30 March 2011

30 mar 2011 - Crumbling

I was dumb enough to check my midterm grades. I literally have a D in everything but one class. I got a letter from the registrar's office saying hurry up and get your degree, you're running out of hours. Now I have to drop to a B.S. in History with a minor in English Lit. I wanted the B.A.  On top of it all, I'll never have the 3.0 I need to get into KU's grad program. I'm so ready to give up. I'm sick of working my ass off and getting nothing accomplished.

I can't get this bipolar shit under control. I can't shake the depression. I'm so far behind in my work I'll never catch up, no matter how hard I try. But there are people out there "pulling for me" and think I can make something of myself.

I ain't gonna be nothin' but a po' ass goth redneck on disability (assuming I get it) rockin' in the corner, cryin' 'cause every dream I've dared to dream I've managed to fuck up. I'm gonna be single forever, because honestly, who the fuck would want my ass. The only way I have out of living with Dad is either he dies (which better not happen) or my writing career takes off... even though I'm a mediocre writer.

My friends keep disappearing, and the ones that have offered themselves up just haven't earned my trust yet. I'm what you call "slow to warm." I feel I have good reasons not to trust people. It doesn't matter, every friendship I've ever had has simmered down to lukewarm, is breaking away, or has already ceased contact. New friendships shall end with the same fate of bleakness. Relationships shall always fail. I shall always be a fuckup.

28 March 2011

Me Grieving and Other Shit

First off, why the fuck do people think they need to tell me how to grieve? Why the fuck can't they just let me do it my own way. I'm doing better now than I was a month ago when I ended up in the loony bin. Besides, it's only been 6 months. If you got over it and dealt with a death in less than six months, then congratufuckinglations, I'm happy you have less emotion than I do. Right now I'd love to be a sociopath unable to feel any emotion or attachment to other humans. I'd also love to be able to speed read, but that's never going to happen either.

Apparently my cousin has moved in with us.

26 March 2011

6 month anniversary eve

It may as well be the actual 6 month anniversary of Mom's death. As of writing this it's less than 12 hours away from the exact time. I've been having shitty dreams about her and taking care of her in her last days. I've been having shitty dreams about other things as well. I guess the dreams are going to assault me for awhile.

Dave didn't bother calling or coming over last night so I am assuming his answer is he wants nothing for a relationship/friendship status. It hurts, but I expected it. He could have at least called though.

I've been trying to catch up on my reading. That's not going so well. I'm probably going to fail this semester because I can't remember shit, especially when it's test time. I've spent far too much time trying to deal with this depression bullshit and locking myself up instead of concentrating on school. Then again, concentration is simply out of the question right now. I think it's half depression/grief and half medicine. But I need the meds to survive. Literally survive.

My mind keeps wandering to thoughts of Mom, memories of the horrible things that have been said to me throughout my life - especially by Dave, recent arguments with relatives, everything I've been through in my life, feeling like I'm losing the man who became my best friend. Thinking that nobody would notice, or care if I just keeled over myself, wondering why the fuck it was Mom and not me. What do I have to offer? I'm fucking 30 and live with my father because I can't get/hold a job and go to school, praying I get disability. I can't seem to ever get it together.

A friend said there are two types of girls: Those you go out with and those you marry. He forgets the third type: people like me. I don't have men beating down my door asking for dates/fucks or marriage. If I did, I wouldn't know what to do aside from being skeptical of his intentions. My bipolar would make life hell for whoever decided to marry me, and probably for those that would date me. So there it is, I'm the 3rd type - the untouchable, the perma-friend who won't get a chance at the love she wants.

24 March 2011


I've been having serious anxiety issues lately. I can't sleep, or at least fall asleep peacefully. I talked to the ex last night. Neither of us knows where we stand. I think I'm going to offer friends with benefits, because he doesn't seem keen on getting back with me.

I'm not sure why I was stupid, depressed, or anxious enough to call him. The conversations didn't go well, but he's supposed to come over tomorrow. I guess we'll argue more then. I think there's just too much hurt on both sides for a relationship to work. It's too hard to be in one with him, just as hard as being alone. Why must I fall for forbidden, unhealthy love? Why must I crave love at all?

I'm so tired of being alone though. Surely FWB would be ok? The counselor, and well, everyone else, thinks I shouldn't date until I get myself healed. I'm not sure I'll ever heal or become a controlled bipolar. Everyone tells me to find the good in myself to help me heal, I wish I could see in me what my friends do.

I wish I could sleep 20 hours a day again, that thoughts and emotions didn't plague me as they do. I wish the love of my life would hurry up and sweep me off of my feet already. I wish the depression would go away and the meds didn't make me tired and sick.

I'm so far behind in classes because of the depression that I pray for C's. There's not enough waking hours to read and write everything I have to do. The meds and my state of mind do not help.

There are days I wish I weren't alive, days I question life, suicidal days, cutting days, but no days where I'm happy to wake up, to be a live, to just be happy or at least neutral.

In other news I got my manuscript back from a trusted professor, he liked it and gave me suggestions on how to make it harder hitting and not confuse the audience. Overall it was a nice ego stroke. Now hopefully I can write my term paper as well, if not better.

22 March 2011

MAR 22 2011

The doctor upped the Wellbutrin to 300 mg once a day. I had trouble sleeping and woke up with a sour stomach. Still wanted to puke 2 hours later. So far no change in depression. Hopefully in a few days it'll work. All I want to do is sleep. I guess that's better than wanting to cut or commit suicide. These meds kill me though, and my ability to stay awake, concentrate and function, but I need them or I'll never get better.

I ended up dropping a class, but I'm still painfully behind due to missed classes caused by depression and being locked up. Counselor wasn't in today, which sucks, I could have used a session with him today. S much shit on my mind, pain in my heart and torture in my soul that basically only he can help with.

I'm still upset circumstances (choice?) are taking my best friend from me. Pissed my niece can't understand or accept the fact that I only go to certain people, which she is not. I won't go to her because she doesn't need my shit on top of hers; the roles are supposed to be her coming to me not vice versa; she may think I opened up to her when Mom was dying, but she's wrong. I just wish she'd understand a) there's nothing to help me with and b) I'm always going to be closed with the exception of my elite 4.

The elite 4 seems to keep disappearing and reappearing. #1 is disappearing due to time and phone constraints. #2 confuses me because we both still love each other, but the few phone calls are awkward. #3 disappeared for a month because of her own shit, a month when I could have used her, but now she's coming back. #4 has been watching from the sidelines and calling at the right times - keen to my need of a friend. We must be kindred spirits.

I'm going to miss #1 when he finally walks away. #2 needs to step up and prove he loves me. #3 I hope shit goes better for you. #4 love you too Momma B.

20 March 2011

Back from England...

Even while away in England the black dog was persistent. If it weren't for the phone calls home I'm not sure I could have made it. The trip made the depression go all the way down to 5 but now it's back up to 8 or so. I guess at least I'm alive, as are the people I went on the trip with.

Dave and I are talking again, he doesn't remember dumping me though. He made the mistake of saying "I don't know why you're so depressed all the time." All I could say is that's the way bipolar plays its game. It's horrible.

I wish it would go away and I could be happy, if not manic again. Even Colchester was bittersweet. Probably because I had to do it alone, like I do everything. If I want to go to the movies, I go alone. If I want to bowl, I bowl alone. If I want to go to dinner, I dine alone. You get the picture.

I've slept I don't know how many hours. I guess I'm still jetlagged. Tears keep finding their way out of their ducts. I got some shitty news last night: I can't talk to my best friend on the phone much anymore. God keeps taking him from me bit by bit. Can't see him, can't talk to him, what kind of fucking friendship is a no-contact friendship?

I'm confused about Dave. And concerned. I would think one would remember dumping their girlfriend, or at least the argument. That chemo must have seriously fucked him up. I know it changed him. Hell the cancer changed him. He's not the same Dave I fell in love with, and still love. He used to make a lot of time for me... at the end I was lucky to get 2 hours every 3 weeks... and that was just for a fuck session, or at least that's how it seems.

He says he still loves me, but he hates my piercings. Piercing is just part of who I am. Tattoo's are definitely who I am. Why can't anyone accept me or love me for me? It's not like I ask much of a boyfriend, just be there for me when I need you, accept me for me, treat me like I'm equal to you and don't fuck around on me.

I guess I'm going to go cry myself back to sleep. At least you know I'm still alive.

08 March 2011

Breakdown Day 5

The dog has let up for a little bit. I slept 15 hours today. Had many bad or uneasy dreams. I wish my meds would work. Wish they'd stop bad dreams. Spent $60 on the Wellbutrin which may as well be a fucking placebo. I'd hate to see what it's like without it though. Something has got to be better than nothing in my case. Maybe the 2 hour convo with #1 friend on the phone helped pull me out of it. Maybe I'm just getting ramped up for England and Colchester with its Roman things and Norman castle. Maybe I'm just a depressive rapid cycling psychopath. We'll see how I feel in the morning. I doubt it's good.

07 March 2011

Breakdown Day 4

In light of recent interpersonal relationship events I'd like to say some things:

I have a select few (4) friends that I will spill my guts to when need-be. I consider these 4 people my counsel. Their domain is my keep. They are my favorites (in a Royal sense). I will not deviate from this unless one of them falls out of favor due to fucking me over. If you are not in this group, sorry. It may or may not be personal, depending on who you are and how my bipolar reacts to you.

Some of you I just don't trust. Some of you have emotions and energies that totally kick in bad shit with me. Some of you made the mistake of thinking the best friend thing was reciprocated. I've said, I only have 4 best friends, 4 friends I go to with most things, only one will I go to with Everything.

I feed off of the "vibes" people put off. If there's one person in the room who's vibes are bad, it'll fuck me up. If I'm at a friend's house the whole time is dictated by the vibes being put out by both parties, but primarily them. I tend to react harshly to bad vibes.

Don't tell me I need help. I'm reaching out and getting the help I need. I have a counselor I see every week, and seem to be on a bi-weekly basis with my medical doctor, with no medical insurance. It is not a cure all. The devil dog has me at rock bottom right now, and he will again.

It's not as though it is for no reason this time. I'm still grieving the loss of my mother, my only reason for living. Her death is still recent so excuse the fuck out of me for not just pulling up my boot laces and chugging on over to sappy happy land where everything's fucking cuddly puppy dogs, rainbows and goddamned purple butterflies.

I'm also grieving the loss of a long term relationship in which I was NOT being used, contrary to everyone's fucking opinions, and going through the hell that is rebounding and unrequited love. Again, excuse the fuck out of me for not being little Miss Sunshine Vanilla Wafers with Cool Whip and strawberries.

But wait, there's more!
For the last four days I've essentially been in bed suffering fits of crying for no reason other than breakups hurt like hell on top of already being depressed. The demon dog has me down hardcore.

Waking up this morning to an attack because I don't consider someone a best friend did nothing to help the situation. If you were to ask me, I'd say this person needs more mental health help than they will admit to.

It was honestly all I could do to get my ass out of bed, only to be greeted with how I treat my friends like shit and about anything else that can be said to sound like my familial ties that I despise.

06 March 2011

What do you do when you can’t stand being inside your own skin?

What do you do when you can’t stand being inside your own skin? When your brain is your enemy, constantly attacking, even your dreams are not a peaceful haven? That is, if you can sleep. That’s assuming you aren’t lying in bed physically exhausted with inexhaustible thought processes.

What do you do when your soul is empty? Those you let close end up devastating you. You never know who to trust or when to trust them because you can’t trust your own brain. You know you’re going to ultimately be lonely because there is no man strong enough, intelligent enough, compassionate enough or patient enough to understand or handle your kind for long.

Things you once found peaceful and enjoying become no longer so. Always ruined by the fucking emotions, paranoia, cycling from high to barely surviving… where you don’t give a shit if you wake up, shower, shave, eat or even breathe. Hell, it’s not uncommon for a piece deep down inside to almost yearn to stop breathing in hopes of gaining a little bit of non-pharmaceutical induced tranquility.

Concentration exists for about 3 minutes, then the dysfunctional grey piece of shit lodged within your skull takes its own trip throughout the memories and unattainable wishes, wondering what it’s like to not have sympathy or empathy, what it’s like to be a sociopath, normal, functioning with a future. Knowing it takes everything you have just to make it from season to season, that you’re never going to have a normal job, a normal life, a normal anything... just the animals that will never abandon you short of death

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.

How the hell can you think about years down the road when you can barely make it from one day to the next without falling apart; walking the fine line between free and strapped to a bed with Haldol and “professionals” who think they know what the fuck it’s like to be you with their feigned concerned looks and ill-timed, condescending comments about your state of mind and/or actions. Or they say that it sounds like you’ve read one too many books when you try to intelligently discuss the organ staging an armed revolt against your Empire. Who is anybody to judge when they have not walked the same path? There’s reading about it, and there’s living it every excruciating day. Empty. Void of solace. Drained. Exhausted. Helpless. Hopeless. Your essence enduring a lifelong drought.

Breakdown Continues Day 3

I'm crying. I have no idea why I'm crying. I'm sick of this shit. When the fuck does it end? When can I be happy, loved, admired, adored, not fucking depressed? When is my best friend going to have time for me without me begging first? When is the pain going to go away? When will my heart fill back in? Why can people see good in me when I see nothing of importance or worth? When will I get to fucking see it? I can't see shit through these fucking tears that won't go away. Why did he have to change his routine so I couldn't have him when I needed him the most? Why have I been crying and sleeping the last 2 days? Why should I expect to be any better tomorrow? Or the next day, or the day after that? Why can't people fucking see this is my life for the next 45 years. Lots of torment, pain, torture, sadness, tears. Very little happiness. What happiness happens is fake. It never outlasts the demon dog with his fangs in my throat. When will this fucking pain and emptiness go away!?!?!?!? When will the fangs be removed from my fucking carotids? When can I be me again? Never, that's when. I'm destined to this shit.

Death Bell

Oh how I long for the death bell
To relieve me from this hell -
This darkness that has befell
Upon my soul - The daemon yell!


The corroded bell strikes thrice
And the daemons within are enticed -
Pulling my soul, ripping it twice
And thricemore. They must be precise.

Their talons claw and teeth gnash
At my pained essence! Oh so brash!
The evil daemons strike and thrash
Until they have me castigated to mash.


Oh death bell! Bring me repose!
Throw my body in a round barrow
After they've given my deathblow
From within the foggy hollows.

05 March 2011

Who Needs Sleep?

Depression level: 10.

I've slept, as far as I can tell, 18 of the last 24 hours. I was awake long enough this afternoon to finish most of my disability paperwork, and long enough this evening to go grocery shopping with Dad and write this blog.

I just took my meds (after losing a Wellbutrin pill) so I'll be knocked out again soon.

I guess the lower grade depression I was feeling yesterday was just a tease. I hate feeling like this, like I have no real value in the world, to myself, to others. I'm trying to find myself and my self worth again but failing at it is just driving me deeper into the pit.

I woke up feeling like shit. I filled out the papers, which made me feel more like shit because I obviously fail at real life. Fuck, I fail at The Sims. It took everything I had to go to Walmart. The only reason I went is because Dad took me.

I had Mom on my mind the entire time, because Walmart used to be our thing. I had to get a replacement chain for the pendant I bought for her ashes. I finally found a suitable chain so now I can wear her around my neck again. It was driving me nuts not being able to wear the pendant for a couple of months.

I woke up single. I don't care what you think of my ability to handle a relationship right now; being single fucking hurts. I'm lonely, alone, and isolated.

All I ever wanted from the time I was a little girl was to grow up, get married, have kids and be loved unconditionally by someone worth my time. Now I'm 30, single, childless, and I live with my Dad because I can't make it in the real world. What a wonderful wife I'd make. I'm also fucked out of having kids because of the severity of my bipolar. I can't in good conscience force a child to live the life I've lived.

The depression I'm suffering is so fucking debilitating. I have to argue with myself to take a shower, pick up after myself, do basic everyday things everyone else takes for granted. I really don't want to wake up and go to class. I'd rather sleep 24 hours a day for about 6 months. I'd rather sleep than shower. Rather sleep than anything. In fact, I'm going to go to sleep now.

From Soulless to Shattered

Obviously I'm listening to Arsis as the blog title is one of their songs.

I've had a rather tough day. Luckily I had a couple of friends rescue my self-loathing ass. Hopefully the upped Risperdal is working like it's supposed to and the Wellbutrin will kick in soon.

I'm single, again. It wasn't pretty. I apparently have too much iron in my face (piercings) and too many tats (I only have 11 damn it), and I tried laying  a guilt trip on him supposedly.

I only repeated what my counselors and friends had said: I ran back to him because of the fight with my friend and freaked out because I need to be loved by someone, even if part time. He didn't like that.  He didn't like me telling him I felt cheated that he wasn't going to leave his wife either. Why I believed him this time, I'll never know.
I'll probably never hear from him again. That's too bad because I was loyal as hell to him and I'd have his back no matter what our relationship status is.

Being single wouldn't suck as bad if I was hot enough to have men lining up at the door to either a) give me multiple orgasms or b) love me the way I supposedly deserve to be loved. I don't see either happening. I is FUGLY and have no self worth so what respectable man is going to pick up on me?

The counseling this week sucked. At least I didn't cry this fucking time. Both spoke extensively about how my bantering on about the pain and torment I'm suffering in my little world pains and saddens the friends I rely on most to the point they pull or walk away. This is what happened last weekend.

It had me down to the point I was dreaming of dragging the razor blade across my skin to feel and watch myself bleed for relief.

The grief counselor asked me what it would take for me to gain self worth and I answered basically "getting at least one Ph. D. and getting "Heart of a Survivor" published, possibly with movie rights. She didn't like that.

In my mind - I would then have accomplished the level of education I am intelligent enough to do, even if it kills my bipolar, and I would have gotten the story of my hellatious life out and hopefully helped one person go from victim to survivor.

She "tasked" me to find something that's not external that gives me self worth. It's hard to find self worth when you see nothing in yourself. People tell me I'm intelligent. I say bullshit, look at my fuckin' grades. People say I'm a good writer, I say bullshit I'm mediocre at best. They say I'm creative, yeah but not as creative as the greats who I aspire to be like.

The few times I do find some sort of self value, the depression takes over and it goes away.

Thinking I'm intelligent is fleeting. Thinking I might have what it takes to write, is fleeting. Thinking I might have a chance at life outside of disability and an aging father, fleeting. Thinking I have what it takes to be one of the best wives in the world - fleeting. Dreams of multiple doctorates, books and travels - fleeting dreams that will never come to fruition.

So yeah, I'm not seeing much self worth within me at the moment. I feel alone, lonely and isolated at the same time, none of which are good for a bipolar.

03 March 2011


The Dr. upped my Risperdal to 2mg 2x a day. Today I thought I could get away without my morning Klonopin. Naturally I had a panic attack as soon as I drove onto campus, so I took one. It's a good thing I carry it with me. Of course I fell asleep in my classes.

My meds don't let me read anything for my classes because I can only get 2 lines in before falling asleep. It doesn't help that my eyes naturally skip lines making me reread things a few times.

I'll be doing good to get C's this semester which I'll have to retake to get a B avg so I can go to grad school, assuming grad school doesn't kill me; as I seem to be on my 3rd breakdown in just this semester. I just can't seem to catch a break.

I'm forced to break my promise to myself to get through all 17 hours with A's and B's. I had to drop the fiction class. I honestly want to withdraw from all classes and life since my meds and depression are doing nothing but stressing me out and making me want to sleep 20 hours a day.

I cannot keep up with my reading and actually absorb what the fuck I'm supposed to. I have 4 research papers and 3 book reviews even with dropping fiction. I'm stressed (meds, friends, love, money, school) and frankly I'm pissed!

Pissed because I couldn't handle everything. Pissed because I failed my own goals. Pissed because now I'm going to have to listen to Dad bitch. Pissed because my depression fucked up another semester. Pissed because this time I ended up in an asylum mourning and grieving the loss of Mom, a relationship, my entire family. dad's the only one I think tries to half assed accept me, though he tries to control me and change me like the rest of my DNA bonds.

02 March 2011

Bipolar Depression

I have an appointment in the morning to fuck with my meds again since the Wellbutrin seems to be doing nothing. I've been continuously depressed for weeks, probably months with the occasional mixed or hypomanic episode. I know for the last week, especially the last two days I've been an aggressive, angry ball of rage ready to rip the throat out of anyone who looked at me wrong.

As you know, I've had a rough go of it since like August. These past few weeks have been unbearable, apparently not just on me as I about lost a friend out of the deal. 

The counselor didn't exactly like the idea of me getting back together with my ex, and he raised a good point, "You're running from the withdrawal of one friend into a relationship that's likely going to hurt you." I guess we'll see if anything changes or not with him or if the friend goes back to treating me like he did before I was paranoid enough to tell him how I felt... which I'm not sure is really how I feel. Rebounding is a whore.

I locked myself up a couple of weeks ago because I found myself looking for a sufficiently sharp object to plunge into my carotid artery. This Saturday and Sunday I found myself seriously fighting the urge to cut due to my depression in general and some rough times and conversations with a friend. I think we got things worked out... but every time I say "I think" I get proven wrong.

I can't wrap my head around what it's like to watch someone you care about be in the grip of the daemon dog to the point that they're easily triggered into being a serious threat to themselves and unable to do anything about it, or thinking I do need to do something about it.

I guess that's why I spent $50 on books for the person who I thought was trying to understand, the same person that is the entire reason for this blog ever starting in the first place, so he would realize and understand what I'll divulge later.

First, this is Bipolar Depression:

Bipolar depression is not the same as regular depression or even a regular depressive episode.

The lows are so incredibly low that you, well, look around for sharp objects to plunge into your carotid arteries. Being this depressed you feel like you're drowning in your own blood and there's no way to cough it up or suction it out. You're dying and you know it.

It is not like just having the blues for a bit. This fucking shit lasts for days, weeks, months, maybe years.

So far mine's been months of fighting the dog, trying to get enough oxygen into my lungs through the blood before I aspirate to death. I've been tempted oh so many times to break my 7 or 8 year streak of not self injuring. I've thought of suicide countless times (especially recently), and thought of locking myself up as many.

Bipolars may have a day or two of relief from the hell of depression, but it's a false calm. It's like the calm you get just before the tornado picks up your house and throws it 1000 feet away with you in it. Deep down if you're suffering from bipolar depression, it's just taking a break. It's still there, lurking in the darkness, planning its next attack on your life.

As a sufferer of bipolar depression I can tell you, as a caregiver, just treat me like I'm a human. Don't change the relationship because I'm depressed. Keep treating me like you normally would, without pulling away. I can sense that, and it's worse if I'm paranoid at the time as well. The key is, if you're my friend, keep being my friend.

If I'm sounding like a broken record I guess you should find something to divert my attention from whatever I'm crying about at the moment and hand me a fucking Kleenex.

If you're going to be friends with a bipolar as bad as I am, A) You're going to have to not abandon me, B) Accept the fact that there are ups as well as downs, C) The downs may last for a long period of time, D) Try to stay strong during the downs... that's when the sufferer needs you the most, E) It's not your fault I'm down, it's just where my brain chemistry has me at the moment.

To think you've failed because you are unable to suction the blood from my throat, you're asking too much of yourself.

All you need to be able to do is give one breath, not your entire lung; dangle one piece of string, not the entire rope; be a strong friend who understands he cannot shoulder the weight of my depression, because my depression rarely makes sense; be a friend that doesn't make my problems his; most of all, be one of the few people on this earth I can trust to not see me as less than human.