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, May 23, 2014

Out of the Darkness?

Well, it has been quite a while since I have written in this blog. I figured that people were rightly as sick and tired as I was reading this crap as I was writing it. Nothing but fucking anxiety and misery!

Well, suddenly there's something different going on in this not-so-miserable apartment! I believe I was poisoning myself to... implosion? death?

I wanted to die last year. I wanted to fucking blown my brains out alone, drunk or drugged in a hotel room somewhere. Kill myself and just end my motherfucking misery. No one who gives a damn in my family would know. I even started writing a bunch of suicide notes to all the people that I thought I'd bother to write one for. Some I didn't have much to say to. I wrote it all down in a little notebook that I carried around with me in my backpack. Of course my spouse had no clue...
I was taking increasing amounts of (generic)Seroquel last year until I got to the point where I had to completely drug myself up, dope-like (on top of other meds I take: (generic welbutrin, clonazepam, prozac) to ride a bus, pinch myself and pull my hair constantly to stay conscious. I'd nod out just like a junkie on a route that just happened to have the occasional junkie riders. Nice. Barely, just barely, would I make it to the Dr's office or the right bus stop. I'd gone past a few times.and walked back a few times though. My eyes were always so thickly glazed and covered by sunglasses. When indoors, in the office, I had to take them off, otherwise I might nod out again. I could barely think, if at all. 

That was all until somehow I woke up and realized that I was having anxiety attacks, every day, from then on, getting a bit worse with each day until I ended up taking 200mg + 3mg clonazepam during the day, 400mg at night (on top of other meds) and it would all do NOTHING. I asked... begged my meds shrink for more, for something more for anxiety, something! For help! He said I had amazingly good liver metabolism, but for my size, he could not possibly give me anything more, any more medication. He felt terrible and it was all over his face. I'd known the man for over 21 years. I had a feeling he had probably already pushed it a little just to try to give me some relief, thinking it was probably temporary.

Anxiety attacks came on earlier in the day until I couldn't fucking take it anymore. I had some beers that night. I woke up with the crazy idea that, like lithium had done to me, I was being poisoned by generic Seroquel. Fuck it, NO MORE. I stopped taking it then and there, continued with generic: welbutrin 450mg, 150mg topomax, 40mg prozac, 4mg clonazepam for the rest of the day, and I had a few symptoms of anxiety - warm cheeks, tense shoulders, but nothing else.This has gone on since Sunday, and I have not felt this good in more than a year. I still have not gotten over my agoraphobia and gone out by myself on a whim yet, But I have at least been outside, down to the recycling bins, to the mail boxes, out on the deck to smoke, and out on the deck barefoot this morning, in shorts to look up at the clouds, and catch the rain all over me! Laughing! Happy! Not caring what the weird neighbors thought of the crazy lady that was out there at 6.15am, before the rain in sunglasses, having a smoke with a tall man and a little black cat. Even that bastard that accidentally caught me in my long t-shirt and undies! You couldn't see anything!

For some reason, without the meds, it makes it harder for me to jump out of bed at 5am and run and make the coffee, but I go to bed later now, because I have more going on in my head that's not too tired to let out, unlike before. Everything physical is more difficult, but I'm just going to start pushing again after I see my Doc and feel like my body's more ready for torture (exercise).

One thing that I did and didn't like at the same time was that my husband stayed at home. He didn't want to go to work on Monday or Tuesday and called in "sick". He was mad at me for not taking my meds. He made me explain all my meds several times, what they were for, yadda yadda, and never paid attention, never bothered to look the shit up on his fucking own. And he bitched at me for not taking the Seroquel. He thought I was going to have a psychotic break, not that he knew what one was. He threatened to stop taking his citalopram. I said that's fine, I don't think it's doing anything for you anyway, that you need to see your Dr, get a referral to the shrink and try something else and talk about what's up with you. Of course he got mad at me. As if I don't know my own crazy better than anyone else?

U2 - With or Without You

He asked if I was going to call my Dr and I told him that I've been on this shit before and ditched it several times, that it's no big deal. He got mad again. Finally, to shut him up, I asked sarcastically if he wanted me to call my Dr and tell him. He said yes, of course, in an angry voice. I said fine, that I would leave a message on his main number. I left a very clear message about what was going on, what I was doing, etc and hung up. I have an appointment with the man after the holiday FFS. My husband keeps asking me if he's called, and I tell him, no, and that things are fine, that I am so spoiled by this Dr/Professor/Big Cheese that he gave me his pager number, and told me to call him if I need a hospital bed at "his" Psych Ward hospital wing he oversees (one of many things he does), and he will do whatever he can to help me asap, as he has done in the past, and literally saved my life. Why? Fuck knows.

I woke up early this morning... before 5am from a dream in a "dreamworld" that I have been to before. I closed my eyes, laid there, and pictured as much as I could. It was some unknown place in England... I ran into a man (younger than me) that I had been with before in this dreamworld. I knew his neighborhood. In the dream, he told me his name, James, and that I remember him and his neighborhood. I did remember, and pictured it in my head. Wow. I was definitely not married in that "world". His "dishwater blond" hair had grown a bit longer. I had nowhere to go. He looked at me, knew it, and he told me to come back and stay at his house. I was a bit surprised, but this time he had a son that had his own room to stay in. Somehow that made me feel less self-conscious. He didn't tell me his name, but he smiled at me. We got into this man's old red sports car with soft top that was a bit damaged. It let in the wind and rain a bit, but it only made me smile, and feel more alive. We looked at each other and smiled. He put his son to bed when we got to his house as I stood by a crackling fireplace. He came back, put his hands around my face and kissed me without stopping, and I can't remember anything after that, but I'm sure I was just fine. I snoozed a bit more.

This isn't the only "dreamworld" I have visited and remembered vividly. I didn't have thoughts in my head as those below while I was off in la la land. That happened after I threw some clothes on and went to make a pot of coffee for us, even though I have no business getting up at 5am every morning.

So finally I get a break to sit and write without distraction this afternoon, I thought... but husband called me - for once - and told me he's coming home early. He came home, changed, then went out for a drink with someone he used to work with. He hardly said one word to me this morning. I even asked if he wanted to talk and he said no, and that he had to think about work today. Work. Work that he was telling me yesterday that was only going to take half a day, at the most. He didn't even say goodbye. He wasn't gone long before he was in his PJs and complaining about how bored he was. I suggested he take a nap. I wanted to be alone for one damn day and be able to write without being asked what I'm doing (he still doesn't know), and we shall leave it that way.

I shall hope for a better, less physically painful, and more energetic day tomorrow. A miracle.