Use your fist and not your mouth

Holy fuck my skin is crawling and I just feel like breaking shit.

Goddess make it stop. I just want it to stop. I want to stop feeling out of control. I can always tell when I’m about to have an episode – I don’t feel like myself; I don’t feel real. My body actually starts to tingle. That was a few days ago on the drive home from work. This is the longest I’ve had an episode. Please Goddess make it fucking stop.

I’m exhausted from trying to keep it all together.


don’t touch the sleeping pills/they mess with my head

I’m trying really hard not to have a moment here.

I’m at my second job, in my office, trying not to cry. I’m trying to keep myself from isolating, trying to stay active.

Everyone goddamn sucks.

I feel it all coming to a screeching halt.

The anger, the irritability. The mania is ending. I was horny all fucking week but the husband was so tired from work all he could do was come home, eat and sleep. He’d be snoring before he hit the pillow. Now I’m aggravated because I can hear the leaves blowing outside.

Here. We. Go.

So, do I get points for fucking trying here?! I’m trying to not kick people in the throat. My big sister/best friend cancelled her trip to come and visit me from California – didn’t bother to tell me, just mentioned it in passing on Facebook to a mutual friend. Did I overreact and kick her in the throat? No. But I wanted to.

When the nurse at work insinuated that was lying yesterday and my boss wanted to have a meeting confronting her lying ass (because there was proof she was a lying little turd), did I kick the nurse’s teeth in? No. I had other shit to do. I’m not saying I should be rewarded for behavior that’s expected but it’s especially difficult to not fly off the handle when I’m hypomanic. When I’m at the tail end of it, I’m worse. This is when I typically want any and everything that breathes to… not.

…You know what? I want to go am going out tonight. I wanted to go out because TV does nothing for this anger. It does nothing to work out this mania. I wanted to do something constructive or at least entertaining.

But everyone goddamn sucks.

So I’m going alone.

Wake up Jack this isn’t fair

I can tell something’s wrong.

My meds aren’t right.

Or I’m not right.

Or skipping my meds last night because I overate wasn’t right; I was nauseous.

I get nauseous from my gallstone meds every time I take them – which is, unfortunately twice a day. If I don’t take them, I’ll develop gallstones again which I can definitely do without.

I want to kick and scream. I just have this urge to flail my legs and scream at the top of my lungs. No, I don’t have a reason. At least I don’t think I do.

The husband came home late from visiting his brother and father. He went straight to sleep. I have no cause for being upset. I spend every other night with him. What is my flipping problem?

But this isn’t that.

This is chemical. This is psychiatric.

It’s been 20 minutes and the feeling has minimally subsided.

I wanna shake him and wake him up. Not for any particular reason; just to say hi.

And I can’t fucking sleep. Countdown to work in 6 hours. This is what my mind is like when I’m hypomanic. Did I mention I scoured my bathtub, scrubbed the toilet, disinfected the sink, windexed the mirror, emptied the trash in the bedroom and bathroom and did the dishes? This place was fucking filthy and I couldn’t stand looking at it anymore.

…Yeah – it’s Xanax time. My mind is reeling and…

…Fuck now I’m texting my friend about marching in a protest on Saturday. Christ on a crutch what is this?

And shit the ice machine is making noise.

Why is my mind doing this.

Goddamn motherfucking fibromyalgia flare-up: my legs are on fire and my arms would feel better if someone ripped them the hell off.

At least I can brush my teeth from a clean sink tomorrow.

Oh my Goddess ALICE go to sleep.

I’m still breathin

I was breathing again.

Apparently I got drunk on date night and said some things I shouldn’t have.

Apparently I got drunk on date night and did some things I should have.

I was touchy-feely playing miniature golf. That’s a plus for someone whose love language is physical touch. Mine is acts of service, however I abhor physical touch; wanna take a wild guess why that might be? Give you a hint: it starts with rape.

Anyway. We got home and I almost spilled the beans on some other psychological problems I’ve been having since early childhood that have been exacerbated since I started working in this field – more so over the past 3-4 years or so. I’ve never spoken of them to a soul and, honestly, they’ve become so ingrained in my everyday life that I don’t think about them much. If I were to summarize these issues/behaviors in a nutshell, they would fall, broad spectrum, in the category of Anxiety Disordered behaviors. I could do without yet another diagnosis – as the behaviors I’m exhibiting as I age would definitely fall under that umbrella.

I’m over it. My doctor has treated me for something similar to no avail. I’ve lost hope regarding this particular set of behaviors. I will not discuss them, they continue to serve a purpose, they are not harmful to me or anyone else – just mildly inconvenient to me. When it becomes overwhelming or I develop more behaviors, I’ll worry about it. I do realize the behaviors cause undue mental anguish and stress at times however it’s, again, something I’ve been dealing with several times A DAY since I was 7 years old. I will not address this issue any further and will not disclose any further information regarding my behaviors.

Last night and this morning were also a shitshow. Again, I seem to not display the appropriate emotions or use the appropriate language. I thought I was doing better with things but I guess I wasn’t. My husband said he almost prefers me in a manic state. I’d be more touchy-feely, more loving, more horny.

I don’t know how to respond to that. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore. With the sweet comes the sour; with the mania eventually comes the depression. Don’t get me wrong – I love my mania. I absolutely love it… well, most of it. I’m productive (until I’m so frazzled that I’m not), I’m focused (until I’ve lost so much sleep that I’m physically unable to focus) – I’m on top of the world (shit, I think I AM the world). It’s an amazing feeling – to live on the top of a roller coaster, like you’ll never come down.

Until you come down. Straight down. All the way down. You wake up and the feeling’s gone. No warning, just pain. You think about taking a shower, but the idea of leaving the bed makes you wince in pain. It takes effort to change channels on the TV. All you can think of to do is cry until your eyes burn, and then until you’re out of tears. Then you try to cry but there’s nothing left.

That’s rock bottom. The emptiness. The thoughts come creeping in about your inadequacies, how you and your disease are nothing but a burden. Then more thoughts come until you complete the cycle in two ways: pull yourself through the pain (survival) or out of the pain (suicide).

Hopefully you, dear reader, find a way through every time.

In any case, I’ve found myself trapped mid- cycle. I’m at what is called “baseline.” The problem is I have a pretty flat affect*. Many psychiatrists would consider this “stable” considering my past, however my husband does not. He knows I’m capable of more vacillations in my mood (see: drunken golfing). I know that tweaking my meds could mean more than just a “vacillation” – it could mean mood lability.

Do I risk my certain stability and new job? Do I stay an automaton and risk my marriage? He shouldn’t have to live like this. And I don’t know how to fix it.

*until a situation arises and then I tend to respond appropriately.

amnesia lane

Children should be seen and not heard, apparently.

When I was a child, I would frequent the principal’s office, complaining of stomachaches. I told him to call my mother or grandmother immediately, I needed to go home. I couldn’t take those damn math tests, I couldn’t go to recess – the pain was too intense. I needed to lay down. He said to get up and go back to class – I was fine.

My father was scary to me. He never came to pick me up and when he did, I didn’t want to go. We always did what he wanted to do and after all the horrible things told to me about him by my mother and grandmother – about what he did to our family – why should I give him a chance to be my dad? I was 8 years old and given the choices of an 18 year old and provided with information no child needed to know – ever.

My principal didn’t know what I battled at home. And he didn’t know I was bullied at school. When I tried to explain this, he laughed. I explained who was bullying me: the Spanish teacher’s daughter. The teacher, who’s husband had government plates on his car, had a daughter who was untouchable. The bullying continued and so did the stomachaches.

My grades dropped, but my grade in Math dropped the furthest and fastest. I remember my math teacher held a contest – the students who reached page 100 in our textbook by a certain date could have a pizza party. I didn’t learn as fast as they did, so I wasn’t invited – the whole 3rd grade class, I heard, had a lot of fun. I was forced to sit in the classroom next door with the French teacher watching me attempt to finish Math problems I didn’t understand. My Math teacher told me how stupid I was. I never told my parents; I thought she was right. I didn’t learn until after college I had a learning disability.

Fast forward: I was hospitalized in 2009 after a huge breakdown overseas on a vacation with my family. I came home and had some very bizarre thoughts (I’m not going to go into it. They were very, very bad.) I woke up after my first night in the ward and went to breakfast and sat across from this lady; she looked very familiar.

It was my Math teacher.

She didn’t remember me, of course. I asked her about her life, what she was doing in a psych ward, blah blah. Inside, however, I have to say a part of me was laughing. Pure schadenfreude. After everything she put me through as a child? My self esteem. My self image. My confidence. She was supposed to recognize there was something wrong with me – not berate me and call me names. What kind of teacher does that to a child?!

Another part of me felt pity. How fucking sad is it that after all she put me through, she ended up here, across from me, suffering from the same shit. You’re no better than the 7 year old child you used to torment; how utterly pathetic. I felt sorry for her.

The question is: did I let her have it? Did I let her know what she did and ream her out for those years of pain? The answer is no. She asked me what I’ve been doing all these years and how I’ve been. I told her I come to the hospital to have my meds re-adjusted occasionally and need to be monitored by my psychiatrist, otherwise I’m doing quite well. I told her I graduated from a Big 10 school and am pursuing my Master’s. She said how wonderful that was to hear, how great it was to see that I wasn’t letting my illness hold me back from pursuing my goals and she’s happy I was still doing well. She said she was sorry to have run into me under these circumstances but glad to have seen me again.

In the end, maybe my not cussing her out was something else. Maybe it was more than pity, more than schadenfreude. Maybe it was empathy. Call me a softy, but kicking another member of my club – club mental illness (contact me after the meeting, we give out membership cards and there are cookies in the back) – when they’re down seems like an awfully shitty thing to do. We’re all dealing with our own stuff; who needs drama from 25 years ago too? I realized that while she was a mealy cunt towards me when I was a child, I’m not a child anymore. I can advocate for myself and no one will ever speak to me that way again. Alison from back then, unfortunately, has a lot of healing left to do however it won’t be healed just by cussing people out otherwise I’d have no voice left for the rest of my life.

what about us

I don’t know why I still have this site. I fear it may have caused more harm than good. My husband reads it sometimes to try and gain some insight into my mental state and in so doing, has learned some of the things I think when I’m stark raving mad, seething with anger, or feeling emotionally drained and alone. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Do I want him to see the real me or just the front I attempt to put up every day? I haven’t decided.

It’s easier to write here and let him stumble on it himself than tell him how I’m feeling – there’s safety in this. When I’m honest, I can see the pain all over his face. I don’t like hurting him but it seems inevitable. This disease seems to hurt everyone I meet in one way or another. I’m pretty sure I’ve irreparably damaged my relationship with several family members – my husband included. Are some of them still around? Sure. Would these relationships be different if my functioning was different? I’d bet my life on it.

I’ve started working full time again, a different place in an administrative role – barely any patient contact with much better pay and even better benefits. It’s tough being the new kid on the block, but I hope this will be the place from which I retire.

This disease doesn’t seem to leave any room for someone else’s needs. He’s sick? I feel sicker. He’s sad? I’m depressed or manic. He’s horny? I have no libido. He’s tired? I’m wide awake. He’s awake? My meds knocked me out 20 minutes ago. He needs to talk? I can’t focus.

Between my disease and my general dysfunction, I still don’t know why he stays. My self esteem doesn’t allow me to accept anything other than the idea that he settled, he’s foolish or has exquisitely horrible taste in women. I feel like I’ve manipulated him somehow into being with me – there’s no other way someone would want to; no one else has in the past.

It’s amazing how my brain “works.” My grandiosity will allow me to believe I’m more intelligent than most and I can do no wrong. I will admit when I’m wrong, but these incidents are a rarity. He is the most intelligent person I’ve ever met, but is a complete and utter fool for having married and stayed with me which makes me think he’s not as intelligent as he appears. He should have abandoned ship by now if he were smarter. Maybe that’s why I treat him the way I do sometimes. I don’t know. I say all of this knowing if he left, I’d be nothing – a complete shell of a human being. That’s not a reason for him to stay; I’m just stating facts.

When he breathes in, I exhale. If he were to stop, there’d really be no point would there? Who the fuck can exhale without breathing in first?