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.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
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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