Daily Archives: February 4, 2013

In a fucking mood

I woke up pissed off. At everything. At everyone. But it’s not even a good pissed off where I want to rant and lament. No, this is a “what’s the fucking point of existence when I am surrounded by assholes” anger. I have nothing to say that isn’t nasty.

R has already texted three times to complain that he’s not getting much work done because it’s not as much fun without me there.

Yeah, that’s me, a manic depressive, bucket of laughs and ball of fun. Happy fun ball Niki, that’s me.

Not fucking today.

I ignored the first text. Work’s not fun without someone there to keep you company and amuse you? So sad, you fucking loser. That’s what I wanted to say. I did not.

The second text…I just wanted to toss out  “I wasn’t fun when you broke up with me and married someone ten times nastier than I could ever be so fuck you.” (It also implies that I somehow am jealous and considering he’s still the same self absorbed fucker he always was, I sometimes pity his wife as much as I pity him for having to put up with her.)

Sending that text would, however, be a dick move on my part.

I am infamous for being a dick.. It’s hard to have filters when your mood is like a fucking infection raging through your body giving you a fever and chills and aches. I imagine it to be a lot like demonic possession. I can’t “shake it off”. Best I can do is repeat the mantra “it’s just a mood, it’s just a mood, it’s just  A STUPID FUCKING MOOD.” Not that it helps a whole lot. I inevitably forget to bite my tongue and say something douchey. In a mood like this, it’s bridge burning territory. I can’t afford that.

So I fired back a text quoting Pinky and The Brain (it was one of our favorite shows to watch with his kids) and said I may be in later AFTER I find Abe Vigoda’s pants. (It’s a Pinky thing.) But the alternative was to say something nasty, and for all I know by afternoon I could be bouncing off the walls manic.

That text felt so fucking forced and false, because I am not feeling mirthful or amusing. I am just pissed off. I don’t even know why.

Which leads to another long running dilemma. I am never entirely sure if I am actually having an honest feeling or if the current mood is skewing it, blowing it up into some big deal that it truly isn’t. I try to gauge it by if it’s still  eating away at my mind three days later, then it really is a problem. (I lived in that perpetual three day rule state with the Donor, because just the fact the man drew breath pissed me off, and it never seemed to go away, so while he made it seem like some sort of personality or mental defect, I am pretty sure it’s just that he was a walking talking version of nails on a chalkboard for me.)

I digress.

This mood sucks. I don’t like taking my moods out on others, either. Which is why I tend to self isolate and live life from that self imposed exile.

Unfortunately, the powers that be, the ones I kinda need and can’t afford to piss off by fading into my agoraphobic hermit state, take precedence. Which just makes me feel angrier because I don’t want my ability to handle my moods to be shunted aside just to please others. I need to deal with this shit in my own way, without an audience, and it feels now like I don’t have a choice but to go forth and risk making dick comments and pissing people off with what they consider “rudeness”. Yes, I say please and thank you but my angry outbursts are a simple matter of bad manners.

Fuck. I’d rather have Ebola than bipolar. Bleeding from the eyeballs would probably be more socially acceptable and worthy of compassion than “mental issues”. And at least ebola would be swift and put me out of my fucking misery.

I am beginning to think the Lamictal is starting to konk out. I shouldn’t be cycling this way, I’ve been through six different mood cycles in three days. Tis not optimal. But Abilify is crap and Lithium makes me a fucking numb zombie, so I have no clue what I will do if Lamictal is indeed losing effectiveness.

As for the depression…I am beginning to accept it. Maybe I am just a miserable bitch who’s too nasty to find a point to the whole life. Nobody gets out alive anyway, so what IS the fucking point?

I am a dozen rays of sunshine today, am I not? Never mind the rays have razor sharp points on them and might just skewer anyone who comes near.

To boil down this rather convoluted post…

I’d just like to know why I am so pissed off.

And am I really pissed off or is this some bipolar thing?

My kingdom for some clarity.





Even though I don’t particularly like or enjoy driving, there is something empowering about having a licence I can drive on again. For instance, my husband is rather under the weather right now, so I was able to offer to him to stay home… which is something he pretty much never gets to do by himself. It worked out that he was feeling well enough to go in and allow me to enjoy a return to my normally scheduled Monday… but to be able to make that offer, to be able to help take care of him? It’s rather bad-ass, if I do say so myself.

Maybe it feels more empowering of the moment because my mood is stable-to-elevated. Or maybe it’s just having that tiny bit of freedom; if I need to go, I can. As I’ve said before, buses and taxis aren’t options that make me comfortable due to not having precise control of my comings and goings, so while I am proud that I have managed a few solo taxi rides without having a break down, it’s much better to have the transport ball fully in my court where my poor panicbox brain needs it to be.

Whatever the case, I am grateful that I am still feeling decent. I’m grateful that I’ve enough spoons to help out around the house to spell my husband (but then, I’ve always had better luck finding spoons if someone needs me!). Which I guess makes sense — I suspect everyone does a bit better if they feel there’s some purpose in their life.

Anyhoos, back to enjoying my quiet time, and thinking, and whatnot.


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Yes. I am 40 years old and I still have tantrums. They are awesome tantrums,  I mean, I have turned being ancient yet acting like a newbie into a fucking art form. But I surmise that in this case, I am entitled to my frustration induced tantrum.

Went out today feeling pretty good on two hours of sleep following a hypomanic episode.

It crashed down on my head like a trash truck compacting bags of garbage, for the cold caused the door to stick and not close. I had to drive home holding the door closed because I have no clue how to “fix” this thing, which has happened twice now this winter. I mean, seriously? I went from an 88 to a 95, this is SUPPOSED TO BE A MOTHERFUCKING UPGRADE. The doors on the dinosaur NEVER got stuck.

I was ranting and swearing and acting quite like a psycho hose beast because I can barely get two days with this “newer” car without it having some new fucking issue. This week it fucking busted some part that caused all the oil to drain out and I had to enlist R to fix the fucking thing for me. And that’s one more stressor because I am seriously hating on the man for being a self absorbed ass who dumped me married someone far more fucking irritating than me and has no excuse except crappy personality…

But ya know, he’s the one who told me to buy the car because it was working perfectly and reliable. He had even said I w0uld be able to buy it $300 cheaper than I did, but the guy wouldn’;t budge for me because apparently, there is a penalty fee for HAVING A VAGINA. So while my independent feminazi side loathes having to ask R any kind of help…

My evil side keeps pointing out he’s the one who gave the car a thumbs up and it has been nothing but one problem after another, so maybe he should fucking suffer the same consequences as me. Petty?> Perhaps. But my anger has been violent lately, so it’s really tough to have an attack of conscience when it’s all you can do not to wish someone dead simply for irritating you.

I had to call Kenny to come over and “fix” the door problem. He got an earful from me about R’s wife and her whole “did you forget to clean the living room because you did it better than I can” call. I am just disgusted and pissed off to the nth degree about that and I know it’s asinine, I just can’t seem to convince my brain to cut it the fuck the loose. Kenny hugged me and said, “:Take it easy.” HA! Panic attacks and anger issues know not what he speaks of!

My dad seems to think I am being a princess because, well, shit happens and cars need repairs.

DUH! I get this.

But I went from a car with a cosmetic blemish that still ran like a swiss watch to this pretty car that has more problems than a pregnant nun, so excuse the fuck out of me for being FUCKING PISSED. I was told it was in perfect working order thus I expected it to be. Two months and it has left me stranded three times and with doors hanging open twice.

This “upgrade” blows goats.

I hate that car with every fibre of my being and curse myself for every getting the crazy idea that change was necessary and I had to force myself to do it.

Deviation is bad.

Bad, bad bad.

I have no stability in my own mind, now I am dealing on a daily basis with a car that keeps telling me “fuck you.”

Stressed out doesn’t begin to cover it. Pissed off is an understatement.

I may not be conducting myself with any dignity or maturity by having screaming mimis but you know what?

I don’t fucking care.

Now…the only thing that is keeping me from gargling bleach on this day of tantrums and psychologically  blinding anger. It’s just an awesome song. I have a total crush on it. Don’t fucking ask me why.

I’m mentally wonky. ‘Nuff said.


I’m not crazy.

My mother had me tested.