Daily Archives: August 1, 2014

New Address

A Bipolar Journey Through The Rabbit Hole has moved from galaxybounce02rabbithole.wordpress.com to songtothesirens.com. If you could update your address books …

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When a Loved One Doesn’t Understand Mental Illness

When a Loved One Doesn’t Understand Mental Illness The other day I posted an article suggesting ways you can tell your family and friends that you have a mental illness. What do you do, however, if they don’t understand? I’ve been in enough support groups to learn that many people, unfortunately, have loved ones who […]

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Nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs

Tomorrow is going to be  a busy day in the Dish. Pay bills, run errands, serve time at the shop…I’m looking at probable 4 or 5, maybe six hours, out of my comfort zone and out in the dish of petri. So sleep seems laughable tonight, I am far too wound and anxious. I’ve done it three dozen times but the panic never dissipates. I try to remind myself, oh, this is nothing, this is easy, you’ve done it before, you can do it again.

Except time and again it has been proven fact that more than two or three hours outside my comfort zone, out in the dish dealing with chaos and society…It’s just not in my skillset unless I become masochistic and enjoy panic attacks and paranoia from hell. So I am piddling about, using the “new” desktop, trying to overcome my fear of new unfamiliar things. Deviating is eeeevili. It was unavoidable but I still miss the comfort zone of my beloved Frankenstein (R.I.P).

Yesterday was ass trash. My mood was okay, then my kid started acting up something fierce and the anxiety toppled me over and into the abyss I went. So much so, my mind was singing the words “Back…Back in a gutter mood…” to the tune of Ace Frehley’s “Back In A New York Groove.” And it didn’t even amuse me like the whole mocking of my own dysfunction does. I retired to my room at 8:30 and slept a bit…Then woke up. Then woke up again at 3 a.m. And couldn’t get back to sleep til almost 5.

Uzi child was biting my ankles at 7.

In spite of zero motivation and being irritated, I was doing okay. Folded laundry, swept, did dishes, cleaned cat boxes…While the spawn continued to channel Satan. People thing I am being dramatic (ask Becca, she did, now she knows otherwise.) I have tried EVERY discipline method and it does no good. The kid just screams and thrashes louder. Meanwhile, around everyone else, she can put on the halo since they’re not around more than a couple of hours. Frustrating. She had me nearly in tears yesterday and today. I am so sick of hearing “You let her get away with it, that’s why she acts that way.” I’ve tried swats on the butt. Time outs. On the couch, against the wall, kneeling in front of the fridge, sent to her room. I have taken stuff away, denied her outings, sweets. I’ve tried the mamby pamby soft touch of active listening. Nothing works. Perfect example of how therapy can be utterly useless.

My mood didn’t really come crashing down until my stepmom called to tell me their cat had a breech birth stuck in the canal and they’d found her too late. she wasn’t going to make it. That made me sooo sad, I nearly teared up. I don’t think I cried at any relative’s deaths. For a cat, that’s not even mine, I can work up emotion. In all fairness, though, Izzy is my cat Shade’s mother, so I guess I am mourning for her loss. I dunno. I just love all cats. Which is why I am still feeding the abandoned strays outside even with possible fines and eviction as a consequence. I can’t go against everything I believe on this one. I’ve been to court and been evicted before and I can live with that. I couldn’t live with stepping out my door and seeing those expectant faces looking so hungry.

Skewed selective morality be thy name.

But while logical to feel sad for the dying cat, it did quash my mood. But that happened about the time R called and asked me to come to the shop tomorrow. I know he’s not expecting anything major, I’ve just always responded this way to things that loom overhead: jobs, appointments, even social outings. I can’t seem to bully myself out of it.

I am already in sheer panic mode. I was excited about my kid starting kindergarten. Then I realized all the paper work I have to fill out. They want $85 for a kindergartner registration plus another $35 in supplies (most of which is paper towels, kleenex, anti bacterial wipes, hand sanitizer, geesh, am I supplying for a kid to learn or stock a bloody kitchen?) I have to get her physical, shots, apply for fee waivers, gather all my paperwork for income and all, make sure her clothes are within the dress code, see if she can ride a bus or if I am gonna have to sell a kidney for gas money to take her every day…Then there are the school events and fundraiser sales and….

This is not fun. She’s the one going to a new school with new kids in a big building she’s unfamiliar with with new rules…And I’m the one who’s having anxiety attacks. I’ve been like this with other people having job interviews. It’s not narcissism as much as sheer generalized anxiety run amok. And nothing I do reins it in.

Ass trashery.

My mind is not slowing down any time soon. My kid is still not asleep at 11 pm. Her birthday is next week and my mom is hosting the party which means my sister’s friends’ kids will be there, all of whom are way older than my kid and not even her friends. Then Saturday my rock of support and sanity, Bex, has to return to the UK.

It’s all too much, too fast.

which makes me think Friday night…is gonna be whiskey and coke night as a reward for surviving a sleepless anxiety ridden night and grueling anxiety provoking day.

Not. Enough. Xanax. On. The. Planet.

Of Spiders and Mouse Turds

I have decided that there are few things which are more of a drag than planning—and executing—a garage sale.

It’s bad enough trying to price items so it doesn’t turn people off or rip YOU off. It stinks to let a $100 item go for $20. Nor is it any fun to set up tables and try to organize your stuff by type and color (gee, Honey, do you really think the foot bath thingie should go next to the shot glasses?) or have to wash absolutely EVERYTHING by hand because it’s so filthy from sitting in a garage for 11 years.

But the single worst aspect of having a garage sale is actually going through massive amounts of stuff and figuring out what to sell and what to keep. There are approximately 5,672 boxes out there, and most of them are full of spiders and mouse turds. (Damn those mice, you never know where they are…..only where they’ve been.) In the meantime, I’m getting eaten alive by mosquitoes and I just know I’ve been bitten by more than one spider, which terrifies me even under the best of circumstances. I haven’t actually seen very many, but the idea of them crawling all over me while I sift through boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations and knickknacks just gives me the {{{shivers}}}.

Ye gawds, we have a lot of stuff. When did we accumulate so many possessions? We’ve been pawing through cabinets and boxes for a couple of weeks and haven’t even made a dent. The Man Cave has been mostly emptied out, but we have several closets that need to be gone through, and I’m afraid of the walk-in…..there’s enough in there to outfit five women handsomely in a variety of sizes. But my wedding dress and veil are also in there, as are graduation gowns from three different family members, First Communion dresses, and even a little velvet dress my youngest daughter wore on Christmas when she was a year old. Now how am I supposed to get rid of those things?

Then there are the items I haven’t worn in eons, and more that I’ve NEVER worn, and I wonder how it was that I came to own them. I have to blame bipolar shopping for at least some of it, for if I’d been in my right mind I would have never bought the leopard-print turtleneck sweater…..or the dress with horizontal stripes that made me look like a beach ball with legs…..or that horrid toucan shirt Dr. A likes to tease me about.

So I spent most of the morning and part of the afternoon digging through boxes and deciding what goes and what stays. This was especially difficult when it came to the carnival glass, of which I’m very fond and have quite a collection. I had two big boxes filled with pieces of all sorts of different colors, and I decided to whittle it down to one. Determined, I put pieces aside for sale, reminding myself that if I hadn’t even seen them in 11 years I could live without them. But then there was this gorgeous red bowl I’d forgotten about, and a footed dish I should’ve been using for the mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving all these years…..well, there was that one box I was allowing myself, so I figured “if it fits, it sits”. 

Now all Will and I have to do is put up some signs around the neighborhood, arrange the rest of the items on tables, and hope for the best. We’re getting along fine under the stress—I haven’t yelled at him even once—and while we’re not looking forward to spending our entire weekend in a hot garage, it has to be done and we’ve accepted that. But I’ll sure be glad when it’s over…..and with any luck, our customers won’t find any mouse turds in the merchandise!