I moved to Austin, Texas. I'm here. It was a long, arduous journey, but I made it. And I LOVE it here. The people are so nice. I'm even going to church again.
The church is great. The people in it, I think, may be the nicest people I've ever met in my entire life. And I'm not really paranoid when I'm there. I actually look forward to something. I look forward to leaving the house (which is totally new for me). I'm there and I don't feel judged or criticized because of who I am or the disease I have. Any of it.
I'm not trying to preach hardcore here or anything. I know how that can be sometimes. It's just that, I've never felt so comforted anywhere before. And I've been to other churches before. This one is just... different. It sort of makes me feel sorry for the people that can't come with me.
Anyway, I can't run from the Bipolar, but there are things (people, places, etc) that I left when I left Jersey. Well, they still haunt. It sucks. I'm starting to think that Facebook is just a torture mechanism that keeps you in touch with ALL the WRONG people. Not to mention that when I moved here, there was a severe lapse in my insurance and I've only recently started taking my meds again after a month long reprieve. Now that, was hell.
I thought I was going to spend my first month in Austin in a hospital. I felt crazy. I was crying all the time. Yelling. Berating myself. Refusing to leave the house. Over-eating. Having panic attacks. And so on and so on... blah, blah, blah.
It's a bit better now. I'm back on medication and I'm trying. Although, today I'm particularly irritable. But that's why I'm writing. And I will keep writing now that I'm almost completely settled in to my new home.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
moving
Moving is the most difficult thing I've done since having to put my dog to sleep a year ago. My mania is worse than ever, as is the depression. I'm swinging back and forth like a really rapid pendulum. It is NO fun and I'm sure it's killing my family.
There's so much stuff to do. Not just the packing of the boxes, but the packing of the car and taking out the trash. It all sucks so hard. And how do I deal with it??
NOT WELL!!!
I have been screaming at everybody because when I get manic I get irritable as shit. Then, I get done screaming and start crying because that's how fast my moods are swinging right now. It's a horrible feeling. I'm hoping it's also a temporary feeling and that once we're on the road I'll be okay.
Of course, once we're out there I have to worry about driving without getting lost. But hopefully these directions I got are good ones.
Hoping that once we settle down in Texas I will feel much better. I've already found a support group for people with bipolar disorder, so that should help. Wish me luck!!
There's so much stuff to do. Not just the packing of the boxes, but the packing of the car and taking out the trash. It all sucks so hard. And how do I deal with it??
NOT WELL!!!
I have been screaming at everybody because when I get manic I get irritable as shit. Then, I get done screaming and start crying because that's how fast my moods are swinging right now. It's a horrible feeling. I'm hoping it's also a temporary feeling and that once we're on the road I'll be okay.
Of course, once we're out there I have to worry about driving without getting lost. But hopefully these directions I got are good ones.
Hoping that once we settle down in Texas I will feel much better. I've already found a support group for people with bipolar disorder, so that should help. Wish me luck!!
Thursday, October 7, 2010
a prayer for peace
I watch only one soap opera - General Hospital - and people scoff. The lives of the prestigious Quatermaines and the adventurous Spencers doesn't seem realistic to them. But if anyone who's ever made that statement had met any one member of my family, they would know how realistic it was. Deep, dark secrets and tragedy exist. They go on existing from generation to generation. The sins of the father and all that... well it exists in my family.
I don't talk about it much, but something happened to me when I was just a little girl. Before I ever dated a man who called me names, a man who threatened to kill me, a man who raped me, I was molested. Actually, I'm not sure if you can call it that since it only happened one time. I owe my mother for that I think. While she didn't know exactly how to handle the situation and definitely could have handled it better, she did the best she could. She was stronger than her own mother and for that I am grateful.
When my mother was being molested, she went to her mother for help and her mother called her a liar. Her mother ostracized her. It has all gotten so bad now that my mother lives on the outskirts of her dark family. Her name is only whispered when - and if - it's mentioned at all. And she is not Jeanne, the social worker, the mother, the daughter, the sister... she is Jeanne, the traitor, the liar, the scape goat. For this, I admire her.
My grandfather was not a nice man. He was a child predator. He preyed on the weakness of my grandmother and her children. My mother, my aunt, and my uncles, God help them, were his victims. My mother will talk of this openly. Thank God, one of her brothers is starting to admit things as well. Through this I believe they will both heal. Through this, their children will be saved. The curse will be broken.
But what of the other siblings? What of my mother's sister? Of her brothers that won't admit the truth?
I prayer for them. Not because I like them, but because I love them. Most of them I miss terribly. I even pray, in the depths of my soul, that the one uncle I have who touched me and forced me to touch him, is saved one day from the torture of his own memories.
Mostly though, I pray for the other children involved. I have cousins enthralled in all this mess. Cousins whose parents haven't spoken of anything. Cousins who are being paraded around an uncle I know to be guilty of at least one crime.
I pray that they will not know the pain I did. I pray that they will not have to deal with the sins of their fathers. And if that doesn't work, and the worst happens to them, I pray that one day they can find me. Or that they can find the aunt I was fortunate enough to speak with before posting this. I pray that they will find safety somewhere and that they will know they are loved.
And above all else, knowing that this is now the fourth generation of abuse my family has survived, I pray that it is coming to an end.
I pray for peace.
I don't talk about it much, but something happened to me when I was just a little girl. Before I ever dated a man who called me names, a man who threatened to kill me, a man who raped me, I was molested. Actually, I'm not sure if you can call it that since it only happened one time. I owe my mother for that I think. While she didn't know exactly how to handle the situation and definitely could have handled it better, she did the best she could. She was stronger than her own mother and for that I am grateful.
When my mother was being molested, she went to her mother for help and her mother called her a liar. Her mother ostracized her. It has all gotten so bad now that my mother lives on the outskirts of her dark family. Her name is only whispered when - and if - it's mentioned at all. And she is not Jeanne, the social worker, the mother, the daughter, the sister... she is Jeanne, the traitor, the liar, the scape goat. For this, I admire her.
My grandfather was not a nice man. He was a child predator. He preyed on the weakness of my grandmother and her children. My mother, my aunt, and my uncles, God help them, were his victims. My mother will talk of this openly. Thank God, one of her brothers is starting to admit things as well. Through this I believe they will both heal. Through this, their children will be saved. The curse will be broken.
But what of the other siblings? What of my mother's sister? Of her brothers that won't admit the truth?
I prayer for them. Not because I like them, but because I love them. Most of them I miss terribly. I even pray, in the depths of my soul, that the one uncle I have who touched me and forced me to touch him, is saved one day from the torture of his own memories.
Mostly though, I pray for the other children involved. I have cousins enthralled in all this mess. Cousins whose parents haven't spoken of anything. Cousins who are being paraded around an uncle I know to be guilty of at least one crime.
I pray that they will not know the pain I did. I pray that they will not have to deal with the sins of their fathers. And if that doesn't work, and the worst happens to them, I pray that one day they can find me. Or that they can find the aunt I was fortunate enough to speak with before posting this. I pray that they will find safety somewhere and that they will know they are loved.
And above all else, knowing that this is now the fourth generation of abuse my family has survived, I pray that it is coming to an end.
I pray for peace.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
crap!
So, I have to go out today. Outside. In a couple of hours. I hate going outside. I'm really nervous about it too, cause it's a doctors appointment. That means I have to get weighed and all the routine shit. I hate that shit.
I'm well prepared though. Have all my paperwork and things in one place. Oh wait, I should get my ipod to. And maybe a book. Crap. See, I'm not prepared.
And I have nothing to say. Just that I'm scared. Wish I didn't have to go, but I do.
Damn!
I'm well prepared though. Have all my paperwork and things in one place. Oh wait, I should get my ipod to. And maybe a book. Crap. See, I'm not prepared.
And I have nothing to say. Just that I'm scared. Wish I didn't have to go, but I do.
Damn!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
me and my tilapia
Really random thoughts coming your way...
- the public library is a really diverse place to just sit and people watch
- it must be a requirement that cab drivers have the "gift of gab"
- black is NOT your friend on a sunny day
- people can surprise you
- you can surprise you
- God is here, just maybe not how we thought
- Ben Mckenzie is hottie goodness!
- it's good to do random nice things for people just to make them smile
- i really want some turkey right now
- or some horseradish for my tilapia
Sunday, September 19, 2010
obladi
Things have been weird lately. So much going on.
My mother has developed diabetes. Along with her other illnesses, this is the WORST news possible. This limits my time with her by a lot. I have a few years, maybe, if we can swing it. If it doesn't get too out of control too fast. But in a matter of weeks she went from one diabetic pills to four because one couldn't control it. She's not on insulin yet, but when that happens, we will know that she has no more than a few months.
Now because of some diseases she already had, a lung disease particularly, she's been told that surviving another New Jersey winter is unlikely.
Also, our apartment manager got fired and a new one took over. A real Nazi bitch if you ask me who no longer wants pets in the complex. We've had our dogs for 8 and 11 years, respectively, and are NOT giving them up.
So, we move. Where to? Texas. It's a red state, yes, but cheaper than NJ. And my mother lived there once when I was too little to remember and says she wouldn't mind dying there. They were nice down there. The air was cleaner. Neighbors were friendlier.
Moving, even to a better place, is always stressful, especially since we don't have the best credit. Also, my mother got real stupid a few years back and that complicates things now. But alas, there is someone in Austin, Texas willing to help us.
Austin, Texas. That's where we're going.
It's strange because I have nothing keeping me here anymore. The people I care most about live under my roof and are coming with me. My extended family has split off in all directions and we don't even speak due to issues long swept under various rugs. I don't have any "best" friends. Not the ones I can call at 3am on some idle Tuesday when I can't sleep because I've had yet another nightmare about my deceased ex coming to me in ghost form. (He still uses the human methods he used before: throwing rocks at my window 80's style, knocking at the back door and curling up on the steps, or yelling "Tara! They're coming for me!")
Note: my deceased ex was not well. Probably why he died at 25 years old.
But, talking about him is hard. I cry. Thinking of friends lost is hard, too. Hell, 50% of me still wishes that my rapist was still that yellow-shirted kid in high school with the drug problem and the bestest, bluest eyes, instead of the dipshit he turned out to be.
Life moves on though. And so do I as it turns out. So goodbye New Jersey. Goodbye old friends. Don't ever believe that I didn't love you. I've just grown tired of standing still.
My mother has developed diabetes. Along with her other illnesses, this is the WORST news possible. This limits my time with her by a lot. I have a few years, maybe, if we can swing it. If it doesn't get too out of control too fast. But in a matter of weeks she went from one diabetic pills to four because one couldn't control it. She's not on insulin yet, but when that happens, we will know that she has no more than a few months.
Now because of some diseases she already had, a lung disease particularly, she's been told that surviving another New Jersey winter is unlikely.
Also, our apartment manager got fired and a new one took over. A real Nazi bitch if you ask me who no longer wants pets in the complex. We've had our dogs for 8 and 11 years, respectively, and are NOT giving them up.
So, we move. Where to? Texas. It's a red state, yes, but cheaper than NJ. And my mother lived there once when I was too little to remember and says she wouldn't mind dying there. They were nice down there. The air was cleaner. Neighbors were friendlier.
Moving, even to a better place, is always stressful, especially since we don't have the best credit. Also, my mother got real stupid a few years back and that complicates things now. But alas, there is someone in Austin, Texas willing to help us.
Austin, Texas. That's where we're going.
It's strange because I have nothing keeping me here anymore. The people I care most about live under my roof and are coming with me. My extended family has split off in all directions and we don't even speak due to issues long swept under various rugs. I don't have any "best" friends. Not the ones I can call at 3am on some idle Tuesday when I can't sleep because I've had yet another nightmare about my deceased ex coming to me in ghost form. (He still uses the human methods he used before: throwing rocks at my window 80's style, knocking at the back door and curling up on the steps, or yelling "Tara! They're coming for me!")
Note: my deceased ex was not well. Probably why he died at 25 years old.
But, talking about him is hard. I cry. Thinking of friends lost is hard, too. Hell, 50% of me still wishes that my rapist was still that yellow-shirted kid in high school with the drug problem and the bestest, bluest eyes, instead of the dipshit he turned out to be.
Life moves on though. And so do I as it turns out. So goodbye New Jersey. Goodbye old friends. Don't ever believe that I didn't love you. I've just grown tired of standing still.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
all that i am
I am 28. I've mentioned that before. I am not working cause my psychiatrist is trying to stabilize my mood and my meds. I don't have a car because I don't have a job so there's not enough money coming in for that "luxury" item. I'm not going to any kind of intensive program. I just have my normal weekly therapy because I'm moving soon and I can't commit to a program until I know where I'm going to end up.
I feel like a failure. Every day I sit around doing meaningless tasks trying to keep myself and my thoughts busy. I hate this. I think that I should be doing more, that I should be more than I am.
I've tried to consider the help I give my terminally ill mother. The care that I give to my pets, one of whom I rescued off the streets. I try to consider that without me, my brother would be a lot worse off.
But it's so hard.
It's hard when I see people my age with good jobs, lasting relationships, houses, cars, money, etc. I envy them.
And part of me can't help but wonder if they're just looking down their noses at me. Judging me for not being who they are. For being ill.
I see movies that present us, the mentally ill, in a vicious and condescending light. We're murderers, lunatics, predators, on-screen. A weapon of any sort is lethal in our hands. If we want to "hurt" ourselves, it's automatically assumed that we want to die. If we draw angels in therapy, we're automatically thinking about the after life and not the protection and goodness we wish for.
I'm not looking to die. I'm looking for peace. I'm looking for some semblance of a real and sturdy life.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
thin skin
So, I have hit a major depressive episode. I feel like doing nothing, saying nothing, seeing no one.
Also, I just found out that my mother is sick. This pushes her terminal status up a bit. Hoping she's around next September.
Really don't want to write, but wanted to document everything. All the feelings that come with this. I started crashing about a week ago. I suddenly started to cry over EVERYTHING. Decisions, commercials, movies, the past, the future - all things that made me cry.
Then, I started sleeping more and for anyone who's paid any attention up till now, you know how weird that is.
And then it happened. The mania switched off like a fucking light switch.
I think the worst part is that I'm itching to do something, anything, that will make the depression go away. I want to resort to back-ups I had in place. Things I used to do. I want to sleep till 3pm, eat something, fuck someone, cut somewhere, then sleep again.
This is the worst feeling in the world. Instead of feeling like I'm crawling out of my skin, I feel like my skin is too big for me. Like it's weighing me down.
I'm too thin for this skin.
Also, I just found out that my mother is sick. This pushes her terminal status up a bit. Hoping she's around next September.
Really don't want to write, but wanted to document everything. All the feelings that come with this. I started crashing about a week ago. I suddenly started to cry over EVERYTHING. Decisions, commercials, movies, the past, the future - all things that made me cry.
Then, I started sleeping more and for anyone who's paid any attention up till now, you know how weird that is.
And then it happened. The mania switched off like a fucking light switch.
I think the worst part is that I'm itching to do something, anything, that will make the depression go away. I want to resort to back-ups I had in place. Things I used to do. I want to sleep till 3pm, eat something, fuck someone, cut somewhere, then sleep again.
This is the worst feeling in the world. Instead of feeling like I'm crawling out of my skin, I feel like my skin is too big for me. Like it's weighing me down.
I'm too thin for this skin.
Monday, August 23, 2010
measure of horrible
Had a horrible dream last night. One of those dreams where you wake up swinging. And crying. One of those dreams where you want someone to hold you. Although, I imagine that if someone were next to me when I had one of these dreams, they would think I was a mess.
Is it wrong that I immediately go to the "no one will ever love me" place when something like this happens? Yes. It is wrong. I don't need you to tell me that.
Anyway, the dream involved an uncle that once did something very not right to me. So, in the dream he's trying to do it again and I keep trying to fight him off, but he is not relenting.
I'm screaming and my brother comes running in, but he doesn't react like I thought he would. Instead he goes to get my mother.
What help is she? None.
She, like, doesn't believe me. And even my brother's like, "well, I didn't SEE anything, I just heard her screaming".
So, then I'm standing there defending myself and my uncle is saying nothing. Nothing at all. But he's still winning this fight. And it's horrible.
It's really a measure of horrible that I cannot even put into words. It's a measure of horrible that causes you to wake up kicking an imaginary uncle in the face. That causes you to cry for 20 minutes in the bathroom because your family is still asleep. That causes you to wonder if anyone will ever love you once you tell them all the shit you've been through.
For now, I will listen to Rob Thomas, because I totally am not kidding when I say that he changed my world. Something about that man's voice changes my mood. At least I have him. And he can't hurt me and he'll never leave.
Is it wrong that I immediately go to the "no one will ever love me" place when something like this happens? Yes. It is wrong. I don't need you to tell me that.
Anyway, the dream involved an uncle that once did something very not right to me. So, in the dream he's trying to do it again and I keep trying to fight him off, but he is not relenting.
I'm screaming and my brother comes running in, but he doesn't react like I thought he would. Instead he goes to get my mother.
What help is she? None.
She, like, doesn't believe me. And even my brother's like, "well, I didn't SEE anything, I just heard her screaming".
So, then I'm standing there defending myself and my uncle is saying nothing. Nothing at all. But he's still winning this fight. And it's horrible.
It's really a measure of horrible that I cannot even put into words. It's a measure of horrible that causes you to wake up kicking an imaginary uncle in the face. That causes you to cry for 20 minutes in the bathroom because your family is still asleep. That causes you to wonder if anyone will ever love you once you tell them all the shit you've been through.
For now, I will listen to Rob Thomas, because I totally am not kidding when I say that he changed my world. Something about that man's voice changes my mood. At least I have him. And he can't hurt me and he'll never leave.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
i wish i was a baller
Today I feel especially sick. I'm crawling out of my skin. All I want to do is cry. I'm trying to think of the words to express it and I can't.
There's nothing incredibly good going on right now, but nothing incredibly bad either. I'm stuck in a holding period and I DO NOT do well with holding periods. I feel like I'm going crazy.
I write, obviously, but since I don't feel I can string together coherent sentences, it is not in my best interest to write right now. I listen to music, I paint, I cross-stitch, I scrapbook, and just none of that seems worth doing right now.
You know what I wish. I wish I had a basketball net right now. I would go outside and shoot hoops. I'm actually pretty good at it.
Yeah, that's what I would do.
Mental note: buy an over the door basketball net.
As for right now, I think I'll go watch the Diary of Anne Frank or something so I can just cry myself out of this crazy.
There's nothing incredibly good going on right now, but nothing incredibly bad either. I'm stuck in a holding period and I DO NOT do well with holding periods. I feel like I'm going crazy.
I write, obviously, but since I don't feel I can string together coherent sentences, it is not in my best interest to write right now. I listen to music, I paint, I cross-stitch, I scrapbook, and just none of that seems worth doing right now.
You know what I wish. I wish I had a basketball net right now. I would go outside and shoot hoops. I'm actually pretty good at it.
Yeah, that's what I would do.
Mental note: buy an over the door basketball net.
As for right now, I think I'll go watch the Diary of Anne Frank or something so I can just cry myself out of this crazy.
Friday, August 20, 2010
still really nice
Sometimes I have issues with my mother. Sometimes I have A LOT of issues with my mother. But today, was not an issue day.
Today she went with me to an appoint I had for social services. It went well. Thank God. Every now and then I have to get papers filled out saying that my neurotic, paranoid ass still can't hold a full-time job.
Now all I have to do is get them filled out and I'm one step closer to taking care of my business.
But, because of the paranoia and the PTSD particularly, it's hard for me to go and handle these things by myself, so my mother came with me.
It went well. We even, dare I say, had a good time. We shared my Ipod, listening to Rob Thomas and NIN. My mother is a huge NIN fan. Go figure.
Later on, probably because of the stress of the day, I had a small panic attack. I started shaking and I got all dizzy. I ended up taking a pill and then a nap. When I woke up, it wasn't so bad anymore.
Towards the end of the day though, I felt like thanking my mother for everything she'd done that day, so I crawled into bed with her.
Does anyone else still do that? Crawl into bed with their mother when they're 28 years old?
I don't know if anyone does it, but it feel safe when I do. And a little sad, since she's sick. But we won't get into that now.
For right now, my random thought is just that maybe we should all crawl into bed with our parents sometimes... or run around playing freeze tag... or play board games like Candyland. I think we grow up to fast nowadays. I know I did.
But sometimes it's still really nice to feel young and protected.
Today she went with me to an appoint I had for social services. It went well. Thank God. Every now and then I have to get papers filled out saying that my neurotic, paranoid ass still can't hold a full-time job.
Now all I have to do is get them filled out and I'm one step closer to taking care of my business.
But, because of the paranoia and the PTSD particularly, it's hard for me to go and handle these things by myself, so my mother came with me.
It went well. We even, dare I say, had a good time. We shared my Ipod, listening to Rob Thomas and NIN. My mother is a huge NIN fan. Go figure.
Later on, probably because of the stress of the day, I had a small panic attack. I started shaking and I got all dizzy. I ended up taking a pill and then a nap. When I woke up, it wasn't so bad anymore.
Towards the end of the day though, I felt like thanking my mother for everything she'd done that day, so I crawled into bed with her.
Does anyone else still do that? Crawl into bed with their mother when they're 28 years old?
I don't know if anyone does it, but it feel safe when I do. And a little sad, since she's sick. But we won't get into that now.
For right now, my random thought is just that maybe we should all crawl into bed with our parents sometimes... or run around playing freeze tag... or play board games like Candyland. I think we grow up to fast nowadays. I know I did.
But sometimes it's still really nice to feel young and protected.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
something else
Been thinking about love lately. The falling in and out of it. Maybe because I haven't been in it in a while and it's kinda lonely. Also, I haven't had a relationship since I was diagnosed and I'm thinking that with all the trouble I had before it's just bound to get worse. Right?
It doesn't help that I have "interesting" taste to say the least. My very first crush ever was on a guy who now hangs from hooks. For fun. Then there was my junior high crush. He was actually my grandmother's neighbor. He was the off-screen version of Jordan Catalano in every way. That mysteriously silent, vulnerable seeming, bad boy. He's still gorgeous actually. If I see him, the heart flutters. But he doesn't really know I exist. Which is like, a running theme with me.
It went really downhill after that. I mean, I could talk about the abusing rapist or the guy who died of an overdose at 25, but what's the point right now? They're not what this is about. This is about me. And my future.
Do you ever think that you're just so perfect for someone? Someone you have or haven't met? Like, "if he only knew me, really knew me, he would love me". Do you ever put too much stock in a passing obsession?
I use quotes a lot to express my own thoughts because honestly, if someone else has already said it better, I'm not going to try. So here's one. It comes from a little movie called "Sixteen Candles". Molly Ringwald's father is talking to her about boys and if you've seen the movie, she has good reason to be upset. Well he tells her,
"That's why they call them crushes. If they were easy, they'd call them something else."
Truer words were never spoken. Having a crush sucks. Being in love is agony as well. I mean, the only reason any of us laughing enter into relationships is because being alone sucks just the slightest bit more than trying to make a go of it with an awesome new guy.
I don't know how much of this post makes sense. But these are my random bi-polar thoughts right? I guess this is the most random thing I've written thus far.
The point is, I've been through the relationship wringer. I've loved and lost and I do agree that it is better to have lost than never to have loved. But at 28, shouldn't I have some semblance of a romantic life? Shouldn't I at least have a crush on an actual person?
I think there's something wrong with me.
It doesn't help that I have "interesting" taste to say the least. My very first crush ever was on a guy who now hangs from hooks. For fun. Then there was my junior high crush. He was actually my grandmother's neighbor. He was the off-screen version of Jordan Catalano in every way. That mysteriously silent, vulnerable seeming, bad boy. He's still gorgeous actually. If I see him, the heart flutters. But he doesn't really know I exist. Which is like, a running theme with me.
It went really downhill after that. I mean, I could talk about the abusing rapist or the guy who died of an overdose at 25, but what's the point right now? They're not what this is about. This is about me. And my future.
Do you ever think that you're just so perfect for someone? Someone you have or haven't met? Like, "if he only knew me, really knew me, he would love me". Do you ever put too much stock in a passing obsession?
I use quotes a lot to express my own thoughts because honestly, if someone else has already said it better, I'm not going to try. So here's one. It comes from a little movie called "Sixteen Candles". Molly Ringwald's father is talking to her about boys and if you've seen the movie, she has good reason to be upset. Well he tells her,
"That's why they call them crushes. If they were easy, they'd call them something else."
Truer words were never spoken. Having a crush sucks. Being in love is agony as well. I mean, the only reason any of us laughing enter into relationships is because being alone sucks just the slightest bit more than trying to make a go of it with an awesome new guy.
I don't know how much of this post makes sense. But these are my random bi-polar thoughts right? I guess this is the most random thing I've written thus far.
The point is, I've been through the relationship wringer. I've loved and lost and I do agree that it is better to have lost than never to have loved. But at 28, shouldn't I have some semblance of a romantic life? Shouldn't I at least have a crush on an actual person?
I think there's something wrong with me.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
patience... not my virtue
5am my time and I'm not sleeping. Haven't been sleeping... still. Recently, I've started to get like 2 hours in somewhere between 12am and 3am. But that's not enough.
It's probably because I'm not doing anything most of the day. Pent up energy is not good for me. I try to find things to do. Cooking, cleaning, etc. But nothing seems to be working. Since I can't work outside the house right now, I don't know what my options are.
Do you ever wish you could go back 10 years or so? Looking back to old journals and stuff, I see symptoms as early as 19 years old. Having been diagnosed only recently at the age of 27, means that there was an entire 8 years where I was suffering and being misdiagnosed.
I have spent years on anxiety meds, depression meds, sleeping meds. I was told I had PTSD, severe depression, personality disorders. I was in therapy for several issues (personal therapy, intensive out-patient therapy and in-patient therapy as well), but until I got the psychiatrist I have now, and love, no one ever said Bipolar Disorder.
She is completely patient with me. Patient with the medication changes and my reactions, or non-reactions, to them. I'm just not as patient. I want to be not manic NOW. I want to sleep NOW. I want to not feel bad NOW.
I want to not cry every time I think about what I've missed out on and what I continue to miss everyday that this disease isn't controlled.
It's probably because I'm not doing anything most of the day. Pent up energy is not good for me. I try to find things to do. Cooking, cleaning, etc. But nothing seems to be working. Since I can't work outside the house right now, I don't know what my options are.
Do you ever wish you could go back 10 years or so? Looking back to old journals and stuff, I see symptoms as early as 19 years old. Having been diagnosed only recently at the age of 27, means that there was an entire 8 years where I was suffering and being misdiagnosed.
I have spent years on anxiety meds, depression meds, sleeping meds. I was told I had PTSD, severe depression, personality disorders. I was in therapy for several issues (personal therapy, intensive out-patient therapy and in-patient therapy as well), but until I got the psychiatrist I have now, and love, no one ever said Bipolar Disorder.
She is completely patient with me. Patient with the medication changes and my reactions, or non-reactions, to them. I'm just not as patient. I want to be not manic NOW. I want to sleep NOW. I want to not feel bad NOW.
I want to not cry every time I think about what I've missed out on and what I continue to miss everyday that this disease isn't controlled.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
nightmare aficionado
I think what I call paranoia is actually really just a paralyzing fear. A fear of people. A fear of the things that are there. A fear of the things that aren't there.
I never went out on Sunday. I didn't want to. My high school self, the self that I can remembering admiring the most, would have gone in high spirits. She would have brought a friend or two. She would have had fun. Where is she now? I wonder. And where are those friends of hers?
Before I go into a lot of detail about my fears, I should mention that I am quite the horror movie aficionado. I have attended horror movie conventions. I have hobbed knobs with everyone from George Romero to Robert "Freddy Kreuger" Englund themselves. I love having horror nights with my brother. Lights down low, movie on, nothing to protect you, but your own blanket. I love being scared. I think haunted houses are like religious events. It's like a drug to me and it has been since I was a little kid.
I get scared still, but that used to be half the fun. Anymore, I don't know. I have nightmares a lot lately. When they aren't about clowns (one of my greater fears), they are about real life horrors. The other night I dreamed about my ex.
I dreamed that he was in my life again. That I picked him up while he was walking down the street. That he tried to get into my pants. That I seriously considered letting him. To the casual observer who knows nothing about J.R., this wouldn't seem so bad. Maybe a little strange, but not bad. To anyone who knows the history though, it's beyond bad. J.R. was the death of a part of me. After years of abuse (mental and physical), the relationship ended when he raped me in my own bed.
Then last night, I had another nightmare. A nightmare that caused me to wake up extremely early and extremely tense. I had a dream that my mother was sending my brother and I off to a concentration camp. In the heat of the moment, I stabbed her with a pen repeatedly. Then I started packing the strangest things in my bag: barbies, books and my prized dream journal.
What's funny about this is that I am also big into World War II events. I know more about Hitler than the average person. I LOVE watching anything about Anne Frank. I mean, I have 2 different versions of her story on DVD and I want a 3rd that I recently saw. The thought of a concentration camp kills me. If I had been around at the time, I would've been the "Miep" of the whole thing and hid Anne and her family in my attic.
Now, when I am awake I am in a constant state of fear. I can't sit with my back to doors. I feel like someone, real or zombie will be creeping up behind me, waiting to scare me, eat me, kill me. And how do I stop it?
Should I stop watching the horror movies that at one time made me who I am? Will that really work when I'm having other sorts of nightmares as well? Should I stop watching WWII documentaries? Should I stop reading Anne Frank once a year? Will that help?
And what of J.R.? I haven't been with him since I was 21 and yet his presence in my life is still so immediate that I dream of him regularly. If it were only that easy to erase the past memories.
I don't know what to do. As I write this, I am in a well lit room, with windows open and the sun is up. Yet, I'm still scared of what's behind me.
I just want it to stop.
I never went out on Sunday. I didn't want to. My high school self, the self that I can remembering admiring the most, would have gone in high spirits. She would have brought a friend or two. She would have had fun. Where is she now? I wonder. And where are those friends of hers?
Before I go into a lot of detail about my fears, I should mention that I am quite the horror movie aficionado. I have attended horror movie conventions. I have hobbed knobs with everyone from George Romero to Robert "Freddy Kreuger" Englund themselves. I love having horror nights with my brother. Lights down low, movie on, nothing to protect you, but your own blanket. I love being scared. I think haunted houses are like religious events. It's like a drug to me and it has been since I was a little kid.
I get scared still, but that used to be half the fun. Anymore, I don't know. I have nightmares a lot lately. When they aren't about clowns (one of my greater fears), they are about real life horrors. The other night I dreamed about my ex.
I dreamed that he was in my life again. That I picked him up while he was walking down the street. That he tried to get into my pants. That I seriously considered letting him. To the casual observer who knows nothing about J.R., this wouldn't seem so bad. Maybe a little strange, but not bad. To anyone who knows the history though, it's beyond bad. J.R. was the death of a part of me. After years of abuse (mental and physical), the relationship ended when he raped me in my own bed.
Then last night, I had another nightmare. A nightmare that caused me to wake up extremely early and extremely tense. I had a dream that my mother was sending my brother and I off to a concentration camp. In the heat of the moment, I stabbed her with a pen repeatedly. Then I started packing the strangest things in my bag: barbies, books and my prized dream journal.
What's funny about this is that I am also big into World War II events. I know more about Hitler than the average person. I LOVE watching anything about Anne Frank. I mean, I have 2 different versions of her story on DVD and I want a 3rd that I recently saw. The thought of a concentration camp kills me. If I had been around at the time, I would've been the "Miep" of the whole thing and hid Anne and her family in my attic.
Now, when I am awake I am in a constant state of fear. I can't sit with my back to doors. I feel like someone, real or zombie will be creeping up behind me, waiting to scare me, eat me, kill me. And how do I stop it?
Should I stop watching the horror movies that at one time made me who I am? Will that really work when I'm having other sorts of nightmares as well? Should I stop watching WWII documentaries? Should I stop reading Anne Frank once a year? Will that help?
And what of J.R.? I haven't been with him since I was 21 and yet his presence in my life is still so immediate that I dream of him regularly. If it were only that easy to erase the past memories.
I don't know what to do. As I write this, I am in a well lit room, with windows open and the sun is up. Yet, I'm still scared of what's behind me.
I just want it to stop.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
this house is clean
Today I'm cleaning. Hopefully clean house, clean mind. No? Maybe. Please God.
Starting with the bathroom. Not sure why. Probably cause it's the quietest room in my house since I don't live alone. Sometimes I spend an unreasonable amount of time in there just thinking about stuff. About the past, the future, and every minute detail in between. It's too much thinking really. Maybe I should just keep it messy in there so I don't want to stay.
Shit! Why do I think like this?
Point is, I'm cleaning. House then mind.
Oh, and I'm writing again. That's really good. It feels really good. I'm glad to be doing it.
And also, on an unrelated, but important note, I'm supposed to be going out tomorrow. Yeah, like leaving my house. For hours. Looking like I do. Feeling like I do. Oh God, I can't breathe just thinking about it.
There's so many things going out entails. I will have to get dressed. Find something that fits since I gained weight. Worry about how many people will notice the scars on my arm from cutting myself that I cannot hide in the summer. (I learned quickly not to cut where everyday people can see. I learned even better not to cut at all, but let's face it, that's a constant battle.)
Oh... I'm not thinking about it anymore. We will see how I feel when I wake up tomorrow.
Starting with the bathroom. Not sure why. Probably cause it's the quietest room in my house since I don't live alone. Sometimes I spend an unreasonable amount of time in there just thinking about stuff. About the past, the future, and every minute detail in between. It's too much thinking really. Maybe I should just keep it messy in there so I don't want to stay.
Shit! Why do I think like this?
Point is, I'm cleaning. House then mind.
Oh, and I'm writing again. That's really good. It feels really good. I'm glad to be doing it.
And also, on an unrelated, but important note, I'm supposed to be going out tomorrow. Yeah, like leaving my house. For hours. Looking like I do. Feeling like I do. Oh God, I can't breathe just thinking about it.
There's so many things going out entails. I will have to get dressed. Find something that fits since I gained weight. Worry about how many people will notice the scars on my arm from cutting myself that I cannot hide in the summer. (I learned quickly not to cut where everyday people can see. I learned even better not to cut at all, but let's face it, that's a constant battle.)
Oh... I'm not thinking about it anymore. We will see how I feel when I wake up tomorrow.
Friday, August 6, 2010
routine schmutine
Why am I always doing 10,000 things at once?
Literally, I cannot finish one project before starting another. And there's things that I invest myself in that really don't have an end date. I need to figure out how to de-clutter my routine.
My room is cluttered. My thoughts are cluttered. But my routine is what really needs to change. I think it negatively affects my sleep too. At 1am I'm always thinking, "There's so much I could be doing right now instead of sleeping". So I stay up till 6, 7, 8am, working on projects, until I become so exhausted that I can't hold my eyes open anymore.
I think I'm going to re-evaluate my routine. This should be fun.
Literally, I cannot finish one project before starting another. And there's things that I invest myself in that really don't have an end date. I need to figure out how to de-clutter my routine.
My room is cluttered. My thoughts are cluttered. But my routine is what really needs to change. I think it negatively affects my sleep too. At 1am I'm always thinking, "There's so much I could be doing right now instead of sleeping". So I stay up till 6, 7, 8am, working on projects, until I become so exhausted that I can't hold my eyes open anymore.
I think I'm going to re-evaluate my routine. This should be fun.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
the good life
Just watched a movie called "The Good Life" with Mark Webber and Zooey Deschanel. Thought it was going to suck.
I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong.
I only thought it would suck because I was convinced I would hate the ending. Not so... as it turns out.
But now, I'd like to share a quote with you. For the bipolar mind or otherwise, I think it could put some things into perspective.
Before you read it, you should know that the main character has just been told that life is pain. He responds like this:
"But it's not pain.
It's laughing with your friend at a time when you shouldn't.
It's the sweat in your palms wanting to know someone you see. And the pit in your stomach when they actually see you.
It's being touched by hands that aren't your own.
It's the thrill of an escape that almost wasn't.
It's the embarrassment you feel, naked for the first time.
It's helping a friend find something they lost.
It's a smile, a joke, a song.
It's what someone does that they like doing.
It's what someone does that they like remembering.
It's the thinking of things you may never do and the doing of things you may never have thought.
It's the road ahead and the road behind.
It's the first step and the last and every one in between, because they all make up the good life."Wednesday, July 28, 2010
double or nothing
I don't know if it's just a random compulsion that's part of my disease, but all day long, especially on more anxious days, I make bets with myself. Trust me, this is as weird as it sounds. And it's hard to explain. I don't know why I do it. I don't really know how to stop doing it. Then, if the bets end badly for me, it makes me even more anxious. If they end well, I bet again.
Just like gambling for real I suppose. I wouldn't know. I only gamble with my thoughts.
Here are some examples so you get the idea:
1) If I can finish making breakfast before my little brother wakes up, then everything will be okay.
2) If I can pack all my books into this one box, then the move will go off without a hitch.
3) If we get the news we've been waiting for within the day, I will subsequently meet the man of my dreams and we will be happy forever.
Now, the more intelligent parts of my psyche know that breakfast will not control the fate of my world, but I still make the bet. And if manage to get all my books into the one box, I figure that moving will be easier on all of us, but just to make sure, I'll bet again when I pack up my clothes and my DVD's and my old journals and etc. etc. And if for any reason at all, we don't get the news we waited all day for, I will assume that I will never meet the man of my dreams and I will be lonely forever.
Wow! Putting this into print really makes me feel crazy. Does anyone else do these things? It would be comforting to know I wasn't alone in my insanity.
Just like gambling for real I suppose. I wouldn't know. I only gamble with my thoughts.
Here are some examples so you get the idea:
1) If I can finish making breakfast before my little brother wakes up, then everything will be okay.
2) If I can pack all my books into this one box, then the move will go off without a hitch.
3) If we get the news we've been waiting for within the day, I will subsequently meet the man of my dreams and we will be happy forever.
Now, the more intelligent parts of my psyche know that breakfast will not control the fate of my world, but I still make the bet. And if manage to get all my books into the one box, I figure that moving will be easier on all of us, but just to make sure, I'll bet again when I pack up my clothes and my DVD's and my old journals and etc. etc. And if for any reason at all, we don't get the news we waited all day for, I will assume that I will never meet the man of my dreams and I will be lonely forever.
Wow! Putting this into print really makes me feel crazy. Does anyone else do these things? It would be comforting to know I wasn't alone in my insanity.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
my mother, my food
My mother and I have a toxic relationship. It wasn't always that way. But now... we love each other and we hate each other and there is no room for an in between.
I hate myself most of the time and she does not know how to help me. Most of the time it feels like she doesn't care to help me. Big issue: I am overweight. I hate being overweight. I'm not anywhere close to being airlifted out of my house or anything, but I'm far from a model. I'd fit right in on that new "Huge" show (which, side note, I LOVE!!).
Anyway, lately I've been wishing that I looked now, how I looked in high school. Man, if I knew then what I know now, I would've enjoyed myself better. I would've enjoyed breasts that defied gravity and thighs that fit comfortably into jeans. Fast forward ten years and... well... things are not as pretty.
So I want to lose weight. But it's hard when genetics are against you. It's hard when your income is against you. It's hard when you feel like your mother is against you.
First off, I should tell you that my mother isn't one of those "you look fat in that" mothers. God no! She's always real supportive in that way. Even when I feel fat and know that I look like a blimp, she says I'm beautiful. Half the time that makes me feel worse though. I'm thinking that has to do with the bipolar and the paranoia. No matter what she says aloud I see her looking at me and I feel like she's starting at the same love handle I am.
The problems over my weight really come up for three reasons. The first is my mother's obsession with Pepsi. And no, I'm not being funny. She's obsessed with Pepsi. She brings it into the house whenever she can. She goes through a 2 liter bottle a day, at least. If she could afford it, she may go through more. Anyway, Pepsi is a staple in my house and it is SOOO tempting. God!! I want that refreshing soda for myself as soon as it comes into the house. And does she understand this? Does she understand that I have no willpower? That I'm like an alcoholic and she's bringing vodka into the house? Nope! Or at least, she doesn't care.
"Why shouldn't I be able to have soda? You're trying to control me." She says to me. No, I'm not trying to control her. If every time that she left the house she chugged a gallon of Pepsi, I wouldn't care. But to drink it in front of my face when she knows that I am weak, well I just find that cruel. Am I wrong? Cutting down on soda would help both of us. And that's what I tell myself when she starts to make me feel badly about it.
The second reason this weight issue becomes a fight is because of what she says right after I ask her if she really "needs" soda today. She immediately turns the tables on me. Says, "well you don't need potato chips, but you buy them".
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
1, potato chips and I have a natural affinity. They love me and I love them. I cannot eat just one. I cannot eat just two. If I had a family size bag of Herr's Sour Cream & Onion right now, I would lock myself in my bedroom, turn on some My So-Called Life and pig the fuck out. 2, knowing of this affinity. Knowing that I will eat the ENTIRE bag myself, I have willed myself to not purchase chips every time I go to the grocery store. It's been at least two weeks since I had a chip and for me, that's excellent. I can not say that my mother has gone without Pepsi for two weeks, as it is in our fridge right now. 3, I have attempted so many "chip alternatives" it is not funny. Chex mix... not for me. Baked chips... like cardboard with a hint of flavor. Pretzels... who even considers that a junk food? Really? The closest I've come to getting a nice crunch and curbing my chip habit is when I buy those tasty little goldfish crackers. Which I do. When I can.
So why does she have to throw potato chips in my face when she knows that I'm trying my hardest to kick the habit? I don't know. Because she hates me. Because she's mean. Because she wants me to continue to hate myself forever and ever and ever and ever....
Third, and finally, we fight because we're poor. We fight because we live in a small apartment and she sleeps in the living room. Every time I go into the kitchen I pass her. Every time I leave the kitchen I pass her. So, she knows what I eat for breakfast. She knows how many sandwiches I make for lunch. She knows how big the servings are on my dinner plate. She knows whether or not I put whipped cream on my dessert. And because she's so nosy, even if I put something in a dark bowl that she can't see into, she'll ask me "what are you eating?"
I feel obese every time I leave the kitchen. I feel like she's watching me. Judging the food on my plate. Looking at it, then at my stomach, wishing she had a thin daughter. What's funny is that I want to lose weight, but I eat when I'm unhappy. And I'm unhappy when I eat. So I eat. Then I'm unhappy. It's the Fat Bastard syndrome to the worst degree.
I wonder if Fat Bastard had a mother that stared at his food.
You know the absolute worst thing about this all. Sometimes I sneak food. While my mother's napping quietly or engrossed in a TV show, I will make a sandwich and eat it IN the kitchen. I'll fill the dishwasher while I'm in there. I'll pretend to be doing anything else, but eating. That way, I get full and no one sees.
My hope is that when we move into a bigger place, which should be soon, I can get a treadmill in my house. They're not so expensive anymore. I can walk and jog even while watching TV. My mother will have her own room so she won't know what I'm eating. I mean, these are partial solutions, but I do know that I need to work on liking myself more if any weight loss is going to work.
But liking myself just seems so far-fetched right now.
I hate myself most of the time and she does not know how to help me. Most of the time it feels like she doesn't care to help me. Big issue: I am overweight. I hate being overweight. I'm not anywhere close to being airlifted out of my house or anything, but I'm far from a model. I'd fit right in on that new "Huge" show (which, side note, I LOVE!!).
Anyway, lately I've been wishing that I looked now, how I looked in high school. Man, if I knew then what I know now, I would've enjoyed myself better. I would've enjoyed breasts that defied gravity and thighs that fit comfortably into jeans. Fast forward ten years and... well... things are not as pretty.
So I want to lose weight. But it's hard when genetics are against you. It's hard when your income is against you. It's hard when you feel like your mother is against you.
First off, I should tell you that my mother isn't one of those "you look fat in that" mothers. God no! She's always real supportive in that way. Even when I feel fat and know that I look like a blimp, she says I'm beautiful. Half the time that makes me feel worse though. I'm thinking that has to do with the bipolar and the paranoia. No matter what she says aloud I see her looking at me and I feel like she's starting at the same love handle I am.
The problems over my weight really come up for three reasons. The first is my mother's obsession with Pepsi. And no, I'm not being funny. She's obsessed with Pepsi. She brings it into the house whenever she can. She goes through a 2 liter bottle a day, at least. If she could afford it, she may go through more. Anyway, Pepsi is a staple in my house and it is SOOO tempting. God!! I want that refreshing soda for myself as soon as it comes into the house. And does she understand this? Does she understand that I have no willpower? That I'm like an alcoholic and she's bringing vodka into the house? Nope! Or at least, she doesn't care.
"Why shouldn't I be able to have soda? You're trying to control me." She says to me. No, I'm not trying to control her. If every time that she left the house she chugged a gallon of Pepsi, I wouldn't care. But to drink it in front of my face when she knows that I am weak, well I just find that cruel. Am I wrong? Cutting down on soda would help both of us. And that's what I tell myself when she starts to make me feel badly about it.
The second reason this weight issue becomes a fight is because of what she says right after I ask her if she really "needs" soda today. She immediately turns the tables on me. Says, "well you don't need potato chips, but you buy them".
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
1, potato chips and I have a natural affinity. They love me and I love them. I cannot eat just one. I cannot eat just two. If I had a family size bag of Herr's Sour Cream & Onion right now, I would lock myself in my bedroom, turn on some My So-Called Life and pig the fuck out. 2, knowing of this affinity. Knowing that I will eat the ENTIRE bag myself, I have willed myself to not purchase chips every time I go to the grocery store. It's been at least two weeks since I had a chip and for me, that's excellent. I can not say that my mother has gone without Pepsi for two weeks, as it is in our fridge right now. 3, I have attempted so many "chip alternatives" it is not funny. Chex mix... not for me. Baked chips... like cardboard with a hint of flavor. Pretzels... who even considers that a junk food? Really? The closest I've come to getting a nice crunch and curbing my chip habit is when I buy those tasty little goldfish crackers. Which I do. When I can.
So why does she have to throw potato chips in my face when she knows that I'm trying my hardest to kick the habit? I don't know. Because she hates me. Because she's mean. Because she wants me to continue to hate myself forever and ever and ever and ever....
Third, and finally, we fight because we're poor. We fight because we live in a small apartment and she sleeps in the living room. Every time I go into the kitchen I pass her. Every time I leave the kitchen I pass her. So, she knows what I eat for breakfast. She knows how many sandwiches I make for lunch. She knows how big the servings are on my dinner plate. She knows whether or not I put whipped cream on my dessert. And because she's so nosy, even if I put something in a dark bowl that she can't see into, she'll ask me "what are you eating?"
I feel obese every time I leave the kitchen. I feel like she's watching me. Judging the food on my plate. Looking at it, then at my stomach, wishing she had a thin daughter. What's funny is that I want to lose weight, but I eat when I'm unhappy. And I'm unhappy when I eat. So I eat. Then I'm unhappy. It's the Fat Bastard syndrome to the worst degree.
I wonder if Fat Bastard had a mother that stared at his food.
You know the absolute worst thing about this all. Sometimes I sneak food. While my mother's napping quietly or engrossed in a TV show, I will make a sandwich and eat it IN the kitchen. I'll fill the dishwasher while I'm in there. I'll pretend to be doing anything else, but eating. That way, I get full and no one sees.
My hope is that when we move into a bigger place, which should be soon, I can get a treadmill in my house. They're not so expensive anymore. I can walk and jog even while watching TV. My mother will have her own room so she won't know what I'm eating. I mean, these are partial solutions, but I do know that I need to work on liking myself more if any weight loss is going to work.
But liking myself just seems so far-fetched right now.
these scars
I tried a new sleeping medication last night. After getting sleepy around 1am, I slept for 2 hours, tossed and turned another 2 and now I'm allowing myself to get up and do this. THIS SUCKS!!!
Trying to find a medication that works is horrible. In the past few months I've tried several meds. Meds I had to stop taking because they weren't working to well. Or because they gave me headaches. Or because they caused allergic reactions. So now I'm starting new medications. We'll see if this takes.
I have to have a med to sleep. I have to have one to stop from wanting to kill myself or cut myself. I have to have one to keep me from crawling out of my own skin. Right now, the crawling out of my skin is NOT under control. My brain races at like, 10,000 miles per hour. I can't contain a thought. The best way I know to explain it, the way I explained it to my therapist, is that my mind is made up of roads. Intersecting highways that need a lot of traffic signals to keep them all working properly.
Recently, I was put on Risperdal. Risperdal put up traffic lights. Toll roads. Yield signs. The whole nine. I was functioning well. Thinking reasonably. And then I started to swell unusually. FUCK!!
Turns out I am the >1% of people allergic to this medication. So I had to stop taking it. It took about three days before all my signs where knocked over. Before all the traffic lights crashed into the streets. There's accidents everywhere. My thoughts have gone right back to moving quicker than the speed limit allows.
It's 6am and I already fear that today will not be a good day. I want to cry, but I know if I start to cry, I won't stop. Then I'll want to cut myself because that will stop the crying. Then when I'm having a more stable moment, I'll look down at the new scar and hate myself even more. Wonder who's gonna ever love me when I don't love myself.
Who's gonna want me with these scars?
Trying to find a medication that works is horrible. In the past few months I've tried several meds. Meds I had to stop taking because they weren't working to well. Or because they gave me headaches. Or because they caused allergic reactions. So now I'm starting new medications. We'll see if this takes.
I have to have a med to sleep. I have to have one to stop from wanting to kill myself or cut myself. I have to have one to keep me from crawling out of my own skin. Right now, the crawling out of my skin is NOT under control. My brain races at like, 10,000 miles per hour. I can't contain a thought. The best way I know to explain it, the way I explained it to my therapist, is that my mind is made up of roads. Intersecting highways that need a lot of traffic signals to keep them all working properly.
Recently, I was put on Risperdal. Risperdal put up traffic lights. Toll roads. Yield signs. The whole nine. I was functioning well. Thinking reasonably. And then I started to swell unusually. FUCK!!
Turns out I am the >1% of people allergic to this medication. So I had to stop taking it. It took about three days before all my signs where knocked over. Before all the traffic lights crashed into the streets. There's accidents everywhere. My thoughts have gone right back to moving quicker than the speed limit allows.
It's 6am and I already fear that today will not be a good day. I want to cry, but I know if I start to cry, I won't stop. Then I'll want to cut myself because that will stop the crying. Then when I'm having a more stable moment, I'll look down at the new scar and hate myself even more. Wonder who's gonna ever love me when I don't love myself.
Who's gonna want me with these scars?
Monday, July 19, 2010
my first year as a freak
Tonight is the second night I've been awake until 5am or later. The insomnia's bad. The nightmares are worse.
Last year I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Manic Depression. It feels like someone's telling you that you're a freak. That you don't fit. The statistics don't help. Bipolar people marry less often and divorce more frequently when they try. Females are more likely to have postpartum depression if they dare to have children.
So what am I supposed to do? Sit back and take this. Accept what feels like a death sentence. I mean, I don't feel all that crazy. Aside from hints of paranoia, impulsive behavior and a severe case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I should be able to lead a normal life. Or at least as normal as everyone else.
I'm hoping that I'm not the only person that feels like this. I'm hoping that someone else is sitting around feeling like their own life is suffocating them. I'm hoping that I can get over this. I understand that I will always have Bipolar Disorder, but maybe I can beat the statistics. Maybe I can be married, happily, with lots of kids and a big porch I fall asleep on with my bald, chubby husband when I'm 80.
I don't know. My crystal ball isn't working right now. But my fingers are and I enjoy writing. And these thoughts that run around my brain need a place to live. So here they are. I hope someone comes across these words and understands. Maybe we can all join hands across America and get the stigma attached to this disease thrown away.
In the meantime, I think I'll keep writing. About my day, my life, my disease. And maybe years from now, I'll look back on all this and laugh about the first year I officially spent Bipolar.
Last year I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Manic Depression. It feels like someone's telling you that you're a freak. That you don't fit. The statistics don't help. Bipolar people marry less often and divorce more frequently when they try. Females are more likely to have postpartum depression if they dare to have children.
So what am I supposed to do? Sit back and take this. Accept what feels like a death sentence. I mean, I don't feel all that crazy. Aside from hints of paranoia, impulsive behavior and a severe case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I should be able to lead a normal life. Or at least as normal as everyone else.
I'm hoping that I'm not the only person that feels like this. I'm hoping that someone else is sitting around feeling like their own life is suffocating them. I'm hoping that I can get over this. I understand that I will always have Bipolar Disorder, but maybe I can beat the statistics. Maybe I can be married, happily, with lots of kids and a big porch I fall asleep on with my bald, chubby husband when I'm 80.
I don't know. My crystal ball isn't working right now. But my fingers are and I enjoy writing. And these thoughts that run around my brain need a place to live. So here they are. I hope someone comes across these words and understands. Maybe we can all join hands across America and get the stigma attached to this disease thrown away.
In the meantime, I think I'll keep writing. About my day, my life, my disease. And maybe years from now, I'll look back on all this and laugh about the first year I officially spent Bipolar.
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