It’s Hard to Live on Earth

It is. Very much. Sometimes I have moments where I hate the planet, because I know there are problems everywhere. Sometimes it’s just this country, because some problems that occur here are taken care of somewhere else. I have been seriously considering leaving the country this last month. I honestly no longer know who I’ll be voting for other than it sure as shit won’t be Mitt Romney. He’s a liar and a cheat and all sorts of other things. But honestly Obama has lost my trust, because I feel like there were some things he could have done more and things he shouldn’t have wasted his time with, or at least tweaked. Like the bailout, I don’t think he should have used as much money as he did or given it to certain companies. But that’s really not what I care about now. We have nothing but shitty choices honestly and our country has its priorities all screwed up to hell.

This week was a rough patch in several ways. I work with six year olds, that in itself is not super easy, at the very least the kid who is my responsibility hasn’t been having any problems. Yay him, yay me. But, my sleep patterns are, as usual, screwed up. Clearly from the fact that I’m awake now writing a blog post. It’s been cold and dreary, today being the brightest day all week. I’m mostly cold and get chilled easily when I do actually get warm or hot and decide to take my jacket off. I’m really not highly interested in eating because my stomach hasn’t exactly been nice to me. Oh, and the craziness coming back, that affects it too.

You see, about a week ago I started feeling that heaviness. I had been fine, even doing great, for two months, and two weeks ago I felt mentally off. Then last week, here it comes, the feelings that only ill people truly understand when your illness comes back or is coming back. Anyone who has ever been chronically ill, mentally and/or physically, knows what it feels like to notice that a great period is ending and your illness is creeping back up on you. It sucks giant ass to feel it, to know it so intimately that you notice where you’ve been a little odd, a little off, or completely off your rocker.

And it’s like, how do I handle this? Because, as anyone who has been chronically ill can attest, there’s a balance between being responsible and affected and falling into a victim mentality. It’s a difficult balance, especially if you remember how terrifying it can be to have no control over what’s happening. Or how horrible it is to have a couple days’ respite and getting tricked into thinking the episode is ending only to wake up the day after and it has crashed back on you. Sometimes it doesn’t even wait until the next day, sometimes you’ll have maybe two days, maybe a morning, where you feel great and chipper, and then, for seemingly no reason, BAM you’re down for the count.

I think this is hardest to deal with when you’re loved ones are around to witness it. You have to be realistic here, there’s only so much empathy and sympathy in the world. If a person has never had the experience, they’ve never had it. There’s only so much understanding they can gain, and it’s not their fault at all, in fact, it sucks balls for both the sick and the “well”, because they both know there’s a disconnect and the well person wants to help and the sick person wants the help. It’s still hard for a loved one to see you that morning when you seem like you’re getting better and then be completely flabbergasted when the afternoon collapses on you. It’s even harder because there usually isn’t anything they can do about it.

I often fall on the victim spectrum. I’ll admit, I’m a hypochondriac. I act like a victim. And I have all sorts of reasonings and excuses for it. I’m insecure, I’m afraid, I often dealt with contradictory expectations as a child (and deal with them now, but to a lesser extent), depression clouds one’s view, I grew up around people who were victims or who were controlling, of course growing up controlled means you’re used to having no power. Oh I could go, but really, a big part of why I play the victim and find it difficult to break away from (besides the bit about habitual thinking and paradigm shifting) is that I really like being taken care of. I do, I love love love being taken care of. I’m the brat, the spoiled one, the whiny person. I tell people freely that I am spoiled, I told TB when we started dating. He knew from our two or three years as friends beforehand. I am Rachael and I am a spoiled brat and enjoy being cared for. It drives TB batty, not because he doesn’t like taking care of me (he does, he admits it, he hates that he has no job because he wants to take care of me), but because he wants me to be able to be independent and care for myself should anything ever happen to him or our relationship.

It’s not that I can’t. I could care for myself. Do I want to? Not all the time. Sometimes it’s easier and made easy for me to be lazy and push whatever off on someone else. I’ll actually take on a different responsibility entirely if it means I don’t have to do whatever I’m being asked. I’ve done chores to avoid other chores, sometimes I’ll take Nephew over making Sister a sandwich or take a poopy diaper out over taking Nephew. Sometimes I think about myself and wonder why no one has tried to strangle me yet (oh wait, but someone has, but that’s neither here nor there). This topic came up after having a very rough argument with TB. I won’t go into it, especially since it’s resolved and revolves around my lack of communication skills (can you say, physically incapable of speaking when upset? can you say, follow that up with a ridiculous outburst? yeah, that’s me).  Although it has roots in my illness (which I’ll get to later) and the way I grew up (sucks to realize how much like my mother I am) I have to admit that it’s just a set of flaws I need to work on as well.

Back to craziness creeping up on me. Well, I have moments where I feel down for a couple days and get nervous that my Craziness is coming back. I call it that instead of specifying depression because, although it’s my official diagnosis, I’ve doubted it for a while now. It’s not just depression, or depression with anxiety, it’s that and obsessiveness and thoughts, compulsive behavior, wild thoughts and weird giddiness, and ridiculous anxieties that border on persecutory delusions. Yeah, yeah, see a doctor, tell a doctor, tell a friend, but remember that whole “can’t talk when stressed out” thing I just mentioned in parentheses in the last paragraph? Not limited to when I need to express that I’m suddenly feeling bafflingly insecure and unloved because your facial expression and word choice weren’t what I expected. And yes, that has happened before. So, doctors don’t know all that’s gone on and going on in my head, because I can’t talk it out. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I can’t force the words out. I don’t know why, but it really sucks. I can  however, write it out. Which isn’t exactly efficient or comforting to any of my loved ones.

Rerouting myself to the topic at hand, I have moments where I get nervous the Crazy is coming back. Most of the time it’s just off days. Sometimes it’s an off week, but if I really think about it, I haven’t had a legit bout of Crazy in several months. And by legit I mean to the depths I can go and the official two week length required to be Major Depression as opposed to a “milder” depression. I can really go off the deep end, it ain’t pretty. I just know it is only a group of perhaps five people that mean anything to me when I’m in the rabbit hole so far that the entrance is only a star. And let me say, those five people are the only reason I’ve never made a real move to hurt or kill myself (one person in particular keeps me scarless, if you can’t figure it out you fail). Honestly, there have been days I wouldn’t wash dishes because there were sharp knives in the sink. I’ve taken my medicine bottle out of my bag to avoid the temptation, even if I could’ve really used a tylenol or motrin that day.

The memories of what that pain and blackness is like makes me constantly alert to the changes in my mood and thought patterns. Sometimes I’m just being over anxious, but others I’m not. The fact that my period and the hormone changes that come with it can, and have, thrown me into Crazy only makes me hypervigilant. And quite frankly I’m on to the real deal at this point. And it sucks, and I’m terrified, especially since it seems like every true Crazy I get to is worse than the last, even if nothing was happening to account for it. Mild crazy strains my relationship just as much as Crazy, because unfortunately TB gets the brunt of it and doesn’t see it coming. He doesn’t understand, he doesn’t read minds, and he doesn’t know what to do or expect. Crazy is unpredictable and likes it that way. Crazy likes to tell me that I’m horrid and that it’s not fair that TB can’t read my mind. Crazy tells me TB doesn’t love me because he can’t read my mind, or that he’s bad for having any feelings other than what It deems acceptable. Crazy tells me lots of bullshit, and then bounces away, happy with the wreckage. It likes to come back and shout through a megaphone before blowing back in to cause real destruction again.

The only thing about Crazy is that it’s really fucking obvious when it’s there. And I tell my support system right away, most of the time, that I’m not feeling right. I start off the day saying “I’m not feeling great/well/normal/etc today.” Sometimes I’ll get specific, but not always, because then I’ll feel bad for worrying people or causing a potential panic. Wanna know what I remind myself of? That TB came out his house at 6:15 in the morning because I was having a panic attack. And ya know what? Sometimes I still can’t tell him things about how I’m feeling or thinking. There’s always this overarching fear that I’ll lose him or my other supports; that I’ll be called a wolf crier or ignored or downplayed, or they’ll ditch me for someone not so unbalanced. And then where would I be? Alone and Crazy and lost and angry. Scared. Crying, and not even that, because that would bring questions and unfortunately most of my family has shown that they do not take me seriously.

To some degree I wonder if I even want to be treated at times. Normalcy can be even more terrifying that Crazy can’t it? You know what to expect, usually, from Crazy. It’s familiar and you have a lot of help and support when Crazy is there. What happens when Crazy goes away? That’s pretty scary too I think. So is the path to getting Crazy away, because medication is unpredictable and hard to navigate and gets worse when the condition is worse. Not to mention insurance and paying. Wanna know another reason I don’t go out of my way to see a doctor? Insurance. If I wasn’t on my mother’s (HMO) I wouldn’t have any at all. What good is medication and doctors if I can’t get access? Another reason to leave the country, check.*

Balance, even in sanity, especially in insanity is necessary and hard to acquire. Balance, balance, balance. One of the kids at work drew a balance today for me. I dreamt of the class telling me about Anpu last night. To be fair, I completely lost it at Him and Set. I haven’t heard from either of them in a bit and the humongous argument I caused the day before prompted a frustrated and angry outburst that required a lot of strength to keep a lid on. Can’t get too upset when you live with people who you don’t want questions from. Or at least be loud about it. Balance. Now how the fuck do I get that?

*PS, because I know the first thing that will be suggested is to see what aid your state will give you. yeah, Pennsylvania is retarded as fuck. I’m not eligible for most stuff because I’m not old enough to be considered an independent, even though I work and “pay rent”. Did I mention a friend of mine was denied aid because he doesn’t make enough money to qualify? That’s right, he’s too poor for aid. Sister, despite having a baby and being jobless and paying rent, doesn’t qualify for aid because she’s not old enough to be considered independent of our parents. I’ll bet thirty bucks my other sisters’ mom doesn’t qualify for aid even though she has eight kids. Fucking retarded, this state.


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