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. 

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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 New Antipsychotic Is Good News?

Won't you have a piece of the pie too?

Found this in "images" and it looks like it could be for a couple different antipsychotics, eventual side effects if a lot of weight is gained from them, and no action is being taken.

The date that I quit the generic seroquel was May 18, and I still haven't had an anxiety attack. I still haven't gone out on a whim and jumped on a bus anywhere either. Disappointing, but not totally. I did not cause myself to develop agoraphobia to the extent that it has affected me, and I have to remind myself of that, and stop mentally punishing myself for that.

One thing I do need to do though, is make more of an effort to literally take steps out the door. Have a smoke on the balcony or on the bench near the door outside where you're not supposed to, due to stupid smoking laws. There, on the bench, I can sit and count the red roses that are trying to grow and bloom in spite of an overgrown bush of some sort trying to steal their sunlight.

Then there is the starschmucks on the corner that I was going to on occasion, which I'm really getting tired of. All of their seats are uncomfortable cheap pieces of shit, and it doesn't help my back, that's been acting up since I went off the seroquel.

I only realized today why I was a little instantly teary/instantly not - pms! I had an appointment with my Dr shrinker today and 4 weeks ago, so this would be the time! No wonder I was feeling a little weird and kind of down the other day. I haven't had mood swings though. It's pretty damn amazing. He - my Dr - told me today that the topomax actually does work for some people to manage the mood swings, but he's used to using more successful meds, and since I'm in that "spectrum" of disorders (bipolar), that it's eventually going to come back. I agreed. It's always been a pattern, no matter what the med cocktail.

We talked about what med to add, and I told him that I'd been doing some research. It turned out that we had been thinking of the same things. Abilify or generic Geodon (ziprasidone). I had been doing research over the weekend and making myself paranoid over what I'd end up with (or refusing to take). I found a shitload of terrible side effects for women for abilify, lots of possible side effects for all drugs in that damn class. So I had thought I'd try the ziprasidone again since it had gone generic, checked my Medicare Part D insurance, saw it was $80 a month. Ouch, but way less than abilify. 

I'd had the brand name ziprasidone before, Geodon, given to me for free, as the clinic I went to had a ton of free samples they were getting all the time. It was ok the last time I took it, but I can't remember what was going on at the time that I switched to something else. I'm sure I was on a few different things. What's new. 

I'm just glad I left the office without a single tear shed, and without a new Rx for an antipsychotic. I especially didn't want one because I woke up this morning all off balance, and have been all afternoon. I got up and nearly fell over on my way to the bathroom. After that, I was having to be careful not to hit the walls, etc. I was wearing my sunglasses at the Dr's office, and don't remember being so off balance there. Maybe I was faking it. They didn't try to make me get weighed in public, but asked how much I weighed for the record. I'd lost 10lbs of seroquel weight already. My word was good enough! :) I don't know, but the second I walked out the last set of doors into the daylight, when I was done with it all, I was all off balance again, even with sunglasses. 

Lucky I got a ride from the spouse. He didn't care about going to work anyway today. He's on "light duty" for 2 weeks due to injury at work, and filing an L&I claim. The owner of the co. is such a dick that he actually said in a meeting (I was told) with all workers present, that workers will be paying more because of L&I claims (referring to the spouse). Blame? Threatening? Both? I'd want to punch the fucker's face in. I can see why he wants to get the fuck out of there. Bad, bad scene and fuck-ups running the jobs, he says, doing things wrong. 

He said the other day that his life is weird, but he wouldn't really explain what he meant. He said "... living here, this place, us..." Then a bit later I said "your 'broken down wife'", as he once referred to me, thinking it was not an insult. Well it was a long time ago, and it stuck. He didn't really want to talk any more about it. I couldn't get him to talk much this morning either apart from what a dick the owner of his co. is. 

What will become of us? We need to talk, and he just can't seem to get into it...

Mixed Mess

Last time I wrote, I decided that I wasn't having any feelings or any emotions at all. I  just felt more blank than numb, thanks to seroquel and clonopin, if that makes any sense.  Well, that didn't last too long because I got a phone call that I forgot that I was supposed to expect.

Somehow, during my wandering around on the internet a few weeks ago, I found (http://attemptsurvivors.com) on which a legit woman was trying to get in contact with people that have had experience(s) with suicide attempts, the ER treatment, mental health hospitalization treatment, involuntary or not. I thought it would be interesting to contact her and see what would happen, if anything. I didn't really expect a response. That was the phone call that I wasn't expecting that I should have expected. It was from Susan Stefan. She turned out to be "Nationally recognized mental health lawyer...began interviewing dozens of people who’ve been suicidal for an upcoming book on the subject." She's written other books in the past, and done other work related to the shit treatment of the MH system's treatment of the mentally ill.

Anyway, she went way far back to the beginning with her questions, which triggered instant trauma and tears for me, but I kept telling her my story as she asked. She was really cool, actually, treated me well, and was very familiar with the MH system in this country, of course. She really liked some of the things that I said, and asked if she could quote me on those. Of course! 

One of the questions she asked at the end was about assisted suicide. I said I believe that people with certain illnesses should have the right to that, like BP and Schizophrenia, even though there are some "high functioning" people out there with Bipolar, Schizophrenia, etc. I said that I felt my diagnoses - Bipolar in particular - was a terminal disease, and should be treated as such. It is treatable, sure, but I still suffer every single fucking day. Would people treat an animal like that, that was suffering every single day? No, they'd shoot them in the head or they'd euthanize them. They would be merciful and kind, and put them out of their misery and suffering. Why should animals be treated more kindly than people that have suffered for the majority of their life?

My illnesses will never go away, the pain is never going to go away, it's treatments have not done much for me, therefore I consider them to be terminal illnesses that are are eventually going to make me end up taking my life. I'm a ticking time bomb. I think about it every single day in one form or another. I think about finally being at peace, without pain, leaving my horrible suffering and my painful brain behind.

After the long phone chat with Ms Stefan, she said she'd be in contact with me in a couple of months again to let me know where she's at on her book, and the material she was planning on using from me for her book. So that was cool.

What wasn't cool was that after that, was that I started looking up assisted suicide law and shit all over the country, and got lost in that for hours. Somehow, I pulled myself out of that and turned to something else. I can't remember what, of course...

I did find an interesting page today...

Today the anxiety's come on even earlier than normal. Fuck! I feel like the life's been sucked out of me as well. To add to that crap, I have to see this new therapist today. I hope I don't scare her. She better impress me quickly, or I'm going to start calling around again right away. My body can not handle the treadmill.

No trip to starschmuck's today. I didn't want to grace them with my presence after the way that prick treated me the other day. I didn't want to give them my money. Only 2 cups of coffee, so no extra caffeine, but still anxiety has come on earlier than normal again. About an hour too early. I was woken up too early by the spouse's fucking alarm at 5 though, and got up, even though he didn't. I'm going to tell him to set it for later, cause I don't need to be getting up that early. Otherwise I won't be making coffee for anyone but myself. Fucker. I am bummed out/pissed that I didn't get to practice being outside.

I do not feel like getting on the treadmill or taking a shower. I will end up washing up and putting some real clothes on. I don't have far to walk, but it's going to freak me out. I hope my music can calm me - as well as my dark sunglasses. Fuck, I'll wear a hoodie too, and little or no makeup. Who cares? I just feel like shit that's been trampled on.

I'm going to go watch "Supernatural" to take my mind off of physical and mental shit... escape.
This post needs some music for those that don't watch the show.

Post Treadmill Cool Down

I read my last post the other day and decided, its title was perfect. It was trash. It made absolutely no sense at all. The rantings of a crazy broad running in circles in a round padded room. What a pile of shit! I laughed at it yesterday and today. At least I had something to laugh about, even if I was the butt of the joke. The song was great, though.

Update on "SuperBetter" game (SuperBetter.com):

It's helped me out most days, guilt-tripping me into doing things that I want to do but need that extra massive, in-your-face-in-writing "Quests" to complete. You don't want to fail. You don't want to record that you fought various "Bad Guys" and lost. It shows up on your activity feed, I guess you'd call it? You want to do things to see yourself progress in gaining strength in various categories, including emotional and physical.

You can be creative and make your own "Quests", "Bad Guys", and "Power Ups" that help you along in your success. There are also links to information on the science of parts of the game that are interesting.

I've gone from just curling up in a ball again, in a safe, possibly overmedicated state, freaking out with anxiety nonetheless, to taking a brisk walk to nowhere while watching "Supernatural" or On Demand tv. I'm up to 2mi now, and am working my way back to 3-5, 6 days a week. Ugh, meaning 6 fucking showers a week! Two miles may sound like nothing, but it's a hell of a lot more than staring at the huge machine in your living room, and watching the gigantic fucker collect dust. I even allow myself to wear and dirty more shirts, pants, socks, which I felt too guilty about doing before. Feeling like I didn't deserve to wear clean clothes.

I still haven't managed to get outside like I'd like to, but I believe it has decreased my daily anxiety levels. I also don't freak out if I get separated from someone if I'm in the store with them, as long as we have phones. It's taking time, but shit, man, it sounds like things are progressing, slow, but better than before SuperBetter.

Now if I could just beat the shit out of that "Kitchen Monster" ("Bad Guy") I created... I should have called it Bessie the Kitchen Grazing Cow.

Final word at the moment is crippling anxiety levels lowered! Exercise increased! Feeling good about some little accomplishments I've made toward feeling better mentally, emotionally, and physically, etc.  

Ok, back to the rest of my stupid life. Yeah, my spouse was being a dick the other day. He doesn't know how to have a relationship with someone for more than a few months, let alone as long as we've been together. He's never lived with anyone other than me, he's a Brit, he's never lived with a crazy woman before. I'm not making excuses for him, in my eyes, ears, head, and heart, he's pretty ignorant, and the crazy hyper-emotional part of me says that I'm easily hurt by some shit, take some things to heart that shouldn't be, and blow some things out of proportion. He's a bit like me in some of those ways as well. Sensitive. Missing and/or abusive dad, not much else. Depression, taken care of by meds, he says.

So I'm in my cool down and relax period after my time on the treadmill. I'm supposed to be letting myself be OK with being stinky, sweaty, messy, nasty, runny old makeup, in my underwear, etc, It's hard for me, because I used to feel rushed to take a shower right afterward, as if I was going to die or something. No more pressure. It'll happen. No more potential anxiety-causing shit like that. Relax and be proud that I matched yesterday's record, and that in the very near future, I'm going to be breaking some more records and taking advantage of our DVD collection.

I don't feel so shitty today, but I am a little anxious about the possibility of having to go to the grocery store, even though I've made a list, know where everything is, will have my phone, and know that once I get in there that I won't feel too anxious at all. I'll be too distracted by all the movement and shit around me. I'll be OK. I'll keep telling myself that I'll be OK.. I'll be OK. I'll be OK. I'll be OK.

The Devil Within

                                                            "Supernatural" soundtrack*

Well, I guess I can call myself lucky that my spouse is still laid off from work, and could take me to the (meds) shrink on top of ghetto hill. That awful ride would have taken me about 1.5hrs and 2 buses, starting at  about 7am, plus I would have frozen, even in my lovely cashmere sweater and scarf. I'd say I'm not so lucky because my shrink started asking me all kinds of questions about upsetting things that I should be talking about in therapy. I think he wants to say, "You're seeing an idiot." Anyway, he dug up some horrific guilt, failure, and shitty issues that I've tried to bury. Made me fucking cry. And I was hell bent on not crying a drop when I was there. Shit. He even distracted me enough to make me forget about asking about a new pill on tv that I was going to ask about.

I really shouldn't complain at all, because like a dahling, he upped my dose of topiramate (Topomax) which is supposed to be yet another anti-convulsant, BP, etc, but one of the side effects is supposed to be weight loss. And I'm taking generic seroquel, so this will hopefully help motivate me more to get rid of those extra 10ish lbs that mysteriously appeared on my body at some point. This is the reason he's giving it to me anyway, plus its lamictal-type properties. I looked up topomax and had to laugh out loud that it's given out for migraine pain! Who the fuck is selling that big fat juicy lie? I've had dozens of migraines, and it's been no good at all. I'd rather have terrible migraines and be losing weight than no migraines and my weight being steady and stuck as it is.

The weight gain thing has added to my dread of going outside alone, of course, but I don't know how much since it's winter and you can really pile on the layers of clothes..All I know is that I felt more confident, now and then, when I was at a weight that wasn't so bad, but still overweight to me. Yeah, I got that "I'm fat and ugly" demon riding on my shoulder since I stopped being a size 0, then 1, then 2, which is not unreasonable for my height. I just want to look good to me, because it would feel good to me, and it would certainly add to my self-confidence. Man, I sure miss that self-confidence you float down the street with when you're in a good manic phase.No matter how much I weigh, I will always find some spot to call fat and be disgusted and depressed about it. Yeah, I have weight/body issues too to pile on that big pile of miserable shit I fight every day

Somehow, I managed to force myself to walk on the treadmill about 1.5hrs after I came home from the Dr and Rx store. It was so hard because I felt kicked around emotionally, and I was still hurtin' from my appointment earlier. I'm slowly making it back to my old daily goal of 3-5mi a day. I crank up "Supernatural" on TNT, the fan, and try to walk without thinking about my body. I try not to notice how much whiskey they're drinking on the show. I try not to notice all the beer either. Sometimes, to push myself to keep going, I think about the death of a person that I hate, and that deserves a horrific, painful, messy death, like watching him get set on fire after a good beating with a baseball bat. By me. Sometimes I think about the sound of bones breaking and skull being crushed, as well as all the different shades of red, black, and blue he'd be. And the blood. I like to think about the flames lapping at him, and making him scream and cry like a little girl. I wonder if he'd smell like BBQ'd chicken, or just burning shit, like the steaming heap that he is.

I tried to fight off the evil kitchen monster (aka the devil) that keeps dragging me in there to nibble on something, but I lost. At least it wasn't in a really bad way. I stuffed myself with canned green beans and frozen brussels sprouts. Who the hell does that? A fucking nut like me.


*song added to "Suicidal Soundtrack"

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:

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.

I Wanna Be Sedated

Shrink day today, which meant enduring a bus ride to and from the place, as well as seeing the shrink. I missed out on most of Supernatural this morning, but made sure I was well medicated enough to go out. I took some extra seroquel and clonazepam for the trip.

The walk to the bus stop, wait, and ride was not too stressful, I had my ipod on shuffle, and what should come up as I'm getting to my destination? Don't Fear (The Reaper). Naturally, it triggered suicidal thoughts in my head that I was definitely NOT going to tell the shrink about. I talked more about what I want - to feel "good" enough to do all the things that normal people do and take for granted.

I would have never made it there if it wasn't for the 350mg seroquel. I wanted to be out of it. I wanted the sedation effect that is a "side effect". I looked in the mirror before I went into the shrink's office and looked at my eyes. Never had I seen more glassy eyes on a person that's still standing up.




On the way back, I stopped off at starbucks to get a fappucino (sp - I don't care) as my treat for making it to and from the appointment without a freakout, and without yelling at anyone on the bus or in the street. That fucker was smaller than I expected as well as more costly than expected. Fuck it. I deserved a prize and no one else is going to give it to me (double entendre intended).

Fuck home life... Not looking forward to the spouse's return. This is my dirty little secret, this blog and twitter account. I just want to go to bed and sleep next to the fan. My spouse won't even bother to talk to me much. Sucks badly. I feel like a ghost here. A ghost that does the dishes and the cleaning.

I need water...

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.