winter all over again. To feel so good only to have it ripped away is just brutal.

So maybe my kid will be traumatized for life because mommy broke down and cried a little. I’m human and I’m struggling and no one will lift a finger to help me so if breaking down on occasion gets me through..my kid will just have to be traumatized. Though at 7, I’m not convinced she has the capacity for that because then she would have to feel something for someone other than herself and honestly…Spook just doesn’t. I don’t know if it’s normal behavior for her age. I just know it’s scary for me, thinking if I don’t instill some empathy and conscience in this child, I could be raising the next Aileen Wournos. Or worse, the next President Trump.

Yeah, I said it. That is worse than the female serial killer.

And while I’d love to say that’s the depression talking, it really isn’t. I just have a real problem with people who have no conscience or empathy, regardless of their age or station in life.

Maybe if I get medicated properly it won’t get me so riled. Until then..I’m broken. And it’s okay to be broken. Broken things can be repaired most of the time.

Let’s hope I am one of the “most of the times”.