Daily Archives: September 7, 2017

I do not whisper. I ROAR.

Motherhood transformed me. My identity changed. Now it changes again. I have constantly reinvented myself over my lifetime. As a pre-med biochemistry major at UCLA, I was miserable and suicidal. Then I studied part-time at a community college, biding time to…


My scumbag brain has cycled through lethargy, dread, a chatty hypo-manic bout (the useless, annoying, unproductive kind) and now it has settled on…panxiety. Yes, paranoia mixed with anxiety=panxiety. Having to be in the petri dish and deal with people and phones and traffic and sirens and chirping birds and honking horns and screeching tires…

Every tiny sound feels like a jolt to my system. Not a “boo” ha ha, got ya, jolt. No, I am talking “rearended by another car at 40 miles per hour” jolts. Earlier it was a particularly vocal flock of birds and it was worse than nails on a chalkboard. Being the crazy person I am, I declared, “You’re not God’s creatures, Satan created you, fly south already and shut up” Yes, I talk to birds. I talk to whatever is annoying me. I rail under my breath against the ambulance sirens that make me jolt. The person who screeched their car tires and the person who honked their horn in protest are muttered at.

It doesn’t solve a thing. Just makes me a little less..stabby.

Normally the shop is a dead zone. Today it’s been calls and people popping in (and by that, I mean, two people, but still, I don’t do social, I am so tired from faking the smiles and niceties I could drop) and every tiny noise…sets me on edge. Is my house on fire, is that the siren going that way? OMG, did someone decide to shoot up a school so the cops are racing toward her school? Every. Little. Thing. And scumbag brain is off and running.

Welcome to panxiety 101. Never mind what the therapists and shrinks tell you. This IS a thing. If you feel it to the extent that I do, then you know it’s downright crippling and it destroys the quality of your life on an hourly basis. I live in a Bumfuck, midwest and it’s pretty much a morgue in this town but it still has the usual ambiance of traffic and such. I can’t imagine what would happen to my circuits if I lived in a large city where that noise is constant rather than intermittent.

Don’t ever let anyone belittle anxiety disorder or panic disorder. Logically, neither will kill you. Realistically, if you have a panic or anxiety attack while driving, someone could get hurt. If you’re working and the noise strikes you into fight or flight, you could stab someone with a pen in an effort to get to an exit and hyperventilate, or even hurt yourself. Not necessarily fatal but every chance it could cause damage. Panic and anxiety don’t respond to logic 90% of the time, no matter how medicated or stubborn or bad ass you are.

Everyone has anxiety. Just like everyone has blood sugar and some people can drink some juice and it balances out and some need injections or pills to make it right.

Anxiety is the same way. Mine requires, meds, juice,and solid injections of quiet solitude so I don’t ‘go off’. And yeah, even with the bipolar managed on Lamictal, I can still go off if the anxiety reaches fever pitch. It hasn’t been physical in a few years (I threw a cup at the wall, oh, a few months back I threw a phone at the wall, not at a person, whatevs) but fight or flight..I might just start screaming obscenities at a nun and see her as a threat to my safety. Because that is anxiety and panic. Much like a cornered animal, you fight or make flight and sometimes, both.

Not a dignified disorder, for sure, but it’s the real deal and it’s debilitating.

And I really think the DSM should include ‘panxiety’ as a legit disorder. I’m only paranoid when my anxiety rises sky high so it’s less a paranoia disorder than it is a tentacle from the octopus that is anxiety disorder.

Keeping Busy

I don’t know if I have a touch of hypergraphia or if I’m just lonely but I sure have the compulsion to write!  I am still waiting for the job to start – the latest is they think it will be the middle of next week.  I had a Come To Jesus email with the recruiter and account manager and said basically, HEY!  I DO have a job, don’t I?  And they assured me that yes, I do, they are just getting the contract signed, and the manager is out this week.  My imaginative and paranoid mind thought that they were interviewing other candidates and keeping me on the back burner.  But they said in no uncertain terms that I DO have a job.

So in the meantime I am trying to keep busy.  I am actually cleaning my apartment, I have become that desperate for things to do.  Yesterday was surfaces, today is floors, tomorrow is bathrooms.  I have to space it out because my poor back can’t take too much in a day.  I’ve also been walking every day, and cheese and rice am I out of shape!!  I haven’t exercised with any regularity in a long time, I’m embarrassed to say.  It used to be a regular part of my self-care, and when I let it go by the wayside, I ballooned up thirty pounds.  Now I want to get back into it, and hopefully get rid of this pregnant-looking belly (I know it’s hot as hell but hey!).

My mood has been pretty good, a little sinking here and there when I get overwhelmed with the tasks I have set out for myself, and I have to give myself a pep talk, and focus on just the one task at hand, not all the things I want to do.  I’m easily overwhelmed, which can lead to discouragement.  I’m also a bit lonely.  I’m quite isolated with no contact with Dr. Flaky and not going to Mom & Dad’s three times a week like I’m used to.  I was just so determined that I wanted this free time to myself, but I didn’t think through how isolating it would be.  Oh dear . . .  Soon enough I will long for this time . . .

Well I suppose I will start vacuuming up the dust piles here . . . better put on a gas mask . . . I hope the sweet little birdies survive the storm!  Hope you all are having a good week!  Peach out!  BPOF

Filed under: Bipolar, Bipolar and Self Care, Bipolar and Work, Bipolar Disorder, Mental Illness, Psychology, Psychology Shmyshmology Tagged: Bipolar, Blogging, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Psychology, Reader

Spitfire And Ice

Welcome aboard the bipolar coaster. Please buckle up and hold on tight, it’s gonna be a long, rant-y ride.

Two weeks of daily hours long dish dwelling is starting to kick my ass. I can’t get a good night’s sleep. I can’t seem to get moving in the morning. The other day I forgot to even put on deodorant. Today I packed my kid’s lunch but forgot to bring myself anything so I ended up buying a package of M and M’s because hey…I tried to eat a piece of toast and it made me start wretching. I’d blame the meds as it’s the same kind of nausea but I haven’t taken them. Honestly, I think I semi poisoned myself yesterday when I was rearranging my computer set up in the bedroom and started blasting everything with Raid to ensure any bugs that crept in would be poisoned and die…It wasn’t til after that that I started coughing and feeling nauseated. Oh, well. Meds, bug killer, nausea prevails.

I started feeling better yesterday, and proud of myself, because I did not cave and let my kid play with her friends. Not even when one texted me from her mom’s phone begging to spend the night for some reason or other. I held tough. I needed the break and honestly, my kid is an entirely different child without their influence upsetting the balance. Okay, not entirely different, she is still loud (seriously, she doesn’t understand that you can control the volume of your voice, she has to speak as loud as possible) and talks too much but she is not disrespectful or defiant. The combination of the kids and her personality seem to be a toxic mix. They are the equivalent of accidentally huffing Raid, I guess, because I wasn’t all that stressed yesterday. Without them (they knocked and tried to sway me, but nope.) I accomplished the bedroom computer project, which made me sweaty so I showered, and I got my kid off to church, swapped some texts with my sister about the new season of American Horror Story mirroring what is our reality…I wasn’t doing so bad.

Then R called and started prattling off a list of shit he wants done and since mood stabilizers, my normal “spitfire” instincts to tell people to bite me have turned to wimpy icy “M’kay, sir, yes, I will do that.” Without the sir or the simpering, it just feels like simpering to me. Because I AM a spitfire and I still do tell people to fuck off, usually in jest, but truly melting down or pissed off…Yeah, I will tell you to piss off. Except now thanks to the loss of child support, I am beholden to R so I become the obedient little submissive when every fiber of my being wants to scream I CAN’T KEEP DOING THIS, I AM ABOUT TO THROTTLE SOMEONE.

The night was plagued with weird dreams that almost seemed real, waking up, realizing how cold it was, burrowing back under fort blankie. More dreams, more waking. I purposely sat the alarm 2 hours early thinking by the time I hit snooze 5 times I’d be too annoyed to go back to sleep. It didn’t matter. Spook’s kitten Shrillex decided 5 a.m. was a fine time to come give me a face bath until I finally dragged my ass out of bed and got the feline royalty fresh water and fresh crunchy food (cos that hours old stuff is just gross for the royals). After that…there was no going back to sleep. I tried. My mind was spinning yet I couldn’t seem to use the extra time to do anything but huddle under blankies and dread the day ahead or sit up and dread the day ahead.

Had to stop by R’s house first thing as he asked me to drop off a couple of his bills. No biggie, gotta drive by both places anyway to fetch my kid. Then I got my breakfast of RC cola and M and M’s, oddly which I am keeping down and the nausea seems to be receding. In an example of what a great mom I am, I bought my kid a box of Mike and Ike’s for breakfast. Hey, she gets breakie at school, that was just a treat. Whatever. I don’t do conventional. Then I realized when the cashier commented on how cute my kid looked in her pigtails…Oh, egad, I AM a conventional old mom, fixing my kid’s hair while struggling to even remember to brush my own.

Speaking of which…I had an epiphany yesterday or the day before, time is lost on me. I used to do my hair all the time, extensions, dye, teasing, curling, I’ve got a ton of irons and sprays and Spook asked why I don’t use them anymore..And I realized, it’s less of not caring and more of…All the lice treating just wore me down on hair maintenance. As long as it’s bug free, washed, and brushed…I can’t be arsed to make it pretty. Not often, at least.

So here I am at the shop and so far only person I’ve had to deal with is Kenny and he lives here so…My stomach is still churning. I know this dish dwelling thing is called normal for pretty much everyone but my constitution simply isn’t strong enough for it. I am slipping from spitfire and ice to The Husk Formerly Known As Morgueticia. Stupid seasonal affective disorder. Stupid fucking weather changing, it’s fricking November cold in early September, I am wearing long sleeves. It’s like a barrage from all sides of life and my own mental health issues and something is going to give at some point, it always does. The one thing I know is that everything I do is for my kid, I am all she’s got she depends on me for everything but if it comes down to loyalty to R and a few extras like smokes- he goes under the bus. I can’t be there for her if I am locked up in the psych ward.

I can drive a car during winter with a window that doesn’t stay rolled up in the frame, right? I don’t have to have that repaired, right?

Fuck. I guess that’s why I am putting myself through this, cos I kinda do have to get that fixed unless I want to drive an ice box with six inches of snow on the driver’s seat. Mechanics are expensive. R is willing to barter, I do this, he will fix that.

I’m not feeling too spit-fiery now, just resigned that life is pretty much constantly sucking it up and doing whatever it takes to survive. Is it any wonder my constant companion is a stomach ache? Life is hard enough. Life with some many mental issues and the inability to manage it all properly…I’m probably doomed.

I should have known that when they started making square sporks. WTF? Yeah, sporks. I deflect with humor from left field when I start taking myself too seriously.

Besides…square forks are a bastardization of original sporks. Kinda like when they made Mustangs into box body preppie mobiles instead of the original bad ass muscle cars. Thankfully, the bad ass Mustangs are making a comeback. Maybe original sporks will too!

I’m really losing my shit, aren’t I? Meh.

Hurricane Irma

I will not have flashbacks.

I will not have flashbacks.

I will not have flashbacks.

Maybe if I say it enough it will come true.