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.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Another Day In Hell


Sometimes...

Drink:   Green tea
Music:  SPN Radio/Live365  Internet radio @ the moment NIN - "Closer" [censored = no "fuck"]
Mood(s): Grateful to have the room to myself again, and earphones/music, dark room, irritable,                  restless, head full of squirming worms that are thoughts - thoughts that are all over the                  place

What a weirdass fucking day, I mean, what other way can I put it? My alarm went off at the ass crack of dawn, yet it was still nice and dark out. I got up, threw on the usual workout clothes, turned the coffee on just for the spouse, then realized there was no half-n-half, so I went out without a thought, and stopped in the middle of the street when I realized that I had no money to buy shit, so I had to go back home and run in for my ATM card. No big deal. 

Outside again, still nice and dark, almost no one around. Too bad I had to go to 7-11. I fucking HATE 7-11 except for maybe once or twice when they had diet coke flavored slushees, or whatever they're called., but that was a lifetime ago. Anyway, they're fucking expensive and I hate giving them my money. I hate the whole feeling that you're being stared at because you're a chick, or stared at because they think you're going to rip them off, or the cashier's looking way too nervous, like at any moment he's going to get robbed at gunpoint. Fuck knows where their dairy products come from, is the other question that should be answered.

After the spouse left, I made my way to starschmucks in sunglasses, medicated, and had just finished off a clonopin tab under my tongue. Well, that didn't help. I had a "live" freakout that I posted to one of the G+ crazy communities. After a while, I just couldn't take it anymore, and it was just too light out. The sun was breaking through the clouds here and there. I said fuck that, got my free re-fill, and was out of there. I had a smoke as fast as I could to try to calm me down. I pretended to myself that it was working, but when I got back inside the apartment, the big lie reared it's ugly head. Even after closing shades and turning lights out, I was still feeling like the anxiety chihuahua, but eventually I became the anxiety chihuahua with nausea and a bigass headache. 

I thought I'd distract myself from the anxiety with G+ stuff and do the saltines and water for the nausea. I had 3 aspirin that should have worked, but didn't. I made it through the anxiety until I ran into a fucking video that sucked suckers in and triggered some PTSD shit for me. I actually cried aloud. I can't remember having done that in years. It was horrible. I put my own hand over my mouth to stop it. I was not going to be weak. I couldn't control it very well. 

It was all about our family car back in the old days getting hit by a truck, and when it settled, I climbed toward the front, where my parents were. My mother. She was asleep, I thought, in her blue and white top that was mostly just red, sticky, and warm. I climbed on top of her, and hugged her, and told her to wake up. There was a lot of blood, I would later tell my older brother. She wouldn't wake up. Noise and chaos ensued all around, and I was dragged away from her, kicking and screaming, and I never saw her again. So much blood, and she disappeared. I was dragged away and remember waking up in a hospital crib in the dark, thinking where is my mama? What am I doing in this crib? Where am I? Where is my mama? Who are these people? I want my mama! Where is my sister? Where is my daddy? 

The rest is bits and pieces. A mess. Things I don't know if they are true or not, it's all a mess. My father never talked about it, it just seems like I remember one day we were with her, and then she just disappeared from our lives, and I don't actually remember saying anything about it. But I must have said something to somebody, at least when I was little. Or maybe I was too scared?

All I can think of now is trying to dig something up about her on the internet, but that's ridiculous. She died a long time ago. The best people to go to would be her sisters and brothers, but I can't ever remember all of their names. She came from a huge family like my father did. You know, have a dozen, like donuts. I  also wonder what some of my 101 cousins heard whispered behind all of our backs. I don't even know her birth date or death date, but I might have an idea. I could be way off. I don't know. 

I try not to think of mother's day when it comes around. I couldn't be the mother to my daughter that I thought I could be. I was too fucking mentally ill. It still hurts if I don't hear from her on mother's day, even though it shouldn't matter, even though I should just forget about it. I should remember how much it made me miserable to be the only kid in the class without a mother to be making little goofy projects for. Instead, I was making goofy projects for my grandmother. I didn't think about it so much then, until some time after having my daughter. 

I went to visit her when she was on her way out. She refused to speak English anymore, that it was just too tiring. So we spoke in Spanglish when we saw her. I wanted desperately to make sure that she knew how truly grateful that I was to her for taking care of me when I was little, how much I loved her, and how good to me she was. Well, I got to thank her, and about a week and a half later, she died. I couldn't go to her funeral. I didn't want to participate in it. I was angry that I wasn't allowed at my mother's, so I wasn't going to go to my grandmother's. Doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but to me... it does.

The only thing that makes sense now is to get away from the computer before I start trying to dig up the past again. It's just too easy to fall into, and too easy to get trapped in. Now I just want to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, and wake up in the dark again. 

Try again and again.