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.

Friday, April 4, 2014

Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide



It seems like forever since I've written in this damn blog thing. I remember years ago reading the word blog somewhere, and thinking WTF is that shit? Do they ever get read? Do people comment or say nasty, terrible things? How the hell do you do it?

I went for the easy peasy one I saw first - Blogger. I can't remember the name of that first blog that I did, or when I did it. I do remember having a few other BP readers. I can't remember how that happened. I guess google used to have a kind of search available that you could do to find words in profiles.

I was doing painkillers with my other meds then, and hanging out in a hot tub in winter daytime with my ancient iPod. I was manic sometimes, and when I wasn't I wanted those painkillers BADLY. I was drinking ("socially") at the time as well. The blog was my outlet, I guess. I didn't like where I found myself or who I found myself with.

Anyway, all that is long gone, including the cold, cold motherfucker that came to me in the psych ward not to visit me, but to tell me that he wanted me to move out. What a prince. I still hope his house burns down with him in it, drunk as hell. I wonder if I have PTSD or something from that whole experience. I can't remember the address or phone number there. A POX ON HIS HOUSE! CURSED FUCK FROM HELL! Yeah. Still fucking angry.

Today, though, I'm feeling tired, and had to force myself out of bed with the help of the cat. I kept reminding me that I actually felt HAPPY for a little while while I was walking outside alone in the dark, and that I had better get my ass up and do it! I was as quiet as I could be and snuck into the bathroom. JFC, I looked like hell. I did what I usually don't do - put on a bit of makeup to try to hide some ugly, just to give me a bit more confidence to get outside.

The weather was perfect outside - clouds, but no rain, and not freezing cold. I couldn't find the moon, but it felt nice to be outside in the fresh air (yeah right), and be free from walls. I was not caged in! I could move about and not crash into things, like I do here (which explains the bruises - I'm clumsy or off balance). I walked as slowly as I could to the coffee joint just to be... free, or feel like it.

The usual small crowd was in the starschmucks, and I gave them a coffee bag that was out of date - no longer good for a free coffee, but I knew they wouldn't notice, somehow. I knew they wouldn't even look at it, especially since I come in there all the time with bags. In fact, I have a whole paper shopping bag full of empty bags that are out of date that I saved when I lived in my old studio. Hoarding. It didn't feel like it to me though, because throwing them out would feel like throwing away free coffee. The bags that I gave to my homeless neighbor were all current, in case someone looked. So I'll continue to give them their old bags. Good thing they haven't changed their packaging in years! Ha!

As for my usual horrible problems with anxiety, I forgot my meds on Tuesday night, so I was too fucked up and freaked out to even think about going to the shrink on Wednesday. Thursday, I seem to have timed my anxiety with the treadmill, because I took my seroquel and clonopin, got on the treadmill, and wondered what happened to the anxiety. It was pretty rough going though. I had a hard time singing "99 Bottles of Beer" a million times in my head to myself. It was so hard to count backward, and I'd lose track of where I was so often, that I think I repeated myself 100 times easily. After I was done, I was still wondering if the anxiety was still going to come and get me; sneak up on me like an evil creepy monster outside of my peripheral vision. I was mildly anxious and paranoid. Something I could handle, but sure as hell was not comfortable with.

How is the marriage going, or where is the marriage going? I don't know. Things are never quite the same in actuality as they are when you're reacting and writing about it all. Well, marriage only seems like a word to me, with little meaning. I haven't even been attracted to the spouse since... I can't remember. So are we at least able to build on our old friendship? It's difficult when someone that's fucked up and in denial doesn't understand your behavior and speech as much as he should at this point. He's probably too caught up in his own shit. I'm trying not to be with mine. I'm trying to understand his shit. I'm trying to explain to him why it's hard for me to answer some of his questions, how it takes a while for me to find my words, how I "ramble" as he said this morning.

This doesn't mean I'm letting him get away with shit. It means I'm going to force him to start talking about his shit, or start trying to understand mine more by discussing it, and trying to explain it to him, whatever I can do when I can get his attention and time. No walking away shit. No going to bed angry. He's very irritable, which makes me irritable. It sucks. At least we can have our Game of Thrones marathon and smoke breaks together and try to talk outside.

I long for a night's sleep that feels like 8 hours, not as if I just closed my eyes and blinked. I don't usually feel too tired, I just feel like my brain hasn't had enough time to rest. Fucking pisses me off.

... Aw shit. Just when I think today's going to be ok, he mentions taking a loan out on his 401k so that we can move from here?! What the hell? He's still laid off! Who does that? This isn't England! We don't have anybody to fall back on here. And I don't want to move. I don't want to be forced to be the one to do the "house-hunting". SO FUCKING STRESSFUL!!! Fuck!

I just took a bit of seroquel, but I can already feel my face starting to burn up, and the muscles in my calves feeling weird and kind of sore. He wants to move so bad, he should be the one that looks for a place to move. Now that I'm getting taxes taken out of my SSDI, I'm getting shit for money each month, and I've got medical insurance, shrink bills, tv, phone, internet, electric, etc to pay for, plus sending money to my daughter, like I wanted to. He'll be just as miserable on the same meds without therapy, and stuck with me in a new place. Your demons follow, of course. Shit shit shit. WTF can I do?

FUCK!