Daily Archives: February 20, 2013

Nervous Nellie

Been home fifteen minutes. Maintenance men were next door when I pulled up. The not so nice one was griping about all the stray cats outdoors. Asked if they were mine. No, they belonged to the lady who just moved out. I inherited them. I can’t stand to see animals go hungry so I feed them. This is apparently a bad thing. Now I am freaking out that I’m somehow going to be blamed for the cat population when it has nothing to do with me. My cats are inside.

So my stomach is twisting in pretzel knots.

More so than it did all day. I was one breath from panic the whole day every time the phone rang or someone came in. It’s hard to explain “I can’t do this right now because I am freaking out and paranoid and I think I am crawling out of my skin and my brain may claw its way out of my skull.”

Nope. Plaster on the smiley face, breathe, and wait for it to be over.

Trudging uphill in molasses. Gets harder every day. People say “Well, you’re doing it, aren’t you?” Sure. Just like every other time in my life when I began to melt down. I did it…until I wasn’t doing it. By then, I was so far under the surface I couldn’t see daylight. People just don’t get the ebb and flow of bipolar and generalized anxiety disorders. If they did, then they would know I am never going to be “stable” entirely.

Read an article today that “Octomom” entered rehab to get off of Xanax. Wuss. I’ve done cold turkey four times. Admittedly there’s been little withdrawal switching from Xanax to Klonopin. Which has to make one wonder if this is ok, why do they cold turkey anyone from xanax if you can just slowly phase it all out?

The effectiveness of klonopin, for me, is so little, it’s pointless taking the pills. I do it because I said I would give it a fair chance and I am, but I honestly haven’t had anxiety and panic like this in over 16 months. Since I was put back on the Xanax. Oh, yes, “Octomom”, wants to learn to deal with the stress of life on her own without meds so she can be a better mom.

One more thing to make me feel inept. Of course, she also said she loves her kids but wishes she’d never had them, so the skank factor is high.

I think medicating my anxiety makes me  a better mom. Well, properly medicating it. The Tic-Tac-a-pin ain’t doing it. I got a letter from the job lady and I have been too panicky to even open it. I do  that alot, have such bad panic I can’t open my damn mail or answer a damn phone. I am so sick of being told it’s no big deal and to get over it. If I could, I would. I fucking hate anything  that makes me feel weak or lesser. My disorders make me feel like such a fuck up, the true miracle is how I haven’t killed myself yet.

Probably because as long as I can one or two nuggets of hope and joy, I am determined to hold on with an iron grip. Not even a genetic code fuck up is going to rob me of my right to pursue happiness. Though with the current state of this country, my government may do it. They’re wiping their asses on the constitution.

Just…a stressful day.

I wanna rant more but I am trying to keep my posts short so people will actually want to read them instead of rolling their eyes and thinking, “does this bitch ever shut up?”

It’s probably the funniest thing. I really don’t talk a lot.

But let me write and the fingers never stop typing, the pen never stops moving.

I’m a freak.

Do Mad People Fall Sick?

“Do mad people fall sick” was one of the search terms that somehow landed someone at my blog today. Oh I know, it must have been because I mentioned yesterday that I was feeling ill. This is a fascinating question, and I look forward to exploring it.

First there is the premise that there is something called “madness (“the quality or condition of being insane,”–The Free Dictionary).” The word “madness” instantly whisks my brain to the infamous insane asylum, or “madhouse,” called Bedlam, as the Bethlem Royal Hospital (founded 1330 c.e.) was called. The very word “bedlam” has made its way into the common parlance as a descriptor of an out-of-control chaotic situation, e.g., “my five-year-old’s birthday party was complete bedlam.”

So madness, by association, must be connected with chaos: a chaos of the mind that extends beyond what is considered “within normal limits.”

A term that was used to describe the profession now know as psychiatry was “alienist,” right up to the middle of the 20th century. Psychiatric hospitals were known as “Alien Asylums.” Brings up images of little green people peering anxiously out of barred windows, eh?

If mad people are aliens, that means that they are so completely different from “normal”people as to be considered to be in another class entirely, perhaps even another species.

But what about the “asylum” part? Asylum is a place of refuge from pursuit. The word actually goes all the way back to the Old Testament, where God commanded Moses to create cities of refuge in the Holy Land for people who had accidentally killed someone. Once in the City of Refuge, they were protected from being killed by the relatives of the accidentally slain one. So like the biblical City of Refuge or the Hotel California, you could check in, but you couldn’t check out.

So having established that mad people are aliens, and aliens are not normal, we can very well ask the question “do mad people fall sick?”

To answer this we must look at a more modern, but politically incorrect except for legalistic use, term: insanity. Breaking the word “insane” down etymologically we have in=not and sane, which come from the Latin word “sanitas”=healthy. So “insane”=not healthy. But we knew that already. That is why we call it “mental illness.”

So what the search question above seems to mean in this context is, “Can a mentally ill person, who is perceived (by the searcher) to be so alien that I do not even consider them to be part of my universe, be subject to the common physical ailments that we normal humans fall sick with?”

The answer, O ignorant one, is yes.

Don’t Rock the Boat

I was talking to my best friend this morning pre-caffiene; she was still up and desired my company for a specific reason. I’m not a huge fan of voice or video chatting, but I tend to make time for people if they ask it of me. The fatalist in me was especially happy to share in this, insomuch that it’s a big step towards the rest of her life, and it reaffirms my approach to life when the big things fall easily in place when they’re ‘supposed’ to.

We also made with general chit-chat, ’cause that’s what friends do. I was commenting that my current existence with bipolar is fraught with uncertainty. As I’ve said before, I cannot trust that my brain is looking out or me right now — I strongly suspect it’s waiting for me to let down my guard, and then blam – one shanked me. I was able to pinpoint that yeah, I’m feeling tired and worn out a bit, but I’ve still got enough spoons to get things in my life done. So is the down general depression, or general malaise? I don’t know, and I can’t ponder on it too extensively either. As said — my brain wants to shank me somewhere along the line, and that’s practically throwing open the door and inviting it in to do so.

Suffices to say, I wish I could reflect more on it. I wish I could trust my brain to chillax and let me get on with doing things. There’s a lot of not great with bipolar and other assorted invisible illnesses, but the not knowing what I can do day-to-day is definitely high on my list of vexations. I guess all I can really do is keep recording how I’m doing day to day (even if I feel sheepish that things are ‘good’ right now), and hope that forcing myself to communicate about me on the regular will enable me to make the most of my spoons day to day.

For now — back to le work grind.


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Just kill me now day

It has truly been a day where I just want to stand in front of a firing squad and scream KILL ME NOW!

Part of it is hormones, I swear I have that damn menstrual dysphoric thing going on, because for two weeks a month I am either in tears, a rage, or a crippling “I want to die” depression. Which considering I am usually already in those states makes it double the fun. NOT.

Part of it is all the pressure coming from all sides.

My mom is stressing out and keeps threatening to quit babysitting.

R is pressuring me to be there every day, then reminding me of a mistake I made two months ago that he had to repair therefore I basically owe him my soul and the next ten years of my life for free. Then if I assert myself he whines that I am nagging him and being mean like his wife.

My kid keeps acting out saying “I don’t wanna go home with you, I wanna stay with Grandma.”

Really people? Wanna stick some bamboo under my nails? Because ya know, I am not in enough misery, I DEMAND MORE.

Fuck it all really.

Today my panic and paranoia were off the freaking charts. Driving in this town is like being in the bumper cars only you seem to be the only who got the memo that the goal IS TO NOT BUMP INTO EACH OTHER. Maniacs. I felt like frogger in a damn car, everyone was just coming at me in all directions and it’s like no one is paying any attention. At one point some big ass pick up blocked me into a parking space so I could not back out or pull forward, which was akin to having a bag held over my face.

I know everyone is not out to get me, but today is sure as fuck felt like they were.

The day dragged on and on. I started out semi manic. Ended up with uber cramps and a depression that made me want to drink bleach.

But I came home and fed my kid and bathed her, then I forced my own scuzzy butt into the shower. I watched Castle, which was barely enjoyable because R kept calling to remind me of things to do tomorrow, all the while rubbing salt into my wounds about my months ago fuck up and how grateful I should be for him fixing it.

Personally, if someone tells you “I don’t know what I am doing here” and you insist they do it anyway, you should just fix their mistake and shut the fuck up because they tried to tell you!!!!

But noo, reality doesn’t work that way.

He’s also putting more pressure on me about the A plus certification and at this point, I am so stressed and feeling so spiteful and rebellious for all the pressure I don’t even want to do it anymore. I’d rather work in a fucking head shop selling bongs and dildos. Or mopping up at a fucking peep show. Pressuring me just has such an opposite effect. But people will never get it, no matter how many times I tell them.

Which has lead to my current state of “you can all fuck off and die.”

I half wish my mom would call and tell me she won’t babysit tomorrow. Fuck you, R, fuck you for putting all this goddamn pressure on me and not listening when I tell you it’s getting to be too much.

But because he and his children are psychotic overachievers, I am expected to be as well.

Some days, I hope for some fatal or at least long term illness just to get that man off my back. Telling him to get off my back doesn’t do a bit of good. It’s sad because it used to be kind of fun and educational helping him out. Now it just feels like a boulder I am packing around on my damn back. And he’s the one who has done it, by trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. He can’t accept that I am not like him and his spawns, and I don’t want to be. I am happy just getting by. I’d rather be content than have people think I am great.

He’d rather people think he’s great and be utterly miserable to the point of drinking himself into a stupor every night.

I’ll pass.

God, I don’t even know where I was going with this rant.

I thought about calling the shrink earlier when I had a panic attack in traffic and had to pull over. My brain just overloaded and my terror level went through the roof. It was all too much at once.

Then I thought, well if I call and tell her this, she’s going to want to put me in a damn wacko basket. And I’ve been to the wacko basket and there is NOTHING they do there that can’t be done on my own, except bill insurance for about ten grand.

So…I’m pretty fucking lost.

And I’m not looking forward to going in tomorrow for more reminders of my fuck up. I do the best I can. When I say I am in over my head, LISTEN to me for fuck’s sake. This has not been a learning experience. This has been an example in shaming me to the point where I am afraid to sharpen a fucking pencil in the place lest I do it wrong.

On the plus side…Since he was so hell bent on torturing me, I made him pay for it. I asked him to buy me the digital copy of the new Wednesday 13 Dixie Dead album…and he did. And it is awesome. Wednesday makes me happy. His music is dark and loud and I love it. I literally had a smile pasted on my face after listening to the song “Fuck You”.

Wednesday always manages to sum up all my emotions with a song title.

Now…I am going to try to take a breath and not peel my own skin off. I swear it’s crawling with anxiety cooties.

Just Too Tired; Mommie Dearest

I don’t know what’s going on.  Maybe it’s a replay of the Cytomegalovirus Mono Follies.  Yes, that’s what it feels like.  Drained.  No appetite.  Last night I was shivering uncontrollably, thought perhaps had fever, took temperature with my Israeli thermometer and it was 35 degrees Centigrade.  That’s 95 Fahrenheit.  Hypothermic as all hell.  I think this virus does something bad to my thyroid.

So that was about 8 pm.  I put on my skiing thermals, took my nighttime meds and crawled in under a down puff and two fleece blankets with the heat turned up to 70.  Slept till noon today.  Spent the day in bed watching Mommie Dearest.  No, not the best thing for me to spend my day doing, but my psychologist has been after me to watch it, and I had time, and now I know why she wanted me to watch it.  For those of  you who haven’t seen it, I apologize for not summarizing it here; I’m just too tired.  Here, I’ll do it in one line:  Joan Crawford is a sickass narcissistic maniac who adopts two children so that she will have “something to love” and “someone to love her.”  She scapegoats the elder, Christine, smothering her with luxuries one moment and making her scrub the floors the next.  The girl turns out to be beautiful and intelligent, and Crawford’s jealousy spirals into violence.  There.

It’s a good thing, I think, that I was sick as a dog while watching Mommie Dearest, because when I am sick I become emotionally unhinged, and I was unable to slam all the doors and batten down the hatches to keep my heart out of harm’s way.  Or healing’s way, really.

I don’t think my mother ever beat me with a coat hanger likeJoan did Christine.  She preferred the fly swatter: it didn’t leave marks.

I just so relate to Christine’s conflict when viewing her mother’s glamorously fitted-out dead body: she really did love her, and yet she was so thankful for the pain to be over.

Now I finally  ”get it,”  that a narcissistic person can want to have a child so that a) they have someone who HAS to love them; b) they have someone whom they can manipulate any way they want to, and whatever the outcome, it’s the child’s fault (in the narcissist’s mind).   But c) to their dismay they find themselves feeling threatened by the child’s beauty/talents, and feeling compelled to compete with them, whatever it takes.  Therein lies the trap.

I was interested to see that “Mommie Dearest” made a point to cut her two adopted children out of her will.  That took a lot of forethought and planning, more than I would expect out of your average narcissist.  But then Joan Crawford wasn’t your average narcissist.  What she did not foresee was that her brilliant and talented daughter Christine would write a memoir called Mommie Dearest that would become a hit movie starring Faye Dunaway.   That certainly turned out to be one case where outliving one’s abuser was the first step in sweet revenge.  The second was writing the book.