I’m Not Okay

::queue song::

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRFhNZNu_xw

Okay so the song doesn’t really relate… but I’m NOT okay.

I AM NOT OKAY AND I AM TIRED OF NEVER FEELING OKAY AND I WOULD GIVE USE OF MY LEGS TO FEEL OKAY FOR JUST A FUCKING MINUTE.

I’m tired and irritable and I want to scream and throw shit and hurt people. There’s a PC that’s been sitting on my desk at work, and if I had less control of myself I’d take it and go beat a coworker to death with it. I don’t even care which coworker… but I’d beat their skull in with a PC.

I just want to hurt people. I want people to hurt because I hurt and there’s no wound to blame it on. It’s just fucked up emotional turmoil that no one understands or cares about, and it’s got me all fucked up.

Why?

Because this is my life. This is going to be life until such a time as my life ends. This isn’t “the summer I was kinda sad” or some little pothole in the generally good life that is mine. This is my severe mental illness that never goes away, and never gets noticeably better, and will never have a fucking cure. I’m just damned to go through the rest of life feeling hopeless and shitty and impulsively getting drunk so I don’t feel hopeless and shitty for a couple of hours.

Friday I got my bangles back from fuccboi. I call him that, because that’s what I see him as now. He was nice enough, to be honest. We had a couple drinks and I invited him to the gig I was going to, because after three Saisons I was bored and I didn’t care if he tagged along, so long as I didn’t have to bring him back to that side of town. He agreed to cab/Uber/Lyft home. I invited Bird. I got drunk. It was great. 130 came and I went home, and reminded fuccboi I wasn’t taking him home. Somehow he managed to get a ride from Bird… and good for her, being a better person than me, but I was manic and drunk and I don’t give a fuck.

Saturday and Sunday all I did was sit high out of my mind and binge watch Adam Ruins Everything. It’s weird, because I actually felt pretty good when I got up on Saturday, but I still couldn’t DO anything. I sat there for two days, binge eating, and only left the house to go to a movie with mom, where I also ate. I felt like a worthless piece of shit on Sunday evening… and I was correct about that.

All the shit I want to do, all the goals I have for the next year, and all I could fucking do was nothing this weekend.

Don’t get me wrong, sometimes you deserve to do nothing. Nothing can be great… this was not great. I could have cleaned up the backyard, done something in the basement, folded the rest of my clothes, mopped, vacuumed, cleaned the bathroom, LITERALLY ANYTHING, but no…

I got up this morning and decided this has GOT to end. It sounds motivational, but mostly I’m just pissed off at myself. I’m officially so fat I am sometimes out of breath just trying to wipe my ass. That’s not an exaggeration, that’s the reality of my body trying to maneuver all this fat around so I can reach and most of it cramming into my chest cavity against my diaphragm. That’s too fat. It’s official. It’s too fat. And this weekend? Too much wasted time. Fucking wasted all that time that I could have done something with. And it’s gotta stop, because if it doesn’t stop I have no reason to live.

I talk about suicide a lot. Do you know why? Because I think about suicide a lot. My life is already so fucking meaningless that the only reasons I’m still around is so my mom doesn’t kill HERself, and because I have dogs that I don’t want going back to shelter care. I’m not here because life has meaning, or because life is secretly beautiful, or anything so wonderful as that. I’m here because dying is inconvenient at the moment, but if I’m just going to give up why let my mom watch as I slowly kill myself with food and depression, I could save us both a tortured journey to my grave.

I weighed 288.8 this morning. That’s officially the fattest I’ve ever been in my entire life. I literally didn’t move this weekend. That’s officially the laziest I’ve ever been in my entire life. I’m turning into my grandmother. I just need to get on disability and be addicted to daytime court shows. I can die in my chair, suffocating on my own neck fat. That’s not how she died, but it’s the image I have of her burned into my brain from childhood… just drinking coffee and falling asleep with a lit cigarette in her hand. I loved my grandmother, but I never want to be that. If I’m going to be that, I’d rather be dead.

So if my life is going to be me, not being emotionally okay ever again, I might as well torture myself down to normal people sizes. I’d settle for a Torrid zero, which is a large… a size 12… It’s not the 130 lbs I’ve always wanted to be… but it’s a lot fucking better than here. It’s 3 dress sizes… it’s a lot… but honestly… it’s not like I’m doing anything better with my time, am I?

Latuda Costs $1120.00

So… yesterday was awful.

It didn’t START awful. Like, I didn’t wake up already feeling like I should kill myself or blow up a medical building, but I ended the day debating both. I did neither, I promise.

So yesterday I went to see my old primary care doctor, because Kaiser is a piece of shit system that hasn’t afforded me the ability to see any kind of NEW primary care doctor, even though it’s April. I don’t know if I told you guys how hard getting this appointment was, so a brief recap was that I got accused of trying to commit insurance fraud. So, I already didn’t feel GREAT about going in, but I like my doctor and felt like she could throw me a metaphorical bone.

The appointment was as expected, except that the nurse that took my blood pressure and stuff also gave me a Peep… That was unexpectedly nice.

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I had to field the normal questions, such as whether I’d lost interest in hobbies, if I still go out, etc. Every answer was, of course, overwhelmingly bleak, so I tossed in that I had a friend to help get me out of the house, and that mom also tried to get me to do things… seemed to make her feel better, even if it’s something of a mixed truth.

She wrote me a script for Latuda, which is an antipsychotic currently being used to treat bipolar depression. It’s not unusual for a bipolar to take an antipsychotic, and I’ve taken one before that was supposed to help with my irritability (it didn’t help with that, but it gave me some wicked nightmares). The reason doctors give out things like antipsychotics to treat bipolar depression, is because if you give us something like an SSRI there’s a good chance we’ll be stuck in a manic state, and they say that can be really dangerous. I disagree, on the grounds that my mania is the best part of my life… but you can’t trust a manic bipolar… we’re impulsive and irrational… so they say.

So I went back to work, but this headache I’d been fighting all day got the best of me and I ended up going home early, before I reached a point where I couldn’t drive. I went home and changed, and then went to the Kaiser pharmacy by the house. I hate that pharmacy… it’s full of weird people, sick people, and Kaiser employees that seem about as happy to work there as I am to have Kaiser Insurance. Still, I was excited to finally get something that could bring some spark of relief. My life has been so heavy and dark recently, that the spark of hope was blinding.

All my hope was obliterated when the pharmacist, who was quite unpleasant to start with, loudly said that my medication cost $1120.00 and that my doctor should put me on something cheaper. People in the back of the pharmacy gasped, and I… didn’t know what to do. She continued on about how Kaiser’s formulary is available online and some other useless facts that didn’t help anyone and just further embarrassed me. So, I just left. I felt like someone had just run over my dog and then blamed me having the audacity to own a dog for why they killed it. I felt like nothing mattered anymore. I was completely devastated.

In my stupor, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I mean what do people do when they’ve lost literally all hope of life ever getting better? Oddly enough, as often as I’ve considered and mulled over suicide, in this moment of absolute wreckage I didn’t consider that at all. I just felt lost and hopeless and like I was drowning. I cried all the way home, which wasn’t really that far, and then decided I should just talk to my mom. She was at a vet appointment for Ava, so I sat on her doorstep and waited for her to come home.

There were tears and stuff, but essentially she just told me to call my doc and see if there was an alternative medication. I did that, but it’s almost 11am the next day and I haven’t heard from the office…

My mom convinced me to try and make a mental health appointment with Kaiser again, so I did that this morning. Kinda.

This part of Kaiser really adds insult to injury. I’m at a place where I need to see a mental health professional. I don’t know how low OTHER people have to be to see a mental health professional, but for me it’s pretty close to rock bottom. Well, since I “self-referred” myself Kaiser won’t schedule the appointment until I have a conversation with a psychiatric nurse and convince her that I’m sick enough to see a doctor. The idea is that she approves the self referral. It’s just insulting, though. I’ve never had to convince someone that I needed a shrink before, and it makes me want to slit my wrists in a Kaiser building and spell out AM I SICK ENOUGH NOW!? all over their walls. Like, this is a shitty way to treat people who are crazy.

Still, I’m sucking it up and I’ll do the fucking phone call… I’m not going to be happy about it. Every single fiber of my being wanted to tell the appointment guy that this is fucked up and I shouldn’t have to convince a nurse that I’m potentially suicidal in order to get an appointment with someone who can give me something for it. The thing about that is that I know that guy is just doing his job… so… I try not freak out on people who are just trying to live. Also, if you mention that this might be some kind of emergency, they just want you to go to an ER. I don’t need an ER right now… and actually if I did I still probably wouldn’t go to one… What’s the point of living if you’re just gonna rack up an incredible amount of medical debt to hang over your head for the rest of your life? Like… no… that doesn’t appeal to me.

We’ll see what happens.

The one thing about hitting a rock bottom, even if it’s not the lowest I can get, is that today doesn’t bother me so much. Work is still shitty, but why wouldn’t it be? I’m still fat, but I don’t care. My overwhelming sadness has been replaced with apathy. Somehow that’s still an improvement. I think when I get home I’m gonna spring and get my Adobe Creative Cloud… start reteaching myself how to make art with it. I can’t draw, but maybe I can restore some old photos or make a collage or something… just something. Cuz why not?

If yesterday didn’t end me, it just proves that it’s going to take something worse than losing all hope for life before I check out early.

Getting Dragged Down

So I’m Bipolar. Amongst other things.
Let’s start there.

You may have heard the phrase “trigger” being thrown around the internet by people. Usually, and I don’t care who hates me for saying it, this term is used when someone says something that offends another person on the internet, or brings up something that reminds someone of something they’re trying to forget. It’s kind of a bullshit term for, “I can’t handle this, but I don’t have the common sense to get the fuck off the computer.”

As a person with mental illness, well out of my teen years, I’m not really into that scene. If you say trigger to me, I stop talking to you. I can’t even deal with your bullshit. I have my own, and I don’t run around trying to tell people not to say or do things just because they make me feel like I’m full of worms and decayed flesh. That’s not real life. Real life is a word stabbing pain into your gut like a knife, and you swallowing hard before plastering a smile across your face anyways as people laugh at something that brings you excruciating pain. Real life is getting up and dragging your ass out of bed even though your whole being is begging you to just lie there in bed until you die. Real life is feeling your world crashing down around you, and still just going about your life like any other person. Real life is going home and drowning your pain in some vice of your choice, and still getting up the next day like it never happened. That’s life.

When I say trigger. I mean a trigger. I mean that in the midst of all this fake living I do for the sake of appearance and normality, something has managed to work its way deep into the recesses of my inner being and poke at just the right spot to cause my chest to cave in. I mean that I’ve managed to crash through the floor of my depression, and that I now have to spend some time wallowing around in the black ink of despair for a while, all while maintaining the best outward expression of normality that I can. It’s quite exhaustive.

My trigger, more often than not, always comes from my mother. That’s not to say that my mother is abusive, or that she sets unrealistic expectations for me, or any of that. My mom’s great… But she is horrifically depressed. Most days I can more or less brush it off, but sometimes it just eats at me like a disease. I mean any conversation with her feels like she’s not even remotely listening to me, which bothers me immensely, and any time I ask her about things she puts such a grey cast on it that I can feel myself getting pulled down with her.

If you don’t know, there are levels of to mood… I arrange them by color.
The white zone is mania. I love the white zone. I can get so much done… I’m irrationally happy… I am just excitement and awesome and life is grand.
The red zone is manic anger… I like that one, too, but it’s because I come up with the cruelest revenge plots… I don’t usually get to act on them, though, because I burn through the adrenaline too fast.
The blue zone is contentment. That’s the moment when I wake up feeling refreshed, and I look around at my dogs and just smile to myself and spend all day reading and sipping tea, and everything is just kind of okay. I don’t get to spend a lot of time here.
The beige zone is what I imagine most people live in. I’m not up, or down. I’m just kinda here. It’s where usually am when I go out with friends, because I like going out, but I don’t usually like whatever my friends might have dragged me to.
The gray zone is where my mother lives. It’s sad, but it’s not bawling or anything. You just feel shit, and you enjoy nothing, and even if you think you might enjoy something, a piece of your brain kicks on that reminds you why you can’t enjoy this moment… I don’t spend much time here, myself… instead…I end up in the black. That’s usually a term for not being in debt, but I’m crazy in debt… For me in the black refers to the void. When I get dragged down, you can see nail tracks in the grey as I speed past it down into the black. It’s where my soul goes to die. I don’t like it there, as you might imagine. It’s like my brain is stuck in a tar pit. Everything I try to do to get out makes the experience worse. I get dragged farther and farther down until I can’t even see a glimmer of the white zone anymore. It’s usually when I curl up somewhere (the shower is a great curling spot) and just try not to feel anything.

Feeling nothing is better than the black. Or maybe it’s part of it. I’m never sure. I just know that if I can manage to feel nothing, I can resurface somewhere in the gray or beige zone and work from there. The important thing is to get out of the black… to find some way to rise up out of the darkness and not kill myself or something equally as irrational and stupid (because all that shit makes perfect sense in the black).

At work or anywhere that isn’t home, however, I can’t curl in a ball somewhere and wait it out. No, instead I have to figure out some way to claw my way out of the black without losing my composure… without anyone noticing. Some attempts are better than others. Sometimes I can sit at my desk, take a Xanax, and listen to music until I’m kind of okay. Sometimes I end up snapping at people. Sometimes I end up hiding in the bathroom until I’m sure I’m not going to lose it. None of these things are particularly effective. I’m going to be in the gray or the black all day. There’s no way to pull myself out, because I have nowhere to reset.

Today that overwhelming feeling of of black has decided that I’m not going to eat. Fortunately, I’m fat from all the binge eating I usually do when I’m upset, so I won’t actually suffer for it, but it does give me a queasy feeling that makes me irrationally sad. Also, I’m cancelling things I love… I might re-up later, but when I get like this I just want to get rid of everything I own or do, and just stay in my house forever…. never seeing anyone, never leaving, just me and the dogs… maybe order some books from the internet to occupy my mind… It’s a bad feeling. I don’t like it. I don’t like this side of me. I don’t like the monster I turn into when my moods change.

Werewolf

I’ve been told that his is what it’s like to watch my moods change.

Nothing’s going to make this right, right now. Maybe when I get home eight or so hours from now, then it will all be fine. Maybe I can crawl into bed and sleep it off, or cry it out, or throw something at a wall and watch the shattered pieces as a metaphor for my insides…