Snuggly Wuggly

Remember back in the day when I made that post about how my daily routines really helped my depression?

Well why in the hell doesn’t that apply to me anymore?!

Since I’ve moved in with Matt my “routines” have been all over the place. Sure, I wake up for work at roughly the same time everyday, but it’s mostly a hectic mess just trying to get to work on time. I have a basic order of things, but the order of things doesn’t include breakfast or checking my stories or touching the cat or appreciating the pretty colors and bird sounds that come with early morning…

I’m a hectic spazoid now. Mostly because I can’t make myself get out of bed. I’m a nasty, habitual snoozer. I never really used to be except on weekends… Now I snooze 3, 4, sometimes up to 5 times before I actually start waking up. And “waking up” is basically just checking myfitnesspal food plan for the day and putting off GETTING OUT OF BED as long as possible.

Man this is unhealthy. I am in a rush every morning and I hate it but even when I try to change (set my alarm later so I can’t snooze as long, make Matt help me wake up, pop a mint in my mouth after the first alarm, etc) the efforts are usually futile. It’s frustrating.

Somehow, someway, I will become good at mornings again. It’d be so cool to have breakfast/cat/crossword puzzle time in the morning again.

To be fair, it was a lot easier when I worked at the restaurant at 10:45 in the morning versus my now 8:20 in the morning. Especially considering 8 was when I would wake up. I do NOT see myself waking up at 5:30 just to enjoy the mornings. Though, it’d be kind of nice…

At least I’ve been getting to work on time more consistently recently. Yay small victories.

This room smells like a mix of chocolate mint candle and bowl of caesar salad from dinner I’ve yet to clean up. I’d better hop to it.

Peace.

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Look at this Photograph

Okie dokie so I’m taking the plunge with today’s topic. Belive it or not, I don’t enjoy sounding like a whiney whine-face. I do like whining, though….

Damnit.

Anyway I wanted to blog about my issues with my mom and my dad’s divorce. This really ought to be old news by now, seeing as they  divorced almost 24 years ago, but I feel like it affected a lot of my personality and traits and important skills like coping and knowing how to trust and all that and stuff. Mostly because I was around 1 year old and I literally grew up with it. (And I still had to deal with fighting, damnit. So much fighting).

There’s a lot to the story because they both got remarried within a year, and I have what I would call “a curious history” with all 4 of my parents. It’s mostly because I turned into a crazy bitch near the end of high school. Plus there are the (half) siblings and the ≈20 living arrangements I’ve acquired on top of the occasional verbal bloodbaths that ensued between 9 of the possible pairings of these 4. Maybe even more so if you take into account the incredibly tense vocal-almost-phsycial-half-the-time wars between just 2 of them. And if you include my yelling and being yelled at 🙂

Basically from the time I started developing a clear memory my mom was dating/engaged to my stepdad. Then, by the time I was 6, my dad married my stepmom out of the blue. Surprise! My mom and stepdad married less than a year after that. I only got to be at one wedding. But boy did I look good in that flower girl dress! And somewhere there is VHS video footage of me stealing swipes of frosting from the wedding cake during the reception. And I thought I was sneaky. Imagine all the fun I’d have had at 2 weddings within a year! If I could turn back time… (is my issue with this apparent yet?)

Ahem.

I lived with Mom mostly forever, then at 16 I did that thing that teenagers do and decided to switch parents. Then my mental breakdown really happened and I moved back in with Mom because I make no sense and wanted to be 3 again cuz I was a hopeless dipshit and everything sucked and suddenly I was 23 still living with Mom. That simply wouldn’t do. Now you’ll find me in (how funny, in’t it?) Matt’s mom’s basement. Almost 24. No big deal, right? RIGHT?!

After all this time, and all this history and all of these parents having to (try to) cooperate at least sometimes for school stuff and music stuff and stuff and I only own 1 physical picture of my mother, father, and myself.

One.

It’s from my baptism in 6th grade. Though I wasn’t the happiest camper that day (another story; I won’t bore you more than what’s necessary for this 1 post ;)) I insisted that I get this photo.

I believe I got one at my wedding, but I can hardly remember because I was such an anxious wreck and I got really drunk that night so I only remember the more wedding-related things.

(Like the fact that Matt was really trying not to cry but he’ll never admit it. Or were his eyes peeing?)

Even when I made a card for my mom and my dad after the wedding as a “Thank you for Birthing Me” present, it physically felt weird to write “Mom and Dad.”

Call me weird, but I find that weird. It’s uncomfortable to put my birthers next to each other even on paper, for biscuits’ sake!

Now, I’m not saying I wish they were back together. No offense, Mom and Dad, but you would kill each other off. Honestly I don’t even remember really wishing this getting back together. I had my “father figure” from the time I was around 2 years old (thanks Darrin), so I never really felt like I was missing out? I just got bonus family on Tuesdays and holidays and stuff!

Then came the step-mom-into-the-story days at age 6 then I got to go on a plane by  myself 654,665,465 times a year and that was fun. Plus all the presents. I even got to miss a lot of school around the holidays. School hated me. And I, it.

(One time I got in trouble on a test because the teacher was reading us the questions and then we were supposed to answer, but I was 3 pages ahead of everyone, because DAMNIT woman I was in FIRST GRADE I KNEW how to READ.)

How many tangents does it take to make me feel like I’ve made a good blog post?

Like, a hundred.

I wish I didn’t hold this divorce grudge. Or rather, I wish it didn’t affect me as much as it did. And I wish divorce wasn’t so fucking prominent.

Matt, I swear to potato, you’re stuck with me.

 

 

Inpatient? More like IMPATIENT Amiright?!

I don’t know. I’m sleep deprived.

Okay onto the post:

So I was weighing my options today. With the feelings of “I’d rather be dead” and “I hate being alive” and “no one would miss me” resurfacing, slightly, the knowledge that revealing these feelings to the wrong person could land me in inpatient again.

Of course I don’t want to be inpatient again. Just knowing that I needed it makes me sad. I see it as a suicide procrastinating house instead of something that really helps. How unfortunate.

Also unfortunate is that some of the things that make me hate the hospital make me love the hospital. For example: the structure and routine. I’m forced to wake up at 6 or 6:30 am every morning for vitals and weight and a doctor’s visit (why psych doctors think they’ll get anything out of me that buttcrack early is beyond me). This early morning leaves me in a convenient, mostly thoughtless fog. When this fog starts wearing off around breakfast time, I’m given my morning meds. With the dose of meds comes another dose of fog.

Being hazy helps me stay out of trouble while I’m there (trouble like puking, cutting, or having a temper tantrum can all end up making my stay longer). Also, it helps me spew my plans for coping skills and safe places to the nurses and therapists that I hate. This way, I get out faster. So I’ve gained a few days’ break and the right to tell my job and school “I’m crazy go easy on me,” but no real long-term benefits outside of bad memories and a feelings of failure, shame, and worthlessness.

Once upon a time, during my first psych ward stay, we were doing vitals with a young nurse. She told us we shouldn’t be so stressed out, angry , and sad. She was the one working full time and planning a wedding. Look, lady, not ok. Most of us had never felt loved or that our time and effort at work or school was valued and you’re complaining about these things?

Now I’m the one working 50 hours, planning a wedding (admittedly slowly), all on top of trying to graduate college ON TOP OF a biological predisposition to mental instability, breakdowns, and piss-poor “coping skills.” It’s really a wonder how I’m not dead yet.

 

Spontaneity Will be The Death of Me

Oftentimes when I start trying to plan for the future financially I get frustrated because I have a goal, and I know how to reach it, but I have to wait. The waiting kills me. I know that if I pay this much for this long and put this much away every week I’ll be golden but it hasn’t happened yet so I get disheartened. I tell myself that this isn’t how life works; people have to wait for things. When I have a plan or an idea I don’t wait very well.

This is true with clothes shopping (I need to have three of things, especially work uniform sets), grocery shopping/diet planning, and other things like household maintenance and organization. I get an idea for organization and I need to purchase the things for the project right now because it needs to get done right now. Sometimes the fiance will say, “No, Shley, wait until tomorrow or Tuesday when we have time,” and I can’t do it. I got the project (or idea or goal) in mind and I want it down now.

You get the idea. It’s a little impulsivity, a little spontaneity, and a lot of impatience and lack of self control. This is not only frustrating for my bank account and the clutter in my living space, but it wreaks utter havoc with my eating disordered brain.

Yes, I’m recovered. I’m doing so much better. Everything is looking up and even on my worst days it’s a significant improvement over my old good days. However, the spontaneity is going to do me in. I see ice cream, I eat ice cream. I don’t normally think about ice cream. And I don’t stop at decent amount of ice cream, I eat ALL the ice cream if I can. I have to plan everything out ahead of time or else I create an environment for binge eating regret and that whole cycle of misery.

It’s fairly known by eating disorder specialists (doctors, nurses, bloggers, researchers, etc) that being impulsive is a characteristic of a number of eating disorder sufferers. For me it was a huge part of it. Yes, I’m a bit of a perfectionist but if my brain shuts down with thoughts of being worthless I won’t try anymore. And yes, my anxiety is horrific but my coping skill weren’t always food related. When I decided to fast I would fast. I would plan for hours and hours how much to work out and how much water to drink. When I decided to binge eat I would go to every fast food restaurant in my vicinity. Without thinking. It just happened. Then, when I realized what I had done, you know the rest.

I may have gotten to the rambling point now. For that, I apologize. The goal of this post is basically to complain that I’m still far too impulsive with damn near everything and it’s all over frustrating. Especially when I’m trying really hard to be healthy.