Wednesday, December 30, 2015


I made the mistake this weekend of having enough wine at a gathering. Not too much, but enough. That shit sent me into a tailspin the following two days.

I do know that with the medications I'm on, drinking is not advised. I kinda think it's not so much the alcohol with the medication, though. Looking back, there are a significant number of times that I've had drinks that I didn't get schmammered on that followed up with a day or two of anxiety.

I just never made the link before, or I refused to see it. Boy, it's just not worth it.

Friday, December 11, 2015

The State of Making a Living in America

When I was younger, I felt the epitome of having arrived was to have a "good" job. Of course, in my world a job was going to be a necessity, but I dreamed of the day when I had my evenings and weekends free at a full-time job that paid a livable wage and had benefits. Fuckin' A, my dreams came to fruition. It's funny, but it never occurred to me that I would be unhappy if I got this list of things I wanted.

It's just soul-sucking at a different level, now, see. I have a boss who is a strange mixture of politically motivated/wants everyone to like him. So, he'll kiss the ass of someone who doesn't like him and he can't understand why, but he takes for granted the people who he feels have to be there for him. The job is comprised of approximately 4/5ths male employees, most of whom are an appalling mixture of extremely sexist/need their didies changed. One of these assholes suggested I should be trained on using their checklist for gathering their paperwork to submit to the DA. I think I fucking know how to use a checklist, moron. I can only check off the shit you give me, not the shit you're thinking about giving me. That's why the goddamned checklist is for you.

The boss kow-tows to another bag of shit who has a huge control complex and puts all of us in positions where we can clearly see how much control we do not have, but it doesn't bother the boss because shitbag's lips are firmly suctioned onto boss' ass.

The other two women who work there dislike each other and I get put in the middle. I see so much condescension from one to the other that it boggles my mind, and I know how they treat each other when the other isn't around is how they talk about me when I'm not around.

I'm not really helping anyone, and being helpful is a big motivating factor for me. I do what I can with the log chain around my neck, but the only people I generally can assist are people who don't deserve my assistance. I have to try to find contentment with being nice to whoever I can find it in my heart to, and most of the time, I'm so pissed and angry about the horrible ego-agenda-babies that I'm surrounded with, that I lose any joy and good will.

Is this what I have to do until I'm 70 years old so that I have healthcare and a roof over my head? I hear this theme from most working people. Most of the other people I see each day are welfare rats who spend their days trying to get their pals' foodstamp cards signed out to them from the jail so they can defraud the government.

I have sold my soul for a "good" job.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

For Fox Sake.

I got a fucking birthday card from mother yesterday. Home sick from work with a nasty cold, a few days after my birthday has passed. Ooooo, the struggle. Do I just pitch it? I should just pitch it. I'll take it to the garbage and...openitopenitopenit. A handwritten note inside: "...I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I hope you can forgive me my failings..." So she's apologized. It means squat to me now. She's fake apologizing so she can get what she wants, which is for us to all get together during the holidays. How do I know this? I don't fucking know, I just know. The beginning of the letter asked for pics of my boys, asks how they're doing. Shit she should have asked about years ago but didn't. It's fake, it's ALL fake. She's figured out this equation in her head: if c, then b. If a, then not b. She tried a, and it didn't get her what she wanted, so she'll try c. Three years down the road, after multiple non-apologies. Frankly, this was a non-apology, too. She doesn't need forgiven, her failings need forgiven. She's not sorry for what she's done, she's just sorry I didn't have her when I needed her. I got what I knew I was going to get (that I hoped I wouldn't get) when I opened that card. Fakefakefake. At this point, there's nothing she could do to change my opinion of her, so why did I hope? Cuz I'm an idiot who she's trying to play like a fiddle. I disliked her less before I opened that letter.

Thursday, November 5, 2015


I've been devouring any and all books about living with mental illness or living with someone with mental illness that I can get my hands on. I want to try to understand how others are coping with the cards they've been dealt. All the books I've read have been quite good, and some of the books by authors who have lived with bipolar disorder talk about some things that ring big bells in my head. The most recent read was "Manic" by Terri Cheney. The book consists of vignettes from her life as a bipolar woman and covers her highs, lows, and eventually stabilization. I don't believe I'm flat-out bipolar, but her description of a mixed state made me go, oh my god, I've been there. Several times in my life, including the time I was experiencing the paradoxical reaction. My current diagnosis is Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Diagnoses are so funny, you know? They are a snapshot of what a doctor knows of a person at a certain place and time. You go in and talk to the doctor/NP and they ask you questions, which you answer as best you can, but what if they're not quite the right questions? What if you have answers you don't know you have?

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Ego v. Reality

Paradoxical reactions to benzodiazepines are rare but considered most likely to happen in the aging population. As it turns out, they can and do happen in other age groups. When the anxiety got too great and I asked for something to help manage it, clonazepam seemed like a reasonable solution - long half-life, less easily abused than some of the other bennys. I took it as prescribed for one week and had a suicidal breakdown. I spent a few days in a behavioral health unit to stabilize and get medication management, then discovered that the antidepressant I was already taking samples of was not going to be covered by my insurance, thus necessitating the change in that medication as well.

I had been angry and upset at the prescribing doctor for a few weeks before the clonazepam debacle because I felt like a science experiment, but if we're calling a spade a spade, that's what any of us are when we're trying to find a medication regimen that works for us. There's no way she could have foreseen how my brain reacted to that medication.

The day I was released from the hospital, I was so grateful to be going home feeling somewhat improved. I had this unexpected desire to speak with my mother, which I thankfully resisted. I wish I had the family I could talk to about this, and some day I'll talk to my sister about it, but not yet. It's enough I have a supportive husband and kids.

The current meds seem to be okay. I'm frightened as hell about what would happen if they suddenly began to not work, if I got thrown back into mind-hell, with the anger, irritability, depression, and anxiety. There is nothing I fear more than that.

I always prided myself on being able to do everything on my own. I felt like I couldn't trust anyone to help me. I was wrong.

The first couple of days in the hospital, I was eaten alive by humiliation. I hated that I bought into the stigma, that I was in a psych unit, that nothing would ever be the same, but I couldn't quit beating myself up. I'm forcing my viewpoint to perform a complete 180, still fighting with myself, but coming to an understanding that humiliation should be humility. There was no palpable difference between myself and the others who were hospitalized, and no difference between them and the people I meet everyday on the street, in my workplace, at a restaurant, living their lives as best they can. We are alone together.

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Checking In

A couple nights ago, N mother called me and let the phone ring and ring and ring until I shut the ringer off. I panicked, went back to the old anxiety. I don't think that'll ever go away. I'll have to be okay with that. It's a good reflex to have, maybe, like pulling your hand back when you touch a hot pan. Keeps you from getting badly hurt.

The stuff that happened since the last time I posted is too personal to post right now. Therapy has been good for me, but only in conjunction with medication. I had to remind myself of that the hard way, and it's been a real kick in the ass.

If you are out there trying to figure out what to do about the narcissist you are dealing with, I don't have any hard and fast answers, but I can give you some advise from my journey. Just keep protecting yourself. Guilt will be your enemy. A poor sense of self will also be your enemy. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, and it'll probably take you a long time to figure out what it is you do want. But when you figure it out, don't apologize for it. Seek the help you need, which may not be the help others think you need, and don't apologize for it. You might get torn down to build yourself back the way you want. Your story is not lying to you. Another person's story does not negate your own. Walk through the dark days and try not to carry them with you. If you do, try to remember you are not alone, though you'll feel that way sometimes. Maybe more often than sometimes. Don't close the door on options because you're worried about a social stigma. Don't let ego overcome necessity. Trust your definition of forgiveness.

Friday, April 17, 2015

What Does It Mean?

Christ on a cracker. I had hoped my mental health would be improving as years go by, but I'm sort of fucked up right now.

Not drunk or high or anything like that, which might be more acceptable to me. Just that my mind is not working correctly and I think some diagnosis may be forthcoming that I have been ignoring for a long time.

All the things that I have been proud of myself for hinge on my apparent resiliency in any given situation. I think I've been faking it. Just a big fucking faker.

The rage still burns my insides up, boils my brain, makes me feel dark and red at the same time. I want to cry and vomit and scream it all out, but it won't leave.

I put on my facade and go to work and pretend I'm doing ok. I pretend at home, too. My husband knows I'm not feeling well, but he has no idea. The fact is there is no one in my personal life I can trust to help me through this because I feel like I have to be the one that has to be strong for everyone else, and it fucking sucks. I feel trapped. I am trapped.

I know I need help. I have decided to go back to therapy to try to understand things, to try to cope. My problem is presenting as a problem of acceptance. I cannot accept the way certain people are, why the world is the way it is. Thought my attitude was getting better, but it's not. Telling me to brush it off and let it go feels impossible. Why don't more people CARE? Why does it have to be like this??? Why can't people be good parents? Why are people so content to let others raise their children, to provide for their families? Why won't people keep sex offenders away from their children? Doesn't anybody give a shit??

The world seems impossible. Life feels like a bunch of disjointed motions. What is the point?

Is the only answer really medicating myself into happy? I fear that's so, and it's necessary to be a good mother to my children. But the medicine I'm taking now is not helping and I'm disheartened because the search for the right medicine/combination of medicines is so frightening.

I desperately want to feel better.