Monthly Archives: July 2015

I do so love giving my posts a quirky “wtf” title. Today’s is brought to you by the title of a episode of some crime show I saw on youtube. I like it.

Besides, it may end up being appropriate. My kid is playing with a glow in the dark meat cleaver I got her for Halloween years ago, thinking plastic is going to cut things up. She’s also packing her make up around in one of those velvet Crown Royal bags, which I damn well know my sister gave her because I would never pay that much for my booze. Fuck quality, give me quantity.

I broke down and showered at bedtime last night because well, it wasn’t cooled down enough and I felt icky so I mustered all my strength for the exhausting hair washing excursion. Then I took 0.5 mg Xanax and eventually fell asleep. That made 2.5 mg for the whole day (thank you dr appointment) and yet…Still took awhile to nod off. Then came the dreams. And the waking up again and again.

To add to the joy, I got water in my ear in the shower and now it won’t come out. On one hand, yay, it’s a damper on my kid’s noise. On the other, it’s like hearing everything in mono instead of stereo. Heavy metal in mono, does not want.

I feel like living dead girl. That appointment and its disappointment outcome really set me back a lot. I’d had such hope for this doctor, was being so optimistic and hopeful. See what it gets me? I felt he was dismissive yesterday, took maybe eight whole minutes with me. And no doubt the fact I had pants on and my kid was with me meant I am all cured. So frustrated. It pissed me off,  never mind the factual nature of the comment, that he said it so dismissively. “Oh, you’ll enjoy things again, you don’t stay in one mood for too long.” Yep, eight months in a depression is pretty fucking mild. I’m just dramatic.

Of course, I read about what Zoe has to deal with and feel bad for even bitching because while my care is iffy, hers is just offensive to human kind.

Thing is,it’s the norm rather than the exception. For every one who gets a good mental healthcare team, there are dozens of us being given Snoopy band aids for our gaping wounds. And yet society can’t figure out why mental health problems are so prevalent and not improving.

It should piss us all off and make us angry. We’re programed to believe that because we have a mental issue, all our anger is misplaced, unhealthy, and a byproduct of our disorders. I maintain that certain things, like lackluster mental healthcare, child abuse, animal cruelty- such things should make everyone steaming mad.

I am supposed to take the car by the shop today so R can finish putting in that stereo, he ran out of connectors last night so only two speakers are connected and it needs the dash plate replaced. I’m not feeling it, of course. I need to do dishes, finish laundry, mow the lawn. And it’s already humid as fuck and I’m having trouble breathing.(Please note on the milder days, I don’t complain, but when it gets so warm I can barely breathe and have cat hair sticking to my moist skin…I am gonna bitch incessantly cos it’s just uncomfortable.)

I did something yesterday that was very liberating. I got that five bucks from R’s stepdad for burning that disc and there was a yard sale across from where we had to get cat food…So I stopped and I’ll be damned if they didn’t have the giant two foot long wooden tiki fork and spoon you put on the wall. I’d had them once before back in the past, no clue where they went. When the donor was around, I’d commented how much I wanted them again. And he got his panties in a bunch and said nooo, those are tacky. Well, I haggled with the yard sale lady, got them for a buck each, and put them on my kitchen wall. I am tacky, fuck off. It felt like finally, I’ve been able to cut loose of all his judgments and snobbery. I mean, I’ve been doing what I want all along for the most part, but this particular act of “rebellion” felt damned good. I like what I like, who gives a damn if it’s tacky. My first husband had beer lights and mirrors and have naked beer chick posters and these awful bull horns mounted above the bed…I didn’t like it, cos it wasn’t my thing, but we agreed to disagree. The donor just felt so judgey, I felt like I had to adapt to his tastes. Now I just need a fucking spork to go with ’em :) LONG LIVE TACKINESS.

It’s kind of like the idgets who make snarky comments about the rock posters on my walls. “You’re not a teenager, when are you gonna grow up?”

Never. Is never good for you? I like ’em, it’s who I’ve always been, ‘cos I love rock n roll. Yeah, I’m 42, big fucking deal. My mom is 65 and her room is a damned Elvis shrine. Not all of us want perfectly coordinated duck patterns or cow everything. My eclectic mix of used kitsch is fun for me. Who does it hurt?

It feels good. I broke free of the emotional stuff with the donor a couple of months after he was gone. Never liked him anyway, always found him snobby and fake, my gut knew he was not my kind of people. I’ve railed endlessly about his abandoning Spook and once again, that should make anyone angry. You leave your partner, you don’t abandon your own flesh and blood. But the rest…I didn’t even miss him, I was relieved once he was gone. And now…It feels like I’ve even cut loose all his judgments that made me so ill at ease and probably sparked me judging him back.

Now for the next chapter, which terrifies me. R has been bitching at me incessantly the last four years to go after the donor, mercilessly, for child support. I tried the paperwork once, but I missed a deadline and I was just a mess, so I let it slide while the depression raged. After that, it was just like, ya know, when I signed her up for public aid, they assured me if he was working, he’d be paying, they just let them go four or five years until it adds up to a certain amount. Between R and my dad nagging on me, I was rebelling and in denial that I needed to take care of it. Always hoping he’d do the right thing without a court having to tell him to.

Last week, after R bitched at me some more, I used his printer and went to the state website and printed out the papers. For the last week, they’ve been sitting there. Because I know what the donor said about his other kids. If he wasn’t paying, he had no right to see them. If he does pay, then he expects to see them. Well, after four years and all his sociopathic mind games, and my current less than stellar mind frame…I’m petrified to open that door. And I’ve already told R that he’s gonna be the go between because I absolutely cannot deal with The Donor. It’s not some petty hate thing or jealousy that he replaced me a younger more mousy model to dote on his every word. It’s because he has always played mind games, and used my condition against me, to distort things to the point I had to take notes cos I thought I was making shit up and losing my mind.

But it’s not about me, it’s about Spook and I am gonna have to put on the big girl panties and handle the paperwork soon. I don’t see how it will help much, as he’s kind of transient. He works, but he changes jobs a lot, he’s known for ditching town when life gets “too depressing”. He’s not dependable, even if it comes out of his check. If he quits that job and it takes awhile for him to find another or he leaves the state…It’s just one more can of stressful worms I avoid because I’m already so clusterfucked. No excuse, just an explanation, and one I think makes absolute sense.

Still, pen and paper are avoiding each other.I am just better without him in our lives. And besides, he’s had four years where he could have placed a call, come to the door, even mailed her a birthday gift. He has chosen not to be involved, to not even pretend to care. I kept my address and all my numbers and emails the same, so I couldn’t be accused of keeping him from contacting her. He, on the other hand, stomped on his phone the night he broke up with me with a phone call and gave no forwarding address or new number. I think he’s a sociopath. I may be uneven but I feel guilty for being shitty to people. That makes me superior to him. Not in a snotty way, just…Oh, whatever.

When I sat down to write this like, eighty minutes ago, it was supposed to be a silly vapid “let me vent” short post. Not my strong suit, writing short posts. It’s like a Billy Mays commercial…”Call in the next ten minutes to get your free shipping….BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE!”

It occurred to me last night that I sent off my disability review papers at the end of February. Now it’s basically August and not a single fucking word. I know government moves at the speed of a stone statue, but still. The waiting is interminable. Cruel, for someone with an anxiety disorder and a kid to support. Knowing this current doctor probably won’t support my claim because of his apathy and dismissal has me gnawing my nails. Figuratively, since nail biting isn’t one of my bad habits. I just want to know, yay or fucking nay. Rip that goddamn bandage off. If they cancel me out…I’m gonna fight it. Not sure how to get by in the meantime as I’d rather live in a cardboard box than have to crash on a couch at one of the parents’ house…But I see enough every day in this town, people faking injuries, drawing disability, yet spending every dime on booze, drugs, partying. It’s disgusting. I’ve made every damned effort. I mean, 22 years of fucking doctors and meds and therapists and all their stupid little methods that don’t work. I have done everything I am supposed to do. I even track it every day with this blog. I get out of the house, I try to interact with others, force myself to do things, get my kid cared for and off to school, and now I’ve even found an amazing support system here on wordpress that has helped immensely in keeping me fighting the long depression and all the med nightmares…

I will not sit idly by while others abuse the system. In fact, I’ll probably be out with the video camera,catching all these fakers and their partying. I don’t party. I haven’t had a date in four years. I don’t go to concerts even though I love music. I have a legit illness. It makes me homicidal to think of all these people who don’t and are living it up. Mood providing, if I am canceled, I’m launching all out war.

And ya know, it’s not just people on social security disability. One of the worst offenders I’ve seen is this guy that hangs out with my brother in law. Complete and utter stoner who’d pop algae cleaner tablets if told it’d get him buzzed. He was in the army, great job, great income, got to travel, had a nice car…And then he decided he didn’t like not being able to get high and play X Box when it suited him so he did this whole mental breakdown bit. He gets discharged, hefty pension every month, no effort to find work, just lives with his grandparents, spends all the money on pot, and half lives at my mom’s playing video games with brother in law. That is sickening. This is the loser who calls me or shows up at my door a few times a year either looking for an easy lay (gotta love the reverberation from manic days when I did such shit) or asking if I have any heavy duty painkillers because “Niki always has drugs.”

Correction: Niki always had anti depressants and mood stabilizers. Last prescription painkiller I had was right after Spook was born and it was just a beefed up version of ibuprofen. I have never been one for pain killers, they make me loopy. Aside from when I had all my dental problems and had to have Tylenol with codeine, I don’t even remember having strong pain killers.Just goes to show how delusional some people are.

Oh, I just got my call to put one more spoke in the anxiety cycle, from her school. On line registration is open. I pre-registered her in June. Now I have to do it again, and I don’t remember my username and password for their website. Then I’ll have to go by the school to drop off the paper. Then on the 13th is open house night and you’re supposed to have all their school supplies by then. And I have yet to get her birthday present, and cough up the money for last year’s tech fee, plus this year’s as well.

Guess I won’t be getting any decent razors again this month and will have to continue maiming my bite laden legs with the twin blade 10 cent a razor weed whackers. I’m not a princess, I swear, but it just fucking hurts…

I could probably go on some more but I won’t. I just needed a good vent and purge. Now back to my new hobby of sweating my ass off (yet my ass never gets any smaller). Much like getting my head shrunk never seems to make my mental issues shrink any smaller.

Oh, and to add to my tragedy…Diane went and road a Giraffe through a grocery without me yesterday! (Don’t ask, it’s just funny.)

Yep, I am watching  a documentary on haunted Baltimore and it made reference to Edgar Allen Poe, the “master of the macabre” to whose poetry people still flock to enjoy.

What. The Actual. Fuck.

Given, I’m not a literary savant and all, but how does he get to be admired as a master of the macabre but my darkness is viewed as some sort of pessimistic affect? In the words of the murderous Gage Creed in Pet Semetary, NO FAIR!

I came to the conclusion today that the doctor I see is a …PSYCHE!iatrist. Because he’s gotta be fucking with me. I went in, 1.5 mg of Xanax on board because right before we had to leave, Spook decided to have a screaming me about how horribly abusive I am. My sin? Making her put her shoes on the appropriate feet. I am a fucking a monster. But, I went in, a bit calmed yet still on edge. He asks, How are you.

Now, Spook has found books and toys in the office so she sits across the room being quiet, making me look like a histrionic for all my talk about her defiance and hyperactivity. One more reason for me to feel absolutely defeated. I told him, flat out, my energy is up with the Cymbalta and my former knee pain is non existent but I’m not sleeping and I don’t enjoy anything in life.

Now, after seven months of the interrupted sleep…Suddenly, he gives a fuck. He starts asking what I’ve taken. I tell him, making a quip about how I don’t want the Trazadone cos of the hangovers and I’d prefer to avoid the Ambien as I have no desire to sleep and drive. He was quick to point out that all sleep meds cause the hangover and while Ambien causes sleepwalking, all the reports of sleep driving and such are exaggerated and untrue because people mix Ambien with booze and drugs and THAT causes the bad side effects.

Sure. Just like I was totally making it up all the times I was on their assfuck Seroquel and drove over to see my mom yet had no memory of visiting her later and did NOT use a damned bit of booze or drugs.

He has determined Restoril (however it’s spelled) is necessary because I won’t get better until I start sleeping properly. I made it clear I have no use for the morning hangovers as I even get that from Melatonin. He gave zero fucks. I suppose I should whip out the pom poms and cartwheels since finally, the sleep issue is being addressed.

That seemed to be all he wanted to do. Every time I tried to speak, he started to speak, so we kept cutting each other off. But I wasn’t done speaking, so I think he was off base and just didn’t want to listen to what I had to say. I dug my heels in and absolutely demanded something be done about the lingering depression, especially with seasonal affective around the corner.

I asked, what about Wellbutrin, it’s supposedly good for seasonal affective and you suggested it months ago.

SUDDENLY, he says absolutely not as it is contraindicated for those with high anxiety. WTF, dude?

I asked about Depakote, as dual mood stabilizer therapy has worked for me before. He says, “I absolutely won’t prescribe it to women because it causes ovarian cysts.” Um, so the shrinks prior to you doled it out no problem and suddenly it’s a no no for women? HUH?

I asked about adding an other anti depressant, an SSRI with the SNRI, just for the seasonal months. He said it’s a possibility, but for now…Let’s just raise the Cymbalta to 90mg and it can go up to 120.

LAST MONTH HE SAID 60 WAS THE MAX DOSE FOR PSYCHIATRIC TREATMENT, ANY HIGHER WAS PAIN MANAGEMENT!!!!

To add insult to injury, he told me to talk to him toward October about the seasonal since that’s when it would likely be starting up. HELLO? THE POINT IS TO HEAD IT OFF BEFORE IT FUCKING STARTS!

He ushered me out hastily and I asked, “Am I ever gonna enjoy things again?” And he flippantly says, “Yes, you will, you’re never in one mood cycle for too long.”

I BEG YOUR FUCKING PARDON, I’VE BEEN IN A DEPRESSION FOR TEN MONTHS NOW!!!!!!!!!! I’d say that’s pretty goddamned long to be in a mood cycle, especially one where I enjoy nothing, can’t keep up with daily life, and frequently want to drink bleach.

What the fuck is wrong with these doctors? I know damn well what he tells me at every appointment because I come home and fucking blog it! He suggests Wellbutrin…Nope, two months later, not viable. He says 60mg is the max dose of Cymbalta for psych treatment, higher is for pain. Nope, I took that wrong, too. He told me we’d discuss the seasonal thing long before it started. Nope, let’s wait until AFTER it starts, and btw, only treatment is light therapy, if I say otherwise, I’m mad as a hatter.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCKING FUCK.

I’ve thought, many times, over the years, that I need to take a voice recorder to every appointment because while I may be shaky at times, I am not prone to making shit up or hallucinating. I damn well know what they tell me, then next appointment, they tell me otherwise, which makes me feel like I am losing my goddamned mind even more. Yet ya know, if I did tape the session, then present them with the proof when they do their PSYCHE!iatrist bullshit, they’d label me paranoid and probably suggest hospitalization rather than admit their own assfuckery.

To say I walked out dissatisfied and pissed off is an understatement. I don’t disagree with the Cymbalta boost, especially since he’s doling it out in 30mg so I can either take sixty a.m. and 30 p.m. or I can do three split doses. That’s cool. (I am out until Monday ‘cos I tried to divide the capsules into the split dose and well, it did not go well.) This restoril (misp?) I’m not too familiar with, he says it’s a benzo for sleep and if it makes me too hungover in the morning, I can take it earlier at night. Yeah, that’s makes sense, let me take it at 7pm to avoid the morning hangover while my child marauds and plunders during my coma time.

Again, wtf are these fuckers smoking?

I’m gonna let that rant go, otherwise I won’t sleep at all.

After that particularly ass trashy dish trip, I came home and tuned it all out. Can’t get the new meds til I have money on Monday. I was deflated, to say the least, as I’d had a lot of hope for this new doc. I just get the feeling he’s doing the drive thru pill pusher thing without regard to what’s going on. Doctors think the therapists should take care of everything but the pills. I’m of the mind that if the pills aren’t working, there’s fuck all the therapist can do. To get the right mix, maybe you spend a few minutes listening to your patient and understanding why they’re having the issues they are. More knowledge about an individual could only help in hastening proper treatment. Too bad logic doesn’t apply in mental healthcare.

I lolled in deflation land for a bit. Then I started doing little things here and there, mainly cat boxes, cleaning the floor a  bit. I hit my wall and said, small goal met, time to just be disgusted with it all.

After being good for awhile, Spook started in on me again, about the time I finally started to calm down. It was like, I gotta get out of this house, get her around someone else to drive nuts or I am gonna claw my own eyes out. So I went to R’s so he could swap out my car stereo since the old one was DOA and I still had the good one from the Not So Grand Am fiasco. Pay money for a car and walk away with little more than a Pioneer stereo. Stellar.

While sitting outside, the bugs ate me alive. His wife was sociable but she was either very tired or very pissed that he was wasting his evening on my bidding. In my defense…He said he’d do it after my car broke down. That was a year ago. So pardon me, but waiting patiently for a year gives me the right to kind of jump on the chance to get it done when he’s willing.

In new feline drama…I had two missing kittens this morning, Zatar and Arsenic. Found them in my closet, buried under stuff, where crazy bitch Nightshade packed them. They’re not her kittens. At first, I thought it was some sort of feline grief response as when Brimstone died, Shady had no kittens left. Imagine my shock when digging in my closet turned up two newborn kittens and I didn’t even know she was pregnant again. It’s obvious they are very premature and none of her kittens live, anyway. Gotta wonder why she was hoarding the three month old kittens that belong to Juju in the closet when she had two newbies of her own to care for. I put her in with her noobs repeatedly and she just left them crying, came back to drag Jujus kittens off. Finally, I put her in a pet taxi so the kittens will at least be fed. Shade’s had about fifteen kittens and only two have ever survived, so I don’t hold out much hope.

I’m running a damned cathouse minus the awesome income the ones in Nevada bring in, ffs.

Now…I think it’s bedtime. I’m cooked. Cat drama, doctor assfuckery, and I still haven’t worked in a shower. Damn it. I am gonna try to sleep tonight with .25 of Xanax, nothing more. The morning hangovers suck worse than going on a week long bender with vodka. And hopefully tonight, I won’t have nightmares about Spook’s little friend J breaking in and trying to stab me in my sleep.

It’s totally normal to have dreams about being murdered by a five year old, right? Bet my doctor would say it is.

To hell with killing all the lawyers. Stupid doctors should be first.