I fucking love bipolar depression

I love it when my own brain is against me.

I love it when I am so angry that I can't see straight.

I love it when a client that doesn't know what the Hell they want in an article tells me over and over that it's wrong despite their instructions.

I love being assaulted by constant, table-flipping rages mixed with deep depression, meaning I don't even have the strength to flip said imaginary table.

I love it when my coworkers get impatient at little IT issues that THEY caused. Fuck me, right?


Fuck me.

It's times like these when I am irrationally angry at nothing that I think to myself, "You know what would be easy? Fucking suicide. At least if I'm dead I can't see my overdrawn bank account because my fucking bank keeps fucking things up and deducting things late, and adds NSF fees like the fucking plague. Fuck me for trying to do things!"

I love being kept poor and desperate. I really do.

No Med Mania

As is my want to do, I am sat at work having run out of two medications I take to keep being a human being: Lexapro and Lamictal. While I wait for the pharmacy to refill them, I thought I'd take a snapshot in time and talk about how it feels to be off of them.

I like to call this my mummification phase. It feels like all my skin is tightly woven to a breaking point on my muscles, but I'm so tired and numb that I could care less. I'd call it serenity but it is more so like apathy. I haven't eaten yet, and I'm not concerned about eating, so that's nice.

Really, this is the "meh" mask. Everything is just meh. I don't even feel my fingertips typing or recognize the words pouring out of me. This is astral projecting without being able to look down at yourself while you sit in a stupor.

Stay in school, kids.

Discrepancy

This is word vomit from a sick person. A sick woman carrying a hereditary, fatal disease passed down from generation to generation. The bug roots itself when you're young enough to think for yourself. The symptoms are worthlessness -- they convince you that being a human is something you have to earn.

You're fat, your skin is bad, your mother had twelve good looking boyfriends and straight A's in school at your age. What right do you have to take up space?

The only treatment for this bug is the "why nots". Why not exist? Why not achieve what you please? I may not have Pietro, Oskar, Dominic, Vladimir and whoever else fawning for my attention, but I contribute something to society.

You see, I am a guardian. The sickness is dysfunction, and it is a scary illness to have, because there's a high risk of passing it on to your children.

I'm convinced that the sickness in my bloodline is going to die with me.

Chronic

She related each day to what she thought having a baby must be like -- a never-ending nightmare. Waking up on her uncomfortable cot was always done at the provocation of the ceaseless pain in her shoulder.

Five years ago, five fucking years ago, she had worked at a warehouse. Dirty, filled with ants and angry, bitter people, but it paid and she had aspirations for college. One fine day, ten people had called out on the line. Ten people out of fifteen. So, off her fat ass went working most of the positions simultaneously to try and get out the holiday gorefest that sailed constantly down the line.

Her reward? A strained trapezius muscle. No worries, some muscle relaxers, a wrist brace and she'd be good to  go.

Five years later, she wasn't good to go.

The injury had eased at first, but over the years had turned into a burning lump of incessant inflammation in her right shoulder, neck and wrist.

Any attempts to have it seen to were met with the same response. "Your insurance won't cover a specialty doctor. Get a referral." Referral achieved. "Nope, not in your network."

American health insurance, ladies and gents.

Now, as she slogged around the house, the burning accompanied her like a whining child. Five years old and it never shut the Hell up.

She wrapped the decrepit brace around her right wrist and fastened it as tight as she could. Her hand might be swollen and purple by lunch, but fuck it. Four Aleve pills later and she was as ready as possible.

Work, agony. Lunch, agony. Being told that the only orthopedist in her network was still waiting to be approved, AGONY.

Her misery apparently only wanted her company. It was in her neck as she went home, throbbing an demanding attention.

"Alright," she murmured when she got home. The house was a mess. Cleaning was practically asking the impossible.

A step into the kitchen looked like it was on the way to an A&E show. It brought tears to her eyes, just remembering the days before the pain, before the accompanying depression and suicidal thoughts.

There was one clean knife.

It wouldn't be for very long.

******

This is a story based on my own experiences. While I have gotten a lot better, I am typing this with a wrist brace on and the pain in my neck. Point is, chronic pain is a nightmare child that never stops biting your nipple.

Screaming Incoherently at Depression

Depression is my Babadook

The fuck is a Babadook? It's a pretty good horror movie, and the titular monster is something of a psychological phenomenon:

This asshole here

Anyways, during the climax of the movie, the mother is pretty much screaming at the incorporeal manifestation of her presumed depression and worsening mental health (theoretically). The monster is roaring back -- it wants to devour her kid, it wants to kill the smarmy, screaming little shit, but despite noticeable postpartum depression, she doesn't let it.

So, depression is my Babadook. It's that dark thing roaring at me from the corner of my mind. What's better is that it's bipolar depression, so I get the benefits of sometimes having manic highs and then being dragged back down into lying motionless in my bed and feeling the future fade from me. I'm actually experiencing that now, which is part of the reason I started this blog. It's a way to scream at my Babadook.

I think the worst thing about having a monster that lives in your brain is the unexpectedness of it all. You don't know when you're going to get attacked, but you know it's going to happen. It's like that moment in a horror movie right before the monster / serial killer / poorly CG'd thing finds one of the idiot teenagers and rends them apart. Except instead of death, you're just left on the floor and the monster clocks out and goes, "See you next shift."

Salaried asshole. He gets more promotions than I do.

Screaming incoherently is pretty much a way to tell it, "I'm not going out without a fight!" or, "If you strike me down now, I will return stronger than before." I don't get cool lightning powers though, the monster just sort of snorts and carries on, like I'm Stormtrooper Wilhelm scream : ( .

The problem with screaming and ranting incoherently is that it leaves me not knowing how to end a blog post. So...bunny dicks. Have a good day.