I decided to brave the dish of petri.
Big mistake. In light of this week’s manic highlights, I have crash landed into splat land.
I look like death. The scowl lines are etched in my face and my eyes look like unfeeling black coals of hardness.
I want to burst into tears but I don’t know why.
I want everyone to just die in a fire.
And it came from out of nowhere. WTF?
I feel like Icarus, always flying too close to the sun then melting down. Except it never ends, it just keeps going on repeat until I wind up here, wishing I could just die and never ever have to think about mental illness again.
Someone posted a pic on Reddit the other day. It said “It’s just a bad day, not a bad life.”
On that day, I totally bought it because I was half manic.
Today I am fairly certain it is a bad life because I can’t escape my own mind and it never fucking shuts up and this bloody well sucks!!!!!
Meanwhile those around me are scratching their heads wondering how someone could be sad without any trigger.
For fucks sake, I swear I am surrounded by people with their heads so far up their asses a proctologist couldn’t remove them.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse…
The mood darkens. The anxiety heightens. The paranoia soars.
I can honestly say for the last hour I’ve been having “fuck it, I wanna off myself” thoughts.
That’s really not my style. Crash and burn maybe, but never deliberately offing myself. I had a kid in high school who told me it’d be doing the world a favor if I killed myself. In the ultimate rebel yell “fuck you” quest, I have vowed to never ever ever do the world, or that prick, the favor.
So where is it coming from?
It was like a damned ninja. (Ever notice I swear a lot when I am emotional?) Just crept out of nowhere and attacked me. I was low, but man, this is beyond rock bottom. The activity and going out is supposed to ward this off,that was the whole reason I forced myself to put on a bra and go out. (Sad that putting on a bra constitutes functionality for me.)
Instead of having a positive impact…it seemed to have triggered a worsened episode.
Or maybe it would be this bad whether I went out or not.
I just know by the time I went to get my kid school, I had the smile pasted on but the tear ducts were flinching. Hate those things.
Hate all this me me me talk. I feel fucking possessed. Like if I don’t spew the verbal pea soup vomit I will implode.
And my kid is having fits because I won’t let her play outside, I won’t let her play with the tape dispenser (she’d manage to slice her throat with the cutting blade, I mean, this is a kid who gets hurt by rubber toys.)
The easiest answers to this whole episode or “feature” is of course, sleep or heavy drinking.
I can’t do either.
So I wait for it to pass.
And I ponder canceling tonight’s playdate for Spook because me around others in this mind frame…BAD IDEA. There are times when I can sense it will help. This is not one of those times. This is the danger zone. Right between a hostile tirade or histrionic tears. I am not going there with an audience.
I keep hearing the counselor telling me to “regulate” my emotions.
If I don’t understand what’s causing them when they weren’t like this two days ago, how am I supposed to regulate fuck all?
Earlier when the dark “die die die” thoughts crept in…I pondered dropping my kid off at my mom’s and taking myself to the ER. :Let them commit me, maybe some electro shock woul solve the whole fucking problem.It was a fleeting thought but I take my kid’s safety seriously and if I am circling the drain and it could be to her detriment…But it passed. Back to “why can’t I just not wake up ever again” space, like that’s any better.
I’m getting desperate.
The other day I was so manic and grandiose thinking, “I’m strong, I’m a badass, I can do this.”
Today, right now, I just want to be a little girl and curl up in someone’s lap and cry my eyes out while they stroke my hair and tell me lies about how it will be okay.
I’ve never had anyone do that for me. Ever.
Guess it’s the things you’ve never known you want the most.
Except the shame of allowing myself to lose control and be needy that way would doom what little self esteem I’ve procured over the last few years and I would be filled with self loathing forever.
Fuck me and fuck bipolar.
(die die die)
Okay, wow, yeah, this is…Not good. Not really me. Well, okay I do get this way on occasion, it’s part of the cycles, but…wow, this is bad juju.
Anyone know an exorcist?
Or a surgeon who’d remove my tear ducts because cathartic as crying can be, I can’t do it at will anymore lest my kid see it so I spend so much time repressing tears every muscle behind my eyes knots up and my head throbs and…
I may not be clinically insane but I am seriously fucked up.
And I can’t even claim it’s booze or drug induced.
I am all naturally fucked up.
I think the xanax is kicking in. Thoughts are swirling still but slowing down to highway speed instead of freeway. I loathe being reduced to taking a pill because I am cracking my lids. It’s just so cliche. So “oh, you can’t cope, you have to pop a pill.”
Happiest time of my life (well, only on this front) was when I was preggo and could take nothing more than prenatal vitamins. My cabinet was no longer this clusterfuck of pill bottles with take two of these, take one of these, take three of these, do the macarena while standing on your head and letting this one dissolve on your tongue…
God, I want to say fuck it.
But sadly, I have tried that so many times it’s disgusting. I end up right back where I started, only way way way worse. So who am I trying to impress by forgoing what obviously helps with the problems? Why should I feel guilty for needing meds to make my brain less ill? Are diabetics made to feel guilty for needing injections?
Such a crock of shit.
Reminds me of a line from a Sick Puppies song. “Here’s a pill…why don’t we take it…cos i hear it makes it…all okay.”
Much like a Tylenol helps with a headache, psych meds do the same. They don’t cure recurrence.
Or a chronic inflamation of the psyche.
Fuck. I hate when I go all rambling like this. It makes me hate myself but it’s like…I can’t stop.
Pea soup.Stupid psychiatric pea soup spewage.
I am so far gone it took my kid to remind me what today is.
Yet Monday I was all too aware and had it all planned out and was jazzed.
It’s Friday the 13th.
My norm on this day is to wear one of my Jason Vorhees shirts.
Damn, damn, damn. I forgot yet my 5 year old remembered.
This mental shit fucks EVERYTHING up, even things I adore.
She asked me why I am so jumpy and frowning. How do you explain to a 5 year old the concept of being insane for no apparent reason?
I gently told her mommy’s brain is moving too fast and I just need time to sort it all out.
The tornado has calmed but it is still wreaking havoc across the landscape of my mind.
I am remembering the manic phases of the last week and realizing…Um…Yeah.
I make idiotic choices when I am manic. Then I get to suffer the consequences. Joy, joy.
Maybe this is the cosmo’s way of telling me I need to try harder to rein it in.
Ha ha ha ha.
Because if bipolar were mere mind over matter I’d have cured myself instantly years ago instead of letting this path of destruction called my existence continue.
I can’t believe I haven’t heard from the doctor. It would make sense to call, I suppose, but hey I did that last month when there was the confusion with the meds…and no one ever got back to me. The pharmacy contacted me. Obviously, this psych practice is a band aid shop and I need a trauma center.
I don’t know what to fucking do.
Keep writing these long ass rants and run off the few readers I have?
Oh, yes, I am aware just because I have X amount of followers does not mean anyone is reading my spewage. I’m bipolar, not delusional. Unless you count that whole period of having hope that some people aren’t entirely shitty, cos yeah, that was pure delusion.
Just saying…The couple of people who do care enough to read my inane rants count with me and I don’t want to alienate by going on too much. It’s redundant after awhile. Yet this is the only real way I know to keep track of the cycles and it’s the only clear way for me to remind myself of just how bad depressions or manic episodes can get.
Like the manic episodes. Where your judgment is as impaired as if someone slipped you drugs. And when you’re no longer manic, you go, WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO THAT FOR, AM I INSANE?
It’s like, you get choices A, B, C. You know A and B are just going to cause you problems while option c may be dull but it is safe.
You want to go with the safe choice.
Instead, you pounce on A and B, wanting to feel alive even at the cost of your own sanity.
Only to “sober” up, so to speak, and realize…You didn’t add a thing to your life, you just detracted from it by making yet more sucky choices.
But you know you’ll do it again if you’re manic.
Which is why I’ve spent years of my life removing myself from any situation where a manic episode could put me in the position of making bad choices.
Yet…Oops. I’ve done it again.
Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
But guess what? By the time I go manic again, I won’t remember this cautionary tale. Even if I read it I will be cocky and self deluded enough to believe I know what I am doing.
That electro shock is sounding better and better. Not like my short term memory could be any worse.
And…the cats are trying to climb me. Normally I love cat therapy. Right now…I just want to scream GET OFF OF ME. But one of them is preggo and I think she may be going into premature labor which is just one more thing I don’t need right now. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she is just super vocal and needy.
I don’t know anything right now.
Sometimes I miss the days when I could just take a trazadone or two and sleep it off.
Yeah, bipolar is a lot like drinking booze. You get the same hangovers and have to sleep it off. Only more vicious because you can’t puke up your brain.
Oh yay. My kid has video of my manic singing over the last few days. Somewhere a dog’s ears are bleeding. I couldn’t carry a tune if I put it in the palm of my hand. But damn, when manic…I don’t care, I just wanna get high on the music.
Being reminded via video, though…Humiliating.
Just had to get her a leap pad, didn’t I.
Oh I’ve flip flopped again. Earlier I was worried about alienating people. Now…I’m in “fuck ‘em and feed ‘em to the fish” space.
Yeah, probably should call off the playdate for Spook, it is not likely to end well with my current state of being, well, fucked up.
The professionals would say, now, now, it will help you.
Of course, the professionals have never been manic and let loose with a tirade of anger, manic impulsivity, or parade of tears that destroyed friendships and such.
I am in the danger zone and there are landmines everywhere. I have to step lightly and carefully.
I’d likely be best to stay in. But then again, this is about my kid, not me. I could retreat to a corner and nod and smile politely and I doubt the adults would notice or care. Of course, the slightest comment could set me off and R’s daughters have been known to fly off about people with bipolar, people who live in trailer parks, people on disability…
Oh, can you say fucking powder keg?
I’m not sure if that’s ominous or just that I feel like I could burn some bridges.
More fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
I just remembered we missed R’s granddaughter’s bday party last weekend. Spook and I had the runny nose cold cough thing going on and there were gonna be fifty people there so I decided it would be wise not to go. I’d meant to go get a little gift we could give her tonight (but nothing I can afford will ever be good enough for those upper crusties) and ya know…My give a damn is busted. And that makes me feel even bitchier. I’m just at my maximum capacity right now.
I am trying to convince myself if I take my bedtime xanax dose before we go, it will be ok. I can do this, this isn’t about me, it’s about her. I already caused her to miss a birthday party. Though being sick with a cold wasn’t exactly my doing or to my liking. But…God, this illness costs me enough, I get sooo pissed at myself when it costs her, too.
How do I draw the line between compromising for her well being and yet taking care of myself when I am in precarious shape.
Little lost here. Ok, a lot lost.
My gums hurt. It’s that perpetual teeth gnashing thing that I don’t even realize I have been doing until it’s gotten to the sore gum point.
My daughter keeps telling me I need to wear my Jason shirt for the 13th. And I want to feel it but I just don’t. Normally the whole cheesy horror genre cheers me up to the point of giddiness.
My giddy is broken today.
And now…I am going to shut up.
I think. Maybe.
Much like the flu, mental spewage can stop or recur at random moments.
Put on a rain poncho and wait for the pea soup spewage to rain down.