Daily Archives: August 29, 2015

9 Affirmations You Deserve to Receive If You Have a Mental Illness

Originally posted at Everyday Feminism and shared here with permission.

The image features two people smiling at each other - one holding a coffee cup, the other holding a book.

“You are doing a good job.”

I remember the first time my therapist told me, “Sam, you’re doing a good job.”

I remember how overwhelmed with emotion I was. I had worked so hard to keep myself steady and had spent so much time just trying to survive, but I never got any credit for this invisible battle that I was fighting every single day.

For a moment, I couldn’t catch my breath as I repeated the phrase – you are doing a good job – in my head a few more times.

When she saw me – really looked at me and saw my pain, my struggle, my willpower – I felt like my whole soul was being nourished. I was being given something I didn’t even know that I needed until that moment: validation.

People with mental illness don’t get enough credit, enough affirmations, enough love. More often than not, the words we get can feel a little hollow.

In a world that tries to tell us that we are too crazy, too much – in a world that says we are less than in so many ways – I just wanted someone to say to me, “You are exactly enough, and yes, I see how hard you’re fighting.”

If you’re anything like me, sometimes you need someone to acknowledge you, especially when things get tough. So here are some of the affirmations that I wished I had, and that every person with a mental illness (or illnesses!) deserves.

1. You Are Worthy of Love

Yes, even on your worst days, you are absolutely worthy of love, care, and compassion.

Sometimes it can feel like the folks in our lives are doing us a favor by loving us, but this stems from a really problematic idea that we aren’t worthy of love in the first place.

Bullshit. We are. Struggling with our mental health doesn’t make us unlovable, no matter what our exes or so-called friends say.

That’s not to say that we’re perfect. No one is. But perfection is not a requirement for love. We have trauma to work through by virtue of the difficult journey that we’ve been on. But many of us, whether we have a mental illness or not, have things that we need to work on.

Just because you’ve got work to do, it doesn’t mean that you should deny yourself love, or goodness, or happiness.

Mental illness does not make you unlovable. Mental illness does not mean that anyone who loves you is doing you a favor. Mental illness is just one layer of a complicated, beautiful, and whole person.

2. You Are Enough

Struggling with your mental health can sometimes make you feel inadequate as a person, like this so-called weakness makes you less than everybody else. If you’ve ever felt that way, I’m here to tell you something: You are absolutely, positively enough – exactly as you are.

No matter where you are in your recovery, no matter what struggle you’re dealing with, and no matter how many times you’ve broken down, I need you to know that you are enough. You don’t need to do anything extra or change who you are to be worthy of good things in your life.

Mental illness doesn’t mean that you’re somehow less important, less worthy, or less remarkable than other people.

I find myself beating myself up at times, wondering why I can’t get my shit together, wondering if these disorders say something about my character. I wonder if it’s a sign that I’m defective somehow. I wonder if it says something about my shortcomings. I wonder if my mental illnesses are a shortcoming.

But you and I are not defective. We are just people, with our own unique journeys and the struggles it took to get here.

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

3. You Are Strong (Even On the Days When It Doesn’t Feel Like It)

You’re fucking tough. You know how I know that? You’re still here.

Don’t believe me? It’s summed up best by this Mary Anne Radmacher quote:

“Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’”

Every day that you choose to keep fighting is a testament to your strength. Every day that you keep trying, even when everything in you is resisting, is proof of your courage.

Every small victory – getting out of bed, making that phone call, preparing a meal, doing a load of laundry – is yet another example of how strong you are, despite the relentless grip of mental illness.

Give yourself some credit. You deserve it.

4. You Are Not Damaged Goods

Back when I was dating and I wasn’t open about my anxiety or bipolar, I felt like I was carrying around an enormously shameful secret. I felt like I was defective and that, sooner or later, the people that I cared about were going to discover that I, Sam Dylan Finch, was “damaged goods.”

But here’s what I’ve learned: Every one of us, in some way, is “damaged.” And moreover, those struggles, while they may have shaped who we’ve become, are not the entirety of who we are.

And whatever those struggles might be, they certainly don’t depreciate our value. We aren’t meat sitting in a freezer, slowly expiring until we’re tossed aside. We’re people – people that, like anyone else, have had our fair share of challenges to get to where we are today.

Anyone who says we’re less valuable because we’ve struggled in the past does not deserve a place in our present.

Besides, let’s be real. Deciding that someone is less worthwhile because of their disability? That says more about their lack of compassion than it does your value as a person, no?

5. You Don’t Need to Run Away

Sometimes when I’m scared that I’m too much of a burden for the people that love me, I feel this intense urge to just run away.

To turn off my phone, catch the next train and take it up the coast, to don a red trench coat and disappear a la Carmen San Diego. (Yes, this is a fantasy that has run through my head many, many times – and yes, I own the red coat.)

Years ago, I used to disappear abruptly for a day or two, sometimes even weeks at a time, much to the distress of my loved ones. I believed that I just wasn’t good company. I thought I only deserved to have friends when I was feeling good, and if I wasn’t, I deserved to be alone.

Let me save you the time (and money): You don’t need to run away. You are not a burden.

Your friends are your friends because they care about you, not because you’re a circus performer that exists solely for their entertainment. Friends are there on your good days, your bad days, and all the days in-between.

And it’s their responsibility to make sure they’re taking care of themselves, and that they communicate when they need space. It’s your responsibility to trust that, if they need space, they’ll take it.

Instead of running away, just be open about how you’ve been feeling. Give your friends the chance to prove you wrong or to take a step back if they need it. You don’t need to run away just to see who’s going to follow – all you need to do is tell them what’s really going on.

You’re not a burden. You’re a human being who has struggles from time to time. That doesn’t make you undeserving of friendship – if anything that means you need your friends now more than ever.

If your friend was going through a difficult time, I imagine you’d do your best to stand by them. Why is it so hard to believe that someone would do the same for you?

6. You Didn’t Do Anything to Deserve This

Sometimes my twisted bipolar brain would convince me that I somehow brought these illnesses onto myself, or did something to make them happen.

Gentle reminder: It’s not your fault.

And again, for emphasis: It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.

If you had caused this, wouldn’t you have done everything in your power to undo it? Wouldn’t you change this if you could? And wouldn’t you have done that already?

I don’t know why mental illness likes to tell so many lies (what a jerk, right?), but take it from someone who knows: Mental illness doesn’t happen because an individual magically makes it so. It’s a complex combination of psychological, social, and biological factors.

Nothing you did on its own created this monster, I promise. Your first diet or binge didn’t “cause” your eating disorder. Your first cut didn’t “cause” your depression. Your disorganization didn’t “cause” your anxiety.

A dysfunctional response to stress is evidence that the problem existed long before you responded to it. Okay?

So don’t dwell on what you could’ve, should’ve, would’ve done. Instead, focus on your recovery. Be kind to yourself and be gentle.

7. Do Something Nice for Yourself

Self-care is vital. And if you aren’t making time for yourself, it’s time to make time.

Setting aside an intentional moment or two to nourish and take care of yourself isn’t just a luxury – it’s necessary for our mental health.

I wrote an article specifically about self-care for folks with anxiety, talking about how self-care is one tool that I use to help manage the distress that accompanies generalized anxiety, and what steps I take to practice self-care as a person with mental illness.

For many folks with mental illness, self-care is an invaluable coping tool to keep ourselves afloat.

You deserve nice things. You deserve to treat yourself and nurture yourself. The everyday wear and tear that comes with mental illness means that we have to invest in ourselves and our wellbeing. We need to make sure we’re taking care of ourselves to mitigate the impact that mental illness can have on our health.

And yes, even when we’re feeling great, we have to keep investing in our self-care to keep it that way.

Self-care isn’t selfish. It’s necessary. And if you haven’t been putting in the time, now is as good a time as any.

If you aren’t sure where to start, check out this amazing video and take a look at this list of articles here at Everyday Feminism!

8. You Don’t Have to Pretend to Be Okay

I spent so much time trying to hide what I was going through. I locked myself away and I kept people at an arm’s distance for so many years; I thought that I was protecting the people I loved, but in reality, I was hurting us both.

I was hurting them because, in truth, they wanted to help me. They were more hurt that I didn’t trust them or ask them for help when I needed it. And I was hurting myself because it meant that I was battling these illnesses alone – something that I just couldn’t do by myself, no matter how hard I tried.

I’m going to issue a challenge to you: Stop pretending to be okay when you aren’t. You don’t need to be “okay” all the time or even most of the time.

I’m giving you permission to struggle. I’m giving you permission to be sad. I’m giving you permission to be angry. Feel whatever it is you’re feeling, and let the people in your life who want to be there for you actually be there.

Let people in. It’s okay to not be okay. You don’t have to do this alone.

9. You’re Doing a Good Job

You knew I was going to say it, and here it is: Yes, you’re doing a good job.

Living with mental illness(es) can be hard work. And we seldom get any credit for the work that goes into keeping ourselves alive.

On the outside, it seems like what we’re doing is very simple – getting out of bed, cooking ourselves a meal, and maybe dragging ourselves to work. But with disabilities like ours, simple tasks can require a monumental effort.

I see that effort. I know that it’s hard work. And I want to tell you that you’re doing a good job. You’re doing an amazing job. Despite every obstacle that is standing in your way, you’re still doing the best that you can.

I am so, so proud of you for the work that you do, day in and day out, to keep going.

If I could, I’d teleport over to you right now and give you a trophy. I’d also bake you a cake. And then we’d watch Netflix together – because who has the energy for anything else?

I know that it might not always seem like you’re making much progress, especially on the days when you can’t do much other than sleep (I’ve been there, trust me). But even on those days, knowing what you’re up against, it’s a miracle that you’re still around and I’m so happy that you’re here.

Keep taking it one day at a time. And every step of the way, don’t forget to pause and acknowledge the hard work that you’ve done to get where you are.

If you can’t, just tweet me and I’ll do it for you (seriously).

 Sam Dylan Finch is a queer activist and feminist writer, based in the SF Bay. He is the founder of Let’s Queer Things Up!, his blog and labor of love. With a passion for impacting change through personal narrative, Sam writes about his struggles and triumphs as genderqueer and bipolar with the hopes of teaching others about his identity and community. When he isn’t writing, he’s probably eating takeout and dancing to Taylor Swift.

Connect with SDF: Website ; Facebook ; Twitter ; Tumblr

Join our (rad, amazing) community at LQTU’s official Facebook page!

My Life on Speed—An Update


Almost four months ago, I started treatment for Binge Eating Disorder.  Basically, that consisted of taking an amphetamine, journaling about the changes in my compulsive thoughts and eating, more visits to my med provider (Sarah), and fighting with insurance.

I’ll start with the ugly and work toward the beautiful.

Gorey1. Dealing with insurance is a nightmare of Edward Gorey proportions—decoding the telephone directory-sized formulary, shuffling piles of contradictory paperwork, making my pharmacy do what the insurance company tells me to tell them to do, stopping Sarah from following the pharmacy’s incorrect instructions, filing forms for an exception to the formulary, filing an exception to the prescribed dosage, discussing the exceptions with non-English-speaking Call Center schlubs who have no authority, resubmitting forms, getting Sarah to resubmit forms…

It took all four months to get it straightened out with me double-checking everyone else’s work.  This process would make a sane person stark raving (and has.  I’ve discussed this with lots of neuro-normal people who ended up screaming on the phone or curled up in a puddle at their pharmacies), so I had to tackle it one little piece at a time.

I’m well aware that insurance companies try to get customers to give up.  They don’t want to pay for anything.  But, I survived filing for disability.  I know this game.  And while it was stressful, and I used a lot of colorful language, I got the exact drug I needed and gained even more respect for Sarah.  She and my (new) pharmacy—these worthies stood with me on the battle field.  Their loyalty and integrity will earn them a place in Valhalla.

Yield2. There’s a reason amphetamines are contra-indicated for people with bipolar disorder.  Luckily, Sarah and I both did our homework about how they might cause mania and insomnia.

When the zip I got from my pills crossed over into agitation, I stopped taking them.  Since I’ve never been very clear about that line (it feels so good to feel good), the symptoms got scary sometimes before I recognized them—like forgetting appointments, or tearing my apartment apart to find a photo I wanted to use, or getting completely overwhelmed by a movie, or driving too fast while texting.

Whenever I woke up to being scattered or dangerous, I stopped.  I made myself safe or quiet.  I notified Sarah.  And I waited.  The mania always receded.  This is one of the benefits of rapid cycling.  I can always count on my mood changing.  I just had to take my brain-skillet off the fire of the amphetamines to let it happen.

Double AhThose are the ugly parts of My Life on Speed.  The rest is pretty darn lovely.

3. I’ve experienced very little depression since May.  Historically, I suffer less depression and more hypomania in the summer, but not to this extent.  I checked my old journals to make sure.  I expected the Vyvanse to flick me into mania at times, but did not expect the overall shift up in mood.  Sarah and I are cautiously hopeful that this trend might continue into winter.

Oh!  I don’t want to pin any real hope on this, but what if the Vyvanse could keep my mood from sinking into that suicidal basement come February?  Since I’ll also have a caregiver for the first time in my life (from Lutheran Services of Iowa) to help motivate me to keep my apartment clean, this winter could be very different.

4. When I take the Vyvanse, all the compulsive thinking about food goes away.  Small amounts of food give me a sense of satiety.  I don’t need more.  I don’t want more.  There have even been times this summer when I forgot to eat.  I can’t express how weird that is.  I know there are people in the world who lose their appetites when stressed—I thought they came from Pluto.  I have wanted to eat while I was puking from the flu.

Brain That Wouldn't DieI’m seeing now how much space food occupied in my head.  The absence was unnerving at first—like walking into an abandoned house with just a few sticks of furniture left behind by the previous owners.  But, I’ve come to love all this room.  And I’m taking my time redecorating.

Whenever I stop the Vyvanse to let manic symptoms settle, the compulsive thoughts return.  I feel them crowd in—pushy, rude, overbearing.  But I can remember what their absence feels like, and somehow that helps keep me from bingeing as much as I used to.  And even then, I don’t punish myself anymore—for being weak, or gluttonous, or just wrong.  I have evidence now.  Binge Eating Disorder is real, not a character flaw.

5. The final sweet treat is that I’ve lost 30 pounds.

I’ll just leave it at that, because… you know…

I’m on an Adventure.

Welcome To My Nightmare

Decided I was so exhausted last night, the least I could do was attempt a good night’s sleep. I EARNED it. So I took 1mg Xanax and watched some crime shows for awhile. By which time I had showered and snacked on some mini corndogs and the nightly itchiness started up again. And everyone is like, you must have fleas in your house.Well, yeah, the cats escape through a screen, come back with fleas, do the bath and comb routine, lather rinse repeat. There are bound to be escapees. But my kid has three bites. I have at least 40. Because my histamines go mad hatter and I scratch and it just worsens. And it’s gotten to the point where anti histmamines and topicals do fuck all. It’s miserable. I dealt for ninety minutes. Xanax wasn’t knocking me out. Brilliant as I am…

I took a 3mg Melatonin.

And I slept. I woke. I slept. I DREAMT. Awful fucked up dreams. The kind that cross over into your near waking moments because the line between dream and reality is so blurred by sleep meds. I had my kid searching for Arsenic because in my dream, he had disappeared and I was so sedated I couldn’t move…And she couldn’t find the kitten and I dozed back off, more nightmares. Then she woke me and asked why I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t hear it in my gorked out state. In my dream I’d been wandering an abandoned house looking for Arsenic.

The sleeping pill hangover beckoned me back to sleep. My bladder beckoned me to wake up. I went with the bladder because as groggy as I was, the nightmares were enough.

And I went searching for Arsenic, freaking cos he wasn’t in any of his normal places and I was like, oh fuck no, not another one to bury…Then I found him in the cabinet curled up with mama cat and I breathed a sigh of utter relief.

THIS. This is why I loathe sleep meds. I don’t enjoy griping about my sleep disturbance, and yet, the price for taking sleep meds of any kind is this shit. WTF kind of trade off is that?

I used to take Melatonin, drift off, no bad dreams, wake up, no hangover. What the hell happened? Pregnancy really jacked up my brain chemicals, nothing’s been the same. I’ ve had to learn an entire new norm, which is laughable, because with bipolar and all the med changes and a defiant child…I can’t get my feet under me to determine what the new norm is.

I took Ambien at one time (doc gave me a sample pack, so hell, no, insurance wouldn’t pay) and I didn’t like it at all. I’d have these weird feelings I’d done something but then I thought maybe it was a dream…It was too disconcerting.

I think the time has come to accept that it is what it is. I’m exhausted all around so does it matter if I sleep well or not? I can sleep/wake a dozen times and be tired. Or I can take a pill, sleep deeply, but still wake/sleep a dozen times and be tired. Catch 22 is my life.

I am pretty down about the weekend. I can’t even buy my kid a 25 cent piece of gum from a machine at the store cos I don’t have that much. And while I am sooo grateful not to have to deal with her school stuff, I don’t like having no options. It doesn’t matter if I never want to out, have no reason to go out…Not being able to and feeling so helpless is the problem. I need a couple of dollars, it’s like an escape hatch. I should be thankful that R was kind enough to see to it I had gas in the car and food for my cats. Instead, my anxiety is reminding me…I can’t do anything this weekend. Surely this is personality?

My gums hurt and I have no idea why. Random yes, but still. I haven’t been grinding them as much lately so why do they hurt? Instead of that stress response, I’ve returned to the finger rubbing I did while pregnant and unmedicated, which caused some sort of big sort of fluid filled cyst on my finger. It got so big and I was so self conscious, but I met the hand surgeon and he was an ass so I said NOPE. I named my cyst Enrique and learned to live with him. Six years later, he’s gone away on his own which means all those big needles my general doc used trying to drain it…were pointless. Joy, joy. I kinda miss Enrique now.

I sound like I’ve been smoking crack, I know. I am struggling to break through the surface of the groggy pill hangover. This shit sucks when I could have a glass or two of wine at night, sleep well, and have no hangover. Their acceptable methods SUCK cos they don’t work well. Not for me, anyway.

I’ve had my Saturday morning call from my dad. Carrying on about people who don’t work, of course. Bah. Pretzel gut is already attacking even though I have no cause or option to leave the lot all weekend. Just more housework cos it never fucking ends.


Oh and the hives begin…Probably because my dad said “we’ll stop by ‘sometime’ this weekend.” Which means I have to wear pants and be on the lookout so not caught off guard and paste on the “I don’t want to stab you with a spork” face…

I have a job. I work. It’s called mental illness and surviving with it makes us all hard working badass mofos.


acceptanceIn one of my recent posts, a fantastic poet who reads my blog said:

I think sometimes, looking back at my own life, it is a resistance to accept something deeper or especially, depression itself. When I fully accepted depression, treatment, and sometimes the insanity of it… things began to lift from me in new ways. But that is my personal experience with it at times.

This was interesting, but perplexing. After I learned as much as I could about Bipolar Disorder, it seemed somewhat easy to accept. It was a diagnosis that made sense, it explained so much about my past behaviors and diminished my self-hatred and shame for most of those actions. Accepting depression, however, seems like failure. In my mind (this was in my response to her comment), if I accept that I am depressed then I stop fighting and give up (which equals suicide). But then she put it into perspective:

Thing about depression is, it can suck us into believing that the symptoms and situations within clinical depression is a part of ourselves somehow rather than what we are struggling with. And others will do that too, relate our symptoms to who we are or our ‘attitude’. It is just not true. So in some ways, it is accepting what it can do, what it does to our emotions or thinking sometimes. But accepting ourselves in the depression is a wonderful release of its hold.

In your post you said, that it was not fun for you or your family so you have to re-read positive posts. It just reminded me of how much I had put into trying to ‘change’ it because it was uncomfortable and discouraging and sometimes hard to feel accepted by others in it. Then I accepted it, and myself in it, and the help… what a difference it made for me.

This is a very hopeful way of thinking, but for some reason it is still perplexing to me. It’s so difficult to get past the thinking of accepting (in this case) = defeat. Honestly, I’m reading her words (maybe half a dozen times), but they’re not being absorbed in to my brain.

So I’m asking my readers who may have missed this insightful comment, what do you think of this idea of acceptance as release?

Tagged: acceptance, depression, mental illness

Circadian Rhythm & Bipolar Disorder 

Sandy Sue:

This makes so much sense—how our regulatory systems go Blewy!

Originally posted on Petite Girls Guide:

Circadian Rhythm   

“The nervous systems of people with bipolar disorders frequently make specific types of regulatory errors. Many of them involve the body’s internal clock, which controls the phenomena known as circadian rhythms. These are the regular rhythmic changes in waking and sleeping, waxing and waning activity levels, even sensations of hunger or thirst and their satisfaction. The chemical clock that governs these rhythms is located in a part of the hypothalamus gland called the suprachiasmatic nucleus, which (among other things) regulates the pineal gland’s secretion of the hormone melatonin.”

“You’ve probably heard about melatonin supplements sold as a cure for insomnia. Indeed, this hormone is the body’s own shut-down mechanism, and production of it usually kicks in as dusk begins. The suprachiasmatic nucleus sets itself based on the past several days’ pattern of light and dark, slowly adjusting itself in pace with the seasons. It does seem…

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Where did she go, the girl I used to be? Self sufficient, calm, observant, fun loving, resourceful? I used to read mystery books by Enid Blyton when I was young, all afternoon long, when everyone else was taking a siesta, in Lahore. I thought of nothing but what I was reading in the books, I worried about nothing, so carefree in my younger days I was. I used to, oh so quietly, sneak into the kitchen and make myself butter and jam sandwiches and then take them to my room and munch on them contentedly as I read my exciting books. I used to go out into the garden, even in the horrid afternoon heat, and talk to the flowers, and watch the butterflies alight on them, butterflies with their gossamer, iridescent wings. Even then, flowers, their brilliant colors and amazing shapes fascinated me. Then when the sun got too hot on my face and head, I would go back up to my cool, peaceful room and resume reading. It was so peaceful, no thoughts, no anxiety, no worries, just being me and doing what I was doing, in the moment. Life was fun, enjoyable, I was present and engaged in it. When and where did all this anxiety, this yearning, this restlessness and sadness come into me? I am constantly anxious about my son. I constantly miss him, worry about him, wonder if he is fine. When I cook dinner, I mourn the fact that he is not here to share it with us. I worry he is not eating right, resting enough, taking care of himself properly. I worry about my aunt, who is very sick. I’m going to visit her in December, booked my ticket already. It may be the last time I will see her, she is so thin and frail, I don’t know how long she’ll last. Yes, I know, I know, she is 75 years old, and has lived as good a life as she could have with her god awful illness. She has been surrounded by her nephew, niece and their families who love her immensely. I know, we all have to go someday, but it is still sad for the ones left behind, or to watch someone become a wraith because of their illness, it is truly a difficult thing.

Obviously, it is uncertainty that makes me anxious. Also worries about my son’s wellbeing make me anxious. Phantom worries, nothing concrete, just what ifs. Dammit, I took my Seroquel a bit ago and now I am getting very drowsy, but I have to finish this. If I wait till tomorrow, the whole timbre and tone of this piece will change.

I just wish I could recall that peaceful time. The time when I just existed and read my mystery books and munched on jam sandwiches. No other thoughts in my head, nothing worrying me, nothing upsetting me. Is it possible? Have I simply developed an anxiety disorder, a biochemical thing, and since it makes me feel anxious, I attach thoughts to the feeling? Possible. In any case, it is not a very good way to live. But I am trying to do something about it, being aware of it at least gives me the chance to address it and hopefully find a solution.

My Dad, the Hero

My father, sister & I are standing in front of a taxi cab in the Dhahran ARAMCO compound where we lived. I was 7. My sister 4. We are wearing matching sailor dresses as we are about to embark on an adventure as we travel and return to the States.
My younger sister stands close to our dad, as I strike a silly dramatic pose.

When we lived in Saudi Arabia, there was a chemical leak at the refinery in Dhahran. The chemical when inhaled caused immediate paralysis of all body functions. Rather than risk anyone else’s life, my father inhaled deeply, climbed the ladder to the valve to close the leak, and on his way down gasped. At that point, he had no vitals. He could not breathe. His heart had stopped. The Arabs working under his supervision, carried him to safety and resuscitated him.

At the time, my mother, sister and I were in the US visiting my maternal grandparents. My mother knew something was wrong at the exact time that the accident occurred. She called ARAMCO asking what is wrong with my husband, what had happened. She was always able to sense things like that, as if she’s psychic.

My father is convinced that what he experienced while dead, while his body functions had stopped, was heaven. He felt like he was floating on a cloud. My parents both strongly believe that he had gone to heaven and come back.

Filed under: Family, What About God? Tagged: childhood, ESP, extrasensory perception, father, God, heaven, hero, heroism, Mother, near death experience, psychic, Saudi Araba

Stick a spork in me, I am done

Oh how I would love to say it was a beautiful day filled with sunshine and frolicking puppies. Alas…My tolerance threshold hit the wall and my anxiety broke through the glass ceiling. I nearly vomited when it came time to go pick up my kid. Two weeks and the daily trauma has me ready to homeschool her. And yeah, I know all about “occupational therapy” and facing that which scares you most, blah blah blah. I am facing it. The cost is just so high, the thought of doing this daily for nine months makes me want to sign myself into a looney bin. Preemptive strike ‘cos if I am this shredded and worn down and becoming physically ill two weeks in…I’m gonna be a basketcase in a month.

And the insult to injury is I Mapquested two different routes from our address directly to the school’s address and because of ONE DIFFERENT TURN, our address is 1.8 miles. The school does not take that turn into consideration, only the shortest distance using side streets, and that puts it right at 1.3 to the bus stop. If they came to our door, we would be golden. Stupid asshole motherfuckers. That’s dirty pool. It feels discriminatory, too, for parents with limited income and have trouble affording the drop off and pick up routine.  I always thought riding the school bus was a right of any student to ensure their attendance. I mean, does she get an excused absence if I can’t put gas in the car to take her? Nope. They can refuse to transport her yet if I can’t get her there due to being low income, then she’s truant and it comes down on me. I want to present the superintendent with my Mapquest findings and earful but at the moment…I am so clusterfucked in the brain I can barely verbalize a full sentence before the frustration takes over and the swear words and growling start coming out.

Oh and I also asked if I drove her to a different bus stop nearest to us but still in their 1.5 mile requirement, would she be allowed to ride. Nope. They take home address only into consideration. Charming, eh?

So I am drained and aching and bruised in every way. My kid came after me again with her fists, then got so mad, she actually picked up Arsenic and was going to hurl him at me because she’d already hurled what she had in hand. Needless to say I took a hard line and sent her to her room. I can barely stand this behavior, I am doing EVERYTHING the so called experts and other “I’m a super parent, your kid would NEVER treat me that way!” lines spewed at me and it’s to no avail. There are moments she just seems possessed. She is also so manipulative, it’s creepy. She play slapped my arm earlier, so I slapped her arm back. But she shifted position so I lightly landed my hand on her side and she starts screaming bloody murder and bawling and being soooo injured…So I go to tickle her and just like a light switch, the tears stop, the laughter begins. I’ve almost started hoping for it to be a chemical imbalance of some sort because if this a preview of what her personality is going to imprint as…I may as well concede defeat and send her to reform school.

I know, I know, drama much. I’m just so exhausted…She is exhausting, her school’s bullshit is draining, and this neverending dance with my own metal stuff is embalming. I breathed such a big sigh of relief once we got home today because now I have two blissful days of not having to be beholden to her schedule and forced to wear the mask of “I’m ok” and deal with the pick up trauma…

Come Sunday night I will be wound for sound. I have to drop her off in the morning, then go to my shrink appointment. At which I will be truthful and say, “I am better than I was. I was running on 2 cylinders now I am at four. Which leaves four more cylinders not running at all.” And all he will hear is “better” and what is the fucking point? And when I mention not even his sleeping pills keep me asleep all night, he’ll want to jack up the doseage and turn me into a zombie. They medicate us to the gills so even if the mental shit is not making us function lowly, the meds are. More than once as of late I’ve pondered just saying fuck the meds, turn to a life of crime or some shit, stop jumping through these pointless flaming hoops. It’s a sad day when doing everything you’re supposed to be doing still results in you making zero progress. Hamster wheel of life, mental illness is.

I found a huge lump on Absinthe’s neck. It wasn’t there yesterday when I was flea combing her. Overnight she grew a little cat conjoined twin head. Pretty sure it’s an abscess but I have 2o cents to my name so all I can do is keep using a warm compress to shrink it down and ease her discomfort. After losing so many kitties, I am truly freaking out. I used some Google-Fu for info and just reading all the comments on pet forums about “if you can’t afford a vet visit, you’re not fit to own a pet.” So I guess people who can’t afford insurance should just die cos they’re not fit to live, either.

The cruelty of the human race sickens me daily and I cannot put a shiny happy spin on it. In fact, if anyone can, I don’t want to know that person because they are seriously fucked in the head. I watched some crime show and in the youtube comments, someone made a comment about a murdered 17 year old girl who was absolutely gorgeous, “Her eyes look retarted.” Um…Who is the hindered one there? Seriously, to leave such a comment on a true story where that girl’s family can see it…MONSTERS are real, they just wear skin and look perfectly benign.

And okay, if blowing it off as “inane, consider the source” helps you sleep at night…Whatever.

But how about a youtube clip about a FOUR MONTH OLD BABY DYING BECAUSE OF INJURIES CAUSED WHEN HER MOTHER ALLOWED HER BOYFRIEND TO HAVE SEX WITH THE INFANT?   Do tell me what positive spin could ever be put on that to make it less horrendous? To be part of the same species as someone who could do such a thing makes me hate my humanity.

Am I picking out the bad things and leaving out the good? Nope. This is just what I’ve encountered this week from reading on line. “News” is a synonym for “gonna make you want to slit your wrists”.

You want some sunshine? Hmm…I’ve renamed my kid’s cat Fetish, or Feet-ish for short. Why? Because she kept renaming it and I got flustered and said, “Oh for pete’s sake, I’m just gonna call him Feet!” Then it morphed into Feet-ish and for me, Fetish. But yeah, Feet it is.

More sunshine? Well, I’ve not murdered anyone or myself with a spork this week, that’s always a plus.

I am well aware I am being bitchy but that’s just how much the last week has taken out of me. I’m climbing a molasses hill in six inch stilettos here. It’s okay to be frustrated, to have a chip on your shoulder. Some things just plain suck.

And then a few things don’t. Like Arsenic laying on me right now catnapping so contently. Like finding a new show I really liked and am sorry there were only ten episodes available. Like next week is supposed to be in the nineties everyday which means I’m gonna be marinating in sweat but it could delay the bubbling undercurrent of seasonal depression that the cooler temps bring…

I can spew all the good things. It doesn’t change the bad things. If anything, it makes me pretty damned sad that the bad outweighs the good. So why would I want to be reminded of the imbalance by deluding myself with shiny thoughts?

All I can do is trudge along, and hope along the way my stiletto punctures the jugular of a few trolls.

Now…A couple of parting lines heard on TV that made me tee hee the tiniest bit.

“She didn’t get the death penalty because the devil wasn’t ready to have someone more evil than him in Hell.”

“Should I slip into something more appropriate, like, say, a coffin?”

Keep calm and…I am so sick of seeing those shirts, all the teachers had them on today. I wanna change it up…


Purge complete. The roller coaster has returned to the station, you may safely unhook your seatbelt and disembark to the right…Oh, wait, the left, I get things confused, so sor-SPLAT!!!!!!

This is directionally challenged bipolar people with ADD do not make good roller coaster operators. Hate when that happens.