.suuuuuck.

Sep. 11th, 2017 04:34 pm
yuuo: (Lay my head under the water)
It's a bad day. I woke up at about ten, but stayed in bed until 3:30, because I just... the thought of being upright and trying to function felt physically painful. I don't remember the last time I was this low. I only got up when I did because Wife came home from therapy and I needed to be up for her sake. She needs a functional partner, someone who doesn't spend all day in bed. So I'll be up when she's around for her sake.

This medicine shit is ridiculous.

I want to disappear. I want to curl in bed and just... disappear. Not exist. I'm not actively suicidal, but I wouldn't turn down not waking back up.

Depression and medicine roulette is so much fun.
yuuo: (You knew the deal- no one gives a damn)
It's been... not quiet, but not busy, either. It's been mood problems. I should've posted on Thursday, when I had my first psychiatrist appointment after ending partial, but I was so upset by what happened in that appointment that I couldn't, and the last few days have been hell.

I got taken off my Seroquel. A drug that was working. A drug that had elevated my mood, had kept the noises at bay, and that wasn't causing a manic burst.

Why was I taken off Seroquel?

Because I reported that it caused leg cramps at night, and asked for a small-dose muscle relaxer to counter it until my body adjusted.

This is, apparently, too much to ask of my body, so the doctor decided to cut me off a drug that was working, and put me on a different one that supposedly did the same things. So far, I am not impressed. In fact, so far, I'm going into Seroquel withdrawal, which has my mood cycling so fast that I'm screaming in one minute, then literally on the verge of tears the next. I can't stay asleep. I feel like banging my head on the wall. I can't focus.

How much of that is the fact that I fucking cold-turkeyed Seroquel, and how much is natural me with no working meds, I have no idea at this point, because it's been so long since I haven't had at least one working med, that I don't remember if this was normal for me or not.

I just know this fucking sucks.

I give this two more days to get better. If I'm no better- or god forbid, worse -by Tuesday, I'm calling them and telling them I need in sooner so they can change my med back. I can't live like this. My wife shouldn't have to, since she's the one getting snapped at the most, simply by virtue of being around me the most. If they won't change my med, I'm switching docs. This is unacceptable. I told them very specifically that Seroquel is working, but apparently, having any side effects- especially a rather inconsequential one -is too much and I shouldn't take that anymore!

Like, fucking really? I told them I was on Flexeril, but my prescription was almost gone and had no refills left, but I knew it worked and I responded favorably to it. But since he can't prescribe non-head drugs (is that really a thing? he's an MD for gods' sakes), he decided to just take me off Seroquel. Instead of giving me a chance to ask my PCP to renew my prescription. I wasn't even given a fucking option. Just nope, cold turkey it.

Some symptoms of Seroquel withdrawal are (ones I have are bolded):

-Nausea and vomiting
-Agitation or anxiety
-Difficulty with concentration
Insomnia despite intense fatigue
-Depression
Dizziness
Racing or slowed heartbeat
-Headaches
-Mood swings
Psychosis
Suicidal thoughts or behaviors

My psychiatrist is really fucking lucky that last one isn't bolded. If it were, I'd be in in-patient right now, and I'd really love to not go back.


In unrelated news, I showered and shaved without going two weeks between showers today. Progress, I guess.

.is early.

Aug. 25th, 2017 07:51 am
yuuo: (I've been up all night drinking)
I got up at 7 to pretty myself up. I had plans on wearing one of my sun dresses, with my hair done up in Sailor Moon buns, since I found a tutorial on how to do it, and put on make up.

It's in the mid sixties outside, the room we meet in for partial is always cold, I tried to do the buns and just made a mess of my hair, and now I'm too tired to put on make up.

Avengers leggins and long tunic it is.

I'm debating taking my book with me to partial for breaks. On one hand, I wanna finish this book. On the other, that requires a lot of concentration. On a third, my normal alternative is writing, and that takes even more concentration.

I'm just tired, and that's making me rather nap between classes. :p

...

God, I'm sleepy.
yuuo: (Sunny came home with a vengeance)
I can't give names, I can't give details. Those are the rules of partial.

But since it's known as a general mental health recovery group, some subjects are going to inevitably come up, and I don't have to explain how to write my perspectives on these subjects.

Nor do I have to say how they came up to express my rage and humiliation and pain at being publicly shamed for the illness I have. In a fucking psychiatric partial hospitalization program.

Domestic violence came up. It's not an uncommon subject in groups like these, though I don't recall it coming up the last time I was in. But it did today. Everyone was giving their perspectives, and I apparently made the 'mistake' of piping up with my own experience- as the abuser.

Yes, I am abusive. I am controlling. I tear people down.

There are a variety of reasons, and they don't change the damage I do, but they at least give it a reason, a rhyme, a name of the madness.

My psychosis manifests a rage syndrome. I black out and become violent. Anti-psychotics control it. That's why I'm in partial, because I changed my meds and needed a close vigil on them becaue they were changed for this very reason.

I am an abuse victim. When I was seven, my mother spanked me with the buckle end of the belt out of anger because I wasn't a good enough babysitter for my two year old brother. She raised welts on him- a two year old -for leaving the yard when I wasn't looking. That was my whole life growing up, and even into adulthood.

There's a few things to remember here.

1) When my rage syndrome hits, I black out. I have very fuzzy awareness of what's going on and it takes forever to pull me back down enough to understand my surroundings.

2) Abuse victims often learn to express their pain through lashing out, in the way they were taught- with violence.

3) I am an abuse victim that was taught to react to things that angered me with violence. This teaching goes back before this wretched illness.

These things add up so that when the rage hits, my brain reacts the way it was conditioned from an early age- physically lash out.

And I explained all this, very carefully, while suggesting that sometimes, it's not a case of someone who should be dumped by the street corner (it often is, and I said as much), but that sometimes, as long as we are seeking treatment and cooperating with it, we just need someone to have enough compassion and love and patience for us to pull us out of this dark place that we do not like living in.

This was enough to make one woman snap very loudly that there's 'no excuse for beating the crap out of someone'.

Then she left the room in a huff with her cigarettes, fifteen minutes before break even started.

I don't know what baggage she's lugging around with her, but it is never okay to shame a mentally ill person for how their illness manifests, especially when they're getting help for it..

She publicly humiliated me, shamed me, and caused me to want to hide under the table and cry.

Fortunately, this woman only goes MWF now, which means I won't see her tomorrow.

But what she did, folks? Is not fucking okay. No, what I have done in my black outs isn't either, but I have no more control over those than a diabetic has over going into a diabetic coma because of no or inadequate treatment. (Yes, this is a perfect analogy.) It's no more right to condemn me and my behavior than it is to condone it.

Why?

BECAUSE IT IS NOT MY MOTHER FUCKING FAULT.

The social worker who was running the group at the time pulled me out immediately afterwards to head off the problem at the pass, reminded me that Helmet Head (my not nice name for this other woman) doesn't understand psychosis and schizophrenia illnesses, and that she would not let it happen again. Then she helped me talk through the worst of the storm so that I didn't go back in there loaded for bear and ready to pick a fight.

I will, however, being finishing that fight if it doesn't get dropped goddamn fast. I will not tolerate being shamed and attacked in a place that's supposed to be safe for me to heal in.

Folks, stand up for yourselves. And don't let people who don't 'get it' shame you for your illness. Work to get better, work towards treatment, but don't- and I mean this -don't let someone tell you you're a terrible person because you're ill, or that there's no 'excuse' for your behavior when they do not fucking understand.

It is not your fault.

Let me repeat that, louder for those of you in the back:

It is not your fault.

Now, to bed, as I plan to be pretty tomorrow.
yuuo: (You knew the deal- no one gives a damn)
Said to an in-law on Facebook. Cousin-in-law said he hated dealing with crazy people- crazy people turned out to be unmedicated mentally ill person. Cousin-in-law's mother replied with 'there's a world of them out there.'

Excuse you.

"About 18% of the American population is affected by anxiety- that's over 40 million, many of them my generation- the millennials -and the ones after us. Depression affects 6.7% of the population- that's over 15 million of us. 2.6% for bipolar- over 5.7 million. 1% affected by schizophrenia - 3.2 million. Worldwide, 1.5 million more will be diagnosed with that this year. My disorder is schizoaffective- we're about the same as schizophrenia, a little less, actually.

Yes, there is a whole world of us out there. And we're suffering. We're suffering and too many of us aren't getting any help, or the help we're getting is insufficient. I just had a medicine change because I was suffering from violent psychosis again. We had to up my anti-psychotic and take me off my anti-depressant because it's the only thing that had changed to possibly have caused the manic-like psychosis. I will soon have nothing treating my depression.

Over 41 thousand people will kill themselves this year. Most of them are people with mental illnesses.

There's a whole world of us and we're _dying_.

Please be careful how cavalierly you say 'there's a whole world of them out there'. We're not a 'them'. We're people, and we're suffering, and we're DYING."
yuuo: (Theory about the bitter one)
No clean clothes. Need a shower. Have a feeling I won't get meds changed, I'll get told to go to the hospital. Can't go without clean clothes and a shower. Never going back to therapy, that trust has been broken.

And she won't be back until 2:30, because she's at fucking yoga, and that apparently means time to take two hour long showers. Great. And she's the one that made me make this fucking appointment.

This day is already shaping into another one that I get the cops called on me for. Fantastic.
yuuo: (I've been up all night drinking)
Anxiety levels are coming down. I think. But irritability and mood swinging is at an all time high. I am a lazy, fat piece of shit and I have to keep trying to remind myself that I'm not, I'm sick, and of course exercise is difficult for me mentally, for a variety of reasons, but among them because I'm so depressed that the idea of getting up just to go downstairs for a drink sounds so exhausting and painful, what am I to do with an hour of exercise? And even if I didn't have that, with my concentration problems, I need something to mentally do while exercising, and you can't read a book while doing the elliptical.

I don't think.

If you can, someone please tell me, because I will be skipping my way down to the gym in about five minutes.

It looks like, instead of getting the paint I want next month, I'll be investing in a cheap mp3 player for the gym. Gods forbid I get to get something I want.

(I used to have one, but I used it so rarely that it kinda died and wouldn't resurrect on me. I guess if I go to the gym again...)

It would've been nice to get proper sleep last night. That would've helped.
yuuo: (Don't leave me like this)
So I had been in what I thought was a bought of hypomania. Not a natural one, it turned out, as when I started coming down from caffeine exposure, I am back to sleeping all the time, and being unable to focus and get shit done.

I am so sick of this fatigue.
yuuo: (Blood blood blood)
It is hailing. The weather has me down. I am wide awake after a good sleep on a good couch that was good for my back, but Wife is asleep and so drugged that I couldn't even let her know that I might need help with the cats if the weather goes really shitty before she fell right back to sleep on me. And I just called her friends out on something that they do that bothers me, and now I'm scared for the repercussions. I don't have the goddamn energy to deal with their whining.

(Long story short: They flirt aggressively with her, and I don't think they even realize they do. One was so bad that even Wife felt uncomfortable from it, and this woman would come onto my Facebook wall to talk about taking Wife to bed. Platonically, but hello, her wife is right here? That's her bed you're talking about? Not okay?????? But her other friends like to throw kissing emojis at her, and while I trust Wife, I don't feel comfortable with people I don't even know getting that cozy with my wife. I appreciate their love and support for her, I really do, and I don't mind hugs and love and hearts and such. But the kissing, even in pretend, makes me really unhappy. Like, do they not understand boundaries?????????? That's someone's wife you're doing that with???? I wouldn't even mind if they caveated it with a "tell your wife to give you a kiss, because I think you deserve one!" or something to that effect. That firmly acknowledges healthy boundaries, while still wishing the love on Wife that she deserves. Why is this apparently a novelty to them???????)

I just foresee this shit coming from a mile away, and Wife is asleep, so now I have to lie in this bed I just made by myself, but if I didn't establish this boundary, there was going to be problems down the line that might alienate Wife's friends, and they really do give her so much love and support, I don't want her to lose that, or resent me for being the cause of it.

But, no energy for their bitching about how Dark Schneider-y I'm being. Fuck them.

And in all of it, not only do I get to face this alone, I also have nothing to focus on that doesn't give me anxiety through the roof, if it can distract me any from this source of anxiety.

/sinks into a black hole of depression
yuuo: (You knew the deal- no one gives a damn)
Today is one of those days.

Lately, I've been happily existing on about six hours or so of sleep a day, all in the afternoon, which is the nastiest part of the day weather-wise anyway, so why the fuck would I want to be awake and active then anyway, right?

Then I made the mistake of sleeping in my own bed, and yesterday, my sleep was such shit that I slept almost 20 hours. This isn't a crash from the slight hypomania I was riding, because after I napped a few hours on the couch, I felt so much better than I had after longer-than-healthy 'rest' in my bed.

I'm going to be trapped on the couch forever.

But, as usual, my wife got tired overnight, because she is a normal person with normal circadian rhythms. So I'm alone right now.

We were folding laundry a little bit ago, and she was boggling that she's now a size eight.

I am a size twenty-four.

I was fine with it coming up, because I'm super happy for her and proud of her that she lost all that weight- she was a sixteen this time last year. But, she made the mistake of acting guilty and trying to assure me that she loved me despite my size, and how she wishes I could be that little, too.

I wish she'd just left that alone. Because now all I can hear is my doctor's disapproving voice, telling me to stop drinking soda, stop eating dairy (to be fair, I suppose, I'm mildly lactose intolerant), start eating healthy, I need to start exercising, this weight isn't good for me.

Well no fucking shit.

The last time I lost weight, it was because I'd simply stopped taking in any calories that weren't a few sodas a day. That's all I existed on. My depression had manifested over those two months as a lack of desire for food, and a lack of energy to cook on the rare occasion that I was hungry.

Then I saw that I'd lost about thirty pounds in a month and was super happy, so I decided to continue that the healthy way. I started eating health, as much as I could on our budget, which made me miserable because I hate healthy food and I always feel hungry after a 'normal' meal of it. I exercised for a minimum of an hour every day, first thing in the morning. I thought that'd make me more alert, lose more weight, make me happier. After all, that's all the things that good diet and exercise are supposed to do, right?

Whoever tells you that exercise wakes you up, that it's fun, that it helps you lose weight, that good food is like medicine? They're fucking liars.

I gained every pound I'd lost back and then some. I felt more miserable because exercise actually brings my mood down. I was tired more often.

So now I'm worked up because my choices are apparently A) be doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing, but miserable because I'm gaining weight and hate what I'm eating, or B) stop eating entirely and lose weight and still feel hungry, but at least it's not because food is making me miserable.

Fantastic options.

Then my wife informs me that she's tired and wants to go to bed.

I slept twenty hours. I am not tired. I will not be going to bed any time soon.

So now I'm alone, with nothing to do that doesn't just make me more depressed. I can't work up the energy to write, I don't like the book I'm reading, I don't have access to my art program on this laptop, and I cant go to the desktop to work on something there, because my desktop's power source is dying. The fan is whining in pain. I risk setting my computer on fire if I go on it. And this laptop is so ancient and slow and dying, that I am writing about three lines ahead of what shows on my screen, because it's lagging, and that's in all browsers, so don't anyone fucking tell me to switch to Chrome. My Firefox works no worse than Chrome on this piece of shit, and Firefox has all my logins and my extensions that I need to switch between roleplay accounts easily.

And that's another thing.

The only thing my brain is willing to hide behind is roleplay, because it's both creative and interactive, but lately, I have had to beg, fight, and cry for every minute of it I've gotten, and I'm starting to think that nobody fucking cares about me anymore. People don't talk to me, nobody's missed me on Facebook, where I haven't been in a few days. I don't think anyone's even noticed I'm not interacting there.

I'm alone, bored, and miserable. And fat.

I should just go take my medicine and an Ambien and sleep for the next twenty-four hours again.

But I can't do that, because I have therapy at two today, and there's stuff to do around the house, since we found out at the last damn minute that my wife's surgeons scheduled her surgery for next fucking Thursday. When we were expecting not until four to six weeks. I have my next psychiatric appointment... next fucking Thursday. And I can't get out of that, because I will run out of my medicines if I do, and my psychiatrist's office won't do refills without an appointment.

Which means I have to get up early to take my wife to the hospital, wait around for a few hours until they get off their asses and actually take her into the OR, sit around for several more hours, hoping and praying that she doesn't die on the table while they remove half her chest, then wait with her in recovery, then make sure she's sleeping well enough that I can skip off to my pdoc's appointment, all while dealing with my mother-in-law (who has been a right pain in the ass and doing nothing but hurting my wife), my heart-father, and a few days later, my heart-sister-in-law crashing on my couches.

Which is the only place I can go with my laptop, and again, desktop is dying, so now I won't have anywhere to go at all.

I can't help but think I would be better off just committing myself and asking to stay a month until all this goes away. It's either that, or I may be tempted to drive my car off a goddamn bridge.

This is the way my brain works. This is what depression looks like. This is what anxiety looks like. This is what mental illness looks like.

My advice? Avoid it if you can.

.ow.

May. 6th, 2017 10:43 am
yuuo: (The pain is tearing up my soul)
Oh lord, yeah, I'm paying for yesterday.

(There will be a post about the zoo, I promise. After I go loosen up my poor sore muscles in the warm pool and my local gym. And have a chance to wake up. God, I want sleep.)
yuuo: (You either die a hero)
I found this post of mine on Facebook while going back, looking for pictures I'd uploaded from my phone so I could save them on my computer so I can delete them on the phone to free up memory and that was an unnecessarily long sentence.

Anyway.

Context is that there was a post asking about general cat craziness, I... think. I can't remember fully, but basically, someone ended up saying "I'm not schizophrenic, but my cat sure is!" in a context that suggested that the word schizophrenic was being used to describe a normal behavior of a 'crazy cat'. (We cat owners get that one.)

I chose not to reply to the person, as it was a stranger who replied on a post that a mutual friend had liked, so it ended up on my feed. I was very tempted to reply with "How do you know your cat has schizophrenia? /actual person with actual schizophrenia"

I was very tempted.

But, since I didn't have the spoons to deal with a whiny mcbutthurt that someone took offense at having their illness used in a derogatory way, I didn't say anything there. But I sure as hell went to my own wall and posted the following:

You know, I fully believe that cats can be neuro-atypical or have intellectual disabilities or mental illnesses. They're living creatures with brains. By definition, they can have such things.

I say George [middle child cat] is autistic because we can take his behavior and what 'parenting' tactics we use that he responds to, and take that information to an actual parent of an actual human autistic child and get confirmation. Autistic might not be the right word. But until we have expanded health care for cats, we'll never know any other word.

I say my youngest has ADHD because his behavior very closely mimics a young child with ADHD. I know this because I grew up with a child with ADHD.

However, I highly doubt that when you say "I'm not schizophrenic, but my cat sure is!" that you know what that even fucking means. Especially given the context. You are using the illness the same way people misuse OCD and bipolar. Unless you can accurately say that your animal's behavior differs from normal for its species in the way that you are claiming, you have no business comparing a probably normal animal to a person with schizophrenia.

Please, people, stop using schizophrenia to mean just plain ol' craziness. Those of us with the disorder can use it that way, because it is our word to use. We can give close friends permission to use it in context of talking with us, as again, that is our word to use.

But it most definitely is not yours, so leave it alone.


There's your dose of internet rage for the day. (I'll post about the zoo trip soon.)
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