Daily Archives: April 18, 2013

Anxiety, Anxiety, Anxiety….Eat, Eat, Eat

The bombings in Boston on Monday made me take a good hard look at my life. I’ve already expressed my gratitude for the good things I have. Unfortunately, through it all, I also have been struggling with my good friend, Major Anxiety.

I am an emotional eater, but this week has been more out of control than usual. While I stayed glued to the tv set on Monday I was running to the refrigerator nonstop. Unfortunately our refrigerator is located where I clearly can watch the television. The fridge was evil and called to me all day. I listened and I lost the battle.

I wish I could say it stopped on Monday, but it didn’t. Tuesday and Wednesday were just as bad. Maybe even worse. Being in Weight Watchers I’m suppose to track my food, Well, for the first time I did not track it. I knew I was out of control and the amount I ate was off the charts.

The anxiety has been difficult. It is what made me feel hollow inside and I eat to try and feed that hole. Sadly, that made me want to eat more to fill up the hole that was actually growing larger.

In addition to the gluttony I’ve been dealing with, I also haven’t been exercising. No walking, No time at the gym. I’ve been nothing more than a slug on the couch.

Saturday is my weigh in day and for the first time I’m considering skipping the scale. I think I’ll have gained more than I possibly can. I’ll make that decision
when I get there, but will likely end up getting weighed. DAMMIT!

I’ve lived with anxiety my entire life, but can usually keep it under control. I hope that will pass soon. In the meantime I’ll be fighting hard to not gorge myself and end up gaining the 90lbs back that I lost.

Anyone have any ideas on how to get out of this funk? I can really use the advice right now.

Stress… Rash… Anxiety… What?

I was reaching up to scritch my back last night, as I often do, and was surprised to find raised bumps that were super-tender upon being touched. I’m baffled — the last time I had anything rash-like was scabies in 2000 (homeless kids slept on a couch in my favorite coffee shop. I’m amazed I’m not scarred from the infection). Before that was my two bouts of chicken pox — one at age one, and a lighter dose at age seven or so. So I know my itchy rashes, and this isn’t any of them. Hell, it’s not even itchy as of yet — it’s just there and red and spread.

So of course, I googled. Extensively. And sicced my husband and one of my best friends on it. We found nothing, absolutely nothing. So I had the husband-fellow take some pictures to add to the pictures from last night, since chronicling a strange thing is probably a good idea. It had spread further across my back from last night (though not anywhere else that I can see), though still not containing any particular noticeable itching or oozing or the like.

At a loss, I popped into the pharmacy downstairs. Quelle surprise, they didn’t have any idea either; I might very well have to book in with my doctor next week. I’m not overly rushed because it’s not seeming to spread by contact (both my super-sensitive skinned husband and child were free of any rashing), we’ve not changed detergents or fabric softeners lately (and those are non-issue for me anyways), I’ve not changed meds, and as said — it’s not noticeably itchy or painful. But I’m still stumped.

Having said that, everyone I’ve talked to has asked the million dollar question — ‘Have you been stressed lately?’ Well, yeah — I’ve had this mixed episode crap going on, and I have freely admitted that it’s taking a toll on me. But to flip that around, why on earth would I have a stress or anxiety rash now when I haven’t all those other years of mega-super-body-screwing stressed? I’m not saying it couldn’t be, but it doesn’t make much sense to me why it would suddenly happen if that were the cause. Has anyone else had any sort of experience in this regard?

Anyways, ‘joy’… got to love it when bipolar’s little buddies anxiety, stress, and depression take a physical toll (NOT). I just hope it clears up sooner rather than later, whatever it is.

I hope everyone else out there is having a good day.


The post Stress… Rash… Anxiety… What? appeared first on The Scarlet B.

Shrink appt- the pen of judgment

Had a lovely night where my kid woke up at 1am and didn’t go back to sleep til 4:30 am. That was grand because I had a dr appt at 8:40 am. Surprisingly, once the cobwebs were off my brain, I moved quick enough and felt less physically shitty on less sleep. My mood, however, was in the gutter.

Seeing the shrink did not improve it. She was there on the TV screen with her ink pen and paper and my file writing little notes and reading past notes…And asked me how Vistaril was working for me. Um, hello? I asked for that last time, YOU are the one who nixed it and said it wasn’t strong enough. Then she asked who put me on Xanax last time. HELLO? Do I even exist here? I’m supposedly the one with mental issues and I have to remind the shrink of what she did a month ago?

I tried to be upbeat and point out changes for the good without making it all seem hunky dory. I asked for a dose increase on Cymbalta since it seems to be doing more than any of the other anti-depressants did. She agreed and left the other stuff the same. Then she told me I have underlying depression and emotional issues that impact my will to live more than the mental stuff does and no medicine will ever help that, I have to work that out in therapy. Which she asked me if I was seeing anyone. Um, same question, every month, eighteen months, always the same answer YES! and we can’t even make a note of this, ffs?

Okay. Number 1, twenty years ago when all this erratic behavior began to destroy everything in my life, I went to the mental health center and told them it was all in my head and I didn’t want or need meds, just a counselor.

That worked for about six months before things got even worse and I cried uncle and asked for the meds because they swore I needed them and they would solve everything including cure malaria and unicorn cancer.

I have jumped through flaming hoops for 20 years taking these meds that are supposed to help me so damn much because something is off with my brain chemistry.

Now the meds WON’T help with my depression because it’s just my personality and I need to talk it out?

Jesus. I am not asking for a pill to cure all ills, nor do I blame everything in my life on bipolar or panic disorder. BUT how am I ever going to get into a stable mental space to work on the personality quirks if my brain chemistry never stops shifting and ebbing and flowing on a daily fucking basis? I just had four of my worst depressive days in a long while but that’s all in my head, I need to get over it by talking about it.

THEN she asked why my anxiety and panic are so high. UM, HELLO, READ THE FILE, 20 PLUS YEARS OF PANIC DISORDER! If it made sense and was only related to outside stressors, it wouldn’t be a fucking disorder.

I am once again getting so sick of the shrink bit, every month, same fucking thing, always walk out feeling relieved that it’s over but like I am a non person and I am never going to get any better when the damn doctor can’t even record accurate notes from one appointment to the next. It’s frustrating. I am also not unaware that in spite of my complaints and less than  ideal situation, I am at least getting treatment, which is more than others in my situation can say.

It’s just….tiresome.

I want her to take accurate notes so the pen isn’t necessarily a bad thing…But the fact that every single month she asks the same questions and even her notes are wrong…It’s like I am being judged inaccurately, like this is all just some sudden thing I cooked up because my marriage imploded and I found myself a single mom. READ THE DAMN FILE, IT’S AS THICK AS A COLLEGIATE DICTIONARY! This is not new, this is not all because of the marriage or the donor, this is long running stuff I have been dealing with and having it all dismissed as personality or current stressors really makes me lose faith in ever really being helped by the shrink or the meds.

Again, even if I agree that a certain fraction of it all is my personality and the way I tend to view things as glass half empty…How am I ever going to resolve these issues in therapy if every appointment is spent discussing the latest wave in panic and mood swings and how I am struggling to juggle it all and at times, failing miserably even though more than anything, I want to declare myself cured and move along with life. How the hell is that even possible? Having it all made to seem so trivial by a doctor who should understand this sort of thing is anything but simple is insulting and angering. I am trying so damn hard here, and some days, I am buried alive, and the very people who are meant to help and be my support system only assist in making me feel more useless…How is that healthy?

Blah. Just get so sick of it. Out of 20 plus years, I’ve only ever had one shrink who truly helped and that was only two years. She served her time in this shit hole and got the hell out. Which is all I have ever wanted. Out of here. It won’t fix my chemistry or psychology but it’s fucking hard to try and fix things when you’re doing it in the vast wasteland of every bad decision you’ve ever made. I can’t get a fresh start because nothing here ever changes and the people here are not at all understanding or forgiving. The whole job thing proves that. I keep getting back e mail even from work at home outfits telling me I am not qualified or didn’t pass the background check or whatever. I get rejection comes with the whole job thing, but if no one is going to give me a chance…It gets me down, it really does. It shouldn’t, and I guess this is my character flaw, but it really makes me lose hope.

Other than that…

Has been a miserable week. Cold, gray, raining, my mood has been shit. It pepped up a little this afternoon but after almost five days straight of feeling doom and gloomy-I didn’t even go to the shop MOnday because my stress stomach ache was so bad…Then tonight we came home to find out one of the kids in the trailer park completely broke one of the swings off Spook’s swingset while we were gone…

Cripes, what is there to be happy about? It’s all kind of sucky. I mean, I got out of bed and put on clean clothes and pretended I wanted to be alive…If that’s all I have for today, it should at least count for something.

But according to the shrink, that’s just my personality and I need to work on it.

Hey, Doc, here, put on this shock collar. I’m gonna give the remote control to some unknown person who is just gonna push the button at random intervals ten times a day…You try to control your personality’s reaction to the shocks.

Because that is what bipolar is like. Exactly what it is like. It’s not an excuse, it’s not laziness. It is just this neverending cycle of brain zaps that you cannot discover a trigger for, cannot control, and cannot seem to get  a grip on.

My personality is not perfect, it does need some work. (I really need to upgrade from the Windows ME/Vista brain  to Win XP or Win 7).

But it’s never going to get the attention and work it needs and deserves if the damn shock collar doesn’t quit zapping me wily nily.

And frankly, if I could narrow it down to certain triggers, that would be wondermous because then I could have a starting point in which to work on such things.

But if one thing sets me off on Monday yet the exact same thing barely makes me blink on Thursday, it’s very hard to identify a trigger EXCEPT FOR THE RAPID MOOD SHIFTS. WhiCH IS CYCLOTHYMIA,SO READ THE BLOODY FILE!

Sometimes, even if I don’t agree with it, I really truly understand why a large segment of people with mental disorders just go into denial and try to fix it with booze and drugs.

It’s not ideal, but then, neither is the so called ideal treatment.

None of us ever really improve, we just keep functioning, and that’s all the world cares about. Screw quality of life, just amble through like a semi coherent zombie because NO ONE wants to hear about your woe-is-me mental problems.

Not even the very people being paid to hear about them.



As I write this my hands are shaking.  There’s a jigger of good bourbon at my left elbow, and hopefully Noga the Wonderdog  will decide to hop up under my right.  I’ve just downed my evening med cocktail, plus an extra milligram of Ativan, plus a extra 5 mg of sleeping pill.  I hope to G-d they work, and soon.

Monster Mother has been working her poison.  It’s very subtle and mostly accomplished with tone of voice and a twist of the face, a sarcastic remark, a minimization of something I find important, or an outright barb.  That’s not so subtle after all, is it?

This time is was merely that I had forgotten I have a therapy appointment on Thursday, so I couldn’t give her the day off from taking care of Dad.  ”Why don’t you make up your mind?” was the irritable remark that set me off.  I was carrying in her copious number of plastic bags from Walmart when she said that, and I reflexively rattled the bags to cover up the fact that I was shouting “You fucking bitch!”  I think she heard me anyway, but good.

Poor Dad is triggered too.  I sat with him while he ate his lunch yesterday, so that Monster could go out shopping, and a bit of the orange he was eating dropped onto his sweatshirt, making a stain.  He panicked.  Oh, he said, I am so clumsy.  I should have been more careful.  I am such a slob.  Now this is language that I have never in my life heard from his mouth until recently when he has been confined to a wheelchair and completely dependent on you-know-who except when I am there.  And why am I not there more often?  Because if I was, I would drive my car off of one of the many handy cliffs that the Blue Ridge has to offer.

I asked Dad, “Are you upset that your orange landed on your sweatshirt, which will go in the wash tomorrow?”  ”No,” he said.  ”Then who is it that gets upset if you drop a bit of food on yourself?”  ”Someone else,” he said.  ”Do you get upset about it?” he asked me.

“No, I just think it’s normal.  It doesn’t upset me at all.”  ”Oh.  Then we know who gets upset.”

I am 100% sure that she is verbally and emotionally abusing him, just the way she has done to me all of my life.  He has started to say “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” for transgressions such as dropping his napkin or drooling on his front.

And she is the reigning narcissist, who is triumphantly happy to finally have everything her own way.  It’s chilling to see it in action. I’m going to have to write a more cogent essay about this, as the drugs are starting to take effect.

What triggered me, other than the Me-Me Monster’s ugly mug, is all the reading I’ve been doing on Narcissistic Personality Disorder, the havoc it can wreak on the next generation, and the panic regarding the fact that even though I’ve been working with shrinks since my son was a 5 month old fetus to try to prevent my behaving toward him as my mother behaved toward me, there still might be some spill-over to feel guilty about.

The drugs are taking hold, and I am going to have a little bit to eat before blessed Nepenthe folds me in her arms and takes me down, down, down…