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?


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.

The Day so Far

I woke up freezing, but burning alive. My sheets and pillows were damp. Did I have nightmare? No, I know what that feels like. Why am I so clammy? My heart was racing and pounding. Grabbed the stopwatch: 100 beats per minute, and I had only been awake for a couple minutes. Why won’t you slow down, silly heart?

I have a theory, but I can’t let it be true. I’m better than that.

So I go upstairs and perform my morning weight ritual. It’s shorter than usual, because I feel like passing out the whole time. Down 2 pounds from yesterday. As soon as I start walking, the shivering starts. I can hardly hold my toothbrush. I can’t catch my breath. Stars have starting passing in and out of my field of vision.

I decide it’s time for breakfast. I throw the frozen TV dinner in the microwave (don’t judge my breakfast preferences), and leave the wrappers on the counter and promptly sit as soon as I’m near a chair. I reach in the tub of snacks. I grab a fruit strip. I feel hungry and clammy, so this will help. Then I eat 11 pieces of candy. Then I chug a whole can of diet coke.

Finally, the eternity of 4-minute TV dinner’s cooktime is over and I don’t stir it or even wait for it to cool. I grab a fork and start chomping before I’m even back to the kitchen table. It’s gone in no time, even though bow tie noodles and baby carrots kept jumping off my fork.

Mom is trying to talk to me. Instead of being my usual grumpy self, I decide to tell her the truth: that I feel like utter shit. Take my temperature? Feel that? I’m sweaty! What’s wrong with me?

“Take a Xanax.”

I want to take my blood pressure, but my monitor is across the room and I’m safe back in my bed. I have too many things to do today to be sick.

What’s wrong with me? I know you don’t know. I think I know, but I’m better than that. Let’s not talk about that.

Maybe a nap will help. It never does, but maybe a nap will help.

Happy Monday.

To Have and To Eat

The last 2 months have been full of experimenting. Not the fun kind with the beakers and the BOOMS, but the brain kind. I switched to a cheaper SSRI because of the beginning of the year/deductible thing, and this new medicine has me in kind of a funk. It’s annoying. I feel tired all day on my own, thanks. I don’t need a pill to multiply that fatigue by a bajillion (which is what it feels like).

One of the most frustrating parts is that I don’t fall asleep near as quickly as I’m used to. Though, that could be because I started by taking it at night; usually an hour or so before bed. Now, I take it 12 hours earlier in the day. It’s helped a little. I get a rush of energy when I need it during the day instead of when I should be sleeping. That late night rush was helping me get a lot of reading done at night, though… One thing I was hoping it would help was the appetite. I still get the cravings in the morning for ALL THE FOOD, and I still wake up with wrappers under or around my pillow. I still overeat, and I just can’t make myself ditch the soda. Soda is disgusting. I love it so much.

The reason my doctor prescribed this was not primarily because of depression, but instead it was supposed to help my anxiety. I stated that my grades had slipped because I can’t make myself focus (don’t get me started on trying to write. All of my blog posts end up as train wrecks. Can you imagine my essays?), so this was supposed to do the job when I couldn’t afford to take Xanax everyday. It hasn’t really been helping. I feel like I’ve avoided a lot more social situations than before, and I feel like my outlook on the future isn’t as bright as it may have been previously. I haven’t been on it for very long, though. I’m hoping it all evens out and does what I’d like it to do.

Yes, I’m far better than I was around the breakdown days, and even 3 years ago, but I feel like I’m very slowly, steadily, slipping again. It’s almost like I’m trying to fool myself. It’s weird and I hate it.

And this ain’t my first rodeo. I know I can’t take “happy pills” and expect immediate improvement with no effort of my own outside of my wallet. I’ve been sleeping as well as I can, doing things I enjoy doing, and trying not to 100% avoid people.

I’ve had 2 panic attacks this month, when it’s been several months before that and almost a year before that… Okay now I’m getting pessimistic. I guess we’ll see what happens.

Happy Wednesday.

Fun fact: this particular drug is supposed to be good against one of my eating issues, so that’s neat. Okay bye.

Some Weird Feelings

So, I think it’s well known through this blog that I have had a few issues with mental stuff. Mental stuff being a very broad term meant to encompass the eating disordered stuff, the anxiety stuff, the depression stuff, the psychosis stuff, and the mania stuff, and all that other stuff. All of it’s been a part of my life for a while now, and that’s not all bad. I’ve learned a lot about the brain and how it works, so that’s led to a better understanding of my own self which is nice. Luckily, the past couple years they haven’t been so overbearing because I got help and a support system that works for me (Thanks Matt and Mickey!). This introduction is shit.

What I was going to talk about is how it’s been since 2010/2011 since I’ve been on brain medicine of any kind, other than the occasional Xanax. The last batch was a group of 12 pills including SSRIs, anticonvulsants for mood stabilization, sleeping pills, antianxieties broadly, antipsychotics, and duplicates… There were a lot. So, just this month when my doctor suggested I take a medicine again it was kind of an odd thing to process. I am all for taking medicine when your brain needs it. Obviously, I know depression and other mental stuffs are real, so it didn’t bother me to take it, and it didn’t make me feel weak or less capable necessarily. It just kind of felt like I could go back to that sick spot in my mind again. It was scary for a few days.

I’m not sure what I’m complaining about. To my doctor, I expressed my frustration with my inability to focus and make sentences go together and do homework and not forget everything. She contributed it to my anxiety, so I’m taking prescribed Xanax and Lexapro now for its antianxiety stuff. It’s weird being medicated again. I guess I’m just not sure how I feel about it. I know I’m better off than I was last time I was medicated. Where am I going with this? Maybe my stupid way with words isn’t part of my anxiety. Maybe I’m just dumb. Sure does feel like it sometimes.

On a lighter note, I wrote a 4 1/2 page paper in 2 hours this week and I was so proud. Research papers are 230948% better than having-to-have-an-opinion papers.

Happy Wednesday, friends. Stay sunshiney.

Brain Zaps

So we’ve been over the whole “I used to be very mentally unstable” thing and I kind of mentioned “wow I used to take a lot of medicine” so I want to complain some more today.

There was a time not so long ago that I took different meds at 5-7 times a day. I had a number of prescriptions (in the teens) and most of them were for my brain/brain chemicals. There were anti-depressants (of 3 different categories), mood stabilizers, other anticonvulsants,  antianxiety, sleeping pills, and a total numbing pill or two. I was so heavily medicated because I was angry but apathetic and I had what my parents called “tantrums” quite frequently. I think I needed the pills just until I chilled out a little bit. I was so often on the verge of a breakdown and didn’t care about consequences…

Anyway a little over a year ago I quit all of my medicine cold turkey. Everyone knows this is a bad idea, especially if it’s people like me who were not even at a safe place yet. I only quit because I was too scared to drive to my psychiatrists, go to the pharmacy, pay for prescriptions I didn’t have money/a job for… all I wanted to do was eat a lot of food and die.

There is a side effect called brain zaps. Google it, if you wish. It’s an extremely unpleasant sensation (not quite pain) that occurs behind your eyes whenever you blink, move your eyes, walk, bend over, or really do any basic movement. I was also on triple the recommended maximum dose of one of my SSRIs at the time (I was really sad) so I caught as much sleep as I possibly could while contributing to my super high-calorie life style. They were probably the side effect I remember most, because I looked up how long they lasted (they can happen even when a doctor lowers your dose to ween you off a pill. Imagine the intensity I put myself through) and the internet said up to a number of months.

Did that make me get my potato in gear and go back to the doctor? Did that make me realize maybe this was a poorly made life decision? Nope. I waited it out for two months. Two months of AHH MY EYES later I started a mood transition. Since then my memories are a little less cloudy and I think of that time period as when I started recovering from my breakdown beforehand.

How many circles did I just make in that story? I’m not sure. But brain zaps and recovery of memories aren’t the only things that all those pills and stopping them affected. Remember how I always complain about my inability to make my thoughts cooperate? You know when you’re trying to think of a word but can’t? It’s hundreds of times worse for me now than it ever was before. I’m mostly convinced that all the medicine made some synapses wonky because I have such a difficult time with speech and thought (and some other things. I’m very different) now.

I used to love English class. Writing and stories were some of my favorite activities. I had a decently extensive vocabulary and had a more in depth understanding of grammar and style than a huge portion of my peers. Now I can’t say that. I’m only skating by, and I make more mistakes than I’d like to admit in writing.

It’s very frustrating knowing everything could have been so much different had the crazy not attacked you.