WELCOME TO 1984

WELCOME TO 1984!

WAR IS PEACE!

"ARBEIT MACHT FREI!"

 "WORK MAKES YOU FREE!"

In 1984, the powers that be still tell us this old "lesson" translated into "The American  Dream" still holds true! So toil away at your work, brothers and sisters, work your hardest, do your very best to become the most doubleplusgood worker! You are being monitored on your computer, and if not by cameras and bugs, then by your co-workers, who also want to be the most doubleplusgood worker. Can you blame them, brothers and sisters? Certainly not! We're all here to Obey Without Question!

Your other choice is to become a Hero of the Nation, a worthy pawn and most valuable property of your government by joining the military! You will be told you are fighting for democracy and the American people! You will become part of the world's largest economy - the American war machine! Your will legally murder complete strangers! You will handle exciting weapons that can kill strangers in ways you couldn't have imagined! You may or may not see your family or friends ever again, and if you do, you may come back without an eye or two, leg or two, arm or two, some or all of the aforementioned. You may return in a complete vegetative state or a body bag. But you will come back an American Hero, dead or alive, and someone, somewhere,  will wave a little American flag for you! You will be treated better than those poor souls that came back from fighting in Viet Nam. You are even guaranteed medical care, now that national scandal, cover-up, and death business has been swept away! You are even guaranteed mental health care for the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, depression, and other anxiety disorders you may develop as a result of becoming a American Hero. You might even become one of the lucky ones at the DOD and receive a chip in your brain to cure you and manage your surveillance. It's for your own good, of course!

REMEMBER BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU

HE CAN OBTAIN ALL THE INFORMATION ON YOUR PHONE, RECORD VIDEO AND CALLS, TAKE PHOTOS, LISTEN IN, HIJACK YOUR DATA PROVIDER, CONTROL YOUR PHONE, TAKE CONTROL OF YOUR COMPUTER, ITS CAMERA, RECORD YOU, WATCH WHERE YOU GO, PIGGYBACK ON YOUR IP, CLAIM THINGS THAT ARE UNTRUTHS, DESTROY YOUR COMPUTER PROGRAM FROM WITHIN, FUCK WITH SOMEONE ELSE'S, ALTER YOUR BROWSERS SO THAT INFOMATION, HOWEVER UNUSEFUL AND PERSONAL, SUCH AS "I ORDERED PLAYTEX SUPER+ TAMPONS ONLINE", IS COLLECTED ON YOU, READ ALL YOUR EMAIL, ACCESS ALL SITES YOU VISIT, AND MORE = SPYING WITHOUT A WARRANT - IT IS OFTEN SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDERS FOR ADVERTISING PURPOSES. IT IS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD! THIS IS DEMOCRACY AND FREEDOM! THIS IS WHAT OUR AMERICAN HEROES OVERSEAS FIGHT FOR! WAR IS FREEDOM!

TODAY IS 9/11

DON'T BELIEVE THOSE INSANE CONSPIRACY THEORISTS THAT CLAIM 9/11 WAS A CAREFULLY PLANNED OUT ATTACK BY THE US ON ITSELF! SO WHAT IF THE TWIN TOWERS FLASHED LIKE THEY HAD EXPLOSIVES CAREFULLY PLANTED, AND THEY CONVENIENTLY COLLAPSED AS A PROFESSIONAL DEMOLITION JOB WOULD HAVE GONE DOWN. STRAIGHT DOWN, WITH MINIMAL DAMAGE TO THE SURROUNDING AREAS. SO WHAT IF THE PENTAGON DIDN'T SUFFER THE SAME DESTRUCTION IT WOULD AS IF A PLANE HAD ACTUALLY CRASHED INTO IT, AND THERE WAS NO PLANE WRECKAGE FOUND ON THE SITE IMMEDIATELY AFTERWARD. DICK CHENEY SAYS HE GAVE THE DIRECT ORDER TO SHOOT DOWN FLIGHT 93 THAT WAS SUPPOSEDLY HIJACKED AND HEADED FOR WASHINGTON. WHAT HAPPENED TO IT AND FLIGHT 77? IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS! IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS HOW THE WTC WENT DOWN, WHY IT IMPLODED, WHY WITNESSES SAW A MILITARY PLANE CRASH INTO A BUILDING. MARVIN BUSH, BROTHER OF GEORGE BUSH WAS INVOLVED WITH SECURITY OF THE BUILDINGS. BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN IT WASN'T ALL PLANNED AND CARRIED OUT BY EVIL MUSLIM TERRORISTS! DO NOT QUESTION YOUR GOVERNMENT! DO NOT QUESTION THE MAINSTREAM MEDIA! DO NOT QUESTION AUTHORITY! BE PURE, BE VIGILANT, BEHAVE! BELIEVE THE UNTRUTH!

 

THIS VIDEO MUST BE WATCHED.

LAST NEWS, BUT THERE'S MORE IF YOU CLICK HERE, UPS GROUNDS ALL FLIGHTS ON 9/11. 

***********************************************************

PS

PAZ Y AMOR. SINCERE CONDOLENCES TO THOSE THAT LOST LOVED ONES, OR HAD LOVED ONES SUFFER INJURIES AT THE HANDS OF EVIL AND THE GOVERNMENT. MAY THE HANDS OF EVIL BE EXPOSED.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT...

Where Did Our Year Go?

 

Wow. I can't believe I survived another year and have this as documentation. I have also lost the weight I gained from medications and am back down or lower than last year's weight. I should be able to celebrate with some fucking whiskey. The shitty thing is I still can't get outside, and I shake more like a fucking freezing chihuahua again. But I love, LOVE this generic Topomax. It has taken my appetite away, and kitchen grazing habit to comfort myself, or for something to do away, oh so far away!

Everything has shrunk, even my wrists. My boobs have too, now I'm between sizes and fuck, bras are very expensive, folks! I washed a bunch of silly old smaller clothes I used to wear, wore one of the t-shirts to Sin City 2 (great flick!), and I still felt fat. Stupid stupid stupid, I know. I'm down to a size 2, and just as I've always been, I'm still ashamed. Doesn't matter if I get down to a fucking 0, not that I'm trying. I'll still feel like a fucking big fat ZERO. Never call kids or other young people fat or ugly or some other awful thing. It just may stick with them for a fucking lifetime.

I went hunting through dusty boxes of stuff stored in the bedroom, and some drawers rarely opened. I was looking for some machine oil. There should have been some where my sewing machine was stored away. Instead, I found crayons made in Mexico, a tiny plaque of a chihuahua with "pepe" written on it, a $2 bill, a flask shaped like a coffin with a tiny funnel, a fancy solar watch with tiny diamonds, a sharpie, and some jewelry I'd been missing for a long time. No machine oil. I did keep the watch, the sharpie, an old ipod, and a little notepad I found, and made a note of the location of the jewelry. Nothing fancy, just silver, crystal, jet.

I intend to wear that stupid expensive watch I bought while on a manic binge, throw on some black pearls (gift), and force myself outside within the next few days. It's crazy hot in here in the evenings, baking like a fucking oven. The spouse just ignores me, showers, then hits the sack early. Fuck.

"Family Guy" has totally ruined The Cramp's version of "Surfin' Bird" for me.

That damn story about the little 9 year old girl... Parent(s) thought it would be a great idea to teach her how to use and Uzi. Went full automatic, lost control, killed the instructor. Now that little girl will have to live with the fact that she took the life of a man for the rest of her life all because of HER STUPID FUCKING PARENTS. She ought to be taken away from them, poor thing... It breaks my heart... no reason, no excuse... that poor baby... Man, that is abuse. What were they trying to do? Turn her into a little fuckin' "child soldier"? Give her PTSD and god knows what else?!

I skipped the treadmill and was fighting off anxiety and thoughts of PTSD today. Flashes of red. Reminded me of Hitchcock's "Marnie", one of my fave movies of his, and Sean Connery (sp?).

It's a good thing there's no Popeye's in town, otherwise I might just make it there. Those are probably the only fast food commercials that get to me just a little... I didn't bother eating much today. I thought I'd have some veggies and then some extra protein packed yogurt, but I had a bite or 4 of green beans, and just lost interest. Hard to eat when you're not hungry now. It's wonderful. I will be eating something tomorrow though. Yogurt for sure. I need the protein, and it's nice and cold! Wish we had strawberries to throw on top for extra pesticides and flavor. Mmmm...

My cat somehow found my red nail polish the other day, bless her little heart. Now I can finally do my toenails and wear sandals.

Looks like we won't be getting a door to this slumlord's garage/shooting gallery. I think the new job duties of the security "guards" now include cleaning up the garage, and properly disposing of all the used needles. Haven't heard from the manager/slumlord's bitch, of course... Haven't seen the alleged drug dealer that served up the death threat either.

You can't scare a person with bipolar who's attempted suicide many times in the past by threatening them with death! It's fucking hilarious, really. It's more of a matter of the fact that I'm not going to let that piece of shit make good on his threat. That's MY choice, not his, motherfucker. I'm not afraid of some man. I've had the beat down from a man that was supposed to love and accept me. I grew to fight back, and there was no more real fear. I'll never forget that first time I got hold of his belt and hit him with his own belt, the buckle end, and asked him how he liked it.

Long time ago, another lifetime ago. I can't imagine trying to explain all that shit to my kid, or if she'd even believe me. Which reminds me of another thing I found while digging around: a strawberry Jello lip gloss she gave me. It's around here somewhere... :) All I have to do is think of her sweet face and her smile, or me making her laugh hysterically over the craziest thing/voice, and it makes me smile now. Just keep on remembering that face, not the red flashes.

I better hit the sack and get in front of that fan that's blasting in there. Up early, and try try try again to make it outside alone, through the front door, if only for a moment or so. Make time for it, and quit screwing around.

No, Woman, You Can't Have An Opinion Online

Why can't I get the text to fucking format properly?!?!

First of all, FUCK YOU, JACK! [not you, of course]

A lovely expression.

All I did was simply answer a question, and this is what happens:

Question was something like... "Are you in recovery or recovering from PTSD..."

My simple answer, and most of the exchange will follow. Massive egos can't handle something that is different, something they can't control, something they don't understand. Just because you have extra letters after your name, or call yourself a therapist, let us not forget the massive, but sometimes fragile ego of The Therapist, or The Psychologist, or of many Doctors:

My answer and exchange (name hidden for ego protection):

FL Jones
10:34 AM

Recovering? I don't believe there is a "cure", or recovery from mine.

HIM:
+FL Jones Well, then, I strongly encourage you to keep studying. I treat PTSD, and have
for almost 20 years. It's highly CURABLE, but you have to work with someone who knows
how to do it.

Pay attention to those who are properly trained and schooled, and who have years of
clinical experience. They are they ones who know most.

[note: you have got to be fucking kidding me responding to me as if I had an IQ of 30...]

FL Jones
2:35 PM
Studying? Studying the failure rate? I'd like to meet a therapist who could actually deal with Bipolar, PTSD and anxiety disorder all at once that takes Medicare, is properly trained, schooled, and up to date on MH info and Rx. I've been through far too many failures in my lifetime when it comes to any therapist even daring to deal with PTSD, let alone bipolar. 

There's only so much time you can read pointless misinformation about potential therapists on the never-updated medicare site before your head hurts and your eyes might be bleeding.

HIM

1:12 PM
I didn't say it would be easy. My point is that it's possible.

Bipolar should be managed with your psychiatrist, as it primarily organic. I find often that elements of what is taken to be Bipolar disorder are actually PTSD, and they go away when the PTSD does. As for "daring to deal with PTSD", what do you mean? It doesn't take daring. It takes proper training, some clinical experience, and a client willing to just do the work.

I can't do it for you. I do detect some anger in what you write. That may or may not serve you well. Getting the job done is the whole point. Anything that doesn't help you do that must be checked at the door.

I am reminded of mothers I've met who have a sick child and no money. They are relentless in seeking help, until they find someone who will just get the job done, period. You will have to find this person for yourself.

As for "taking Medicare", the problem there is that the law severely limits who can do that. I've cured more PTSD cases (i.e., no symptoms left - they no longer qualify for the diagnosis, period) than I can easily remember. But I'm not eligible to take Medicare. That's crap. Call your Congressman, your Senator. They are to blame.

If you walked into my office and couldn't pay for my services, I'd take you "on scholarship", with the following qualification: you will do the work or I'll fire you as a client. I expect a fair exchange. I virtually always get it!

Finally, there's this: I have NEVER, repeat, never, had a case of adult onset PTSD that I didn't cure, if the person stayed for the full duration of the treatment (which is not long). I use EMDR and related methods. They work.

I don't know your situation. If your PTSD developed in childhood, the situation is often much more complex and difficult. If you have a personality disorder and have trouble taking responsibility for what happens in your life from this point on, you are going to have trouble getting good results from anyone.

I wish you all the best.

FL Jones 

Time?

Dude, calm down. What I wrote about was frustration with experiences with the therapy I had experienced with my diagnoses, and the system. I don't know why you misunderstood my comments, and decided to take them personally. Resentment and anger is what I find so thinly-veiled in your "response". I wasn't directing my comments at you (at all) as a professional or a person. I never doubted your education, experience, patients' success or even alluded to failure on your part. I wasn't trying to insult you, I was simply describing the failures that I've had in the past with therapists, on my own insurance and Medicare, and how not one of them would stay on or want me to speak on and stay on my particular brand of PTSD issues. I referred to them as "mine", my kind of PTSD. I did not refer to any other description or type of PTSD. I made no mention of the type of PTSD you work with. I only mentioned "mine".

Apparently it does take guts for some therapists to work on PTSD that began as a very small child. The many therapists that I tried hard working with kept shying away from the past, and PTSD. I brought it up time and time again, talked about it, and was misdirected. I haven't been fortunate enough to have anything "easy", nor do I ever expect anything to be easy, especially therapy! Jeebus! Good for you and your patients for their success, I say! I wasn't doubting you, your education, experience or your success with your patients, nor blaming you for the state of Medicare, for chrissakes.

Why is it that when a woman has an opinion, shares it online, on anything, she's accused of being "angry", and gets insulted? ("Personality disorder", etc in your shameful case),  "feminazi", "bitch", "ugly", "fat" etc? All, of which I'm glad to say that I'm not. Why did you feel the need to insult me with an extremely TIRED, totally offensive stereotype of a woman that equates to the "lazy" "welfare mother" stereotype? [note: quoting him] "They are relentless in seeking help, until they find someone who will just get the job done, period."  Dude, I handed OUT "welfare" as my last occupation! It was my job to help other people, I loved it, and love helping others rather than myself, and that is why I did it for as long as I could.  I did not judge women or men, with or without children. I have never relentlessly sought out help for anything from anyone but a job, an affordable place to live, and to be as successful as possible with college and in my jobs as I could, especially working to try to help other people.

I wasn't asking you personally to do anything for me. I do not know where you got that idea and took my comments so personally. If you knew me at all, and you admittedly do not know my situation or me, you'd know that I never ask for help from anyone, or ever even a dime, that I was brought up by a single father that way, and that I am not that ridiculously, weak, lazy, sad stereotype of "mothers I've met who have a sick child and no money", you accuse me of being - so transparently akin to "lazy""welfare mothers"! I don't expect anything to get done unless it's by me, not for me, with my own hard work, own money, blood, sweat, tears, and my own inner strength. A "Gold digger" or materialistic person, I am not.

I have no personality disorder, either, I will add, which is a very sad, shameful, and once again, thinly-veiled way to insult me, especially when I had already stated my diagnoses. The psychiatrist that has seen me for chats and medication management for 22yrs, diagnosed me properly, that has been helping me keep hope, quit drinking, stay alive, and keep up the good fight is Adjunct Professor and Vice Chair in the Department of Psychiatry and Chief of the Division of Psychiatric Epidemiology and Health Services at a university you know very well, internationally renowned for his research, a member of NIMH Psychiatric Health Services Grant Review Committee for 4 years, co-wrote a book on depression self-care, and has received two awards for excellence in teaching psychiatry to primary care physicians, and still manages to take a few patients at a clinic for advising and medication management. So, you might have an idea of why I have high standards in the mental health care department. I have been advised by him to have and keep those high standards as far as therapy goes, and to keep trying, and trying, and trying. I was merely saying that with Medicare, it is far easier said than done.  Currently, this doctor is on leave, because he has become suddenly critically ill. I am very sad but hopeful for him. He has always treated me with absolute respect, and I have treated him the same, not to mention actually trusting this man with the truth of all that had been going on in my life. He is humble, whip smart, up to date, kind, caring, trusting, funny, and a wonderful doctor. He has never been condescending, accusatory, or insulting in any way.

It took me years to seek help even though misdiagnosed as a teen, years to admit that I could no longer work for the state in a position of trying to help others in need, years to apply for disability benefits because I didn't want to ever have to rely on anybody but myself and work to get by, or to be labeled "disabled". I have worked hard for what I have, and even harder to retain my bit of sanity and shred of hope to keep living, and to keep trying to find a therapist that is a good fit for me.

I have always done nothing but take responsibility for myself. I grew up with that as the rule, and a hell of a survival instinct. I also know thinly-veiled insults when I read them as well. Frankly, you should be ashamed of yourself. I guess it's too bad if you felt your ego was bruised. That was definitely NOT my intention. I have lost any and all respect for you that I have ever had.

"I wish you all the best." ;) 

[note:you fucking cuntbag]

If that is not a fragile fucking ego, then I don't know what is. Plus the insults, so unnecessary, so fucking unprofessional. What a cuntbag. 

Oh yeah, PTSD is "curable". Mental illnesses are "curable". Right. So why are we still feeling like shit and popping all the pills they give us? Well, he admitted he didn't "cure" child-onset PTSD. I wonder what kind of trauma he does "cure". "Stubbed toe PTSD"? "Broken Nail PTSD"? The more I read his crazy response, the more I'm thinking his patients are "cured" by just never going back to see that dickless fuckwad. No knowledge of bipolar either. What kind of a therapist or psychologist is that, who can't handle anything else but his brand of PTSD that he "cures"?

HIMshit:

"If you walked into my office and couldn't pay for my services, I'd take you "on scholarship", with the following qualification: you will do the work or I'll fire you as a client. I expect a fair exchange. I virtually always get it!"e

I'd rather see "Dr Mengele" again and piss in a cup, like the alkie/ex-junkie/tattooed whore that he probably thinks I am, like I had to last time when my Dr was out, than ever lay eyes on that bitch. 

Fortunately, I got a funny call yesterday from a cool nurse at the clinic, letting me know that their in-patient Dr is going to fill in for a while, and told me his name. I said "oh, yeah, I remember him very well, he's sooo nice." She says "yeah, and he's real easy on the eyes too!" I burst out laughing, agreed, and told her to enjoy her eye candy all month or so, and that I'll be there for my appointment. If he wasn't married, while I was a patient at that hospital's crazy ward many years ago, I would have been all over him like a cheap coat of crazy paint. Ha! He was fun to actually flirt with, which is something I have rarely done in the past. So so long ago.

Praise Jeebus that I got Topomax (generic), and am almost down to the weight I was at the last time I was in-patient there! It should be a real hoot to see him and how he's aged and matured. Hahahaha! I just want to feel confident in my skin, instead of anxious as fuck, panicky, and losing the weight is supposed to be helping me with that. I just need that push out the door. At least I won't be seeing a complete stranger. That was horrible.

Anyway, I'm getting my ass to bed eaerly. I'll be up at the crack of dawn again tomorrow, as usual.

Moods are pretty stable. I think that last entry was PMSy. I had a lot to be upset about too. Things are going to get better. I hope I hope I hope...

.

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.

I Hate Swiss Cheese

Take Me As I Am - Mary J Blige

These past few days I've been having the occasional extremely unwanted fucking flashback. Each one is different, but that car incident the other day really fucked with my head. I can't even put into words some of the horrors I've lived through. My brain is Swiss cheese, and I can't write or talk about all that shit.  I guess that makes me weaker than those that can just come out and share their horror stories. 

My horror stories are buried in some distant graves, but it's as if someone's worked their Voodoo on some of them, and they're pushing their way up through their rotten coffins, up toward the barren surface. They're dragging dirty old film loops to play over and over in my head, until I can shut them out, and push them as far back into the darkness that I can.

Depression and anxiety have pretty much reluctantly taken a little vacation, one after the other, and now PTSD has decided to creep back into my fucking head? Where can I find the right spell that can send all of that evil shit back to their distant graves?

I can't let my mind rest at all when I'm awake for fear of one of those old film loops playing its horrific shit over and over. I want to claw my eyes out, but I can't claw out my mind's eye. I want to blind it. I want to blind that fucker. Gouge it right the fuck out of my head. It shows me and makes me hear painful, evil, bloody, violent, twisted shit that no child or adult should have to experience or see. 

Like I said, there are gaps in my brain, gaps in my memory, whole chunks of memories gone, years of missing time, and blackouts. I don't know all the facts, I don't remember enough, but I remember too much. Forgotten people and places, forgotten faces. Some of it could probably be blamed on booze, drugs, unknown effects of long-term prescription drug use. 

Maybe the seroquel and clonopin will hit me hard tonight, and I won't remember any dreams when I wake up during the night. I hope. Maybe listening to classical music all through the night will help - no lyrics to think about. I'll have the window open to let some cool, comforting fresh air come in. Maybe it'll all take me away to a known, safe dream world that I'm familiar with. 

Tomorrow I'll wake up and start all over again.

From Darkness To Light

Music: Supernatural Radio (online)
Drink:  Water

Yesterday morning in the darkness, just before the rain came down hard, I managed to get out to the starbucks by the light of the moon. I passed a homeless neighbor that was just waking up, and I was too shy to ask her what her name was, but I told her mine. I asked if she would accept a handful of the starbucks "free coffee" coffee bags, and she did. She smiled from under her ton of blankets and sleeping bag, thanked me, and I told her to have a good morning.

I only got a bit wet in my hoodie on my way to starbucks, but didn't mind. I'd normally freak over it had I been out in the daylight. Very irritating for me. VERY. I only had a coffee and sat in a corner next to a window. Water was leaking in from the ceiling nearby. The reflection of light off the billion litle raindrops set against the dark skies on the glass looked like billions of stars in the partial clearing. I realized then that I forgot my phone, and that the alarm was going to go off at home, and wake up my spouse, so I got out of there pretty quickly. I think my walking song was:

Stuck in the Middle - Stealer's Wheel

Later on, after my therapist appointment, I felt pretty damn proud for not crying again. Just big welled-up tears in my eyes as I looked toward the ceiling while there. Somehow, when I do that, my eyes seem to suck them back in. Another runny nose, and that was it. I tried with all my might and willpower not to cry that whole session, and I didn't crack. Afterward, I was swept away to the drugstore and to grocery store. I needed an Rx, and my husband was crazy/angry hungry. You know how some people get that way? All pissed off if they don't eat? And they take their angry shit out on you. Does not compute with me. I'd rather have hunger pains any day, all day.

We ran into the drugstore, where somebody spray painted "Stick it to the man!" on the sidewalk nearby in huge blue letters. It's kind of comforting to know that it's been there for at least a couple of years. After dropping off my Rx, I was whisked away into the grocery store, the back out across the street to the drugstore. Perfect timing. My full month of clonazepam was waiting for me. Fucking finally!

When we left, I had my purse sitting on my lap as well as a bag of groceries for extra added feeling of "safety" sitting in the front seat on the way home. My spouse drives like a maniac, just like everybody else does, and complains about everybody else, just like the rest of the world does. I can't fucking stand to hear about it.

We got a few blocks down to a semi-major intersection where people were waiting for the "walk" light on both sides of the street, and he tried to whip around and make a right turn before they crossed, just after the "walk" light turned. I screamed and put my left arm out to try to stop him, which I managed to do. I said "You CAN'T FUCKING DO THAT! PEOPLE HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY! YOU COULD HAVE KILLED SOMEONE!" I was wearing my sunglasses, and tears began streaming down behind them. WHAT. THE. FUCK.... So my list of shit that caused me PTSD isn't gone or going to go away, I realized. I wept silently behind my sunglasses the rest of the way home, and into the homestead. I remembered that my voice and breathing had changed during that whole thing. I got no reaction from the spouse but "There wasn't anyone crossing yet". 

Does he remember, know or care about my PTSD? Is he just oblivious to this shit or does he purposefully ignore it? I tend to think he's oblivious, that he put his own blinders on many years ago as a kind of coping mechanism for his own shit. Sez Dr Idunno. 

I just didn't want to deal with it anymore.Just wipe the tears and be done with it. Forget it fast, before you start wanting a fucking drink or something (seven). 

From Darkness
 To Light

The light, the light, where is the light in all of this? Oh yes, I woke up in a lighter mood than yesterday, but decided it was too rainy and windy to go out. Later I remembered the good coffee deed that I did. That made me smile. 

I failed at exercise today, but there's always tomorrow, and always tomorrow morning to sneak out around 5.30ish to get outside for coffee and a smoke. I do like being out in the dark by my
self like that.

I received an unsolicited hug from the spouse. There is my daughter. I have a roof over my head, plenty of food and clothing, a computer, a bed, electricity, and money coming in that I can share with my daughter (in college). The spouse gave me a $100 to send to her today. My crazy cat. I got to wear comfy, stretchy workout pants/clothes all day. I've got plenty of saltines for my nausea. I have lots to be thankful for, in fact, too much.

I need to go through my clothes and shoes, and see what I can donate to the charity shop down the street. I'm going to need some huge bags. I became quite the little hoarder when I was living alone in my studio of crazy with the insane online shoe/boot buying problem.

I Cried With My Nose

Jimi Hendrix - If 6 Was 9

(Yeah) 
(Sing a song, brother) 
If the sun refused to shine, 
I don't mind, I don't mind. 
(Yeah) 
If the mountains fell in the sea, 
Let it be, it ain't me. 
Got my own world to live through 
And I ain't gonna copy you. 

Now, if 6 turned up to be 9, 
I don't mind, I don't mind. 
If all the hippies cut off all their hair, 
I don't care, I don't care. 
Dig, 'cos I got my own world to live through 
And I ain't gonna copy you. 

White-collar conservatives flashing down the street 
Pointing their plastic finger at me. 
They're hoping soon my kind will drop and die, 
But I'm gonna wave my freak flag high . . . HIGH! 
Hah, hah 
Fall mountains, just don't fall on me 
Go on mister Businessman, 
You can't dress like me. 
Nobody know what I'm talking about 
I've got my own life to live 
I'm the one that's gotta die 
When it's time for me to die 
So let me live my life the way... I want to. 

Yeah . . . 
Sing on brother, 
Play on brother . . .

*******

I actually hit the snooze on my alarm this morning, which is something I haven't done since I had a job, which was about 7 years ago (?). Maybe I was subconsciously dreading the meds management shrink appointment that I had to get to today. I could swear it was by accident. The spouse was already up and called something to me. I replied, but I don't remember what I said, but he then told me that it was Tuesday, and that I had a Dr appointment to get to.

I got up, grabbed my jeans, and went into my very own closet of horrors, where there are clothes that range from everything from size 0 to 10 or 12. Some are even boys' and mens' clothes (t-shirts, hoodies). I grabbed some new undies, socks, t-shirt, and coat. I decided what t-shirt to grab by the color of lipstick I was going to wear.

I am at an age where I should probably be dressing "older", only I don't think I know what that is, and I don't think I'd really want to. Something tells me that it would be buttass ugly. No can do. I have very long, nearly black hair, don't dye it anymore, and no visible gray hairs. I don't have a face that I should have. It should look like I've barely managed to weather all the shit storms I've been through in my lifetime so far + booze and drugs: I don't have wrinkles. I guess you could say I'm blessed with some good Mexican genes. Maybe Aztec. Maybe Mayan. Who knows? All I know is that I can pass for someone much younger, I'm not trying to "dress younger". I don't want to look ridiculous.

I just want to be comfortable and feel confident in the clothes I am wearing if I am out in public. I want to walk confidently, and feel 5 inches taller, and a baddass, like I used to feel when manic. Maybe that's why I'm growing more and more attached to my favorite stack-heeled leather riding-ish style boots. I feel taller, and more confident, even if I'm anxious. Gawd knows how much I paid for them on a crazy wacko cabin fever online shoe shopping spree No regrets on those, though. None.

So the spouse was a little bitchy about waiting for me to finish up my makeup so that we could leave for my appointment. He was hurrying me along, which I was trying not to let stress me out. That is the exact kind of shit that stresses me out but I would be damned if I was going to let him rush me this morning. He says he hates waiting for others. Maybe he's just a selfish ass. Either way, he's a pain in the ass in the morning, but I didn't let it get to me at all. My attention was on the car ride to the clinic up on ghetto hill.

I always have to have something biggish, like my purse, on my lap and have my arms wrapped around it, unless I'm smoking at the time. I am hyper aware of all shit going on around us, hating the spouse's yelling about the shitty driving of others, hating his driving, hating his raised voice, hating that I'm in the front, and don't feel strapped in tightly, hating that there's so much traffic, hating that there's nothing to hang onto. I gotta have music and smoke. I have PTSD (and not just for this), and this car thing will never go away, except when I am drunk, I have a deathwish and don't care if the driver is drunk.

We made it to the clinic in one piece, and I saw the shrink. I've been sort of downgraded, and I'm maxed out on meds, he says, unless I want to try something else. When we talked about what was going on, of course I started my usual crying thing, but this time, my eyes just welled up, and I fought it like fuck. Not a tear spilled. I got a runny nose instead, which was much less humiliating. I was so proud. So anyway, Officially now, I'm BPII with some Borderline traits, PTSD, and Anxiety Disorder. I feel a bit better about that. It would be something to rub my sister's face in, that I'm Bipolar not Borderline, just some Borderline traits. Not just me me me, like she likes to think sometimes, and used to think. Funny, my spouse thinks that of me too, that I'm just me me me. I'm sure some of that he got from my sister. Well, first I gotta fuckin'' take care of me, pull myself out of whatever to try to get to a place somewhere near the level that everyone else is on. So, FUCK. ALL Y'ALL.

Maybe I'm starting to feel a sort of mania coming on since I'm not really depressed as such, sometimes sad, but that wears off pretty quickly. I do get irritable, but have managed to contain my growing rage because that damn tax form still hasn't been signed yet. One good thing though, is the spouse picked it up late this morning and asked if it was ready to be mailed. I told him it was, but just needed his signature and SSN. I'm thinking too that I'm not feeling so anxious about going to the therapist tomorrow, regardless of how I get there, and the fact that I need to go to the drugstore afterward to get more clonazepam. The whole prescribed dose and amount of pills, FFS! I could ask for a ride back from the shrink's, with a stopover at the drugstore. The weather's going to be shitty. I want that damn tax form signed tomorrow, and sent out! So I still gotta play it cool. Maybe he'll see how shitty the weather is and offer a ride? Hmm...

I think I'm going to try and hit the starbucks in the morning again, but leave when a little light has come out, and try not to freak out. Baby steps. I'm bringing some extra "free coffee" bags in case I pass a waking homeless neighbor. Maybe a few. I can't seem to use as many of them as I have saved. A bunch!

I'm not feeling anxious about tomorrow yet. It's weird. It's fucking WAY weird. Something's up, I better fucking enjoy it if I can, as long as I can, and share the wealth (coffee and cigarettes) tomorrow if I have the opportunity!!!

I don't plan on crying, but plan on talking about anxiety shit and getting the fuck outta the house. I'll bring my own tea. If the sting of oncoming tears starts to happen, I'll only cry through my nose again! I WANT CONTROL.

Unhealthy Place

I hate all you little shits that put out "I'm sick" vids and ruined any chance of Iggy's original on youshittube.
I fuckin hate you shitass brats.

From
Healthy Place:

"With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts." ~ Eleanor Roosevelt

Supposedly, Eleanor Rigby Roosevelt baby...

I got up with my alarm at 6am this morning, back on my set schedule, my thang that I keep up with each week. Most of the time I wake up earlier, but this time not, which is odd. I did, however, wake up many times during the night, as usual. I got up, switched to auto-pilot and made coffee for two. I wasn't thinking about how I felt about my spouse or how he felt about me, nor did I start to worry yet about how he was going to feel about me today.

I pulled my big girl pants on and I decided that whole stay-in-bed-depressed thing wasn't for me. I didn't cry. There wasn't much tv available on my phone or kindle. I couldn't concentrate enough to read. I couldn't sleep enough of the day/night away, and it made me sore all over, and feel guilty for laying around doing nothing. That last bit was an abusive guilt trip present from my father. Thanks, asshole.

We are almost talking to each other, the spouse and myself. He is going out for lunch with an ex-work mate. He has never gone to lunch with me that I can remember. He must have, but it was a very rare occasion. Long time ago, maybe when we lived in a studio. My memory has been destroyed by mental illness, or the drugs, or both. PTSD sure wiped out a lot of shit, but not some of the worst, but that's another horror story I won't get into here and now. So I'm waiting for my spouse to talk to me again and mention the taxes. Doing them over, separate, whatever, I just feel horrible about it all, and scared that I'll be slapped with a bill for back taxes that I can't pay. Well, if they can't squeeze blood from this stone, and since this is a community property state, they'll have to squeeze the blood from the other stone, no? I don't know.

I really hate taxes and their vague instructions, my fucked up cognitive issues, the fact that the spouse won't attempt to do them (I don't blame him), and hate hate hate fed forms. I probably said that before. They scare the fuck out of me for no good reason. Well, with the IRS there is a good reason. Last year they called and said we fucked up, and then they said they lost all of our stuff, then we turned what few bits and pieces we had back in. Then they told us all was ok, and that they needed nothing. WHAT THE FUCK?! So I'm terrified this time, especially if we end up doing it separately. I'll be fucked in the worst way.

I'm too fucked up to attempt my "quests" today on SuperBetter, and that makes me feel shitty. Too anxious and achey to exercise, plus fucking Dallas is on instead of my beloved Supernatural. I hope TNT isn't making a habit of it. At least I got over my headache from the moment I got up. I feel guilty and lazy, of course. I don't want to be totally unproductive today, and just graze in the kitchen. My willful side says JUST ATTEMPT TO DO THE TAXES! Separately. But I know better. That would cause an unbearable amount of stress. Even thinking about it is a no no. Bitch, don't go there. No treadmill today. No load of laundry today... How am I going to force myself to take a shower today without doing the treadmill?

I vow to pay more attention to when I am actually hungry before I eat or drink anything. Even water. I've been given topomax to kill the sugar cravings from seroquel, even though I've only put on a little weight, compared to all the horror stories I've read/heard. I feel bad for them and me. It doesn't make sense. Well, it doesn't matter if I get back to a size 0, I'll still find something disgusting about my body to hate and hide. I'm an idiot. I'm too old to be a size 0. Get it in your head, head. As if I bother to diet. Whatever that means these days anyway.

My spouse laid a peck good-bye on me on his way out. I'm surprised. I guess that's his way of saying "I'm not hating you right now and I realize you felt like shit yesterday. I didn't know what to do or didn't want to bother you since you were in the bedroom in bed all day/night, and didn't come out, even for the zombies (The Walking Dead) and tea".

Ok, so now I don't even know how to begin to try to talk to him again, especially about the taxes. My daughter needs income info from us, so there's pressure on to get this shit done. Pressure is NOT a good thing for me. Stress is NOT a good thing. Math and forms are not good things for me either. I don't want to end up having a fucking breakdown doing the taxes, but I want my daughter (my love of loves of LOVE) to have her info asap. I don't want this to end up putting me back in the hospital, either, but shit, man, it's so fucking awful!

Fucking IRS. FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU and the horse you rode in on.

Time for more meds that are well needed. The shit goes on...

Dread Again Over V-Day and "Bitching"

Edit: I fucking hate this post! I hate it! Edit: Except the video, of course.


While I'm sitting here under the S.A.D. lamp, thinking most normal folks are all looking forward to V-Day - at least the women -I know that mine is just going to be shit. I'm dreading it like fuck. It's not something I'm bringing down upon myself with negative thoughts or interactions with the spouse, it's just that I feel that all he cares about right now is himself. He claims to be broke, yet says he could just pay the balance of his car loan off in one go. He's got plenty of money saved up in the bank. Sure he's laid off, but he knows that he's going back to work in another week, but he refuses to pay extra rent (only $100). He normally does these days, even though he brings in a shitload more money than I do with my SSDI.

On the way to my shrink, I mentioned that I sent the rent out. That's when he told me he wasn't going to pay extra, because he's not working, but he was sure proud to announce that he was going to get $500 a week on unemployment the other day. Poor guy.

I have noticed since xmas that he has bought more and more things than I can even count. Almost every day, he receives some sort of package, buying things for himself daily. Yet he claims he can't pay an extra $100 on rent, which would help me out with shrink and meds costs. He even gets upset when I casually and innocuously use the term "shit" as in "here's some more shit for you", when I bring back the mail from the mailboxes down the hall or from the door.

He also made that ridiculous claim that he's going to stop smoking. Cold turkey, of course. He smokes about a pack a day. He even smoked all the packs of smokes that he "gave" to me as a gift from his trip back from over the great pond, and never replaced them.

Yesterday, he complained about dishes in the sink, most of which he had used, as if I'm supposed to keep the kitchen clean? He was angry and said he wanted to cook, but couldn't even get in the sink. So he ended up washing a few dishes. Big deal. He's not paying more rent, so he can do dishes too, is what I was thinking to myself. I don't give a fuck if he likes it or not.

This morning after I got up at 6, when my alarm goes off, I shut the bedroom door and got dressed for the treadmill. I went about things in a normal way, as if no one was asleep, because he never makes an effort to do things quietly when he gets up and I'm still in bed. That is the reason now that I am no longer in bed when he gets up. The noise he makes has forced me to get up before him, whether he works or not, fucking with my sleep, worrying about the time, making me look at the clock several times during the night.

Every morning, he's in a pissy mood for the first half hour at least. He calls it "waking up". When the alarm goes off, I wake up, grab my clothes, get out of the bedroom, shut the door, make coffee, etc. What I'm trying to say is when you're awake, you're fucking awake. It's not license to act like a man morning bitch just because you're that way in the mornings. I never wake up in a shitty mood. I just wake up like a robot, I do what I gotta do. I don't act like a baby morning bitch. Unfortunately, most of the men I have been with have been like this, but I have to say that he might be the worst, if memory serves.
 
So why am I still married, you may ask? At the moment, I sure can't afford to move and live alone. I just try to look forward to my alone time when he is working, no matter how much he complains about having to work. He says he wants to get laid off. He's started to call in "sick" more often for laziness. His work ethic has never been like an american work ethic of our (probably not you) generation. He's used to getting laid off for months, even taking a year off and traveling here and there, but that's all in the past. In this country, bitch, you gotta work.

Except for those of us that can't but wish they could, like me. I'm too fucked up: bipolar, PTSD, BPD, crippling anxiety, and gawd knows what else that isn't diagnosed. It's all jumbled into one big mess.

Is it so stupid, horrible, and selfish to just want a bottle of decent champagne and some good chocolates to share? Do I just have to buy them myself? If I do, I'm going to get most of that fucking champagne, motherfucker. I always get my feelings hurt on V-Day, even if I tell myself I expect nothing. I guess I'm just fucking lying to myself. I just want to be shown a little love. Who doesn't?

And here's thee song about a broken heart:

"Quest": Drop out of Bipolar In Order Group

I had to drop out of the group "Bipolar IN Order. Bipolar Without Disorder", not that I was participating much anyway.

This is their line: "This community is dedicated to being high-functioning bipolar instead of trying to make it go away." Who the fuck wants that kind of pressure?! Fuck that, man, I got too much other shit going on and don't know what is causing what, so I want all that shit to go away. I have been told, though that BP NOS is my #1 Dx. Whoopee. Fuck it all. :)

This is Jaguar Jones, my superhero Avatar's name for the SuperBetter game. Gnarly fangs, eh? I go play SB now and do stuff because things are on my list of "quests". Treadmill is the toughest, but I'm gonna make it!

Play SuperBetter, Feel at Least a Little Better, Trust Me!

I don't know if I've written about this game before (SuperBetter), but like the creator, in the video above, it's helping me not want to kill myself. And as you know, to someone with BP, PTSD, BPD, and anxiety is a BIG fucking deal. It's given me some energy and mental strength that I forgot that I had. I really really recommend looking at it and giving it a try. You can make your "quests" as difficult as "getting out of bed" (which can be hell at times) to walking 5mi, or whatever you want to make it. You can tailor your "quests", "power ups", ways to earn points and get better. Boost your willpower. Create your own Secret Identity/superhero avatar with pic! You can connect with others that are playing too as "Allies". If you dare, you can post completed quests to FB. There's a ton of possibilities for this game. I told one of my shrinks about it last week, and he was blown away by the idea and checked it out.

Please watch at least the first 10 minutes of the video, even though it sounds like a lot. It's better than spending 10 minutes sitting and thinking about the "s" word.

There is no current android app, but you can still play it on your computer if you don't have an iphone.

I've been playing the game for a couple of weeks on my laptop so far and am still trying to get the hang of things, and it's been good for me. I've tried making lists of things to do to keep me busy, but that never worked in the past. This is something way different and rewarding, getting me through the worst time of the month. If anybody decides to play and needs an ally, contact me, and I would be happy to play along with another superhero.

Frankie-stein's Monster - WARNING - "S" WORD DISCUSSED

I do not have a solid grip on my "life". I write this as I sit on a towel, in my underwear, in front of a fan,  re-watching last night's episode of "True Blood" like some nutcase. All along the top of this computer screen are addresses and websites of gun shops in the area. One I'm actually familiar with, and have visited it in the past  year or so, purely for the amusement of my spouse, because he's not from this country, and you just can't go out and by all kinds of crazy guns where he comes from. I'm all sweaty and stinking from walking on the treadmill and having such long god damned hair.

I'm getting a grip on something here though, it's called Faking It. One of the first psychiatrists that I ever saw actually told me to "fake it". He was referring to "being happy". He was dead (ha) serious. Anyway, I was thinking maybe it's because I've finally started to take control of working on the possibility of another way besides pills in order to "opt out" of this shit existence called life. When the proper time comes, of course. I'm not pressuring myself. I don't feel so anxious or in such a desperate hurry any more. There are steps I need to take, and later appointments that I need to go to, medication to take, a life to fake, a shower to force myself to take. Because of this, I've removed a bit of some very unwanted stress from my little life.

This whole week, I have no set appointments or anything that I need to stress myself out about. I just don't care anymore about some of the little things that have been irritating me recently. Who knows. This could all be a case of good ol' completely unpredictable PMS. Fucking hormones. I'm not going to feel guilty to be found laying on the couch in front of the fan when the spouse comes home. I'm not going to feel guilty whether I've walked on the treadmill or not. I'm  not going to care much about what I eat, as long as I don't stuff myself and make myself feel physically uncomfortable. No more food shame. I'm not going to care much about getting dressed or putting on makeup so much anymore. I feel a bit more relaxed, and when I don't, I take more clonazepam (sublingually) , and hope it does something to stop the bad feeling fast.

Post shower...

Back on the rickety loveseat (my perch) with my laptop and the noisemaker with pics (tv), I sit again with my laptop. I managed to wash my face and brush my teeth after my shower, as well as put on a crappy "house dress". A house dress is one so shitty and cheap you wouldn't wear it in public. I put perfume in my hair, but still haven't bothered to brush it, which it desperately needs. I put on some face lotion and dusted on some face powder and a smidgen of lip balm.

Now, why do some states allow people with terminal illnesses die "with dignity", or assisted "suicide"? My mental disorders are indeed terminal illnesses to me, and I should have the right to die with dignity when I feel my time's up as well. What the fuck? Does bipolar disorder or borderline personality disorder go away? Can you be cured of them? Are they not then terminal illnesses? Do we not suffer as much mental pain as those with physical illnesses suffer from physical pain? How is it fair that they can eventually "opt out" of life, and those with serious MH diagnoses are doomed and forced to live with their sickness and pain? Tell me how the fuck that is fair? Not that I'm dumb enough to believe there is fairness in the world. I always thought the word "fair" was a fucking joke.

Maybe I do care that I die with some dignity, it's just shamefully unfair that those of us that are cursed with terminal mental diseases, don't have a whole lot of options. I want to be well made-up, hair looking pretty good, and wearing clean clothes when I go. I want my iPod for appropriate music, the fan on, and to just generally be in physical comfort when I go. I want to make sure I've told the ones that I love the most that I'll love them forever, forgive my family members, mail out personal messages to some people. I want my organs harvested and my remains burnt. If there is some kind of service or wake, I will have a message directed toward anyone that might attend, and only one song to play at this thing, as corny as it may sound to some:  Don't Fear (The Reaper). This is a video with the lyrics for the music.



I don't care how silly or stupid it sounds to anyone. I've been listening to the song since I was a little kid, and have been waiting for a longass time for the time to come. In the end, it's all good and there's happiness. That's all I wanted: to be happy like other people. Blue Oyster Cult. Yeah, the "more cowbell" song.

Apparently, after being diagnosed with Biploar Disorder, PTSD, Anxiety Disorder, and BPD, Depression, gone through years of shrinks, diagnoses, med cocktails, etc, one is really not supposed to expect happiness. They're expected to take meds, see shrinks, work, have social relationships, and somehow overcome and/or "manage" their illnesses and their life. Baby, it's been so many years, you wouldn't believe. It ain't gonna ever happen. Unfortunately, I think my spouse isn't hip to real craziness, so he's in the dark, where he shall remain.

The spouse and I haven't talked about suicide in a very long time, but we've talked about death, and the possibility of an afterlife and all that. We've talked about god/no god (or goddess?) shit. We both want to be cremated. It would be kind of cool for anyone close to have some of the ashes, such as a vial or something, if they wanted. I'd rather be burnt than left to rot, though the first image that comes to mind when I hear cremation is some of the ovens I saw in a concentration camp near Berlin years ago.

I became a hardcore atheist at the age of 6 or 7. I destroyed a religious icon with fire, and expected god to strike me down dead if he existed. Mainly, I just couldn't believe there could be a being so brutal as to take my mother away in a car crash, have her covered in blood, and have me remember crawling all over her bloody body in great detail. These days, part of me wants to believe there is something bigger and greater out there than just this life. At this moment, I just want my child to survive and lead a happy life and the rest of the good people of the world. It's taken a long time, but I guess now you could call me an agnostic and not be far off. 

You never know what can happen, so I hope that I can enjoy whatever time I have left on earth with people that I love. Just a little is all I ask. I hope to ditch the crippling anxiety, and shunning socializing. I miss my girl so much and can't wait to see her soon.

Sidewalking

This my first post of an ongoing hell trip that some people call Bipolar. I've been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, PTSD, Anxiety, Borderline Personality Disorder, and fuck knows what else. I'm going to try to use this blog as my personal journal for the curiosity and/or amusement to some, but also to join a web ring of similar crazies. I can't stomp out the stigma of mental health disorders, but I can write about it so you can see what it's like to be certifiably nuts.



Today I told myself that I was going to walk almost 10 blocks to get to the drugstore to pick up my prescription, because I didn't want to have to ask the spouse if he could drive me. Also, I thought of a few things I could drag home from the nearby grocery store.

I washed up, brushed up, and completed the chore of my makeup mask. It felt almost as if I'd forgotten how to put on lipstick, mascara, and eyeliner. Come to think of it, the whole makeup process. At one point, I had to stop because I was feeling light-headed and anxiety ridden about my plan to get outside. Holding on to the sink and closing my eyes helped a bit with anxiety and more 'balloon head'. If someone had flicked me on the arm, I would have gone down hard.

Later, with sunglasses on and iPod in hand, I stepped out and locked the door, thinking how flimsy the door was. Then I was out on the sidewalk. I stumbled up the street to the store, which was about 10 blocks away. I had taken 200mg of seroquel and 2mg of clonazepam about 30 minutes earlier. Walking was difficult and hurt my back a bit.

I made it straight-ish up the sidewalk to the drug store. Walking was difficult and awkward, and I sort of tripped up at times. The only real walking I've done lately is walking a few miles on a treadmill. After staring at the variety of facial moisturizers for about 10 minutes or so, I was dizzy again and just sat on the floor, pretending to be checking out the bottom and lower shelves. No one was staring, at least from what I could tell.

I walked out of there with a few things, then found myself outside again, a little disoriented. And for some reason, I thought the alarm was going to go off as I walked out the door. There was the possibility that I could have been holding something and walked out of the store with it, unknowingly. It's happened before. But no buzzes or bells, so I crossed the street and went into the grocery store. Luckily, I knew exactly where the stuff I wanted was located in there, so it was almost an in and out trip.

Walking home was more difficult as the seroquel really started to kick in and my head was feeling like a balloon, my body a puppet on strings. It was a successful trip out, and all I wanted was to rip my clothes off and stand in front of the fan. Fuck it was rough, and I feel a bit traumatised by the whole thing. I was just glad to be back at home, alone in my cage again.