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.

Monday, February 24, 2014

Unhealthy Place

I hate all you little shits that put out "I'm sick" vids and ruined any chance of Iggy's original on youshittube.
I fuckin hate you shitass brats.

Healthy Place:

"With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts." ~ Eleanor Roosevelt

Supposedly, Eleanor Rigby Roosevelt baby...

I got up with my alarm at 6am this morning, back on my set schedule, my thang that I keep up with each week. Most of the time I wake up earlier, but this time not, which is odd. I did, however, wake up many times during the night, as usual. I got up, switched to auto-pilot and made coffee for two. I wasn't thinking about how I felt about my spouse or how he felt about me, nor did I start to worry yet about how he was going to feel about me today.

I pulled my big girl pants on and I decided that whole stay-in-bed-depressed thing wasn't for me. I didn't cry. There wasn't much tv available on my phone or kindle. I couldn't concentrate enough to read. I couldn't sleep enough of the day/night away, and it made me sore all over, and feel guilty for laying around doing nothing. That last bit was an abusive guilt trip present from my father. Thanks, asshole.

We are almost talking to each other, the spouse and myself. He is going out for lunch with an ex-work mate. He has never gone to lunch with me that I can remember. He must have, but it was a very rare occasion. Long time ago, maybe when we lived in a studio. My memory has been destroyed by mental illness, or the drugs, or both. PTSD sure wiped out a lot of shit, but not some of the worst, but that's another horror story I won't get into here and now. So I'm waiting for my spouse to talk to me again and mention the taxes. Doing them over, separate, whatever, I just feel horrible about it all, and scared that I'll be slapped with a bill for back taxes that I can't pay. Well, if they can't squeeze blood from this stone, and since this is a community property state, they'll have to squeeze the blood from the other stone, no? I don't know.

I really hate taxes and their vague instructions, my fucked up cognitive issues, the fact that the spouse won't attempt to do them (I don't blame him), and hate hate hate fed forms. I probably said that before. They scare the fuck out of me for no good reason. Well, with the IRS there is a good reason. Last year they called and said we fucked up, and then they said they lost all of our stuff, then we turned what few bits and pieces we had back in. Then they told us all was ok, and that they needed nothing. WHAT THE FUCK?! So I'm terrified this time, especially if we end up doing it separately. I'll be fucked in the worst way.

I'm too fucked up to attempt my "quests" today on SuperBetter, and that makes me feel shitty. Too anxious and achey to exercise, plus fucking Dallas is on instead of my beloved Supernatural. I hope TNT isn't making a habit of it. At least I got over my headache from the moment I got up. I feel guilty and lazy, of course. I don't want to be totally unproductive today, and just graze in the kitchen. My willful side says JUST ATTEMPT TO DO THE TAXES! Separately. But I know better. That would cause an unbearable amount of stress. Even thinking about it is a no no. Bitch, don't go there. No treadmill today. No load of laundry today... How am I going to force myself to take a shower today without doing the treadmill?

I vow to pay more attention to when I am actually hungry before I eat or drink anything. Even water. I've been given topomax to kill the sugar cravings from seroquel, even though I've only put on a little weight, compared to all the horror stories I've read/heard. I feel bad for them and me. It doesn't make sense. Well, it doesn't matter if I get back to a size 0, I'll still find something disgusting about my body to hate and hide. I'm an idiot. I'm too old to be a size 0. Get it in your head, head. As if I bother to diet. Whatever that means these days anyway.

My spouse laid a peck good-bye on me on his way out. I'm surprised. I guess that's his way of saying "I'm not hating you right now and I realize you felt like shit yesterday. I didn't know what to do or didn't want to bother you since you were in the bedroom in bed all day/night, and didn't come out, even for the zombies (The Walking Dead) and tea".

Ok, so now I don't even know how to begin to try to talk to him again, especially about the taxes. My daughter needs income info from us, so there's pressure on to get this shit done. Pressure is NOT a good thing for me. Stress is NOT a good thing. Math and forms are not good things for me either. I don't want to end up having a fucking breakdown doing the taxes, but I want my daughter (my love of loves of LOVE) to have her info asap. I don't want this to end up putting me back in the hospital, either, but shit, man, it's so fucking awful!

Fucking IRS. FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU and the horse you rode in on.

Time for more meds that are well needed. The shit goes on...

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