I have this undeniable urge to butt in….sometimes in places where I don’t belong. It’s not that I mean to hurt anyone or want to cause drama. Although that does happen from time to time. I just have this ability to seperate myself from situations and say what needs to be said without being overly hateful or mean. I’m sure there are people who believe I am mean and out of line. But to me if you proclaim to be something than you back it up and accept criticism when necessary. You don’t have to like it but if someone has a good point you are kind of obligated to at least try to change. I know it’s not always easy and it probably shouldn’t be, real change takes time and is often painful.
I say this because of the way I heard about some people treating their family members and their children. It’s not right and it’s one of those things that makes me want to do something. I was also thinking today about how there are so many things that I have made negative in my life. Things that really are not probably not positive or negative they just are. I think I have spent most of my life being so negative about so many things. Like tank tops. I have felt a small amount of guilt wearing them for as long as I can remember. Today as a specifically look at that clothing I tell myself you must have lost your mind. There is nothing wrong with that shirt why do you always feel so bad. The list could probably go on forever. It isn’t really something I have spent much time thinking about much less trying to change. But I have learned that when I kno w what to look for it is easier for me to change my personal dialog.
I always knew my thoughts in many ways, although mostly personally, lend to the negative side. It isn’t something I have ever spent much time thinking about as I figure it was just the way it is. I didn’t know that every person doesn’t live that way. Which is why it is so important to me that people even try to understand the effects of mental illness. Plus, I’m that highly highly functional person. Had I not be forced I most likely never would have been tested. And as far as I’m concerned there are very few circumstances where people with mental illness can’t contribute to society and be productive. I know to some that isn’t the most acceptable answer but mental illness isn’t a crutch or excuse it’s an illness. If you are taking meds and they aren’t working talk to your doctor and change something up. If you aren’t as certain as you can be about your diagnosis find a way to be certain. I’ve always said it takes baby steps. And it is so interesting that that ow has come full circle to myself. If you aren’t actively working on even one aspect of your illness than you are not living the life you were meant to live and you will never ind happiness.
I want these things so I search for them and I am learning how to get them for myself. I will keep working the rest of my life and I will always have times when things get a little hard for me and I have to pull back. But I am not hopeless or helpless and I for one will choose to stay that way.
I both love and hate Sundays. I love spending time with hubby. Sundays we probably spend the most time together. We’ve been watching the last two seasons of Supernatural that we have DVR’d. It’s enjoyable, passes time and I get to look at two extra cute guys. LOL . The reason I hate Sundays is I know Monday is coming and hubby will leave to go to work and I’ll be wandering the house for the next week. Hubby is getting 9 days off in a row next week though so I just have to make it past this one.
I haven’t done much else today except for realize that I’ve really let myself go. I need to start working on everything. However that is overwhelming so I will likely start with one thing at a time. It’s easier to focus for me if I introduce stuff slowly. I’ve already been working on my diet. Now I am going to be working certain muscles out every single time I think about it. Which I hope is a lot, I’m not setting alarms for it though as it is easier to just do it the second I start thinking about it.
I removed a Facebook page I liked yesterday. It’s all pro animal and often shows videos of rescues. I love the rescues and the babies finding their new homes. I hate seeing what people will do to an innocent. It makes my stomach and heart hurt like no one business. I am one of those people that usually bury my head in the sand so I don’t find out about the bad things going on in the world. I mean my brain is already my greatest enemy, who needs the scum of the earth added to my already fragile mind.
Ever wanted to make a difference, have no idea where to start and feel that your social anxiety/agoraphobia will stop you from doing anything of value.
My best friend Dani who passed last year would foster animals and go to pet adoptions to help out. Even with fighting cancer she stepped out and did really good things. I wish I was more like her. She was so brave. I could handle the animals it’s the people I am terrified of. I need to get past this fear, I’m 47 I think it is about time I did something with my life.
Ready. Set. Sail! Hey there everybody!! I never post on the weekends but I want to make a shameless blog promotion!!! (booooo) Today is the day I made 10,000 views on The Bipolar Compass!! I’m in absolute shock. No honestly. I find it strange and shocking that you guys have put up with my crazy… More 10,000 Views!!!!
As the title suggests…I’ve got nothing. PMS-y anger and apathy that ebbs and flows but…Nothing real. No joy. No sadness. Just…nothing. Oh, anxiety and agitation are there but with all these devil kids running in and out of my house, who wouldn’t be pissy.
I really thought once it warmed up and the sun came out, the depression would lift. It’s not. I plan on telling the shrink about it when I see him this week. I already know what he will do. “We can raise the prozac two 40 mg a day, come see me in two months.” Big fucking help. Since I am hormonal I might actually put up a fight and insist on something less conservative. Or by the time the appt comes I will be in my turtle place where I shuffle along the path of least resistance just to get OUT of the anxiety inducing situation. My own complacent nature when hit with panic is my worst enemy. I need to advocate for myself.
And IF this shrink would have ever read anything I brought in with me…He’d know how I feel. But he doesn’t show any interest. At all. He’s a nice guy but…Impotent, as far as psychiatric care goes for someone in my medication resistant place. I’ve just cycled through every shrink there (though most of them left and I was forced to see a new doc, not my choice) so I have no other options left but this man.
I wish he was an asshole. It makes it easier to stand up for yourself when someone is being a jerk. When they’re just nice…well, you end up feeling like a jerk by speaking up for yourself. And that’s one more bullshit societal programming thing that pisses me off. Advocating for yourself should never result in feeling shitty. Because if you don’t speak up then you’re a welcome mat. There’s no win there.
So many of us just go with the flow of shitty psych care, watching our lives slip away with “time” passing and our depressions never lifting. It must be us, not the docs or meds, big pharma is magic and all.
Hormonal much? I know.
Truth is, I had ten days of PMS and cramps this month which is fucking extreme, then bring on the actual shark week event and oompa loopma ovary squeezes…It’s exhausting. My entire body feels bruised. I go out in the sun, it feels burned. So I stay inside and pop Tylenol and alternate sitting up and laying down because the cramps sear straight through to my spine.
I should be such a ray of fucking sunshine.
Friday I put in time at the shop to get gas money even though I was two hours “late” for his specs and I was in crampy pain…My kid had a half day of school so I had to take her to my mom’s. I had agreed the night before when Mrs R called that we’d come over Fri night for Spook to play with the grandkids…then it hit me how little I wanted to be around anyone. At all. I went. I survived.
Sat morning…The plan to go to citywide yard sales in my dad’s town, the whole point of getting gas money, did not happen. The car’s running like shit, I was in pain, my kid had her friends here by ten a.m. Just like…fuck it, not doing a thing. And I didn’t leave the lot. Most ambitious thing I did was fix pork chops for supper.
Today we’ve run out to the store but mostly she’s playing with the devil girls and I am binging The Shield while trying not to lock the door to keep them from running in and out.
I want to “find” all this energy necessary to getting caught up on housework. I need to mow again.
The desire is there. The will seems to abandon me as every time I get up intending to accomplish one tiny thing…I walk to the other room and forget what I went in for, then get frustrated because I can’t remember things ten seconds after thinking them and it’s the damned meds no matter what the docs say cos I NEVER had the memory problem prior to all their meds…
Breathe…Yeah, what is that, anyway…My allergies have denied me the pleasure three days running.
Yes, I am aware I am rambling and discombobulated.
It’s my blog and I will babble if I want to.
And now I am done. Because while drowning in hormonal anger and depressive lethargy and apathy…I can’t find a damned thing to feel hopeful about even though NOTHING traumatic is happening in my life at the moment.
Can you say DEPRESSION, Doctor-know-it-all?
What do I know. I am, after all, Crazy Old Niki, according to that wise old sage The Donor.
Odd how I’m not too crazy to know I have to take care of my kid, which is more than he knows.
We lose a lot when we live with bipolar disorder – function, memory, friends and even family.
But we also lose something more tangible – money. Or at least I did, and I know that a number of others have experienced this as well. Here’s how it went for me.
Work. I quit my full-time office job (possibly in a fit of hypomania). I had a new boss and had told her about my disorder. Her only question was, “What will that mean?” My answer was, “Sometimes I’ll have good days and bad days.” (It caught me by surprise.) Immediately after that, I began receiving bad evaluations, which I never had before. Was my performance really declining? It probably was, as I was heading into a major depressive episode.
But I wasn’t out of work quite yet. For a while I worked freelance, and pretty successfully. Then my brain broke, and there I was – unemployed. I had savings in a 401K, and we ran through all of that. Then my husband had a depressive episode and we ran through his 401K as well. And the money we got from refinancing our house.
Disability. Sometime in that stretch of time, my husband realized that our money was going to run out. He asked me to file for disability. Many of you know that story. I was denied. I got a disability lawyer. By this time – years later – I was able to work freelance again a bit, and my lawyer told me shortly before my appeal hearing was scheduled that the hearing officer’s head would explode when he learned what my hourly rate was.
Never mind that I could work only a few hours a week – maybe five, in a good week.
Insurance. Then there was insurance. As a freelancer, of course, I didn’t have any. My husband’s good county job had covered us, until he became unemployed too. I’m sure a lot of you know that story as well. No insurance. Huge pharmacy bills, and psychiatrist and psychotherapist, and doctor visits and the odd trip to Urgent Care.
Meds. Then my doctor put me on Abilify – $800 a month. I got a couple of months free from the drug company – just enough to discover that it really worked for me and I didn’t want to give it up.
Then, with remarkable timing, the Affordable Care Act (aka Obamacare) came along and we were able to get insurance again. It wasn’t really affordable, though, costing only slightly less per month than the Abilify. But it covered all our other prescriptions, too, so we came out a little ahead.
Budget. Since then, that’s the way it’s been going – month to month and disaster to disaster. My work is irregular and I never know how much I’ll get in any given month. My husband’s pay is steady, but meager – minimum wage. We have managed to make our mortgage payments and keep the house, which my husband doubted we’d be able to do when I couldn’t work. I know in that respect, we’re way luckier than many families struggling with bipolar disorder.
Our latest disaster came this week, when our only remaining partially working vehicle (no reverse gear) blew out second gear as well. The money we had borrowed and put aside for major dental work that the insurance wouldn’t cover disappeared with a poof – and still wasn’t enough. We had to borrow more from an already fed-up relative. I don’t blame her. She never expected to have to keep bailing out her grown son and his wife when she herself was past retirement age.
Our Future. I don’t see anything changing. My mental disorder is under much better control, but I know I’ll never be able to work in a full-time 9–5 job again. Job opportunities are few for people our age anyway, despite anti-age-discrimination laws. And I’ve never tried applying for a job where I must ask for accommodations to offset my illness, but I’m sure employers find lots of reasons not to hire people who need those. Again, despite the laws.
So why am I telling you all this? Am I just whining and feeling sorry for myself? Well, yes, I am, but that’s not the point, really. Bipolar disorder takes a brutal toll on our emotional lives, our families, our relationships, and more. It can also put us on the brink of poverty, or in our case, one paycheck and one more disaster away from desperate straits. I know that there are bipolar sufferers, including some of my friends, in much worse straits.
And we all know how stress affects a person with bipolar disorder.
Warnings for: Geekiness; ficticious mammals, & a particularly shirty pear tree
How do you plan to spend the upcoming Bank Holiday weekend: buying a sofa, mowing the lawn, watching the telly? Alternatively, you could go your own way.
Going one’s own way can be just as fraught as steering a more traditional course through life. The main difference is that the cul de sacs and dead ends are weirder, and may be more inclined to make us bump up against the more uncomfortable aspects of ourselves.
I spent part of yesterday at a Doncaster cosplay convention, with a badger, a dog, and several humans. The badger was dressed as the Fourth Doctor, whilst the hound was complimented on his “dog suit”. I then moved on to a back garden, where a professional tree whisperer tried to persuade a pear tree to scoot over a bit, so the garden’s owner could build a summer house.
The tree, however, was having none of it.
Distant beauty: Chatsworth, 2015
The badger, dog, tree, whisperer, and all the other humans are fictional, as is the convention. So are the Steampunk weasel family who live in a small mansion in Lesser Bessecarr, and their distant cousins, the stoats, whose interests involve lager, and loutishness.
Saturday afternoon was spent with friends, in more than one sense of the word. As well as attending a writing day with some writer friends, I also spent time with some of the characters I first met whilst writing “Koi Carpe Diem: Five Tales of Paws, Claws and Mystery”.
Yesterday I spent time first in London, and then Donny, with Sherlock Jones, his “bosom pal” Boswell the Badger, and the Hound of the Basingstokes.
The most famous address?
Meanwhile, over in Danefield, I renewed my friendship with William “Bunty” Jennings. He now goes by the name of Bill, and has also changed his profession from accountancy, to tree whispering. I also popped round briefly to see the Least-Weasel family, who made their fortunate with an underground brass foundry, and whose collective passion involves tinkering with something they call “The Contraption”.
All the above characters, plus many more, are featured in “A Yorkshireman in Ohio”. The sequel to “Koi Carpe Diem”, “Yorkshireman” is due out next month.
Whether you go your own, weird way, or decide to buy that sofa, I wish you a pleasant Sunday, and a lovely Bank Holiday weekend.
I come bearing good news on the mental health front: I haven’t noticed any major mood changes since switching up my meds. I don’t sleep quite as soundly as I used to, but I’m also not quite as much of a slug in the mornings anymore. I like not walking around for the first hour after awakening feeling like a bomb went off in my head.
That was something I never did get used to, even though I was on the higher Zyprexa dose for a year and a half following my hospitalization in November 2014. I’m glad to know I can get along on a smaller dose; I’ve tried reducing the Z in the past and had terrible luck with it, but I think the decrease has been offset by the extra Geodon I take in the mornings now. I’m self-aware enough to know if my mood shifts even a little in one direction or another, and I’m happy to say that I feel completely normal.
I have one more appointment with Dr. Awesomesauce in July, and I think he’ll be proud of me for giving this a shot under the supervision of my nurse practitioner, even though he tried several times to wean me down off the Z without success. I’ve been so scared to attempt it because I didn’t want to take the chance of destabilizing myself, but I forget sometimes that I’m in a vastly better place than I was a couple of years ago, in more ways than one.
Back then, I was newly unemployed and in the process of losing the lifestyle I’d worked so many years to build, and I was unstable as hell on top of it no matter how badly I wanted to believe otherwise. Once in a while I read some of the posts from that time and wonder how on earth I ever got through it (well, to be honest I barely did, and I had a LOT of help). Ye gawds, that was some tough sledding. In retrospect, it seems like small potatoes compared with what I’m facing with Will’s end-of-life issues, but at least now we’ve got a safe roof over our heads and close family to help support us through the hard times to come. Things could be worse…a lot worse.
And then sometimes I dream about going back to work. Not that I could, with all my physical and mental disabilities, and I have to remind myself that I’m only in the shape I’m in because I’m living a relatively low-stress life. I can’t even imagine going through this with Will if I were still in that State job, working 50+ hour weeks and sometimes having to be five hours away on overnight trips for up to a week for a survey. God must’ve had His hand in that for sure, even though I was bitterly disappointed at the time to find out that it was not meant for me.
But I was in another place, living with another mindset then…my priorities are much different now. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be: at my husband’s side during this most important transition of his life. My nursing skills now serve only his needs, my patient advocacy is for him alone. There is no way that’s coincidental!
So I’m very glad the med changes are going well. I’ve completely rid myself of the notion of stopping them entirely (like I talked about a few weeks ago) and I’m in no hurry to reduce them any further. I am, however, willing to experiment under the watchful eye of my caregivers, and that’s a big step in the right direction. I’m under no illusion that I’ll ever come completely off anti-psychotics; that’s OK too. I’ve got a big ugly disease that needs hardcore meds to control.
I’m not going to worry about the future though, as hard as it may be. This isn’t the time for imaginings about potential catastrophes. It’s time to just be gentle with myself and take life, literally, one day at a time. And it’s looking pretty good so far.
It’s windy. Today and yesterday, in NOAZ (that’s what they call Northern Arizona), upon wave of wind up to 50 miles an hour!
The sky is a perfect blue diamond. I’m surrounded by forest, Ponderosa Pine, Douglas Fir, some kind of Spruce.
The waves of wind from the South-Southwest pile up on that majestic escarpment, the Mogollon Rim, and spill over into the Coconino Plateau, which rides above the Rim like a giant plate rising to 8,000 feet before cracking in half to form the Grand Canyon.
And I, in my tiny RV, with my not so tiny canine pal Atina, had a choice to either go crazy in the two days (so far) of relentless waves of wind, or…or not.
At times the wind rocks the RV so hard, I think it’s going to tip over.
Atina thinks so too. I can tell by the way she clings to me and farts. As I write she is wrapped around my leg with her ass in my face, farting great clouds of evil fumes. At the risk of being covered in red volcanic dust, I have had to open the window.
Every three or four minutes, another wave of wind-here it comes now-roars through the tree tops and through my window. Atina sleeps, heaves a big sigh, farts.
I’ve been nervously checking my NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) high-definition radar app for any approaching precipitation. This volcanic soil, when rained upon, becomes a treacherous soup of slippery mud. If the soil becomes saturated, it can turn into quicksand. So I watch the sky and keep track of the aviation forecasts.
I’ve always loved weather. When I was 10 or so, a gigantic tornado passed right over our house. We were listening to a record on the old record player. Suddenly there was a deafening roar. The dog dove under the couch. The lights flickered. The phonograph slowed eerily to a halt. The lights went out. The roar passed overhead…we thought it was a low flying jet, but strange… Then the lights came back on, the record player started up again, the dog came out from under the couch, and everything went back to normal.
The next morning my mother and I went to the laundromat. It wasn’t there. Just nothing but the concrete pad it was built on.
The mile-wide tornado sheared the city of Toledo, Ohio, off at second-story level and dumped it into Lake Erie.
My father and I were big buddies. We used to pack a lunch, a frying pan, a little bag of corn meal, a couple slices of bacon, and our fishing tackle, and we’d go fishing.
Dad taught me to fly fish. I was good at catching twigs from overhanging trees. We never caught anything, but we did forbidden things like chewing tobacco (yecch) and smoking corncob pipes (blecch).
We did better fishing in ponds, where we caught pan fish: crappie, sunfish, bluegill–cleaned and scaled them on the spot. Dad taught me how to make a small cooking fire, and we’d fry the bacon, roll the fish in cornmeal, and fry them in the bacon fat. A delectable feast. We ate them, fins, tails, and all. Crunchy.
We went surf casting in the ocean, using long heavy rods baited with 8-10 inch long Styrofoam lures called Atoms, bristling with hooks, in hope of catching a bluefish and not getting bitten.
Once I was in a rowboat in Narragansett Bay with my friend Becky. The bluefish were running, a huge school of them, so many that it seemed the boat was riding on top of waves of bluefish instead of waves of water.
We happened to have fishing poles, so we threw a line in, without bait, just bare hooks. Becky hooked one immediately, and it fought so hard it took both of us to get it into the boat.
(Breaking news: Atina just puked. She’s such a good girl, she urgently asks to go outside when she has to puke. It was the Malinois Empty Stomach kind of puke, so I just fed her.)
We got the angry bluefish into the boat. It thrashed and snapped, jumping around in the bottom of the dory. Bluefish have a mouthful of deadly sharp teeth. They can take a finger off, and bluefish bites seem to always get infected.
Becky yelled, “Hold into him, there’s a club in this boat somewhere!”
It was her father’s dory. He was an avid fisherman, so there had to be a club in the boat, for whacking fish over the head. That’s how you kill a fish.
She had to find the club, because the only other choice was to throw the fish overboard and cut the line.
But this could not be done without getting bitten, because a dory is a deep sort of boat.
No luck with the club, so we pulled one of the oars and whacked the fish to death, but then a wave came along and snatched the oar; and we were forced to paddle back to shore with one oar, which was not an easy task.
In normal conditions, if deprived of an oar, a person would jump into the sea and push or pull the boat ashore; but the sea was filled with snapping bluefish, so we managed, after a long time, to get the boat to land, more worried about what Becky’s father would say about the lost oar than anything. Becky’s father was a kind man; he didn’t say anything. He was a man of few words. Not so, her mother.
One bright blue morning, Dad and I packed up our surf casting gear and headed out for Horseneck Beach to try our luck. Somebody had told somebody else, who had told Dad that the bluefish might be running.
By the time we got to the beach, it was starting to cloud up. Nevertheless we hauled our tackle to the shore and threw a line in.
The tide seemed to be coming in strong, although by the tide tables it should have been turning, just at the end of going out and starting to come in (“neap tide,” in fisherman’s terms). High tide wasn’t for a good few hours yet.
But we cast our lines and tried to smoke, he his cigar and I my Balkan Sobranies, daring black cigarettes with gold leaf where the filter would have been, if there had been a filter, which there wasn’t. By this time it was impossible to smoke, as the wind kept putting our smokes out. So we put them away and turned our attention to trying to get our lures in the water.
But the wind, which was now howling like a banshee, kept throwing our lures back in our faces along with sheets of rain and salt spray. We decided to pack it in and go have lunch.
We threw our fishing gear into the back of Dad’s Ford pickup and wallowed through the driving rain to a nearby fishermen’s bar that served the best conch chowder ever.
The scratchy t.v.was on.
When we came through the door, soaking wet, stamping our dripping boots on the mat, the boys at the bar said,
“What in the world have you two been doin’ out THEYAH? In the middle of this hurricane? You-ah lucky you didn’t get taken by a storm wave!”
Hurricane? HURRICANE! Nobody said anything about a hurricane.
The lights went out, and the barkeep lit kerosene lanterns. Dad ordered us beers (yes, I was only fourteen, but the law was that a minor could drink if accompanied by a parent), and we lit fresh smokes. The fishermen looked on approvingly. We ordered hot conch chowder, and crumbled Common Crackers, which the barkeep scooped from a barrel, into the rich stew.
It made us forget, temporarily, that we were soaking wet.
(For you who did not grow up in New England in the ’60’s or before, Common Crackers, also known as Ship’s Biscuits, are rounds of flour, water, and baking soda, slowly baked until completely dehydrated, and dangerous to teeth unless broken up into chowder. They keep indefinitely when stored in an airtight container, and thus were taken on long sea voyages on whaling ships. As long as they don’t get wet they are good practically forever.)
After the wind died down some, we hydroplaned for a couple of hours till we got home. My mother was frantic. No cell phones in those days. For all she knew (she wailed, through tears), we could have been taken by a storm wave.
Mom seldom approved of our adventures. That’s one reason we seldom took her along.
The wind-waves seem to be slowing down now. The NOAA weather discussion said it was going to, but I don’t trust it, as that’s what it said last night and today was worse than yesterday.
So I’ll keep on recollecting pleasant memories of dangerous adventures that turned out good. Atina and I are warm and dry, and we’ve got plenty of food and water, without bluefish…although they are very tasty.
My father, with a giant pot that he made for a demonstration at some art school or other. Note that the pot is wearing his apron and hat. He was 5’8″, so that gives you an idea of the size of this pot.
Below on the far left are a salt glazed porcelain teapot and vase that he made. The rest of the pots were made by his former graduate students. From a show in 2001 more or less. I hope he’s playing in mud in Potter’s Heaven now…and enjoying a good conch chowdah, with a good cigar for dessert.
IVe shared my story before and that’s not really what this is about. Or maybe it’s a continuation or a new insight that I have found I’m not sure. I find it so easy to talk openly and share when I am typing like this. But it’s hard in daily life. I ha no problem with people knowing that I am Bipolar. I often crack jokes, it’s what helps me cope. And at the end of the day it’s never a bad thing to laugh. I can talk about most things in my life but when it comes to the hardest things or the things that are ugly about my life. I’m still working on coming to a balance. I am trying to have moments instead of hours and days or weeks. Something that is hard to do when you often can’t see things unless someone points them out. Which brings me to this. I am going to start back going to counseling. I need someone to reflect my thoughts and emotions back to me in a way that I can make progress. I really need to have some really good talk time about my son right now. It seems there are quite a few people around lately that are struggling to hold it together.
The reason I like so many blogs and am constantly reading articles is because sometimes someone says something and I can see it in my life. I am starting to be able to notice my manic and depressed times. Thankfully, I think I probably have more manic periods. I have a couple good depressed times, usually about 6 weeks long. But it is starting to seem that I spend the rest of the year stable, manic, hypo manic. This is a seriously strange new train of thought and I am struggling to get a hold of it. It’s like it comes into focus and then it shatters and moves away again. It bothers me, a lot!! I mean if I’m going to have these thoughts that runs away, are crazy, and rule my life it would be nice if I didn’t have to work so hard to get them in focus. Aaannnyywwaaayyyy, getting to where I can start noticing those patterns. It helps me to feel like I have a small amount of control over my life.
Meanwhile, I think I already told y’all I started Serequil. The dosage is now at 4 a nights, started at half a pill. I have been doing 4 for about a week now. Seems to work pretty good. I am sleeping somewhere between 5 and 7 hours most nights. I still wake up once or twice before and after the good sleep. But as of now I can live with that. Also, I had 3 days off this week!! You’re thinking why is that good. Well my husband is a disabled veteran. So I work part time for extra money and I am blessed to get to spend that extra time with my family. I also have 3 days off next week. I am so happy. I’m not sure it will last forever but I will take as many weeks as I can get. Lol
I guess I really didn’t have a point tonight except that we just have to keep going and keep living and learning. And through that we will be happy, healthy, Storng!!
I have two dogs, a 13 pounds Maltese mix and a 4,5 pound Yorkie. I love them with every fiber of my being.
I hate hearing about people harming animals, it hurts my heart and makes me want to take even more animals in. I won’t cause of my depression and the two doggies I have now are enough work.
The reason I’m talking about this is because I have been watching videos and reading stories all day about animal rescues and various other animal related stuff mostly it was super cuteness. I like to read about rescues. Not because I enjoy hearing the horrible things people do, but because I love to see the wonderful things people do. There are really two kinds of people. You are either good or you are not. I’m not talking on a heaven or hell level. I’m just talking about how you treat and respect people and animals. You are either good or bad. I don’t see grey. Good people can do bad things, it happens. We’re all so human. I would be happy as hell if some kind of UFO came and sucked up all the assholes though!
Today I have been twitchy. I am having a hard time sitting still but I’m also finding it hard to find something to do. Today I have cried, laughed, smiled, ranted and faced some of people social anxiety by sitting on my porch while there are a ton of construction workers building a house next door. It was difficult. I would like to be able to do one thing I am afraid of once a day. I need to get out of my rut.