31 December 2010

Goodbye 2010, Hello 2011

If you've been following my blog, or just know me, then you know that 2010 sucked diseased monkey balls for me. Seriously diseased.

The hardest was watching my mother waste away to nothing and dying from cancer. The Bipolar in me became so far out of control I actually considered locking myself up a few times. I was indeed more depressed and having suicidal tendencies far more than I should have been. The now ex-boyfriend was diagnosed with his own cancer. My college grades (which is essentially my lifeline) sucked because of the attention I had to put on real life. I've lost periods of the year in which I was so depressed or stoned that I don't remember them (and probably don't want to either). 2010 was essentially a Hatfield vs. McCoy feud between me and God. Mom died, and very soon after I had to endure my birthday (which was a special day between the two of us) and now 3 holidays (counting tonight's New Years).

Essentially Mr. Murphy's Law attacked me hardcore. If it could go wrong it pretty much did.

It did have great moments too.

I went to England again and had a blast. I gained some more loyal allies. I found out I can apparently hold my own with Ph. D.'s. (Yes this makes me feel good.) I figured out exactly who I can and cannot trust. Some of these that I can trust are the new loyal allies. I found out that people I didn't think even knew I existed indeed know I exist and for some sad reason like and accept me. I may have found my roots in Christianity again, but that is still on the fence. And I grew the balls to finally get suck up my fear of being alone and break up with a long-term boyfriend who didn't know how to give as good as he got... nor did he seem to want to. His cancer is also in long term remission... so he will live, and hopefully learn to enjoy life. I found out that some people appreciate my brutal, harsh, sometimes vulgar honesty and openness.

I got to show Mom how much I loved her by making sure she was taken care of in her deathbed. I had the chance so many people miss out on to tell her I love her (like a million times) and hold her as she crossed from mortal to immortal.

Overall though, I'm excited that 2010 is leaving and 2011 is coming in. I hope 2011 opens many new doors. May it give the mettle to deal with the inherent stupid people and low mood swings. May my muse sing to me even more than previously and give me the power share it. May it keep me compassionate and passionate.

Most important: May those that have truly touched my life for the good know exactly how respected and cherished they are to me. Yes, that's the latent I-Belong-In-The-Romantic-Period coming out.

And may it bring out my inner Marcus Cassius Scaeva. Rawr!

It wouldn't be a new year without the traditional, soon to be broken resolutions.

I resolve to lose 80 pounds, the correct way so it might actually stay off. This would drop me down to a healthy (if not a bit sexy) 150 lbs.

I resolve to grow the balls to actually put the stories, poems, epic poems and novels that are floating around my brain onto paper and possibly try to get published. I may even get the balls to send off my death/black metal lyrics to companies in hopes of them getting published as well.

For the love of everything good, I resolve to finally get my 4.0 with this Spring semester.

And I can only hope that I have enough of a safety net, lifeline and support network in place after the events of this last year that when the Bipolar does get the best of me, I can get it kicked before I get licked.

To those special to me, I love you. You are more of the strength that keeps me going than you realize.

Dear Gold Digging, Using, Abusing Twatwaffles with High Standards

See the look on Spartacus' face? Yeah, I'm looking at you like that right now. I'm about to put a gladius into your trachea.

I would just like to thank you for ruining the nice guys for those of us who actually have a heart, a brain, compassion and can appreciate the fine art so to speak. You either turn them into assholes or you burn them so hard they retire into their shell forever.

Their many dealings with your ilk makes it difficult for them to see exactly how much awesomesauce they are, and thus for us real women to convince them of their awesomesauce qualities without them thinking we're 1) a stalker. 2) a lying sack of shit. 3) stupid. 4) will be driven away when we discover the "true horrible person" they are, thus leaving them heartbroken again if they had opened up at all.

Also, please spontaneously combust for expecting so much out of one person, treating them like a slave, nagging at them relentlessly over stupid bullshit, not seeing the man for who he is, and not appreciating, loving, accepting and being loyal to the nice guys.

Relationships and the Female Role in my world:

Side note: I only have 3 rules I expect my significant other to follow: No sex with other men or women. Treat me as an equal. Treat me with respect.

Companionship first and foremost. Lasting, healthy relationships come with finding a companion. You know, one of those weird people who are into a lot of the same things you are, but not one who wants to be up your ass 24/7. That's just annoying. It's even more awesome if you have the same passions. Someone you can actually have conversations with, or be comfortable in silence with. Then again I have "best friend syndrome."

Communication. He's probably not a mind-reader. Men are not known for their ability to take hints either. To me, the most logical thing is to be open and honest. Yes it's a two way street. Men must be open and honest too. You can't honestly expect him to know what emotion you're having, or exactly what is on your mind. That's just a bullshit game IMO, and I have absolutely no use for games.

Understanding. You have to understand your partner; where they've been, how they've been hurt, what makes them tick, and honestly, just understanding gender and generation goes a long way.

Understanding your partner, in my mind, makes it easier to logically think through something that pisses you off (unless it's just blatant being a dickhead). Ex. Men want to fix problems, women just want to bitch and work it out themselves. That's an old point of contention with couples. Just shut up and cut the poor man some slack.

Understanding your partner also shows them that you care enough about them to learn what makes them happy and what triggers the less nice emotions. Learn the bad to avoid the heartache, learn the good to make him feel good. Understanding him also prevents many issues.

Not being a shallow twat. Men are humans too. They may be more detached than females. They may compartmentalize. They may bottle emotions, but unless they are incapable of emotions, they do have them. The world does not revolve around you simply because you are a woman. The worth of a man is not how many diamonds you can get him to splurge on to make you shut up for 10 minutes. The worth of a man lies in his heart. If you don't have the capability of seeing the awesomesauce you're with, you may be with the wrong one, or you may just be a shallow douchebag.

Be ready to give what you expect or get out of him. If you expect him to be there for you emotionally every time you need him, then you had better be there for him every time he needs it. At the very least let him know the door is open to talk to you 24/7. If you expect him to do chores, you better do chores too. You want loyalty? Be loyal to him. You want him to show you compassion? Show him compassion. Give as good as you expect, if not better.

Treat him like he is valued to you, not as an object to use at your will.
Treat him as an intellectual, psychological and emotional equal, not a piece of shit you just stepped in.
Be open and honest, not a lying, using, manipulative bitch.
Love him, admire him, adore him, respect him and be there for him as much as you want it from him.

29 December 2010

Compassion

A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave. - Mohandas Gandhi
 
http://www.thequoteblog.com/category/mohandas-gandhi/

com·pas·sion 

–noun

1. a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.

It is rather difficult for me to even begin putting this particular blog into articulate terms. Remember this guy?

Backstory: There is a place called Tent City. It is a place where the homeless are home. There has been quite a controversy in the "It's Your Call" section of our newspaper. People in the area use this to give their opinion on various matters, kind of like the Letter to the Editor, but more immediate. Several of the "callers" have expressed their dislike for Tent City and its inhabitants. 

Many believe they do indeed have a place to go and just choose to be on the street. Some of these testimonials, if not most, are second hand. Many of the quotes in the actual news articles are full of the -oh no be scared of them, they're all mentally ill, drunk and high.- I'm too lazy to provide direct links. Just go rummage around http://www.newspressnow.com/index.html

Recently some of my fellow elder college students decided it would be a good idea to show some compassion and come up with ways to help these folks out, you know, since they're sleeping in tents on the ground when it's really cold. This is one response they got:
Please be aware that all all of the residents of tent city are there primarily by choice. I work on the mental health unit at [redacted] and see these people when they have blood alcohol levels of 500 and above or have are strung out on meth. etc. My husband is the case manager for the H.O.M.E. unit which provides medical care and case management services to the homeless. Contrary to the impression that the Newspaper gives, these people have been offered placement and services. They choose to stay at tent city because they can continue to indulge their addictions and not try to look for work. I know this sounds harsh, but most of what you give will be sold or bartered for the drug of their choice. . . . Don't get caught up in the drama incited by the newspaper articles. If you really want to help, contact the Social Welfare Board. This organization distriubutes tents, coats, clothing, bus passes, medical and dental services to the homeless. Do not, I repeat, do not go out on your own and give to this population. You will only be enabling them in their addictions and contribute to the already staggering rates of violence we are seeing at tent city.

Again, if you want to help, contribute to the Social Welfare Board or the Salvation Army. [sic]
I understand that many homeless people are suffering from one mental illness or another and they have a high rate of drug usage. I cannot understand how people can be so unsympathetic to another person's plight.

Have they been so blessed with such an awesome life and noble birth that they believe themselves immune to possibly being in the homeless or mentally ill's position?

I consider myself a nice person deep inside the soul. I also consider myself rather intelligent and compassionate. I myself have had one hell of a row to hoe, like these homeless people.

Logically speaking the anti's make little sense:

What person seriously chooses to be homeless? Do they wake up one day and say to themselves "Oh, well, I'm tired of living in this doublewide that keeps the rain off of my head, has a place to cook, keeps me warm and keeps me safe?"

Second, Tent City is by the Missouri River. We should all know by the 4th grade what a body of water does to the temperature in its vicinity.

Third, many homeless have drug and alcohol problems. Why do they have addictions?

I'm pretty sure addictions don't start themselves. Generally something pushes them to self medicate. If they're self medicating then they need true help from the systems that keep failing them. And quite honestly, if my big white behind were sleeping in Tent City I would want to be as stoned and drunk as I possibly could every possible second just to forget where I'm at.

Fourth, they're all mentally ill. Duh. Generally people that can function better in the real world do not end up sleeping on a park bench somewhere. Mental illness also leads back to drug and alcohol problems above.

And since we're on the subject of mentally ill homeless: Fix the mental health system. Fix the prescriptions system. Add beds to psych wards. Build a new psych hospital, even if it only holds 100 people. Build new shelters with in-house psychiatrists and counselors.

DO SOMETHING besides sit in your comfortable armchair complaining about Tent City bringing down property values. These scumbags are humans like you, only they probably have compassion for other people.

A great amount of the homeless population in this country is mentally ill. I see that myself. I acknowledge that. Many are ex-cons that thrived well in prison, but can't make it on the streets. I honestly probably couldn't make it on the streets without the help of friends and family at this point in my life.

These people need to be in an environment which almost babysits them when it comes to their medicine and psychotherapy. Several do good for a few days, and like most of us that are mentally unbalanced, stop taking their meds when they start feeling better, starting the vicious cycle again.

Then again, in this part of the country it is far more noble to help the old lady with the recently burned down house than it is to help someone who falls through every crack in every system, let alone try to fix the system. God forbid we have a 1 cent sales tax to help some of these people out.

I'll leave with one more quote from the great Gandhi: 
“Be the change that you want to see in the world.”

27 December 2010

Being Responsibly Mentally Ill or Being a Responsible Lunatic

I'll put it right here, in gold and black, - this blog is about those with the ability to control themselves. Not the people that are so far gone they need extensive hands-on care most of the time (and that's with the meds).

One of my biggest pet peeves is the stigma associated with mental illness. This, to me, is because of the many, many people who have say, bipolar or borderline, that do not take responsibility for their own actions. Trust me, I fall off of this wagon myself.

Then there's the caregivers that are essentially enablers and excuse makers. Media doesn't help matters either.
Example: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/40691150/ns/us_news-crime_and_courts/40689405
"He didn't want anyone to get hurt but himself," Rebecca Duke said of the man she loved. She called him a "gentle giant."

"The economy and the world just got the better of him," she said.
Police said the attack wasn't some spur of the moment idea. At his mobile home in the woods, they found Dec. 14 circled on a calendar. And police said he had at least 25 more rounds of ammunition in his pocket.
In 2000, he was convicted for waiting in the woods for ex-wife with a rifle, wearing a mask and a bulletproof vest. She confronted him and then tried to leave in a vehicle, and Duke shot the tires. His second wife, Rebecca, said the incident was a misunderstanding and that he went to his ex-wife's house because the ex-wife "wouldn't leave them alone."
Evans said Duke had been diagnosed by several doctors as bipolar, but didn't have enough money to buy the needed medication. "He was clearly in need of help," Evans said.
He and Rebecca had married in 1999, just before his prison sentence. She said Wednesday that Duke faithfully took his medication for his bipolar disorder, but that he was under a lot of stress.
"My testament: Some people (the government sponsored media) will say I was evil, a monster (V) ... no ... I was just born poor in a country where the Wealthy manipulate, use, abuse, and economically enslave 95 percent of the population. Rich Republicans, Rich Democrats ... same-same ... rich ... they take turns fleecing us ... our few dollars ... pyramiding the wealth for themselves."
I would like to take this opportunity to call shenanigans. Being a severe bipolar myself, the articles associated with this guy infuriate me beyond imagining. There's another quote from the widow. Essentially she stated that he had moved to a quiet neighborhood (the video looked like a standalone singlewide) and was trying to get better.

If you are bipolar, isolating yourself does not mean you are trying to get better. If he was indeed trying to get better, he would have found http://www.needymeds.org/ just like I did... and like hundreds if not thousands of others do every day.

The economy excuse as a trigger for what this guy did and had the intentions of doing is poor at best. His actions this December were premeditated, and not the first time he acted in a violent fashion. He did time for the first one. I can understand if it is before he was diagnosed with anything. I'll give him that much wiggle room, however, either Duke or a person close to him should have seen the warning signs that the medicine was not working or that he was experiencing warped thinking at a worse interval and he probably needed psychiatric intervention.

Clay knew the violent demon was rising up inside of him when he began to make the plans to have a shootout at that school. He knew he was bipolar. He knew he could have gone to any hospital and had himself confined on the grounds his medications were ineffective and he felt he was a threat to others or himself. He knew damn good and well what he was thinking and feeling was irrational and illogical and that his actions could have deadly consequences, and could have been planning for people other than himself to die.

This was a completely avoidable episode. Clay should have taken RESPONSIBILITY for his own care. I have issues with the public mental health system in America (essentially they're far too underfunded to be able to deal with the massive patient population), but he should have used it at the beginning, when he was still completely cognizant of what he was experiencing.

There is a fine line between caring and enabling; being blinded by a personal relationship and being observant of the one you love; being responsibly mentally ill and being irresponsibly mentally ill.

Another useless excuse for a mental health sufferer who refused to take responsibility for his own mental health is Seung-Hui Cho - the Virginia Tech Shooter. To this day my heart still goes out for the victims, their friends, and their families.

Cho had opportunities to take responsibility for what was going on inside his head. He methodically refused to do so.
The records chronicle two telephone conversations and one in-person visit between Cho and mental health professionals at the Cook Counseling Center, the university's student mental health services provider, in the winter of 2005, the only instances in which the student ever interacted with the center, according to authorities. 
Cho denied having any homicidal or suicidal thoughts, according to documents.
Conrad wrote that she provided Cho with emergency numbers should he begin to have "suicidal or homicidal thoughts" over winter break.
In the records from his initial telephone conversation, another triage counselor checked off "Troubled: Further contact within 2 weeks" under the portion of the form that rates the severity of the patient's disposition.
And that's just the first of a 3 page article.

Cho had immediate help and refused to own up to the demons. He was given further opportunity to own up with the emergency numbers. He refused. He also refused to go to a meeting with a counselor. Cho has no excuse whatsoever.

Responsible lunatics, like myself, fight ourselves to be one step ahead of ourselves. Being mentally ill is a responsibility. I choose to fight it every day.

I have to analyze every mood, every swing of the pendulum, every thought to make sure I am not headed down a dangerous path or becoming someone I do not desire to be anymore. Something alluded to in Christmas Morning Update and More.

I'll use jealousy as an example. I'm a Scorpio. I have jealous bones in my body. That would be pretty much every one of them. I try incredibly hard not to be jealous, to not have those thoughts, but at times they do occur. Unfortunately, especially with the jealousy, I tend to fear that I'm becoming the psychopath I once was, not the psychopath I am, nor the psychopath I desire to be.

It's almost like a chivalric fight in its own right. Sir Gawain fought his inner demons and seduction to keep himself pure. William Marshal became the only man of his time to believe in loyalties, what it was to be a noble knight, to take responsibility for his actions, to keep his emotions in check.

It is indeed like my chivalric quest to attain the Holy Grail, to have the perfect soul despite the stormy waters, to be the perfect woman where it counts - the soul which stays forever young, not the skin which wrinkles and sags.

I have failed before, and I will fail again. It happens. Life happens. I'm just smart enough and responsible enough to know exactly what measures can be taken and when to take them.

I'll admit, I'm not willing to commit myself to the psych unit. That has something to do with me being absolutely stubborn about wanting to fight the battle myself. I don't always have the grasp of a "wise general knows when to retreat and when to call for reinforcements." But I fight on anyway, even when it gets to the point where I am expressing myself like this:

Battle weary is an understatement. Having to keep guard over yourself, monitor and police your thoughts, emotions, actions, mostly thoughts, every second of every day of your life, having already done that for 26 years, looking down the barrel at 45 more if the whole life expectancy thing holds true. Which it probably won’t. Your life is lived in a combat mode that does not end. Ever. Even if you are surrounded by friends and those who “love” you. Even If you’re alone with that one special person you trust enough to let you see you at your sobbing, snotting, teary, vomit-filled weakest. You. Have. To. Exert. All. Of. Your. Energy. To. Keep. Yourself. Alive. And. Somewhat. Sane. Each time you hit the depression, not knowing if this is the one that’s going to claim you, or if you’ll pull through it only to know for certain you will be in the same place once again.

Family and the Mentally Ill and Abused.

"I sense a little dysfunction in your family." - Some person with a doctorate.

Well no shit Sherlock. "A little" is quite the understatement. It's like saying the Great Wall of China is just a little wall, or Canterbury Cathedral is a little building, or the Louvre has a little bit of art in it... or Chateau d'If was just a little hard on its prisoners.

I woke up on Christmas morning in a somewhat decent mood... then I was stupid enough to venture the mile to my Grandma's house for free food that I didn't have to cook. Looking back, I should have stayed home and ate another peanut butter and jelly sandwich as I left frustrated and pissed.

Every year I'm stupid enough to have this weird delusion that these people will accept me for who I am... and not play the piss on Boudicca just because we can game they like to play.

Luckily it's scaled back nowadays, but I honestly think that's because I'm big enough to do serious physical damage now. I guess jacking with a 4 year old until she's forced into violence to get people to leave her alone is easier, and thus more fun, than jacking with a full grown, unwavering, pissed off lunatic. Probably a smart move on their part. One of the few smart moves they make when I'm involved.

Ok, maybe me wearing this shirt to a family function of a dysfunctional baptist family was not a good way to start the dinner, but whatever. (P.S. If you're into death metal, and you get a chance to see these guys, DO IT)




I'm the pierced/tatted/black sheep anyway, might as well wear what I want. Most of them didn't get it anyway... they probably had to go Google Misery Index to figure out who they are and what they do. Honestly, I'm surprised I didn't get it for not bowing my head and following the abusive Mormon's prayers.

The mortal enemies made it a point to get their digs in on me. My cursing. Going to school instead of working (why exactly can't you work 20-40 hours a week and handle 12-18 credit hours of upper level English and History classes with professors that expect gold?). Getting over Mom's death. My adherence to the evolution rather than creationism. That's the most fun one though.

Naturally after I'd had about enough of it, I started stabbing back. It's just my way. A captain I once worked with made a very astute observation about me (to me): When you're backed in a corner you come out swinging. Yeah, that pretty well fits the bill.

I found myself sitting there, listening to conversations go on (ignorant fucks), talking to my aunt and a cousin - both of whom I adore, and thinking to myself. Apparently it is a very, very bad idea to say something along the lines of "Mom fucked the mailman to create me, didn't she?"

Naturally, that was actually heard, and they were a bit pissed. I had finally gotten a bit tired of having my intelligence, libertarian tendencies and intellectual curiosity doubted and stabbed. Really, it is not my fault that I like to figure shit out, or ruminate upon the world, and heaven forbid I have the ability to change my mind if something makes more logical sense.

Then again, we are talking about a family that still uses 'coon' and 'colored,' thinks equal rights is not cool ("women have rights?"), believes in the southern style of Baptist, and cannot get their heads wrapped around anything to do with psychology (I have that argument quite often). Oh, Obama's a Muslim too.

Their response to me (and a cousin who is paranoid schizophrenic) is for the most part one of no compassion, no understanding, and no desire to understand. Although, because he has a penis he ranks a bit higher than me. I think my favorite quotes are: "You don't want to be normal," "Do you really need these meds?" and "What would a psychiatrist do except cost money?"

The schizophrenic (who is actually one of the few family members I like) gets pity from the family though. I'm also the scary one that might get to cleaning some of these skeletons out of the closet (well, they are piling up a bit damn it, where else am I supposed to hide the fresh bodies until it thaws out?).

The look on everyone's face when I said something to the effect of I should have been in an asylum and I was fully suicidal not long ago (I think we were discussing the hospice company's bereavement group) was priceless. Only one person didn't miss a beat and actually comprehended what I said... the actual depth of it. And was one of maybe 2 people that gave a shit.

Oh, let's not forget the response to sexual abuse. Actually, they take four routes.

1) The victim is obviously lying because the scumbag wouldn't ever hurt a child. He's so wonderful to his children and wife. And he's a pillar of the community (and possibly the school janitor or your son?)

- or -

2) Wellllll maybe it happened... (cause there are assholes like me that like to correct other assholes who try to put these pedophiliac assholes on a golden pedestal)... but that was a long time ago, and he's a different person now. I'm sure it was partially your fault too. (ORLY!?!)

-or-

3) *buries head in sand*

- or -

4) any combination of the above.

And they wonder why I didn't have the balls to come forward when it happened, and why I'm an asshole about it now? And why I question my actual blood ties to these people. Or why I believe water is thicker than blood.

TLDR: If your family ain't got your back, don't rely on them. It's their loss, and they're showing their stripes.
If you're a family member, don't be a douche.

25 December 2010

Christmas Morning: Update and more thoughts.

Med update for those who asked - Weds. had Dr. appointment. We decided to go off of Lamictal (since it sucks for me) and go on risperidone. Weds. and Thurs. I took 25mg Lamictal, .5 mg risperidone, and the usual 40 mg Lexapro. Went off of the Lamictal tonight and increased to 1mg risperidone. I have room to play with the risperidone. Apparently I can increase by another half if the whole doesn't work in a couple of days, and if that still fails, I can increase again to a total of 2 mg. Go back on the 10th of January. If I'm still cycling on Monday like I just did I'll increase to 1.5 mg risperidone. I've also taken Klonopin once since Wednesday. I'm trying to not rely on it, but damn sometimes I need the stuff just to get a couple of hours of sleep.

An hour into Christmas and it sucks already. At least I had a good couple of days of mania (you should still pity the poor friend who has to talk to me all the time).

I was in a great mood earlier, not manic, just in a good mood - although it can be difficult differentiating hypomania from a good day. Today I had another wonderful conversation with a loyal friend and caught up with one of my cousins. My brother and his wife came out and for some reason didn't piss me off like they usually do with their mere existence. We even looked at the pictures I brought back from my trip to England over Thanksgiving break together, and my verbal communication was more than grunting.

Not more than 10 before starting this blog I was in a great mood, laughing my ass off at Carry On Columbus, feeling satisfied with the wood burning project I did.

Now... well, now I'm on the higher end of depressed. It's not the risperidone, I only took it 2 hours ago. I'd say this is my normal rapid cycling. Blech.

I wish my brain would stop projecting things that trigger sides of me I don't like and can't seem to control well. Shrinks call it 'warped thinking.' I call it torture. I can usually recognize it for what it is, but most of the time it's after the damage has already been done to my mood.

I have an ideal of what I am and want to be as a person and the 'warped thinking' does not help me achieve it at all. I have to fight myself constantly to not slip into the person I was in the past; the person whom I fear is still inside me, the one that existed before the correct diagnosis, before the medications.

I don't know. Maybe Godrey in Kingdom of Heaven is right: You are not what you were born, but what you have it in yourself to be.

I'm going to go take a shower, find something chocolate to eat and try to sleep. Maybe that'll help me feel better.

22 December 2010

So, yeah, manic. Yay. Happy happy joy joy

-The Last Felony: Too Many Humans- because it was handy.

I was going to write a blog about responsibility, but things changed... within minutes.

Since I've been requested to blog when I'm manic, not just when I'm depressed or pissed - I'm manic blogging. This isn't hypomania, this isn't a mixed episode. This is the real manic. YAY! I figured I'd blog while I wait very impatiently for Facebook's fail uploader to upload my damned pictures.

Warning: you may actually laugh this time. Nice change, huh? This is a raw, unedited, full force view of me manic.

*side note: feel sorry for the poor sap I was on the phone with discussing everything from prison and poetry to the Ottava Rima and the stupid theories for the story of Noah. You know, the theories that cannot pass the logic test of anyone with a brain that operates above that of a gnat. - Yeah I bet you're sorry I have your phone number now, aintcha? You're still my favorite person in this mortal world though. You're stuck with me. Haha. Careful though, I have a tendency to grow on people like a toenail fungus. <3 - but seriously to everyone else - pity the poor fool*

Anyway:
Imagine this guy on caffeine, meth, speed, and whatever other upper you can think of combined, and that's me, of course I am sure you can tell that by the "side note":
He's far more attractive than I am though. 
This is what I look like in real life.
See why I can't look in a mirror, aside from the overweight stretchmarks on a, well I'm not even sure what damn fruit I'd be. Something like a coconut with tits maybe?

My brain is firing like crazy. Imagine the speed of this increased by like 5000:  

I can feel my heart beating inside my chest. I guess that proves that I do still have one at least. My pulse has to be around 120. My breathing is incredibly rapid, probably somewhere near 24-30. Not that I could concentrate for more than 3 seconds to count anything.
Naturally this only further proves this Lamictal is not working. It fails. Miserably. But this high manic is a nice change from where I was... craving death, yearning to use the razor blade for something other than shaving my hairy, gorilla like armpits. You know, that place I wrote about earlier with a deep, inescapable pit full of venomous snakes, demons, goblins, ghouls and butterflies. 

Don't mock. Butterflies are really the innocent looking spies of the demons. They fly around and look for people like me and report back to home base. Kind of like a ghoulish reconnaissance mission. Anyway, I digress.

My speech is fast. Seriously fast.... and it's still not anywhere near to keeping up with the trains of thought I'm experien--- oooooh shiney! Anyway. Mouth and pen not moving as fast as my brain. Keyboard not much better. Concentration is non-exis ooooooooooooh another shiney! Yeah. Like that.

You know that kid that sat next to you in 2nd grade that couldn't sit still and always acted like he had to pee because he didn't do anything but squirm and squirm and squirm some more? Imagine that amount of twitch, put it in a 230 lb body, and double. That's where I am. 

Just in the few seconds in between trying to formulate some sort of coherent thought for you and actually typing it out, I cannot get my fingers and legs to stop.

Emotionally? Well shit man, I'm not even on this planet. I'm wearing my Batman costume in space, flying around, waving at everyone I like and hocking loogies at the ones I don't. This is the moment where nothing can bring me down. At all. You could tell me I'm the most worthless piece of shit on earth and I'd be all like, yeah, I can still kick your ass. Wanna go outside and talk a sec? In my head right now, I could totally destroy the biggest, meanest, most pissed off drunk in the bar.

In my manic world, there's everything to love about me and nothing to hate. Honestly, I'm fucking awesome. I think I'm the woman every man should desire, though I still realize I'm far from eye candy (eye candy is overrated and have no depth anyway), and more like the ugly chick you bang but you are too embarrassed to let your buddies know you're banging a 2 bagger coyote ugly chick.

This is MY world, you are just visiting it.

The creative juices flow heavily and I can be quite poetic and prolific at times like this. Obviously I have an awesome grasp on imagery and description naturally, it seems to come out more and be enhanced by mania.

Mania only helps creative writing though. Trying to do research papers through this shit is difficult because of the OSF (oooh shiney factor). That and I have the attention span of a slug unless I can do something like creative writing, painting or pyrography. 

For some reason I can concentrate then, especially the pyrography. I can get so into it that I can work on a piece for 6 or 7 hours (I have the crappy soldering iron setup, not a real machine) and only smoke 2 or 3 cigarettes. Normally, even worse if I'm manic, I can do a pack a day, easy. - Nonsmokers die too, so there. Plus me smoking allows stupid people to survive longer.

Conversations can be incredibly fun when I'm manic, assuming my brain doesn't get so flooded with thoughts that I can't come up with common words, or knowledge that has been thoroughly shoved into my brain...

(Ferdinand I abdicated for a pony. Charles V said fuck this shit, I quit. You, my brother, can have the Holy Roman Empire. You, my dipshit son, well you can have the headache of Spain and the new world. Just don't piss the Protestants off. Enjoy. I'm going to relax so I can die in peace.) <--- shit like that.

Conversations with me when I'm manic are often lighthearted yet deep (because, well, I crave intellectual stimulation), and they go everywhere. I can talk about Hitler and Hirohito one moment, Boudicca the next, and UFO's the moment after that. Kind of interesting really.

Anyway, that's my manic episodes in a nutshell. My body is tired, but my brain won't shut up. Gonna try this sleep thing and probably fail. Doc appt tomorrow. Should be interesting going on another new med.

20 December 2010

'Twas the week before Christmas, and I've much on my mind: religion, family and bipolar

-Blog created while listening to Cannibal Corpse - Tomb of the Mutilated and Butchered at Birth; Nile - Ithyphallic - Yes, it is a "Hammer Smashed Face", "Living Dissection" and Ithyphallic kind of day. Stupid Trivia thanks to Encyclopaedia Metallum "Butchered at Birth was banned in Germany until June 2006" because some people thought the artwork and lyrics were too violent and extreme.


For those following, no the Lamictal is not working. Wednesday cannot come soon enough so I can suffer the side effects of a different medicine.

No, I'm not Satanic. Death Metal is not about Satan, it's the emotion, feeling, and soul.

Honestly, I'm not sure Satan exists as anything other than a tool of controlling the masses.

That being said; It is quite obvious that the Christian God and I are having a bit of a spat at the moment.  OK, it is more like Hatfield and McCoy. He has only answered one prayer where I was able to tie the prayer to the result. At least I can pretend it was a direct result of the prayer and feel a little relieved.

I couldn't bear watching my mother in agonizing pain any longer and I threw everything at every deity I could think of... obviously falling back on my Southern Baptist upbringing, I prayed for mercy, for her pain to stop, for her to be at peace physically and mentally.

3 hours later, at 5 a.m. I was awakened by my cousin who was keeping vigil on Mom so Dad, my niece, and I could get a bit of sleep, explaining that Mom had gasped, threw her arms out straight and her eyes were rolling back in her head.

When I got in there she had the death rattle, her eyes were open but nothing was there, her mouth was open; a gaping hole with teeth now over-sized in a head with cool, pale, yellowed skin sagging from her fatless skull gasping for air every 12 seconds or so, resembling a carp thrown on the river bank.

Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring was about to end on the DVD and I had finally gotten around to waking the other two up. The four of us huddled around Mom. I had my right hand on her forehead and my left on her left forearm. Dad held her right hand, my niece, well I'm not sure where she was grabbing, but I know she was holding her, and my cousin held Mom's left hand.

I distinctly remember looking at the television, for whatever reason, and seeing the ship sailing off into the horizon. Enya's May It Be began playing and the final credits began to roll. It was a full 17 minutes from the time I gave her the medicine until I saw her take her last breath and felt her soul exit her body and go through mine to wherever it went.

Approximately 3 hours and 17 minutes after I had made that pained plea to God in a fit of just simply not knowing what else to do, Mom was at peace. She was no longer in pain physically, and no longer tortured by her own brain.
You walk a lonely road
Oh how far you are from home
Believe and you will find your way
-Darkness has fallen-
A promise lives within you now
May it be the shadow's call will fly away
May it be you journey on to light the day
When the night is overcome 
You may rise to find the sun
-Darkness has come-
Believe and you will find your way.

A peaceful song with a strong message, to end a death that I will never be convinced was peaceful in any way, even with Morphine. 

She had lost her 10 monthish battle with cancer, after surviving all of the struggles in her life, and suffering bipolar. I say she was bipolar simply because she exhibited the same symptoms I do, and three of the medicines she had been on for quite some time are prescribed for bipolar. Obviously she was not rapid cycling, unlike me, and she had never thought about her being bipolar herself until we had several conversations about the hell I go through just to survive. She was making connections to me that she saw in herself. Except she could be more forgiving of God. I still harbor too much anger, and too many unanswered questions.

The one thing I can say for Mom, that I cannot say for any other relative of mine*, no matter how close the DNA linkage; she was the only one who ever tried to research, talk to me, ask me questions - she was the only one who bothered trying to figure out what it is to be me. She's also the only one who accepted me for who I am, faults and strengths. Even then it took until I was in my 20's for her to see me as a human and treat me as such.

* My niece who will be reading this does not fit into this category. We are essentially twins.

Certain relatives pretend they can understand where I'm coming from, but really they are too stuck in their own psychosis and denial of said psychosis to even be bothered to know the real me, especially not in the way Mom did. To know me, understand me, is to accept me. Not to try to change me. Not to tell me I'm grieving wrong. Not to stand there and tell me I have no right to be pissed at whomever, and no right to have strong, sometimes violent reactions. 

And it is not an intelligent move to get irate with me for "pushing relatives out of my life during a tough time," assume anything about how I think or feel, especially the assumption that I live in this world that I think revolves around me (again proving the lack of knowledge about me), and on top of that, tell me I'm doing everything wrong. 

These relatives do not understand me, nor do they care to. They just want to control me, like I'm stupid enough to fall for emotional blackmail and mind games. I grew up with the best games around played on me. The only difference is, I learned. 

I take responsibility for my own war with my own demons. Also, I admit I'm psychotic up front, and although it has gotten out of control recently, I try to get help when needed, and I certainly fight it every step of the way. I do not make excuses, although I'm sure it sounds to people like I do. I guess logical explanations, reasoning and theorizing can be taken as excuses by people who are not seriously deep thinkers.

By the way, I'm not the one who put my hands around the throat of a child in a body cast, nor am I the one who broke a mop handle on my son's back and brag about it, nor do I scare the hell out of my grand-daughter with my own rages over trivial things, nor am I the one who tries to destroy the gift given to my children. If I had children, I would nourish and nurture them, not try to destroy them.

Other relatives, those with the closest DNA links, well, I have about as much use for them as I have of a horsefly on my left butt cheek. 

They have never once made any effort to understand or accept me. In fact, they helped shape who I am with their incessant criticism, thinking it was funny that they could anger a 4 year old me to the point that I just bashed my head into walls as hard as I could, but would get angry when the rage finally turned to violence against the perpetrator at the time. 

The patriarch never has and probably never will attempt to see what it is I have to deal with on a daily basis inside my skull. He gets annoyingly offended if I have to get medicine from the pharmacy, and makes sure to ask if I "really need this." 

I know Mom begged him often to just google "bipolar" and read up, that the answers of why I am the way I am will be there. But then again, he never has shown any regard for psychological defects. Because of my long history of mental health issues, he has long since been embarrassed of me, and ostracized me. The last time I remember him doing anything with me on his own, I was like 3, and we baked homemade apple pies together. After the onset of illness, I was useless.

To him, I'm the the defective failure he spawned. He has never figured out that my life is a minute by minute fight with myself. One with a high possibility of self-injury, suicide attempts, addictions and probably several stays in one of the finer mental institutions in the area later on in life. It's a fact that I'm only going to be able to fight this for so long before I end up being part of the revolving door of the mental health system.

My brothers? Well, they're just assholes. One takes the same route Dad does, and cannot accept anything or anyone that is different or does not fit their idealized standards of worthy human beings. The other, well, he's the one that simply saying his name to me will cause an incredibly violent, blacked-out rage.

What does all this have to do with Christmas, religion and my feud with God? Everything, really. While I can understand that people must endure trials to gain strength, how can a loving God be at all happy creating some people like me, with a substantially defective brain, and then allow them to suffer every form of abuse known to man? To allow them to fall through every single crack a person can fall through? What is the purpose? 

If God doesn't allow more than that person to handle, why does he think I can handle everything I've been through, everything I'm going through, and if that's not bad enough, the wonderful flashbacks that occur when you're at your lowest point? 

Also, if God is so loving and forgiving, why is Hellfire and Brimstone so often browbeaten into His followers, instead of the message I took a long time ago, which was of peace, love and tolerance for everyone. I mean, really, it is said Jesus touched lepers and publicly associated with prostitutes, never, ever, seeing them as anything other than a human soul worthy of life. Something people then and now still have problems with. As an example in current times, the Untouchables of India, and this amazing guy who gets the human soul.

Maybe I'm just incredibly angry that I got saddled with the life I got saddled with, and see no real opportunity to make anything of myself if I cannot live my dream of writing. I know I'm not happy at all about cancer, losing someone that actually cared about me, and well, all the other negative, horrific crap that goes on. It may be blasphemous and I may go to some form of Hell (which would be better than the one I'm living in here), but why is God so absent if he is supposed to be so loving and caring? 

Most importantly, why would He create people knowing full well of the invisible, torturous struggles those souls would deal with, which could lead to death? In my strange world of over-thinking, that shows me that He does create defective equipment and he does allow too much weight to be put on one soul's shoulders.

14 December 2010

Day 14 of being a Guinea Pig, and a bit of a journal.

-Listening to "The Last Felony - Too Many Humans" -

Day 14 of the Lamictal. I got to increase the dose to 50mg tonight. Sadly I promised the doc I'd use this shit until the 22nd. I'm not impressed with it. I'm still dizzy, lightheaded, God help me if I can actually stand up and walk straight. The other day I fell and landed on the space heater/radiator thing that I have in my room to keep my ass warm at night. That was rather painful and my left ass cheek is a wonderful shade of purple. Life seems to be fuzzy. All I want to do is sleep, and that's broken and torturous.

While I've occasionally been able to get my nose above water long enough to take a breath, I'm still drowning. This shit isn't working. The only reason I've been able to step away from the suicidal line is simply my natural cycles. I've been in this rodeo long enough to know the difference between a gradual cycle up and medically induced help.

I'm still at a place where it is easy to trigger me into crying (normally I don't cry. I didn't cry at my Grandpa's funeral, and I only cried for an hour after I got done writing Mom's obituaries and taking care of the immediate post-death bullshit), cutting (I've been cut free for about 7 years but goddamn it's a struggle at times), or suicidal thoughts. In fact, crying often brings out the pissed off wolverine in me. It pisses me off to no end, so I cry harder and get more pissed, etc... it's a vicious cycle. I can easily go manic too, just like I did when I gave a presentation to my class. I guess being nervous can illicit mania in me.

My sleep is so broken it is beyond ridiculous. I'm apparently in a paranoid, jealous, fucked up state that even attacks me in my sleep. Most of the time when I wake up (after 2 hours of sleep), it's from some variation of a shitty dream that I unfortunately remember. Dream analysts would have a blast with me.

Nothing like waking up hot, sweaty and crying like a fucking baby... alone, which makes suffering this shit even worse. But, like I have said before, what do you do when even your dreams are not a safe haven, instead they are just a nocturnal trip through another level of Hell?

Just once it would be nice to take sanctuary in a mans arms, where I can just completely melt down with someone who gives a shit about me after one of these shitty dreams. Not someone who just wants a fuck and kicks you out immediately after without so much as a kiss or thanks.

Even when I'm awake I'm feeling quite paranoid, anxious, angsty, and definitely depressed.

Anxiety:
I found myself incredibly on edge, very close to having a full anxiety attack last Thursday (12/9/10). I was simply sitting in the hall, waiting for class to start. Other people started showing up, talking, having a good time, minding their own business, and encroaching upon my rather large personal space circle. The noise, the energy, and simply the presence of other people spazzed me out. There's been more than one time I've had to ask my friends if we could leave the restaurant or bar because it was too much for me to handle.

It's hard to describe the feeling, but I'll try. My heart rate increases dramatically. I cannot stop twitching my legs, or fidgeting with my hands when someone bitches about my leg twitching. People just cannot understand that I cannot control it. My breathing definitely becomes faster. I'm hypersensitive to everything around me, especially sounds. I get jumpy. It's incredibly uncomfortable to be around even small groups of people, especially if there are ones in that group that quite frankly piss you off, and my brain fires faster than George Kollias' blast-beats; Example: Hittite Dung Incantation - Nile.

I've been told I resemble a king cobra or mamba out of it's element, ready to strike at anything that even remotely moves its way. There is no calming down during these episodes, no relief from the agitation besides solitude. It's just something that has to be exhaustively endured. Believe me, it is exhausting.

Events like this have been happening for awhile, like my entire life. It's just sad when you get to the point that even two people you actually like approaching your quiet, peaceful, cigarette inhaling place can illicit the same reaction as being in Wal-Mart on Christmas Eve.

Paranoia:
***I do not hear voices, except mine, which is bad enough. I am not a Bipolar with Schitzoid Tendencies. I am a severe Rapid Cycling Bipolar***
The paranoia I experience is the most excruciating and disheartening. It's the part of the many cycles of Bipolar I hate most - as it usually means the dangerously low depression is around the corner. It's also definitely the hardest for me to open up and write about.

What may really be innocent becomes a reason for me to be hurt and pissed at you, like it was a personal assault on me. Paranoia leads to distrust which leads to fucked up shit. More importantly, the paranoid states skew your own view of yourself.


The worst part is honestly believing those that love and care about you are somehow stabbing you in the back, even if you're not sure how, you know they're doing it. This destroys relationships, no matter what level or context the relationship is.

Paranoia leads to and exacerbates angst, jealousy, anxiety, depression, and possibly psychosis. I experience thoughts/realizations/feelings/reactions that may or may not be real. This is the point where it's probably the hardest to deal with me. Everything you do or say either gets taken wrong or is simply not believed. You're an angel one minute and a lying, manipulative, evil piece of shit the next. (That might be a good reason why I'm single).

The perceptions of the paranoid mind: If you call a friend and they don't answer the phone, obviously they're avoiding you. If you ask a friend if they want to hang out and they decline, obviously you're not good enough to hang out with. You're just the charity case pity friend who's only good enough to deal with occasionally on the phone, or in very short sessions. Any excuse used to not hang out (gotta babysit, gotta wash my hair, I have "something to do" - man-speak for I'm getting laid, - I'm busy, whatever) is an obvious "fuck off, I don't want to hang out with you because you're not cool enough/good enough to hang out with". Crushes or significant others purposely gawk at and flirt with other women in front of you just to hurt you (giving the obvious emotional response of "why the fuck ain't I good enough for them")- because honestly it's apparently fun to rip people's hearts out and then rub salt in the wound.

There is no such thing as logic at this point in time. At all. If you do have a moment when your logical brain is able to break through and kick in, it is quickly overcome by the faulty part of the brain. I'm really not sure how a carer is supposed to deal with this, other than have a thick skin and lots of patience. I mean a LOT of patience. And possibly a shoulder to cry on, and a hand to hold during therapy.
Simply put: Imagine yourself going fucking nuts, knowing you're going fucking nuts, and not being able to do anything but let the train run over you. I think I'd rather be nuts and not quite know it, like Ferdinand I.

13 December 2010

What do you mean by "triggers?" - Revised

**updated now that I'm more awake
Let's start by saying triggers are evil bastards. Anyone who has a mental illness, or cares for someone who suffers needs this word in their vocabulary. The sufferer needs to learn to actually communicate these triggers with those that care about them and avoid the trigger or lessen the effects. Yes, this means the sufferer has to take responsibility (unlike say, Lohan or Spears). Those that care need to take into account the seriousness of the trigger, learn what that person's likely response is going to be, learn to try to avoid the trigger (or at the very least, lessen the effect), and how to handle the person when they're triggered.

Face it, when we are in full trigger mode we are not thinking correctly. Our animal instincts have taken over and we're basically working on hormones, electrons and chemicals. As much as it sucks for the sufferer to give up that bit of independence in our battle with ourselves, occasionally you as a carer are going to have to step in.

Trigger: something that acts like a mechanical trigger in initiating a process or reaction. (Merriam-Webster).

Again, triggers are evil bastards. Generally some outside source sets off a complete psychological disturbance within the person. Triggers can be anything, really. I've known people who would freak out at the smell of Tic-Tacs or seeing a certain type of flower. - These triggers are even more exacerbated (and sometimes weird) if the bipolar is a survivor of some form of abuse.

Many things can trigger a bipolar episode. Some examples:
  • stress
  • sleep issues
  • problems at work/home
  • isolation (a big issue with me personally)
Read more from David E. Oliver 

Reactions to triggers are awesome!

One frequent response to a trigger is a full on panic attack. 
Breathing becomes difficult. Your heart races. Your adrenaline dumps into your system. Your brain shuts down to everything around you except the memories, thoughts and feelings associated with that trigger and trying to get away from said bastard.


Other responses aren't as "mild."

1. One can easily turn into this: A pissed off wolverine. A raving beast that even grizzly bears will run away from. A badger the size of a German Shepherd who, when pissed, is a whirling dervish of teeth and claws. Believe me, you will always lose the battle against a wolverine. Always. 

OK, you may win if you stab it with Haldol or some other chemical restraint.
In my case, I feel absolutely no pain when I hit this stage of rage (which luckily is rare and takes a strong trigger often associated with my natural protectiveness of others). 

Any police officer, corrections officer or psych ward employee will tell you that the ones that cannot feel pain are the worst to deal with. All you can do is overpower and restrain them (tactic of choice) or hope to talk them down (rare).

This demon within me is perhaps the one I am most afraid of because I know I can do serious damage to someone else, not realize I'm doing it, and sadly, not even care at the moment. When this demon comes out, it is seriously like I'm another person, a very scary, if not evil, person, that will not back down when challenged. 

Fortunately the majority of the time this bitch comes out seems to be when I'm defending someone (including myself), who is the brunt of douchebaggery, abuse, etc... especially if the person is another mentally ill person, such as someone with Autism, Aspergers Syndrome, Downs Syndrome or simply just slower than the dicks who think they're the Alpha dogs. I guess I'm just a guardian for the weaker. 

The biggest problem is getting my family to understand that this ravaging demon comes out at the simple mention of my "brother" (I use the term loosely) or he just shows up, leaving me feeling rather bombarded and assaulted in my peaceful castle. (See the first paragraph).
I literally black out. The only thing I can see is him. Nobody else is in the room to me, even if there's 30 other people there
Whatever the exact trigger is with him, one could liken the response to being high on PCP and having a blood feud.

2. Triggers can leave us completely incapacitated, crying, enduring the pain, thoughts and/or memories that are waging an assault on us - leaving us looking something like this:


Depending on the state of mind we were already in, a full on depression caused by whatever trigger can last days or weeks. Personally, when I hit a serious depression I can be laid up for 2 weeks easy, sleeping at least 16 hours, often 20 hours a day. I honestly think that this is not only a recuperation device, but a way of "avoiding the pain," or letting the mind and heart heal itself a little bit so I can survive. That being said, recuperation after a week or two of this is slow, agonizing and frankly, quite annoying. I'll go deeper into the depression aspect in a later blog.


3. Even worse than just a laid up depression, many  find themselves self-harming. Some assholes with no clue what it's like to be in our shoes call it "self-mutilation," which fits, but makes us feel more like shit for doing it. Again I'll go further into detail about Self Injury in a later blog.
(note on above picture: only beginner injurers tend to injure on a place like the wrist. Often, with more experienced ones, well, you won't see our cuts, burns, whatever method of injury unless you see us naked.)

The important thing about self injury is (pay attention) it is the step BEFORE suicide attempts.

As a cutter, I can tell you that cutting prevented several suicide attempts (though I do have 3 attempts on me). As difficult as it is to wrap your head around if you are not a self injurer, the shit works. Yes it's highly dysfunctional, yes it's bad... but damn it, it works. It calms you down enough to maybe be able to sleep the suicidal phase off, or even makes you forget about committing suicide for awhile. The bad thing is, since it does work, it's addicting, like alcohol, heroin, or crack, and just as difficult to stop. Self medicating is called self medicating for a reason, it works; it takes the pain away, even if only for a few minutes, and that's a few minutes we can have relative peace inside our chaotic minds.


4. Well, you're not going to like this one, but triggers can be so harsh the sufferer simply cannot handle the pain and torment within their soul and chooses to remove themselves from this mortal world. This is rather rare, and suicidal episodes tend to develop over a long period of time, with explicit warning signs. These warning signs should NOT be lightly taken as a life really is at risk, whether you as a carer can handle the thought of it or not.


12 December 2010

The Beginning Blog: Intro to the Blog and the Author

About the blog: Chances are this blog will be about as chaotic as my mind. While it will likely be seriously annoying to those with OCD and expect everything to be pretty, concise and heavily revised into perfection - my brain does not work that way and I choose to show whomever stumbles upon this blog the harsh realities people like myself face every minute of every day, until we die.

I have absolutely no idea how much I'll blog, when I'll blog, or exactly how what I have to say will come out. I tend to be brutally honest and do not mince words. I also tend to be brutally sarcastic and highly opinionated, especially about people who have no compassion for others and think it is "cool" to further torture those psychologically weaker than themselves. While I am a tolerant person in general, I despise those with closed minds (see the paragraph below).

Warning: If you think this is some weird ploy for attention: Please remove your DNA from the gene pool. There are enough people running around this world who are detached from reality and the hardship of others. We do not need any more. Thank you.

The purpose of this blog takes many forms:
  • Documentation of the life and thoughts of a severe rapid cycle bipolar (e.g. online journal)
  • Educational tool for those poor souls that care for people like me
  • A place for me to rant about many things pertaining to mental health care
  • An open place for communication, questions which may or may not be answered effectively (it is difficult to explain certain things to non-sufferers in a way that they will understand) and discussions pertaining to mental illness, health care and the hell we go through just to get diagnosed and treated correctly.
 About the author: in no specific order

  • 30 year old female: the two things I go by are The Rage Consumed and Boudicca Gruaim.
  • Unemployed, un-insured college student which makes receiving proper care that much more difficult, especially in the shitty American health care setting.
  • I am not a doctor or medical professional. I never claim to be one. I offer insight into the the life of mentally ill strictly from the standpoint of someone who suffers.
  • I'm rather open and honest. There is no reason to lie, nor is there a reason to hide the problem of mental illness . Hiding and lying about mental illness only perpetuates the stigma and taboo of it. It wasn't that long ago my kind was just put into a cage and given a frontal lobotomy. We cannot forget that. Forgetting the history makes changing the future far more difficult.
  • I've been fighting mental illness from the age of 4 (the earliest episodes I remember anyway)
  • Severe Rapid Cycle Bipolar
  • Childhood Sex Abuse Survivor
  • Victim of attempted date-rape. I wonder if his penis ever healed.
  • Psychological/Emotional/Physical abuse survivor
  • Asshole magnet when it comes to men (which does not help)
  • Pretty much the lone wolf, however if trapped in a group I tend to be the one watching everything and everyone, ready to pounce at the hint of trouble and protect the group.
  • Highly loyal to those very few I let close. That means physically, mentally, emotionally. If someone of that difficult to attain status needs something I tend to try to get it, though I'm better at listening and defending the person.
  • I will ALWAYS fight for the underdog, the bullied, the abused, and it would suffice to say that injustice seriously pisses me off and brings out the wolverine in me.
  • I am a feminist - I believe in EQUAL rights for both men and women, not superiority for either.
  • I also believe in gay rights. FFS just let them be married if they love each other, and definitely let them volunteer to serve for our freedom. They are just as patriotic as us hetero's.
  • I am like the wild animal: I watch those around me, get a feel for their personalities, souls, compassion and hearts before I decide they are good or safe enough to approach.
  • Because of this I make few friends, but the friends I allow into the inner bailey and keep are the most loyal friends one could ask for.
  • I am incredibly opinionated, but my mind is open enough to listen to logic and occasionally change my viewpoint (such as women on the front lines, honestly we should not be there. Like it or not, that is my opinion gained after speaking to several combat vets who could put the cons of women in combat rolls to me in non-asshole, logical terms).
  • I write poetry, death/black metal lyrics, psychosis induced ramblings (which offer the deepest insights), and whatever the wonderful muse inside me sings.
  • I do not fit into any one stereotype. I am influenced by the Romantic Period writers, I am highly emotionally sensitive when it comes from people I care about; I guess I have the drive to try to please and excel for those I respect (which is why anything less than an A from certain instructors pisses me off) and love (damn loyal Labrador syndrome), I proudly wear my death metal band t-shirts and Tripp NYC bondage pants, I have piercings (will get more), tattoos (will be covered eventually), and I pretty much just do my own thing. Often alone.
  • The bastards that call self-harmers "Emo" piss me off to no end. I am a self-harmer. I am NOT emo. Self-harming is a very big and blatant cry for help, not attention, that should be heeded as it is the last step before actual suicide attempts. 
  • I've gone cut free for 7ish years (it's rather fuzzy), but not without a fight. It's like alcoholism or addiction to heroin, it is incredibly difficult to kick because,sadly, it does ease the psychological disturbance the person is experiencing... at least enough to bring them a couple of steps away from the ledge they're about to jump over.
  • Naturally I have a highly addictive personality. If I try it and it feels good, I want more... so I tend to try not to hang out with druggies, which is easy to do since I'm a lone wolf type. Avoiding casinos is a good idea for me too. That said, alcohol tends to be my self-medication of choice - and I can out-drink most men when I hit the drinking phase.
Current events in my life: About 2 years ago my anti-depressant began to fail. Instead of being intelligent and not hard-headed (it would be so nice to destroy this diseased brain by myself, without the help of people in white coats) I simply tried (and try) to fight everything on my own, regardless of the effectiveness of the drugs. Yes, I am stubborn. I come by it naturally though, from both the maternal and paternal sides of my family.

In January of 2010 my mother (and only person I could trust to have my back and not be judgmental of me) was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer. She died Sept. 28, 2010, not even a month after she came home on hospice from her last stay in the hospital. *edit: She died September 27th. That proves how exhausted and medicated I was that week. Hopefully getting the date wrong does not make me a bad daughter.*

In March of 2010 my boyfriend at the time was diagnosed with Stage 4 Lymphoma. He was treated and is now in remission (hopefully a really long term remission). During Mom's fight with cancer (in which I was the main caregiver for the last month of her life) the boyfriend became less and less supportive. I found myself fighting this essentially alone. I had friends, but friends cannot comfort me as well as the one who supposedly loves me (another issue altogether). He seriously douched out at the same time my mother died. I couldn't even get a "Yes, I'll go to the wake to support you" out of him.

While I still love him to pieces I am staying strong in my resolve that he is not the right person for me. I am intelligent enough to know I need a man who will be there every time (or at least a high percentage of the times) I need him. One that will travel the world with me as I study and research for writing projects. One that will just say I love you for no apparent reason. Anyway, I digressed into my hidden romantic. Naturally the loss of a loved parent and a 5 1/2 year relationship deeply wounded me.

I've been spiraling down ever since. Grieving the loss of Mom, rebounding from the relationship, being shot down repeatedly by every interest (which honestly comes across in my fucked up brain as "you're not good enough for me") - then again, who really wants to deal with seriously damaged goods?

My cycles are becoming more rapid, including mixed episodes where I'm seriously depressed and low manic at the same time. I try to keep track of my cycles and the most recent omg cycle fest included 7 cycles from "I can do anything" to fighting off the self-injury demon.

Two weeks ago I found myself low enough that I was actively coming up with creative ways to commit suicide. - It is part of my personality to be different so the over-used cliche methods bore me and I won't use them. - I came up with quite a few.

Instead of being intelligent and overcoming my own demons and going to the mental health ward, I chose to tranq myself out with Tramadol and Klonopin and visit the general practitioner (GP). She put me on Lamictal (again) in hopes that my body chemistry had changed since the last time I tried it. It apparently hasn't. I've been on it for 12 days and no change. I'm supposed to increase the dose in 4 days and visit again on the 22nd. It honestly feels like I'm just putting shitty pharmaceuticals in my body to no effect. Hopefully she'll listen next time and put me on Risperidone which is only $60/month or Abilify which I can most likely get via the pharmaceutical company's Patient Assistance Program, which is how I get my Lexapro. I guess we're in the wait and see, throw drugs at it, experimental phase again. Sadly, no matter how long I live, this will occur every few years.

That is probably enough information and self pity for one post. Thank you for reading and I hope to be able to give some insight to those who are seriously interested.