This is not good

When I’m okay or manic I tend to not write. I don’t feel the need to. Its when I’m in my depressive swings. Which I can safely say I am in now.

I’ve had a thought thats been nagging at me for some time, I’ve tried pushing it away.

Today I had a full blown panic attack. I noticed the moment it started and raced out of the office to my car. M talked me down. He was so kind and sweet and good. And here is where the trouble comes. I realize I may be falling in love with my best friend’s boyfriend (soon to be husband). I have slowly been for about 8 months now.

I am poly and the husband isn’t and doesn’t know and I know he would not be okay with it.

I am setting myself up to get hurt.

This is not good.

High functioning, my ass

The whole concept of “high functioning” is a load of horseshit, as far as I’m concerned. To survive my upbringing, I had to be high functioning. My father doesn’t believe in mental illness, as if its an abstract concept like the fucking Easter Bunny or Santa.

My parents have always been…overbearing. Well meaning, of course, but overbearing nonetheless. So when I was 13 and they found my suicide note draft, they freaked. I lost all internet privileges, like a punishment. I was thrown into therapy where the therapist told my parents everything (in hindsight only did I realize the rules she was breaking). The meds I was on were only for a month before my dad pulled them because “they aren’t doing anything”. Those couple of months were hell. I went into 9th grade with an unhealthy view of mental illness. The husband (then 15 year old boyfriend) was getting it all dumped on him. When we broke up, he told me he couldn’t handle that anymore (which was fair), and when we got back together he told me that if I “did that shit again” we’d be done.

So I learned to hide my pains, I got very good at it too. My personality developed to become aloof over the years and now I am what doctors describe as high functioning. I don’t mean to be. There are plenty of times I want to tell the world whats going on in my head, but simply lack the courage and the communication skills to effectively do so.

Days like today, being a high functioning mentally ill person is difficult. I don’t know what I need, let alone how to ask for that from the people who matter.

My dog has severe separation anxiety. We’ve tried just about everything. When he ate the door (yes, he ate. the. door.) we realized the only thing left (besides day care, which we can’t afford presently) was kenneling again. We hate doing it, and last time we did, he continuously broke out. I expressed our issues with the MiL. Her response floored me.

Maybe next time he’s having an allergic reaction, you should just let him go. Or have you considered taking him back to the shelter?

1. He’s literally deathly allergic to bug bites. And anaphylactic shock is not a pretty way to go.
2. We’ve had him for FOUR years.

Has she lost her mind? That was last week. No, I haven’t forgiven her for that. Later in the week, I went to visit my friend. Her father overheard our story (I was updating her, dog is doing great in a kennel, by the way. We reinforced the parts with zip ties and try to limit length of being out). He said that maybe I should take him back to the shelter if I can’t be home enough for him. Dog is home by himself about 5 hours a day, 4 days a week. It’s not like I’m always gone. So these things have been on my mind. These are not the bad things.

So two days ago, dog wakes us up licking like crazy. When we get up, he’s covered in the worst hives I’ve ever seen on him and a lump about the size of a golf ball. We dosed him with Benadryl and kept redosing for the next 36 hours. I took him to the emergency vet because his bug bite episodes usually only last 8 to 12 hours. It turns out the low amounts of Benadryl we had been giving every meal for general allergies hid the fact he’s got a mast cell tumor which got angry and would cause alaphylactic shock and death if left untreated. (My gut told me this when I woke up in the morning. I hate being right) I immediately scheduled surgery (for tomorrow) and the vet told us that she’s worried it might have spread to the lymph nodes. We’ll be doing a fine needle aspirate of it tomorrow at surgery time.

Husband posed the question, “At what point do we say enough is enough?” Not yet.

This is his third mast cell tumor. He’s going to be 7 in May. Chemo isn’t something we can afford. And after the comments thrown at me last week… Its just a lot to process. Add to this, when I told the MiL (She stopped in last night for a week long impromptu visit), her response was “Oh…” as if I was doing the wrong thing by operating. I’m feeling a lot of negative things right now and I’m having a hard time articulating them. I stressed myself into a migraine.

I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m worried. I feel guilty for knowing I can’t afford chemo should he need it. And I am having a hard time putting all this into proper words. I feel alone in wanting to protect my animals, the only ones who have stood with me 2000%, the ones who prevented me from killing myself several times. I feel lost.

But because I’m “high functioning” no one can tell exactly how in distress I am.

Identity

I suppose I’ve lived with bipolar disorder since puberty, but having a proper diagnosis (and treatment) really does make a big difference. I’ve been finding my identity with it since then.

Purple, red plus blue. My hair has changed like the seasons since puberty, unsurprisingly. Purple is the next color. I’m waiting for the dye to arrive. Purple is symbolic, I am the sum of my parts.

A cactus is prickly on the outside and soft and sweet on the inside. My MBTI is INTJ, factor that into the equation and suddenly I am a cacophony of difficult to read parts. I am not the soft, pretty flower. I am the cactus, I am hardy, and I will survive. I keep many cacti. I have no green thumb, but also I like them. Maybe I’ve known deep down I am like them for a while. I would like a cactus piece tattooed on me eventually. Of course, I presently have two tattoos actively queued. I suppose the cactus makes three.

I look back and see the same sentiments echoed throughout my life. Always there, I just never paid them much mind. This is my life now

Where now?

I’m still learning to feel correctly. What it means to feel normal, and how to trust when feelings start becoming extreme and what they mean. I spent so long with extremes that I stopped trusting their weight.

I guess I should stop speaking in riddles and hypotheticals and shit. I’m not happy at my job. I left grooming because it was too much, the hours and the workload. I am working for my mother in law. She doesn’t live around here, which is nice. I get paid well, sixteen an hour, to help with her app and be at her beckon at any moment. Oh, and go on trips with her. But I am not doing a lot, and what she keeps asking me to do, I can’t. If I don’t have access to certain things (like the facebook because someone else set that up), then I’m shit out of luck. And trips with her are beyond draining. This app, its not something I give two fucks about either. Its medical charting for specialists. She literally called me up and told me (didn’t ask if the dates were fine) I’m going to San Antonio with her on cinco de mayo weekend. Oh, and if the sister in law has her baby around then, I have to go alone and present the product by myself. Please kill me. I realize how much I hate this, how worthless I feel. I don’t have the skills to do software stuff otherwise. I don’t do school, never finished my degree for a reason. The one thing I enjoyed, well, I’d have to give up a lot to go back to, and I’d need to try the school thing again which is daunting. Vet tech stuff. So I have no drive or pull in any particular direction. I can write, but there’s no decently paying writing gigs for folks who don’t have degrees. I’d love to work at a tattoo studio, but no one is hiring unless you are an artist specifically, and thats not me, I can’t art well.

I feel lost. I’m realizing how… truly worthless I am. And its damn scary.

WEight issues.

Why do I write? I have a husband, friends, family. I write because my memory is shit. I write because maybe there’s someone else out there going through what I am. I don’t know.

The meds seem to be working. Risperidone. I seem slightly manic, and very prolonged. Need to pull in the spending. Otherwise I like it. My only real complaint: Weight Gain. My weight it something I struggle with. I am 5’6″ and 160lbs. I am assured by friends and family I am not overweight, that I am average size (size 14 right now). But I don’t feel average. I feel huge. I look down and I see fat rolls, I see my knees looking tiny compared to hippo legs, I see ripples in the skin. I’ve been dieting (1000-1200 kcal) and excersizing (trying to maintain 300 kcal run every few days). I got down to 154 and then this made me shoot up. The scale this morning even said three pounds more than yesterday. I’m trying to write that off as wrong. Maybe I didn’t poop recently enough, I hadn’t peed yet.

Bipolar is a bitch. And even with these great meds, I don’t feel perfect. But I am better. Husband is being supportive, which is good.

I just hope this weight stops gaining and starts going down again.

An update on things

I haven’t written in a while. Things have been…overwhelming. So I finally saw a psychiatrist. Turns out its not MDD. Its Bipolar II. So that changes things and makes a lot of sense in hindsight. So she put me on Latuda. It worked wonderfully except that

a) Insurance absolutely will not cover it unless I’ve tried two other atypical antipsychotics for 30 days each (and out of pocket is over $1000 a month)
b) It caused me to black out. Randomly. I was at the post office and just randomly fainted as a side effect. Can’t have that, thats not safe.

So now its risperidone. I don’t feel….as emotionally high as I did on Latuda and I don’t have quite as much energy. Of course, I still have more energy than I did without, so its still a win. She might up the dosage, we’ll see. Insurance covered almost the entire thing. I only paid $2.

So that’s a thing. I’ll sit down and update better later, but I wanted to get this out.

I don’t remember when it was I last wrote. Its been at least a month.

My mental health is rapidly declining. My parents disowned me, said all these homophobic things (they don’t know I’m pan) and how witchcraft is work of the devil (I practice now) and basically how everything is my fault. Mom brought up things I said when I was 12 to hold against me. Got my dad and sister against me too. Aunts as well. I blocked everyone on facebook after the election because things were getting out of hand. I changed my url and blocked all family friends. I was trying to keep up the idea that I deleted my facebook. It was kinder than saying “you’re a bunch of assholes so I unfriended you”. They pushed and stalked and found out the truth and blew up on me. I couldn’t get out of bed. Now they’re trying to play nice. Husband can’t understand why I don’t forgive them. I can’t. I morally can’t. Our relationship is severed. I maintain the illusion because they are his boss and nothing more.

Of course, relationship with husband has also been slowly going downhill. It breaks my heart because I’ve put so much of my life into this marriage. I care about him. He tries a little on occasion. But he doesn’t see how its broken. Its not fullfilling anymore. Its slowly unravelling and frankly I don’t have the balls to end it before then.

I need to see a psychiatrist. Badly. I was in bed sobbing, suicidal, the other night. This is not okay. I have to wait until after the new year too.