Daily Archives: September 6, 2013

It’s Real

I can feel it, it’s real
It gives me a chill
I’ve waited so long
My senses long gone
It’s at my finger tips
I can touch it before it slips
I can feel the words on my lips
I got it, it’s mine
I’ll no longer whine
My cries are distant memories
My screams reflected agonies
Now they’ll be replaced by laughter
That’s what I’m after
I’ll smile each day
Wish the bad feelings away
My sky is no longer gray
It’s something new, a new way
It’s time to play

From Humiliation to Humility

As some of you may recall, my pdoc was not thrilled when I told him I had signed up to take four classes this semester. He tried to convince me to take only one class. He thought it was far too soon for me to attempt to go to school full time. I negotiated down to two classes and received a “whatever” in the form of a shrug. It wasn’t until friends and family told me that he was right that I accepted defeat and cancelled three classes and kept English 101.

At that time I said I had to humble myself and go to school at a slower pace than I liked. I lied. Humility had nothing to do with it. I was humiliated. humiliation is a state of abasement, disgrace, and shame. Here I was nearly fifty years old and I couldn’t take more than one friggin’ class? Humiliation was what I was feeling. I played the game of acting like it was ok. It, most definitely, was not ok.

Each day, in my English class, we are given an assignment to write in our journals. The professor collects our journals randomly every couple of week or so. He gives us the assignment towards the end of class and allows us the opportunity to complete it in the classroom or leave early and doing it at home. Naturally, the vast majority of us choose to leave early.

Wednesdays assignment was easy. A simple question regarding the first chapter of the novel, Siddhartha. Our professors expectation is that each daily writing assignment should take no more than twenty minutes to complete. At home it took me nearly two hours and my head told me it was nothing but drivel. I struggled when I wrote it, and again when I wrote it, and again when I wrote it for the third time. I finally resigned that I did the best I could do and transcribed my work from my notepad into my journal.

After completing my writing, I looked at the class syllabus and realized there were two assignments that I had forgotten about. I didn’t recall him asking us to turn them in, but there they were in black and white. They weren’t anything difficult. Just short bits of information that took me no more than ten minutes to complete. My hands started shaking. I couldn’t believe I forgot something so simple. It was too late now. I was certain he wouldn’t accept them. That was it. It was over. Just two weeks into the semester and I already failed my class. At this point it wasn’t just my class. Everything in my life was a complete disaster. Maurice came home and I went into a full blown meltdown. It wasn’t easy, but he was able to talk me through it and I calmed down enough that I was no longer hyper-ventilating.

Yesterday morning I took the bus to school an hour early so that I could talk with my professor. I humbled myself and told him a very edited version of what occurred the night before. When I told him the writing assignment was garbage he asked why didn’t I rewrite it. I was advised that I could revise an assignment at any time and all I had to do was notate in the journal that it was a revision. WHAT??? How dare he tell me I had a meltdown for nothing. I then handed him the two assignments that were long overdue and expected him to tell me it was too late to accept them. I was wrong. He had put those assignments in the syllabus to see if we had read the entire thing. He never asked for them. I was the first and only student to turn mine in. I silently gloated in class when he asked the other students to turn there’s in.

Before I left his office I felt compelled to tell him that I registered for classes through the schools special services department, but did not ask for any accommodations for his class. His response was, “Why the fuck not?” He told me to go back to my counselor and get a special accommodations form and have them put that I require a quiet environment, away from class, to take my exams. In addition, he insisted that I have them add that I require 50% longer time to complete my exams. I was in shock. In previous classes I felt humiliated when I handed the professor my special accommodations form. I could feel their thoughts rolling around in their brain. Thoughts about what a loser I am and what makes me so special that I get accommodations. They never said those words, but I could hear them loud and clear.

After class I went directly to special services to get my accommodations form and they gave me one further suggestion – a tutor. I didn’t know how much that would help and didn’t want to spend the money. It was then that they told me they paid the tutor so what did I have to lose?

I learned three lessons this week. I learned it’s not humiliating to ask for help. I learned that being humble and asking for help can bring great rewards. And lastly, I learned that my doctor and loved ones were right about only taking one class this semester and there’s nothing humiliating about that.  What a good week it turned out to be.

S’Too Early!

First off, thanks to everyone who read my last post and understood that I wasn’t getting at anyone. I just… *REALLY* needed to vent. It upsets me how set up ‘normal’ society is to hold up not-that-great treatment of self as a desired norm — as someone whose brain does a good enough job kicking its own ass, I cannot understand why I’d want to complicate things. *chuckles*


I come to you today live from the office. Yessh, it feels good to be back at ‘real’ work, hee hee. I love being at my mother-in-law’s house, mind, but our basement office space is a cooler temperature and it’s pleasantly quiet and isolated. Which is good — waking up earlier means that it feels like it takes a lot longer to come to. I’ve adjusted fairly well these first couple of days; I’ve been coming to in a fairly alert state, and rousing at the time I wanted to with the help of the nudging alarm clock thingie. In that, I’m feeling optimistic about transitioning to an earlier time. I don’t know if I’ll swing it around to seven am with the husband-fellow and child-person, but we’ll see. At least I’m getting up earlier enough to give her a hug and a kiss before she’s off to school.

It will be interesting to see how the shift affects my health, mentally and physically. I’ve always been keyed as a night person — even in Kindergarten, I used to ask why I couldn’t go to school at night. During the summers, myself and the sister after me would generally stay up until sunrise, because it’s what felt right to do. My husband is of the same cloth, but is more pragmatic about things than I am, which is why he’s the one to cart Lilbit to school in the mornings. It will give/does give me time to come around after hitting my sleep cycle correctly, both of which we know are vital to me not spending the day in bed.

So how am I doing, exarctly? I’m fairly alert, though my head is a teense foggy. I’m feeling a bit goofy and euphoric, which… no idea how to parse that at this exact moment. Perhaps I’m swinging out of a light patch of depression? I know I’ve speculated that there could very well be some underlying my mainly stable state, and it’s why I’m contemplating asking my psychiatrist to up the antidepressant dose very slightly when I see him next week. It’s quite obviously helping, so we’ll see what he thinks about that. He might not want to up it since we’re trying to get pregnant, but on the other hand, it’s not like an SSRI is a significant pregnancy risk. The Seroquel is definitely a questionable factor, and I have hopes I can convince him to let me come off of it in time to be fine for a home birth — no hospitals for me, no no… too many anxiety-causing lights, people, and noises.

Whatever the overall picture, the snapshot of the moment is just fine. I hope it’s as well for all of you.


The post S’Too Early! appeared first on The Scarlet B.

I have a mental illness, I am not a 5 year old.

I recently had a 3 day hospital stay, not related to any of the mental illnesses I live with, rather a nasty physical injury. It exploded into the beginnings of blood poisoning and I may end up having to have surgery in order to have functional use of one of my hands again. Fun times. Thus far, this major stressor hasn’t triggered anything outside of some spin spinning mentally about the financial repercussions and frustration at the addition of more chronic pain. It’s in line with what any non bipolar person would experience I think…However, if surgery is necessary, there will be a meltdown. I keep pushing those thoughts out of mind for now however.

I take various medications for my BPD, OCD, anxiety, ulcers, esophageal erosion, severe allergies, asthma, and for my spinal issues as well. I’m an 85 year old woman in terms of how many pills I take a day and keep a list of my current medications in my phone as any good bipolar person should. During those 3 days I handed my phone over to no less than 10 various healthcare providers for them to copy down or review the list. I absolutely LOATHE the switch in demeanor once it’s revealed to healthcare providers I am bipolar while going over my health health history. I swear some of them even begin speaking more slowly and at a higher volume, my credibility is suddenly questioned, I am a problematic patient when I advise a nurse she has my medications incorrect and spoken to like a 5 year old. The condescending nature is enough to send my brain into overload. I want to retort, “I have a well controlled mental illness, I am not deaf or mentally retarded. Bitch.” I don’t however, because how bipolar would that appear?

I hate the stigmas attached to mental illness.