Wake up in this world with no pain

Ever feel like a failure?

That’s how I feel when I get things wrong and people can see.

That’s how I feel when I send a company wide email without an attachment.

Then send it again with the wrong information. Some my fault, some others.

Big company.




Unfit for duty, soldier.

So I woke up with a good ol’ auto-immune disorder flare-up. Definitely triggered by stress as I’d worked on the same 2 issues with my boss ALL day and still had no resolution. I left an hour late and actually told him, “I’ve corrected and reviewed the documents a FIFTH time. I’m seriously done.” He fell out laughing. He didn’t think it was as big of a deal that I’d clouded people’s boxes as much as I had. He told me I did a good job.

I didn’t believe a word of it.

And now my entire body is aching in pain.

I want to call in so bad, but a soldier doesn’t stop marching just because of a little rain.


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.

I’m so lost without you

I’m genuinely concerned about something here.
Maybe I’m out of line.
Maybe I’m wrong. It happens occasionally.

All I know is that I’m fucking irritated and as much as I don’t have a right to be I feel like I have a right to be.

My brother in law. I don’t know how to handle my brother in law. I don’t know why I get so monumentally annoyed by him. He does stupid shit and we’re supposed to co-sign on it. We’re supposed to turn a blind eye to it. Nicest kid you’ll ever meet. Since he’ll eventually be my child, I’m glad to know he’ll be a polite one.

He’s 30 fucking years old. He’s never held a job. He’s never driven a car. He’s never finished school. Why? He’s his daddy’s little boy! Can’t use the good china – it might chip. The other china, however – my husband – fuck it: set it out for the guests or use it as frisbees. He wouldn’t give two shits, until he ran out of shit to eat off of.

When he needs dependability, he runs for the husband. Because he coddled the ever-loving shit out of China Boy and when his appendix almost burst 5 years ago, China Boy called my husband first instead of 911.

Because that’s what you do in emergencies: call family that can’t do shit in the moment instead of trained fucking paramedics. No goddamn sense about himself, that boy. Has tons of opinions about how the world works – sponsored by fucking YouTube and Wikipedia.

I’m convinced I’m going to raise this boy as my own child when the man dies. As much as I absolutely dislike the man, I don’t wish that on him. However, considering his penchant for alcohol, I can imagine his insides are either rotting away or pickling themselves. I’m not a doctor, but that shit isn’t known to prolong one’s life.

…China Boy gets a motherfucking allowance, y’all.

No bills to pay. No job. No responsibilities. Free money. No student loans. Free food. Chauffeured everywhere.

Thirty. Years. Of. Age.

And then I feel like a dick when I want to change the password on the free Netflix and Hulu Live with Showtime that he has access to. Because he seems so overly active with that job hunt.

Because I pay the Netflix. With my fucking job.

My husband pays the Hulu Live plus Showtime. With his job. And China Boy contributes nothing.

My husband frequently covers his meals and drinks when we go out and I scream internally “That’s my fucking mortgage! What the fuck are you doing?!” He has a savings account. This is not someone that needs your assistance in purchasing a goddamn taco and beer, OK?

Did the husband ever get any money from the man? Nope. Not one red cent. Written out of the will, because of me. (I only care because of how it must have hurt the husband to hear that. I don’t care about the money part. I have my own; I make my own. Fuck that man and all that he stands for. He was never good to the husband and he’s shooting China Boy in the foot. He can ride his pride train all the way to hell.)

I feel bad. I feel bad for not wanting to be around China Boy too much (remember? He’s a really nice kid – wouldn’t hurt a soul). I see someone who is emotionally… stunted (and knows it – see: Asperger’s) but does absolutely fuck all about it. I think that’s what pisses me off so much.

And the man just lays in the cut doing nothing, twiddling his goddamned thumbs.

Worse than my father. And that’s saying something considering he is in the same fucking house watching this shitshow.

Perfect by nature

I’m unsure how to keep functioning in a 9-5 setting with the overwhelming emotions I have. I’m working in the setting I’ve always imagined myself, but even after several months, the pressure is becoming too intense. I don’t know if it’s my perfectionism or that the expectations are truly insurmountable. When I try my best, I still forgot to dot an “I” or cross a “T.” I’m not used to being micromanaged – I’m used to being either my own boss or being left to my own devices, figuring it out on my own and having it all come together in the 11th hour. Having extreme anxiety like I do makes it very difficult for me to be micromanaged. With someone looking over my shoulder, I make more mistakes.

I’ve never been reprimanded at work before. Ever. By anyone. Before today.

I was reprimanded twice.

This doesn’t happen to me.

I was following a directive and was later reprimanded for not following another directive because I was following the first one given to me. My boss gave less than 2 shits about my apology, no matter how honest and sincere it truly was.

I was reprimanded in a group email by a higher ranking team member. Instead of talking to me privately because of a very simple computer error, they felt it necessary to correct and reprimand me via email and send it out to our entire team.

It’s only Monday. A shitty, shitty Monday and it’s not a dream. I had to take 1.25mg of Xanax to get through the whole day – just to keep me from crying and walking out the door with my middle finger in the air. So my pdoc is going to have to up this prescription; back in 2012-2018 I used to take 0.5mg – not this 0.25mg baby shit.

Because I cannot. I kept trying to think of water rolling off a duck’s back, but it wasn’t working. I just felt dejected, pathetic, stupid and livid. I took a nap when I got home but forced myself to go to dinner with Mom and the husband.

Still feel like shit. Still want to call off tomorrow but it won’t help anything, plus I can’t afford to lose the hours.

So I ate some chocolate. I’ll take more Xanax because my nerves are shot and nothing is working to calm me down. I feel like fucking crying.

…Ok, now I am crying. What the friggety fuck.

I’m done with today.

Oh, to feel nothing again. What a blessing that was. If I can’t be manic, Goddess please, let me feel nothing. Everything in between is either annoying or torture and I’m not in the fucking mood anymore.

It never was and never will be

A “doorknob confession” is an industry term used when a client drops a bomb on you right before the end of a session – often as a means of avoidance. Usually I hear things like, “I’m divorcing my wife,” or “I relapsed and did 3 lines of coke over the weekend” 43 minutes into a 45 minute session. It gives us zero time to address the issue until next time and they know it. They’d been sitting on it for the whole session and didn’t want to address the elephant only they could see. My attitude is typically, fine – you’re the one that has to live with that elephant sitting on your chest all week. See you next time.

I detest doorknob confessions. They deter progress. I especially hate what I now call doorknob confrontations.

Doorknob confrontations are something my husband uses. I’m getting ready for work, getting ready to leave for something and as I’m making my lunch or putting on my shoes to walk out the door I’m confronted with an issue that’s been plaguing him – usually some unsavory behavior of mine that’s being called on the carpet.

The emotional dumping continues as I’m trying to mentally prepare for the hell that is my job, the anxiety-inducing traffic or sifting through the fridge to locate something suitable to eat. I end up providing half-thought out answers or disregarding the conversation altogether out of frustration and anger. He likely ends up feeling neglected, brushed aside and defeated because his feelings, in that moment, appear not to matter and his requests and concerns fall on deaf ears. I leave and carry his emotional baggage with me to work (or wherever), making me effectively useless at my job (or whatever) because the situation is unresolved – leaving me seething because this could have been remedied by discussing it the night before or when I came home. He gets to air his grievances and go off to work (or wherever), having emptied his bag of shitastic emotions all over me. I’m glad he feels better but now I get to wear his shit like a cloak plus my depression, anxiety and what my therapist has deemed “imposter syndrome” to work and try not to collapse under all that pressure. To add to this, I’m expected to greet him with smile like Mary goddamn Sunshine when he comes home from work.

…Covered in emotional baggage and excrement.


So… I’m supposed to look like this?

When I feel like this:

Oh, OK. I’ll be sure to self-edit for everyone’s comfort. Fabulous.

I know I’m not supposed to mind read, but if I were to air my grievances – these particular ones, the response would likely be: “Nevermind, forget I said anything. Let’s just forget about it. Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.” This completely shoves the problem under the rug, further stuffing his feelings inside until he brings it up again in a few weeks/months and I’m wearing the cloak again. It’s cyclical.

I believe that children are the future

Sigh. I don’t think anyone understands or will understand how I feel. The sheer anxiety and anger that I feel when the topic of children comes up is almost uncontrollable.

Some days I don’t want them at all. Some days I want them so bad it’s all I think about. Some days I’m completely ambivalent.

Today, I don’t want any. Tomorrow may be different.

Everyday is the same however – the anger and anxiety. That hasn’t changed since the abortion. I’ve been angry and anxious since. I now know what lies ahead when the time comes to have children.

Y’see, there’s never been a doubt: I’m going to have children, regardless of whether or not I’m having a “no” day, “ambivalent” day or “yes” day. I’ve been told that changing my mind about wanting children was a dealbreaker. I’m not ending my marriage. So the kid is my future.

I’m not sure I’ll ever not be angry. I doubt I’ll ever get rid of this anxiety – it exists in several forms. What I do know is that I’m getting older and the longer I wait, the narrower my chances are to have kids.

Today is still not that day. Neither is tomorrow.

I was on a lot of medications when I first got pregnant. I was excited to be a mom – surprised, but excited. Broke, but excited. Terrified, but excited.

I remember hearing about the time my mom told my father she was pregnant with me. She told me she was so happy. She’d had a miscarriage the year before so she was excited to have another chance at motherhood. She ran up to him and gave him a big hug; he never hugged back. He was completely stoic. He never wanted children. Kinda set the tone for our relationship for a few decades.

I made my husband come with me to a random gyno appointment one year. I wanted him to visualize the pain and anguish of the duck lips. Hearing about how scary a prostate exam was was beginning to wear on me (it’s one finger – are you fucking kidding me?!). I told the gyno I’d been having some weird symptoms – lack of appetite (weird for me at that time), nausea, no period for 2 months (which was not uncommon for me), but nothing too extraordinary. She wanted to do an ultrasound just to be sure.

There it was. I was a mom. She said I had been a mom for 6 weeks by that time. Goddamn home pregnancy tests are for shit. Blood test came back positive. Imagine little Alice: a mom. Seemingly everyone can, except Alice.

But I remember that day and all the days leading up to that day. I saw my husband’s face in that chair when my gyno said we were going to be parents. It was the face I’d always imagined my father had when my mom said she was pregnant with me. A face that said, “Great. What do I do now?” That was not the face I wanted my child’s father to have when they heard he was coming into the world. That’s what I’ve always feared – since I was young. I wanted him to be happy, not afraid of how we would afford to feed him. I knew in that moment this wasn’t going to happen.

It dawned on me in the days following that my body had been pumped full of medications for years, non-stop. Just like any other drugs, there are side effects that cause damage to the fetus so I started doing some research. Even the most benign of side effects wasn’t benign enough to allow myself to go through with it. I’d been on one specific, life-saving medication for almost 7 years and read where it caused severe birth defects.

So I made the toughest decision I’ve ever made in my life. Because that day, was a “yes” day. And I had to do it anyway. Because I didn’t want my child growing up with numerous birth defects that I didn’t have the money to fix – that not even God would be guaranteed to fix. My psychiatrist told me given my medications and risk of defects, I made the right decision. The child would have likely been deformed.

So the idea of having children now sends me to a dark place. I think of my lost child. He (I always felt it was a boy) would have been 8 in July. I think of having to ween myself off all my medications before trying to get pregnant, then actually trying to get pregnant, staying off all my medications during pregnancy, enduring childbirth, staying off my medications to breastfeed, and enduring postpartum depression and think to myself: why is it the people asking me to do this aren’t the ones paying for this? Either paying for my medical bills when I completely lose my shit, my mortgage when I lose my job after I lose my shit, gaining stretch marks, gaining weight, or taking time off work? I’m the one that has a lot to lose here – my sanity, my job, my body (that I just got back) – but hey, I’m just the vessel. I’m just here to deliver the goods.

Hell, talking about this makes this a “no” lifetime and makes me want to lose my shit.

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.