Got My Mad On

So, there's nothing like getting a mad on to shoot you up out of depression. Over the last few days, a couple who've, for some reason, decided that I and Jb are evil, though we choose to have as little to do with them as possible, have made it their goal to flame both of us, ad nauseum, on a forum that we both frequent. It's been drama up the ass with these two. They both got kicked from the forums and their inflammatory threads removed, but I'm still furious. Who's so immature as to begin a character debate and slander campaign against another adult online? I know we're in an election year, but dear god. I have to tell you, though, I went from weepy, crying depression, to livid, absolute fury in the course of two forum posts. Anger as a cure for depression. Not a suitable thesis topic for the average psych student, I'd imagine.

Fight Club

Jb comes home in a mood before he even hits the door. I can hear it on the phone when I call to see when he's coming home. Early, apparently, and pissed. It doesn't take 10m for his mood to invade mine. He shuts me down until I'm so mad at myself for allowing him to have any such control over me that I can hardly look at him. He pushes. I push back. We keep at each other, picking, ignoring, picking at the scabs of a fight waiting to go. It's the shutdown I hate. It's my mother and me all over again. I don't want to feel anything, but all I have is rage, and I can't do anything about it.

Oh, So Girl, Interrupted

I'm also having this need to read things like The Bell Jar, and Prozac Nation, and Girl, Interrupted. Or to at least Netflix the movies made from the books. Everything is so Sylvia Plath. In the hospital, you'd have morning group, right? And they always wanted us to start out with some pithy quote on the board that was meant to buoy us through the day. There were more than a few of us that looked around at each other, all aware that the only thing we had in our heads were snippets of Plath, Parker, lyrics and rhymes of the mentally ill themselves. We were the girls who did not know how to play nice in the ward, the ones that complained about the staff late at night in the dining room, the ones who didn't care if they left group in the middle of it, the ones who slept during the day to make it pass. Except for visiting hours, we thought the whole thing a farce. The only thing they cared about was that you took your pills at 9am and 9pm and kept yourself washed and clean.

Lost It

Completely flipped the fuck out at the psych's. Anxious all the way there, pacing the office while I waited, he'd barely sat down when I started trying to talk to him about work. Couldn't sit for my nerves, just kept walking back and forth, and goddammit if I didn't start crying. Told him about how my job had forced me out, the deal of unpaid leave for insurance, the lack of a determination from the county, everything, and his reply? Why didn't I take the voluntary resignation, go on unemployment and take Cobra. And I had no reply for that, except that Cobra's expensive. But now I don't know. Maybe that's exactly what I should do. The situation couldn't be worse than the one I'm in now, and even after paying for Cobra, I couldn't be bringing in less than the county's giving me. So why the fuck not? I plan to look into it.

But what truly pisses me off is that that was my appointment. How's the Klonopin? Sometimes it's enough, sometimes it isn't. I don't go out unless I'm with my boyfriend. It's too hard. Do you have enough Lamictal? No, I'll run out this week. Do you have any samples? No, Lamictal's going generic, so they're not handing out any samples anymore. (Then it doesn't matter because I can't fill this prescription until I have the money anyway.) Are you seeing a therapist? I'm on the waiting list for one. Why? Because they're sliding scale. You're making an appointment for one when you go out front. Do you need to see someone today? No, don't worry about it. I always worry about it. You're seeing Nicole in one week and making a therapy appointment.

And out the door. What the hell did that do for me? I'm hustled off to his psychiatric nurse practioner for prescriptions and off to his wife therapist for her 15m of infinite wisdom: "Take a 10m walk, take one thing at a time . . . " Because, you know, I'm not a fucking moron who hasn't had successful and useful cognitive-behavioral therapy before. I've a Master's degree for Christ's sake. I'm not an idiot. I think it's time to take things into my own hands, to shut the hell up, dust myself off, and get out there and do what needs to be done. No more cowering. No more safety net. No more allowing myself to be weak. I need to muscle through. No excuses. If I'd done that, I would have never ended up in the hospital or lost my job.

And to top off my day? My fucking computer won't boot. I'm so screwed.

Mixed State?

I'm depressed and irritable. My irritation is extreme. For example, Jb and I went to the store the other day. He usually can't stand the store, tries to rush me, acts out, won't go unless I have a list, but yesterday, he is all good humor, making smiley faces on the freezer doors, chattering at me, trying to get my attention, and I keep brushing him off, keep giving him looks, rolling my eyes. I cannot stand the constant nattering for attention. I'm irritated, so irritated I don't even want to be touched. Jb's ADD-like conversation and actions are overwhelming to me. I don't want to be pestered. I am upset at having to be at the store, at having to focus on the list I've made. I am functioning because I have to, because I can't let Jb down, but even then, the aisles are too many, the list too long, and I don't give a damn what kind of bread we get, or how much anything costs. I know I'm being cold to Jb, hurting him. But I can't help it.

We get through the store with only two brief brushes of rushing, snapping words. I can tell I'm wounding Jb when I don't appreciate the humor of his actions, or the way he's being so good at the store, helpful even. The rest of the trip goes fine. We drop the groceries off, pick up food. We get home, though, and it's suddenly a whole other game. We're arguing again. I'm not even sure about what, except I know, I know, Jb is trying to box me in. There's a sort of hopeless anxiety about it, where I want to cry because I can't do something simple like watch a movie. The argument gets way out of line, as they seem to these days. I'm going places I don't mean to go, saying things I can't take back, and Jb's had enough that he won't put up with it. I am being irrational. When we quit, Jb's the one who comes over and tries to talk to me, to tell me that I need to be more proactive in our relationship, that I need to participate in it. I have, obviously, been withdrawn. Jb is frustrated because I am not accessible. I am the burden. The depression deepens and I withdraw more.

Today, I know I am supposed to unpack something, one thing, sort through a bag of clothes, but I wander around, knowing I should do something, but unable to make myself do it. Instead, I'm online, in-game, blogging, reading, getting up, sitting down, and none of these activities last for more than 10 minutes at a time. I am unable to focus. I am writing in fits and starts. I am thinking about calling Jb to tell him I love him and that I'm sorry. I am thinking about cleaning. I am thinking about eating. I don't do any of it. There are things I should be doing: following up with my unpaid leave status at work, calling the county to check on my assistance and status, calling the credit counseling center or rescheduling my bankruptcy class. I have done none of these things. I break down and take Protonix and Levsin for my stomach and IBS. My stomach has been killing me. I only eat to calm it down, and that only lasts a little while. I probably wouldn't eat otherwise. IBS tends to be seasonal, and stress-related: both conditions are being met.

My symptoms are symptomatic. I can't focus, I feel awful. When Jb asks me how I feel, it's always, "I don't feel well," or, "I'm tired," things that mean, "I'm depressed. I'm unstable right now." Sometime toward the end of the night, during a CSI episode, I suddenly have this need to just kick and thrash about. Jb looks at me awkwardly, and asks what all that was about. All I have to say is, "I don't know. I just had to." A sudden surge of hypomania? Of wanting to crawl right out of my skin? I honestly don't know. Is this a mixed state? The depression is there, my anger and irritation are extreme. I don't care about anything. I have very little focus. I'm wanting to do something, then not wanting to do it. I stumble from one "diversion" to the next, not diverted, not really interested in doing anything at all. The tv annoys me, the internet is boring, gaming is unsatisfying. Of course, the IBS takes everything to another level. Not only do I feel mentally unstable, but I feel physically ill, as well. It's a double-hitter that makes the depression and irritation worse.

Change

As Jb puts it, "It happens." But then, so does shit if you believe the bumper sticker, and this week has just been a shit kicker for me. Major life changes have always been a trigger for me. This move was no exception. The last few days before the move I was already in a passive-aggressive state. The two days of the move, I was snappy, angry, bitchy, and hard to deal with. Jb and I went 'round several times during those two days, and even more since the move.

I actually had a small breakdown over not being able to put my own computer together. This from the girl who's always been capable with her own computer setup, who used to troubleshoot computers for her co-workers, etc., etc. This time, though, the wires were too much, and I sat there throwing things around and having a tantrum, all the time looking at the wires like they were some foreign entity I couldn't wrap my mind around. And that pissed me off. I can't explain the frustration. Somehow the fight escalated to me swearing I'd leave Jb -- and all sorts of irrational nonsense.

That night, in bed, when I was far calmer, Jb told me that I couldn't control my moods anymore, that it was worse now than before I went into the hospital. And I feel so helpless in the face of these moods. They overtake me on a whim. I hadn't realized how mercurial my moods had been until Jb pointed it out to me. And at least, at the time, I was in a rational state where I could really look back on the last few days and see that Jb was right. That hasn't stopped the moods, though. We had another fight yesterday, and I ended up sitting in the bathtub for a while. We've already snapped at each other this morning.

The following are among the things that are setting me off:

• My computer setup: I hate it. It's uncomfortable, too compact, and I have no where to put my feet up, which is crucial to me because of the lymphadema in my legs. But I have no space, and I can't stand that. I can't stand not having personal space.

• The bed: It is on the floor sans frame. I hate this. It's difficult to get up, and frankly, I slept on the floor on a futon the entire time I was in college and at my ex's place, but I was 21. I'm freakin' 32-years-old. I want a proper bed frame. I'm too old for this shit, and I wake up every day feeling like someone pummeled me during the night.

• My knee: The osteo-arthritis is acting up. Maybe due to all the rain we've had, maybe because it tends to be seasonal. Either way, it hurts like hell when I'm trying to get to sleep at night, and the computer setup isn't helping any, neither is the bed.

• Cutting: Jb wants to cut this Ikea bed table we have to give me some sort of setup that gives me more room, but (1) I don't want him cutting up a $200 piece of furniture and (2) it won't solve anything because I need a solid base, like the end of the bed frame, to put my feet up. I've been trying a storage container, but the sucker moves all over the place, my keyboard feels like it's sliding off my lap, and it's uncomfortable as hell.

Also, when Jb brought home the saw and measuring tape to modify the Ikea table, I broke down in a crying fit, trying to explain that it was too much change all at once. That I needed time to test out the new setup, to even see if I liked it. I was so brittle from all the newness. I needed time to get my bearings. I swear to God modifying that table would have been the last straw for me.

So, in summation, the apartment is quite nice with its hardwood floors, its quaint window frames that sometimes need to be propped open, and the wild jungle that is our backyard and which I can see through the kitchen window. It's grown on me, though I spent the first few days walking through the place, touching things, opening and closing things, like some befuddled ghost who's trying to understand her surroundings. The neighborhood is quiet, you can hear birds, but little else. And it smells green and loamy when it rains. The apartment feels homey, mostly because it's one of five apartments in an old house from the 1940s. (This is why it's quaint. I'd swear the cabinets and a few other things hail from the '40s, as does the washer/dryer and the stove.) We've met the upstairs and downstairs neighbors.

All this change makes me feel very Benny and Joon-ish, though, as if I'm Joon: fine as long as I'm in an environment I'm comfortable in, but change anything, take me out of my comfort zone, and I start to flip out emotionally, lashing out at Jb and exhibiting a sort of dysphoric mania: the depression and the anger and irritability of hypomania mixed. It's a little like being in a life raft in a raging sea with a small bucket, trying to keep the water from overwhelming the boat. Unfortunately, Jb's no Sam, and he's not dealing well with my outbursts of late. Not that I blame him, but it does remind me that bipolar people are "three and a half times more likely to [`divorce'] than the rest of the population."

Furthermore, the entire time I was unable to log onto the internet because of Comcast's ineptitude, I didn't write. Even Jb asked if I'd been writing, suggesting I probably should be keeping up with that, that he thought it was a good outlet for me. But I simply didn't want to. I felt like I had nothing to say. When in reality, I had plenty to say, especially to Jb. It just all came out in this destructive, irrational way. And part of me feels guilty about it, and part of me feels like I had the right to vent my spleen. That's the grandiosity: the thinking that I'm entitled to more than other people, that I'm different, better somehow. More and more I hear Jb telling me: "You don't care about my feelings, that I'm hurt. You just don't care." And to a point, he's right. There are certain moments when nothing matters to me but me. As if I'm due more than everyone else. And that's solipistic to say the least.

I do care, though. I just don't know how to show it anymore. I feel like an emotional retard, unable to access certain emotions, while others are making hay while the sun shines.

10:10 p.m. Communications Blackout

Halfway through the move, and there's still so much to do. There were several breakdowns -- mine and Jb's -- and much snapping, some crying, bad accusations. So things go. I think my parents threatened each other with divorce at least four times when they retiled the kitchen.

Anyway, this will be it for a while. Since Comcast doesn't know how to add a new address to their database, it may be a while before we're able to get internet access again. Disconnecting the computers and putting them away is a little like shutting off the air in a space shuttle, or losing communications entirely with the rest of the world:

"Houston, we are going for a blackout."

6:08 a.m. Paranoia Sets In

I wake early from a vivid dream in which I am furious with Jb. Furious. And betrayed. A girl named Kristen is visiting with us, and while I've been away, she and Jb have developed some sort of bond, and I know -- I know -- they've kissed, that Jb has done something to compromise our relationship. When I confront him, he plays arrogant, won't tell me anything, denies everything, and that's how I know it's true. And when his elbow jostles me in bed, waking me, I have an urge to slap him senseless across the face. How could he do that to me?

Vivid dreams like this, where I wake up as furious, or as upset, or as fearful as I would be in the waking world, bleed from my subconscious to my conscious mind. And it's difficult for me to sort through what's real and what's the overwhelming feeling I've woken up to. Jb would say I was paranoid. In fact, he's used that exact term twice in the last week. And I know I am. Except it's getting worse, and this, too, is a sign of bipolar. Hypomania/Mania, I believe.

The paranoia creeps in so that I hardly see it until someone points it out to me. I think the people on the bus are watching me. Marya Hornbacher calls them The Watchers in her book, Madness. And it's one of the sections I can relate too. Everyone is watching me. Everyone is critizing me. Everyone is talking about me. Jb's reading my blog and thinking he's ended up with a nutcase. I constantly question him if I think he's reading this. I'm even paranoid in my dreams. It's laughably egotistical, really. Solopsitic to the nth degree.

But there's some truth to the paranoia, especially about Jb. I constantly worry over the bickering. It's coming more and more. We're a couple less and less. There's constant outside strain on the relationship, and constant stress at home. Nothing is easy with me -- for a million reasons. And I can't fix that. I can only take my meds and ride my moods and hope to see them in some rational way that I can talk about them, get a handle on them. I worry about the day Jb can no longer handle them, or me. I've already lost a marriage. I don't want to lose him.

3:59 Productivity, Tally Ho!

I have been productive! I am a genius! I got all my mail sorted and compartmentalized and put into the right flaps of the right folders: medical info, bills, job foo, info from the county. All trash mail was thrown away. I am keeping tabs on all my medical info. I called all the right people, including the utilities for the new apartment, and Jb did some calling and packing, too.


Calls Made:

• Pepco -- To transfer electricity to new apartment.
• Comcast -- To get apartment listed in their database so I can transfer cable and internet service in 24 to 48 hours.
• WSSC -- To get gas transferred to the new apartment.
• Allstate -- To get renter's and auto insurance transferred.
• T-Mobile (Jb) -- To figure out why his account was screwed up.
• Jewish Social Service Agency -- To try to find a sliding scale therapist and psych. (They called back to say it could be 3 months. This is the problem of not having money. You may get help, but not necessarily when you need it.)
• Benefits -- To get them to resend the info for my insurance premiums from work so I can pay that bill.

Bills Paid:

• Comcast
• Allstate

Boxes Packed:

• All Jb's console gaming foo
• My jewelry, makeup, misc. from the bathroom and kitchen, and the odd computer part we don't use.

Call me productive and slap my hiney! I'm proud of all that. Clearly, I'm still feeling fine, and focused. In fact, I don't see how I need a therapist. Maybe the meds have kicked in. Maybe I'm on an upswing. Maybe things are looking up. I don't know what it is. But I have a general sense of well-being in the world. The world, in fact, is fantastic! And I am a productive freakin' member of society! (This may be a little more expansive than I should feel, but I like the feeling. It's a little bit like an endorphin rush, and it's been so long since I felt good.)

I say this with a caveat. I did have a fit of anger when, in furiously digging through old mail and correspondence, I found the rent list for a nice community we'd been looking at last year. We couldn't have afforded anything in the new complex, but we could have afforded a "mini" one bedroom, as opposed to the larger-than-average studio we'll be moving into. And after being severely upset about this, and throwing mail around for a while, I've calmed down and have begun to think there were some "issues" with the older part of the complex. I may be trying to placate myself because, in all honesty, the place we're moving to is quite nice, and I've no real reason to be upset. I just was. And Jb and the mail received the brunt of it.