When Good Diagnoses Go Bad

Sometimes when I’m desperate that people know “I used to be skinny, I swear” I’ll often jump right into telling them how when I got my bipolar diagnosis they threw a bunch of drugs at me that made me gain a lot of weight very quickly. Also I started using a steroidal nasal spray (that no one told me not to use every day for 2 1/2 years) around the same time.

My appetite soared, I got more busy with my professional life, I got married and moved out, and suddenly I’m 60-70 (ish? timelines are hard) pounds heaver than I’ve ever been.

Even my fingers got fat. I look at my hands and I have slobby fat person hands. 10% of my clothes still fit, and I’m constantly wondering just how my thighs compare to all the other thighs. Who has the bigger thighs? Life’s biggest question. (I do. Easy answer.)

Now I’m looking at old selfies I had taken back at the weights I wish I still was wondering how the fuck I didn’t just enjoy it (because eating disorders), and I’m realizing that this recovered/fat me just isn’t sustainable.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it, and I’m going to do my best to not fall back into the super-disordered behaviors, but I’m so full of self hatred I could scream. Bipolar made me fat.

Also my school life is shit and work life is hard and personal life is 50/50 shit/hard and I just. And I just.

LESS THAN A WEEK UNTIL MY BIRTHDAY and I don’t feel festive at all. Goddamn life circumstances.

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But, You Know, Whatever.

My bones are cold. There’s a constant, aching chill, and find myself shivering then try to stop myself. But I can’t feel warm.

My jaw hurts from the pressures of keeping it together. The urge to sob and scream and burst into hysterics all mingled into my ready smile should someone look my way.

It’s always the corner of my eye. Or not so much the corner, but just barely beyond perceptibility. Dark shapes, light shapes. Metamorphosing into some terrible nightmare fodder. Humanoid, demanoid. “It’s just my imagination” I tell the slowly-growing shadow. My jaw aches.

I’m quick, though. They’ve always told me I have “wit.” So while in the company of others I laugh and I joke and wow so normal until a moment’s silence and I remember everything terrible that’s ever been and ever will be while the shape in the doorway grins at me and reaches out then I think of a clever response and get a few laughs.

Silence is painful. There’s a hum, and it’s not just from all the concerts. I know. It physically hurts. Drives me to tears when I wake at night. Because they’re trying to reach me. That faint hum before the speech, the dying to say what can’t be said and I’m afraid of what they’ll say. So I put the pillow over my head try and snuggle up to the warm mass who snores and moves away from me and I’m forever left alone in my head with these new ghosts and the old ghosts who won’t leave me to a moment’s peace.

When I drink my cheap, fruity liquor I’m too engrossed in my phone and trying not to have drunk face that it’s peaceful for a moment. But heaven forbid I have to pee or go somewhere else alone because they follow me and they take advantage of my fear and my tears and they laugh and I have to pretend I’m not scared out of my goddamn mind because no one likes a drama queen.

I’ve hallucinated before. It’s been years. And I’m terrified.

I’ve been desperately trying not to be so whiney or dramatic (hence the infrequent posts) and even to friends I’m like eh I’m depressed but whatever but damn it even as I type this they’re brushing me on the shoulder and trying to whisper in my ear and I shudder and try and remember where I was in my thought.

And I thought being coherent was difficult before.

Is this the bipolar? The dissociation? The stress? Have all the many, many, long years of too-frequent nightmares started following me into daily life, desperate to be heeded?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

It’s almost the anniversary of my last utter descent. Makes me think it’s bipolar. I made a promise it’s almost impossible not to think about. Even now my pants are sticking to my hips and my sleeve to my arms and my jaw hurts and my usual hurts hurt because everything hurts but it’s “just stress.”

But you know lol everything fine it’s good 🙂  how’re you?

The Recovery Shame

I’m ’bout to get real real with you guys. It’s been a while since I’ve made a post, and it’s because I thought about being less personal. But I just want to be frank with you guys.

I hate being “recovered.”

I’m making a pause now to let you readers who don’t know me imagine what I mean by recovered. Do I mean from drugs? Gambling? Porn?

It’s all 3.

No it’s not.

It’s eating disorders.

Now, I put the word recovered in quotes up there because though I don’t partake in the daily activities of an actively disordered eater anymore, I still have so many thoughts and bad feelings and bad self-esteem surrounding me that I feel like a cheaty faced loser saying I’m legitimately recovered. I’m more like, I don’t know, in remission. The behaviors aren’t there lately (purge free since May?) but it’s very much an undercurrent.

I’m sure lots, maybe most, of the humans who have recovered from an eating disorder of any kind often think “man, I could easily go back to that. That’d be great. I could be so skinny. Eh, nah.” But what I think a lot of the time isn’t “I could go back” so much as it’s “I should go back.”

Cuz I get a lot of hate. I hate being recovered because I’m chubby now. I shouldn’t care that I’m chubby. I should embrace it and whatever and be happy I’m healthy (not really but whatever) and whatever.

But I’m really upset.

I fucking hate myself.

And there are people who see me at work who may notice the panic in my eyes when I pass the snack bar, who may notice I eat lunch 3 times, and there are friends who I accidentally admit to having 2 separate dinners to… but they wonder why because I’m too fat and I obviously eat too much.

There are those IN THE SAME HOUSEHOLD AS ME who comment on what I eat being unhealthy or that I eat too much or that I should exercise more/better.

These comments come from a good place but damn. Let me pretend to be a normal American. Jesus.

I hate it. And I hate it.

I hate being a regular chubby first-world unhealthy loser. I hate liking fast food and beer. I hate thinking about food ALL THE TIME whether I’m trying to lose weight or not.

I hate how I let the idea of being a happy healthy person made me fat.

I’m legitimately overweight now. And it makes me so sad. And I try not to let it. I think, hey. I don’t have like serious weight-related issues, right? I’m fine? I’m smaller than some people, right? Does that matter? Should I even make that comparison? God what should I do? What is normal? WHAT IS RIGHT WHAT IS HEALTHY WHAT AM I DOING I’M KIDDING MYSELF I GOT FAT.

I meet new people and I just know they’re judging me for being fat. Like you don’t know me! I was skinny once, too! Shut up! Shut up those thoughts! Stop it!

This could be a post about how fat-shaming is bad but it’s not that it’s me hating myself for letting myself get to a non-disordered weight.

It was so much easier not kidding myself into thinking I had a healthy mind.

Right now, I’d take the bloodshot eyes, the inflamed esophageal lining, and the lying and wasting over this shame and remorse.

 

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.

 

 

Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

I’ve had trouble building up the courage to do what needs done. Too shy. Too ashamed. Like I’m a betrayer. But it does need to happen. Already I am red and scabbed on my inside and more on my outside. At this rate I won’t have any skin or teeth left. Burned away or cut away. Stress and a feeling of failure and incompetence because I’m stretched too thin, “like butter over too much bread.”

A weekend not of fun, but of shame, shakes, sobs, and more red. Some pink. Shirking responsibilities to make way for the intention of normality.

Don’t get me wrong. Everything is great and I’m lucky to be alive and all that but damn do I need some coping skills.

Something tells me my current arsenal for self-destructive-deal-with-it techniques are somehow unhealthy.

 

UPDATE: I finally quit the second job. Hopefully the worsened depression subsides shortly.

Maybe This Isn’t The Best Time to Post This

Don’t know if you all know this, but I work extremely hard to make sure people like me. I try to please everybody. I aim to be neutral in disagreements. I am to not piss anybody off. I aim to be as helpful as I can and act with as much tact and poise as I know how to; especially at work.

I have nightmares that all of my friends, or coworkers, or family, have pretended to like me all this time and have plotted against me. I’ve woken up in a cold sweat because I felt like my inability to make/keep friends was going to be never-ending.

Nightmares really do come true. Well, in a sense.

Tonight I found out that several of my coworkers talk about me. Bad. Like, they don’t believe me when I’m sick, and they call me lazy, and they say I have an excuse for everything.

I have one of the best work ethics I know. When I call in sick, maybe I don’t have food poisoning. I’ll admit it. But when I throw up, it’s usually anxiety related. I will make myself so crippled from anxiety and worry and stressing about the assholes I’ll have to serve seafood to throughout the day that I just can’t handle the thought of going in.

It gets to a point where if I had to step into that restaurant, I would find the nearest cliff to drive my car off of on the way. I’d forget to turn my car off or open the garage door with my running car in the garage. I’d accidentally cut too deep. I’d accidentally overdose. I’d accidentally go off on somebody and end up fucking up my chances of getting good references from the job I’ve stayed at the longest.

Apparently, even though I thought I’ve made huge strides in my work ethic and my mental health regarding work, it doens’t mean a thing.

I’m not trying to say everyone should pity me and my anxiety.

But being mean to me? We’re all inconvenienced sometime. How many times have y’all inconvenienced me? This entire job has inconvenienced me! I’m am FAR TOO INTROVERTED to do this job well. Yet here I am. I even got employee of the month, for biscuits’ sake.

Even the manager I thought liked me (the only one I thought liked me) makes snide comments about me.

And this all just came down the grapevine to me tonight.

How the hell am I going to face these people? I want them to feel guilty, but I know they won’t care.

I don’t know what to do.

I wish I had some decent coping mechanisms right about now.

No one fucking understands and I’m fucking tired of being paralyzed by my stupid neurotransmitters.

And I’m fucking tired of being judged for it.

And I’m fucking tired of being blamed for saying it just as an excuse.

I just

I just

Fuck. Fuck it.

And all of you?

Fuck you.

(Except for the readers that have some compassion. In which case, thank you. I love you, too. Have a good evening.)

P.S. The funniest part? Through all this turmoil tonight, I thought “This wouldn’t be such a problem if I were skinnier.”

I’m just a failure entirely.

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.