Yep, bipolar is a lot like being on a stationary bike, pedaling as fast as you can, only to get absolutely nowhere. Spin class, no health benefits. Round and round you go, muscles cramping, panting, wanting desperately to stop or at least slow down. Mental illness gives zero fucks.
Last night was…Bizarre. I got one bug bite, which set off a whole body break out. The itchiness nearly drove me nuts. I had to take a cold shower because in spite of calamine, desitin, anti itch spray, and baby powder (which IS made out of babies)…I was going insane. It helped briefly.Then I rubbed against the blanket wrong, one bite started to itch and the cycle started all over again. I was awake til almost two a.m. My mind kept spinning and no amount of therapy exercises was talking it off the ledge. After yesterday’s lethargy in the morning, I absolutely was not gonna take a melatonin. I took half a Xanax and toughed it out. Eventually slept. After hours of “I’m hungry, I want fried eggs…I can’t be bothered.” “I can’t sleep, I should use this energy to at least do some housework.” None of it happened, of course. Except when Voodoo came in my bedroom and started headbutting me and yowling. I leapt up to fill the food dish because I didn’t want to be pissed on again. Once this week was enough.
Had awful nightmares. One was where The Donor’s obituary was in the paper. Yes, I am evil. I remember feeling relief, with an underscore of “Spook has no dad, how sad for her.” I can still feel that wash of relief that was in the dream because dead means he can never suddenly decide he wants to be a dad and try to take her from me. I should feel shitty, but damn, it was a dream. Also in the same dream, R’s obituary was in the same paper. And I was devastated. I spend all my time making him my nemesis (narcissistic personalities just set me off) but…He has become my best friend, sad as that it is. He puts up with me, I put up with him…I think the whole point of the dream was to appreciate what I have because once it’s gone, it’s gone forever. I’m still gonna bitch about his bullshit, but it definitely gave me perspective. The Donor…meh. I should feel bad and yet I don’t. It’s not even about hate. It’s just apathy.
Because I was up so late with insomnia and itching, I did not want to get up this morning. I was leaden dead weight. I woke at 5 a.m., 7 a.m., and I heard Spook babbling and bouncing on the bed, torturing Absinthe (I mean, playing with the cat) but I couldn’t pry myself up. I lolled til ten a.m. And this is not my norm, not since I had a kid. It’s almost like the winter somnolence is setting in, but it’s not really somnolence if you’re up late. Makes sense you’d sleep, or loll, later. I still got less sleep than most people do. I just have the complex to feel shitty about it. (Most of which can be traced back to my eeevil former mother in law, but that’s a story for another day.)
11:21 a.m. I’ve done little except get dressed. And I don’t mean fully dressed, I mean pants and a tank top. Yes, I am a slob. Gross. Blah blah blah. Just wanted to have on pants lest my kid start parading her friends inside. Last thing I need is some parent thinking my aversion to pants during summer as some overture to be a pervert toward their snowflakes. Bras, pants, it’s all over fucking rated. Oddly, last summer when my mood was stabilized (those three whole months) I was doing nice clothes, make up, hair, pretty much daily. This isn’t me, this is an aspect of my illness. Least I showered twice yesterday. Yay me.
My ankles are itching already. I have nothing left to slather or pop or drink. I need my loratadine. 40 cents ain’t gonna buy it, though. Since I have no dish plans today, thus far, the anxiety is at a low tolerable level. All things considered, this week as far as the spawn goes, has been mild. I think it helped that she made new friends. It means I’m not her entire focus all day, I can breathe. My mood, as usual with the morning meds, seems okay. The crash is what I dread. And it comes and no amount of sunshine puking changes that.
I think next time I see the shrink, I am gonna ask him about adding Wellbutrin. He suggested it months ago. I just read all the forums and it’s contraindicated for those with even mild anxiety. But I was thinking if he’d keep me on the Cymbalta, add the Wellbutrin, see what happens. One is an SSRI, the other is an SNRI. I’ve never tried that combo. I’m willing to lick hallucinogenic toads at this point. (Thank you, Beavis and Butthead, twenty years later and that episode lingers with me.)
I should do housework. Need to pick weeds out of the yard. Clean out my car, which I pretty much use as a trash can on wheels and pack shit around for six months (like when my kid sleeps over and brings her shit back, I never bring it inside.) Been like that since I was sixteen, and no amount of my dad bitching at me has changed it. Some quirks are tolerable. (Oddly, in my car, I can let the ash tray overflow, yet at home, if I get more than five butts in an ash tray, I am practically ocd about emptying it. Same with overflowing trash cans. At home, it freaks me out. In the car…IDGAF.)
Oh how I miss the days when quirks were just eccentricities rather than personality disorders.