WARNING AT BOTTOM OF PAGE

This is a mental health/mental illness blog dealing with daily life with words that are real and raw, video, pics, and music chosen by one fucked-up kitty. I am diagnosed Bipolar, with (crippling) Anxiety Disorder, and seriously horrific PTSD.
Sometimes it's a real treat of Freedom of Speech and Crazy to let it out, and scream something out in public when you just lose it, and let the stress out of your sails in one quick go, unlike the "unlucky" majority. Nope. Can't say everything is bad 100% of the time. Now take your meds and get ready...



This blog is permanently under construction/destruction.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Trash

                                                                "Trash" - NY Dolls



Just got back from the (mostly) weekly torture with the therapist, by way of a ride from my husband, which I almost didn't want, even though I was beginning to hear that little voice inside whisper to me about suicide, and my iPod with my suicidal soundtrack play list. I told him I had to get out of there, because not only did I have to take a piss, but I was done feeling like shit and being dragged down by it, bawling and all that shit to someone who really doesn't care.

When I first came in, we were talking about my new meds update and bitching about my weight. He handed me a 3-page bill.I immediately wanted to slice him with it, or tell him to shove it up his fucking ass. Put it in the fucking mail, or give it to me at the end, fuckwit! Have some class.I decided right then and there that I wasn't going to let him off that easy, so I started talking about my relationships with my daughter and sister, how I still feel so guilty for the past X amount of years, never allowing myself to really be happy, because I felt I didn't deserve it. Also how I felt/feel like such an outsider when it comes to the relationship between my daughter and sister, which is more like mother and daughter relationship than I could ever hope to have. My sister has no kids, and we have no mother. I didn't know anybody with mother experience.

I asked - begged my sister many years ago to take care of my daughter when I was going through the worst bipolar and alcoholic shit/wtf/freakout. I was afraid I might hurt my daughter in some way, and I could NOT let that cycle of child abuse continue. I would not let my daughter be harmed physically, mentally, emotionally, etc. I wanted her to have a normal childhood and a life. I wanted her to have a chance. It ripped the shit out of me, and tore my heart to shreds to realize that I couldn't do it. I hate and hated myself for it. But I know she had a safe childhood, and a decent and social upbringing. She had things and opportunities that at I never had, due to my alkie/depressed/wtf/emotional and mental and physical abusive psycho father, and mother that died under me at age 4 in a car wreck, covered in blood.

Fucking Medicare.gov (?) and their complete SHIT out of date online information site. Lazy cunts. I'm in no state to go shopping for another therapist again. I'll just have to bring up things that have damaged me, like my meds shrink says to do, and either talk this guy's ear off or until he checks himself into the psych ward.

I mentioned to the shrink that there are horrific things that no one on this earth knows about me, and how I have lived with the shame, disgust, depression, suicidal ideation, etc that it has caused me. I feel like total trash. not like a discarded milk carton or errant fly away plastic shopping bag, but a full fucking stinking dumpster in summertime, teeming with flies and big filthy seagulls are picking through it, grabbing the best parts for themselves. I've lived through some horrors and I wish I could wash it all away and be clean. Hell, I'd even douche! hahaha! fuck :(

My fucking eyes are still burning, and I hate myself for losing it and crying so much in front the therapist I'm seeing... It makes me feel so fucking weak. I'm still wearing my fave and only cashmere scarf indoors with a warm hoodie.