Archive for April, 2014


nothing much to see here

Things aren’t good. They are a little better than last time I had anything to say here, in that I don’t spend at least 30 minutes a day crying and I am no longer even trying to pay any of my bills except the utility and insurance, but they are not good and I am really not ok. Thing is, I’ve been saying that for over a year now I guess. I don’t remember what it’s like to feel like I have a future. But I am so incredibly fucking tired of hearing my own self whine that I just don’t see the point in talking about it. I’m such a broken record. And that seems like all I can talk about when anybody asks what’s going on or when I sit down to write anything.

Not that I”ve been writing anything. I don’t even know who I am anymore (except this person that doesn’t seem like me has been me for so long now that I guess that’s who I am). I don’t know what I”m doing here. I have completely lost the plot. The VA helped with some but not all of my meds and the wellbutrin lets me fake it, but does nothing for anxiety, so my coping mechanisms are perhaps not the healthiest, but the point is that I can fake it reasonably well. I can get up in the mornings and get through the day and hold it together and work (or at least I thought I could – it’s come to my attention that perhaps I haven’t been faking it as well as thought). But in general I can hold it together all day until I’m alone in the kitchen at night, crying with the water running (that’s where all of the best drama, the most poignant conversations, the most memorable confrontations, and the most epic breakdowns have always happened – in the kitchen. I suspect it’s family tradition, on my mom’s side, the miniature postprandial kitchen breakdown). I get it together enough to get back to work for the second shift, so to speak, and I have such severe sleep deprivation that insomnia is not generally a problem – I fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow, and I think I’m too exhausted to dream. If I do, I don’t remember anything (though I’ve been told I’ve reverted to some sleeping issues that make me at best annoying and sometimes even a little dangerous to sleep *near* – issues that don’t bode well for my mental health if what I’m hearing is accurate). But overall, I am several good, solid steps further away from the precipice than I was in, say, January, by nearly any available metrics. I”m not sure that’s much of a standard, though.

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second verse

And just like clockwork, evening hits and the bottom falls out. I seem to be having a repeat of the confidence-shattering patterns of 2010 where every single night for nearly a year was sheer unadulterated hell. Awesome. This is a great time to change my meds up, assholes, just great.

I try to trust people and I try not to isolate myself but it doesn’t work. I can’t really do it. Nobody is going to have my back but me, not really. We really are all on our own; if we ever aren’t for a little while, it’s a happy accident but not something we can rely on or expect. That’s a simple fact and I have absolutely no evidence to the contrary. So, no, when I feel bad, I will not respond in a level headed way.

overrated, undermedicated

I finally went to the VA myself (because I can’t afford to pay my gas bill never mind my employee insurance, so I have to take what I can get). And while I did get some free allergy medicine, I also got a three-day ride on the Crazy Merry Go Round because my pdoc is apparently asleep or incompetent and wrote orders for my brain cootie meds that didn’t make any sense, leaving me dangerously overmedicated for half the day and dangerously unmedicated for the other half, though with the buildup in my system of this drug over nearly a year, who knows. But the crazy? Boy can I attest to that. Instant Rage, just add bupropion overdose.

There is never a good time, but this is really, really bad timing. I am about to get my gas cut off for the second month in a row, it’s not even the 15th and I’m completely broke (I only get paid once a month), and I’ve dealing with a lot of emotional flashback shit all while trying to be the sane one in a relationship that is dying a very slow death from long periods of benign neglect punctuated by the occasional burst of angsty energy and then drunken weakness. I have nobody to blame but myself because I don’t seem to be attracted to people who don’t have serious fucking baggage. To top it all off, the pdoc won’t write one of my scripts ’til I pee in a cup, the clinic is walk in only, and I *have a fucking job* so I probably wont’ get my script ’til the semester is over and I can spend a whole day sitting in the goddamned VA clinic waiting. Joy. This is a great time to not have anxiety meds.

in the news

The Female Face of PTSD: Women Veterans Bring Home Invisible Scars Too

Why Should We Make Vet Mental Health a Priority? Because One Dies by Suicide Every 65 Minutes