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, May 5, 2014

Pretty, Picture, Positive, Poindexter, and Paranoia

Place pretty picture here

This is the first thing that came up when I did a search for "pretty picture".
From "Carlson Fractal Gallery"

I just couldn't take anymore information, pictures, ridiculous "positive thinking", Jesus stuff, or "uplifting" BS posts on G+ or FB when I'm sitting here suffering from anxiety, dread, sadness about the past regarding my daughter, thinking of filling the great hole torn through my tender, beaten flesh by the great sword of destiny. Stabbed in, then turned and twisted to make sure there was a huge, gaping wound that no food, no drink, no pill, no child, no man, no medication, no therapy, no distraction could ever begin to heal. 

After 40-some years, this wound's still raw around the edges. Sure, it may be PMS or PMDD that may make things all the worse, but that wound is still open, still raw, and I'm still vulnerable, no matter how much I try to hide it, and how much I choke down my own tears so that I don't cry.

Crying, well, crying spells lead to deeper and darker depression, and that leads to a quiet, determined depression, and that leads to writing suicide notes for the people that I like to leave them for. It leads to considering different ways of of being done with it all and being in peace, having relief. Getting outside of this body and brain where I am trapped with these mental diseases. Free from this cage of plaster walls and glass, from these walls of cotton over flesh, free from these bones, and this skull.

If only this was written for me, and the dude's last name wasn't Poindexter, which I'm going to assume in this case is probably a pen name... Who the fuck is called Poindexter?

I have to get my emotional, mental, and physical shit together, pull myself out of this, because I can't afford to feel mentally ill when I have to get ready, and force myself outside with this agoraphobia shit and reverse SAD I have to fight. How the FUCK am I going to do that. It's going to be one of those extra seroquel afternoons. Don't know if I should cut from tonight's or just say fuck it. Bad experience having none one night. Ok, fuck it. 

I have to be able to make it to the store after the spouse gets back from work. That was the plan, anyway - to go to the store... Honestly, I don't know if I can make it if I get all traumatized and shit. Or take way too much seroquel and feel like I'm dragging a 300lb weight on my back, with a bit of a control issue as far as muscle strength. I need the cart to lean on as well.  I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens. I'll need a list to get out of there asap.

"Supernatural" on now: How appropriate that they're in a mental hospital...
Local news station affiliated with Fox played a bit of "Don't Fear (The Reaper)" fading out to commercial again. This is the 3rd time I have noticed it. Is it not strange? I am I going more crazy? Is this perhaps a subliminal message? Am I being totally paranoid again when I said a few years ago that my cellphone was being tapped, that they could track us down if the phone was on, that cable tv Co. was monitoring what we were uploading/downloading and searching for, etc, and the cable tv Co.was keeping an eye on what we watched? Well, let me tell you, I had Verizon and Comcast then. I was totally paranoid before I tried to commit suicide at that time, I was told. But they said I sounded so reasonable in my explanation of what was going on. I said it was the FBI (I didn't know of the NSA then), but they still thought I was needing to get those thoughts out of my head, and that I was manic too. And years later...! Look at where we are now! I will never make fun of a guy wearing foil under his trucker's hat ever again. Never. He just might be onto something...