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, April 23, 2014

Carry On Wayward Grand Daughter

I made it to my last visit with the therapist shrink today. Funny when I got home, "Carry On Wayward Son" was playing in the bathroom! I had to laugh and smile. Only the Supernatural Junkies are going to get that reference. Anyway, getting ready... That means - TMI - I took a whore's bath, put on a little eye makeup, even though I was asking myself why when I was wearing sunglasses anyway, and pulled on some semi-clean clothes. Next, it was the short engineer style boots.

I was a bit anxious, I have to admit, but I started the seroquel early, because the fucking anxiety was starting early on me, the fucker. So now I end up taking 200mg during the day, and more if I can find some extras around here somewhere. 

Oh, yeah, I took the walk of shame to the bus stop (unable to drive PTSD), and froze with some other people. I put my hood up and saw my bus across the street. It looked like he was taking a break, but I'll bet he went into the building he parked next to to take a big long dump, because it took him a longass time to get back, and pick up us loser bus riders.

I used my "cripple" card and I guess the ride there was ok. As we passed the cemetery, I wrote down the street number to pull the stop bell at to get off if you want to go there. I want to check it out one day, as a therapeutic outing of sorts. Maybe I'll take some flowers to look like I belong there.

After I got dumped off on the main road where the bus stops, I had to walk through loads of people down the small sidewalks. For some idiot unknown reason, I had the urge to go to starfucks and get a coffee, even though I have some at home. Maybe I was just challenging myself. I wasn't really thinking. It was if I was on autopilot. Zombie? Nah, my brain was definitely resting, like in a chair in my head. Not a cushy one, more like a fold-up. Temporary. I knew it would be packed, and would have a huge line. I did it anyway, and when I finished the 1st cup, I got a second one to go, which meant long line again. Nice how sunglasses fuck with your peripheral vision, I didn't see/feel as crowded as I should have felt. I did wonder what the fuck I was doing there. Was I fitting in? Did I look "normal"? Was I fitting in with society?

I wondered why I was the only person wearing sunglasses everywhere I went while I was out. Very odd. Sure, it was supposed to rain, but there were people out there in shorts and short sleeves. Nuts. I froze while waiting to get to the therapist.

Speaking of the devil, I don't think he totally believed me, or was a bit worried about losing a customer or something. He doesn't actually care about me. He's not paid to. He was weird about me telling him that I had to get my finances straight, and deal with moving, and that I couldn't afford to be coming in each week at this point. I even refused his tea! Oh my!  He says he has a pretty open schedule, changes a lot due to the type of work that other patients do, so if/when I decide to come back, he should have no problem fitting me in. Fitting me in... I wonder when I'll receive his final bill.

I don't know what made me cry. I was so fucking pissed at myself for it. I was explaining the financial situation, and that I wanted/needed to help my daughter out. I explained that my old man never helped me, only my sister. I guess I was overwhelmed by the whole getting outside in the daylight shit too.

Because of my stupid brain, I missed out on a package that was to be delivered here by FedEx. I can't read the writing on the sticker they left. It looks like "CAN DEAD INSIDE". Reminded me of The Walking Dead. Zombie wasn't home yet. Ok... can't get inside. It says they'll try again. When? Tomorrow? 

Only thing going on is an interview by phone with a woman that is doing research or is writing a book (I forget) about suicide experiences, ER stuff. I don't know if I could handle a phone call. I think I'd fuck up, sound stupid, "lose my words", etc. Fuck. I'm not sure what to do. Call her first? I hate calling strangers. Cold calling. It's very cold.

Even though I'm home, alone with the radio, my eyes are burning, and I only cried a little, I still feel emotionally exhausted. Why?. My time alone is running out. There's some instant anxiety right there, as well as the fact that we have to go to the store, otherwise I'll just be eating tortillas for a while. Shit, I don't really care. It's food. I love my tortillas! How could I not? 
I need some of this too!

Flash of a memory of trying to make tortillas with my grandma when I was little... :)

++ Imagine a little gray-haired grandma that spoke Spanglish or Spanish to the grand kids. She got up early and made tortillas every day. When I was staying with her I tried to help sometimes. I loved watching her. She had mad tortilla making skills. I wondered if I could ever be as good as her. She was a perfectionist, of course, so I was always getting corrected, but gently enough. I loved her kitchen, to watch her cook, and sneak cigarettes. Her kitchen was always full of yummy smells, and a patient, warm, loving ol' lady. She made it feel like the heart and soul of that house.++

Fuck... I can't believe I was even outside alone and went to the shrink! This is how fucked up my brain is, or how the seroquel can affect it. It's pretty much worn off.


My ass is going to bed early, getting up early, and out in the dark, even if it rains again. This time I won't wear see-through leggings!!!