Saturday, February 22, 2014

Found My Happy

I learn a lot of TV history while care-taking my 90 y.o. patient.  I've seen plenty semi-racist episodes of "In The Heat of the Night," heard enough horrible dialogue from  "Murder, She Wrote" to want to time travel back to punch the writers, and several 1972 porn-staches in "Emergency" to turn me off of body hair for a while.

Way to go, me!
But despite the spate of crappy TV shows I'm watching every weekend, I'm thrilled.  I've been able to find my happy again.  I'm back on track with my meds, had a few weeks of productive therapy, and furthered the storyline in my novel.  I've got more confident, have a better perception of my ability as a mother.  Great friends rallied around me, reminding me that "Those that love you are proud of you; we don't see a prescription, we see a beautiful, funny, and loving woman. . . .for everything you do I am proud of you."

So even though I have to wipe up some drool and other body functions at times, I can do it with a sincere smile, not a faked grin.  I understand now how much better my life is, now that I've made peace with my drugs.   

PS-- A special thank you to The Bloggess for sharing her struggles.  She inspires me daily and I want to give her a big, squishy hug.  "Die Vampire Die!" has become my mantra.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Just a Baby Step

My mind is gray and empty.  I'm so frustrated with it.  I want to laugh or smile and have pleasant conversations, but it's so exhausting.  I want to work on my book, but I can't put the words down.  Thoughts that that flowed from my imagination down my fingers at the start of January, are now locked behind a trasnparent door.

I can hear the sarcasm laden dialogue, picture the perfect modifiers that convey Norma Jeanne's anger, and almost touch the pretty prepositions that would couple up next to Gams fat English bulldog.

But they won't come out and play with me.  Until I can get the key, in the shape of a horse-sized bitter pill, all I do is sit and stare at the empty word document.  And check on Facebook to see which people have updated their status in the last three minutes.  And stare at the screen, while the pointer mockingly blinks at me.  And check Pintrest because there might be a new picture to see in the last five minutes since I was on there.  And then back to the empty screen.

A lot of artistic friends I have - writers, artists, musicians, - who suffer from forms of depression/anxiety/mania, don't like to be on medication b/c they feel it stifles their ability to create.  And up until 3 weeks ago, I wondered if that was the case with me.  Would I discover more creative freedom if I didn't have my meds swimming in my blood stream?  Was there another side of me that could improve on what I am doing now?

Michael Scott will tell you the answer is a resounding 

As many years as I have been ashamed with myself for being dependent on my drugs, I guess that maybe this situation has now I helped me achieve some peace.  Quite plainly, I can't function without my meds.  I become a very depressive person.  My ability to see beauty in the mundane, to find the story of the person with a past in the eyes of a homeless beggar, to see the humor in the instances where fear or tears would be an understandable response is all gone.  I lack sympathy. 

For you worried about The Kiddo, I'm fortunate that in these past few weeks my Bipolar II Disorder hasn't affected my son.  If anything, I've been hyper-aware of the fact that I need to keep my sad emotions away from him.  I've had him cook with me and we've actually accomplished more workbook pages in this time frame than we have before (much to his chagrin). 

It's now just a waiting game.  Waiting to get to the doctor tomorrow.  Waiting to make the 1.5 hr drive to pick up the meds on Tuesday.  And waiting for them to get swimming back in my blood stream.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014


I put myself back into therapy last month because I am trying desperately to work out the last kinks in my head.  I've decided that after six years on the bench I'm ready to seek out a relationship, but before I do that I know I've got a few more things to work out.

I don't want to write about this.  But I need to write this out. 

This is the constant chatter in my brain:
  • You really don't have friends.  These people tolerate you out of pity.
  • No one approves of your decisions and all are waiting for you to admit defeat.
  • Your child is going to grow up broken because you are broken.
  • You don't have any talent.  
  • You're not bi-polar.  You are making it up.  You just need to work harder and stop being lazy.
  • Why do you think that person would ever want to have a cup of coffee with you?  They're accomplished/written a book/not two paychecks away from homelessness/done something important.  Do you know just how dumb your daydreams are?
  • No one really loves you because you disappoint them and don't do what they tell you to do.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Frustration: Level Six

Up until a week ago, I was fine.
I could write on my novel and write up articles for my social media job.
But two weeks ago I ran out of one of my drugs.
And now I'm off balance.

I can't focus on writing.  I'll sit down and nothing comes.
The waters are muddy.
If I were to peer into my brain, I think I'd find a hollow gray room.

I can't get to the doctor to get a prescription and I can't fill the prescription until I can find the time to drive 1.5 hrs away b/c the closest pharmacy to fill this drug is in Front Royal!

No, I don't have health insurance.  And Obamacare or the Affordable Care Act is just not going to fix my problem.  Seeing as it would cost me $235/mo to be insured.  Fail to see how that is "affordable."

Luckily, I live in a state that won't penalize me for not having health insurance.

I'm so angry.  I want to write and it's just not happening.