Showing posts with label despair. Show all posts
Showing posts with label despair. Show all posts

Sunday, January 15, 2012

indigo daze

today's flavor: D E E P  ( I S H )  D E P R E S S I O N
anxiety : 4
agitation : 3


See how crazily rapid I cycle.  Just a few days ago I was at baseline, cheery and anxiety-free.  Today I'm in the depths of dejection. Weeping has graduated to howling, and I can't blame the Benadryl since I hadn't taken it.  I don't simply wish to die anymore; between wails I found myself  assuring myself that I can slice my jugular open quickly and all will be over briefly.  I came close to building the resolve to do it.  But of course I didn't do it.  Obviously.

And I'd like to thank my husband for stowing away my craft knives.  I love you Babe, you always do whatever it takes to keep me from acting out my suicidal fantasies. 
And whoever misplaced the kitchen whetstone, thank you, that our knives can't even slice tomatoes. 
And thank you, kitchen knives - though you frustrate me when I prepare food, I appreciate your uselessness at times like these when I want to use you on my throat.


The past few days have been horrible.  Pramis.  The worst was Friday.  I cognitively knew I was nowhere near rock-bottom, but I sure felt like life had nothing good for me any further.   Until today, I can't even bother to think about betterment.  Because I really can't -- i.e., I am unable to muster enough mental energy needed to think positive.  I can't do this anymore is once again my automatic mantra.  Tomorrow, if I still feel indigo (that is, darker than blue), I shall take a happy yellow pill and hope that it helps.



Waking up this morning was unbearable, but I had to pick myself up, paste on a smile that says "I'm hunky-dory" and wear a guise of functionality. Because that's what smart bipolars should do if they want to stay human.

That's not being artificial.  It's appropriate to be presentable when having to face other people.  My love is real, and my joyful expectation for others besides myself is real; it's just that I have to wear a face that does not coincide with how I feel about ME. 




It's a tiring ordeal, constantly putting on a perception filter.  But it's necessary, so as to keep a more-or-less decent personal image, and so as to protect people's judgment-prone hearts from judging me. If I showed everyone how f***ed up I really feel inside, it will detonate the chance of gaining new friends. And I really want / need new friends.  I can't afford to blow it, considering that:

my confuddled self-esteem
my uninteresting non-rockstar lifestyle
my loud mouth and intimidating personality
my abject selfishness like everyone else's
 
+
my bungee jumping catapulting moods  
----------------------------------------------------
= the least desirable option for anybody's BFF
(or plain F, for that matter)


I'm pathetic, dammit. I'm not very likable, so I have to compensate somehow.

Not that I feel the urge to change myself to kiss asses, but I do have a hunger to connect with worthwhile individuals, and it pays to be perceived as somewhat pleasant. 

New friends are sweet.  I want new friends.  Lord, I need new friends, I hunger for them, especially since a lot of the old ones have gotten moldy and sour.  Eventually I'd like for my new friends to become trusted friends, so I can have a safe place to disclose the mystery that is me, and be honest about it, and not feel judged for being so carnal, particularly during indigo seasons like the one I'm in now.


Monday, November 14, 2011

feeding the pigeons

today's flavor: MODERATE DEPRESSION
anxiety : 1
agitation : 3

today's unwanted guest: migraines and fatigue 


I type with a strident headache somewhere above my right eye.

I am once again at that place in which what I desire most is death. Engaging in any sort of activity seems pointless.  I wouldn't have gotten out of bed today if my dad didn't need me to fill out some forms for him.  I don't even feel like eating. I eat only when I'm terribly hungry.

Things look dull and dim.  Screw my dreams. Death seems friendlier than Dream right now.

Image from DC Comics.
Characters created by Neil Gaiman.

I don't see the purpose of exerting any effort to improve the quality of life.  I only want to get out of it.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

workplace woes

severe elev. | high elev.| moderate elev.| slight elev. || BASELINE || slight dep.| moderate dep. | deep dep. | severe dep. || anx: 0 | agit: 1


I'm getting further depressed and getting further depressed and further depressed because of my lack of sense of purpose. I'm not talking about my sense of significance - i do feel significant to certain people and in certain areas. I lost my sense of purpose. I'm not so sure why I should still be alive anymore.

I need more than a preoccupation. I need an occupation. I want one. A real one. I'm just very hesitant to take one because I don't want to get a job just for the sake of getting one. I want one that will add value to me as a person, and not one that just keeps triggering me. I know it sounds convenient to work from home, but it feels to similar to bumming around and I don't think it works for me.

Of course I'm thinking of other possible jobs, but nothing comes to mind. I'm too high-risk and high-maintenance.

Having bipolar disorder leaves you nothing but chances of uncontrollable emotions anytime. If you are at work and your boss does not know about it, it can break or mend your job. But most likely, it can remove you from the post.

Not everyone understands bipolar disorder, unless you [make them]. And not all jobs accept employees with bipolar.

Clearly, suffering from a bipolar disorder can largely affect your work and even the people around you. Nobody wants that to happen, not even you. So how can you prevent this from happening? Well, simply by looking for jobs that are bipolar-resistant. It is never easy to find jobs that are truly resistant to the disease, because there will always be a room for revealing your behavior problems.

Got this from this article.

I'm in a pickle. And it's not just some imagined emo thing. It's a real, actual problem experienced by bipolars everywhere. There's an immediate discrimination upon finding out, and there is a want of understanding when kept secret. People pretty much want to control - uncaringly so - what they refuse to understand.

Anyway. I acknowledge that there are coping mechanisms and practical tips that can be useful, maybe even helpful, but nothing assures a hundred percent effectiveness or course.

How to find a bipolar-safe job
From an article by Madeleine Kelly


Consider the following:

  • What am I good at? What do I like doing? Some people make a career out of an interest. Jot down some ideas.
  • What ideas do others have? You could ask a mentor, a senior relative, a former supervisor who treated your illness fairly. Take their ideas and put them in the mix—your decision will be based on lots of ideas, not just one piece of advice.
  • Will my new plans allow me to make enough money? How much is enough?
  • How many hours a week can I manage? This is important if you are just coming out of a crisis.
  • Decide how much challenge you want or boredom you can tolerate. Too much of either could trigger an episode.
  • What industries are likely to be tolerant? Surprisingly, the health and human services sector can be among the most discriminatory towards their staff. Try to find out what the organization culture is like before you go for an interview.

Discriminatory employers. That's just one of my fears. I bet they're everywhere.

A bout of bipolar disorder, when it happens at work, often means you have to find a new job. Employers typically don’t know or care about bipolar disorder and jump to the conclusion that you were just behaving badly. Luckily there are strategies that will help prevent job loss...

When bipolar disorder hits at work, it all hits the fan. A public display of excess emotion or over-the-top behavior is usually seen as unacceptable. There goes your reputation as a good worker, several fair-weather friends, perhaps pay for the time you’re off work. And then when you’re ready to return, the boss sacks you. You have lost a job, and you might lose an entire career if word gets around your industry quickly.


From the same source


That's pretty much what I feel happened in my previous job. I liked doing what i did but there were certain conditions that were unfavorable. It by nature was a high-stress occupation, but very rewarding, despite the overwork and underpay, and it went well with my sense of purpose. Stress is a given factor in every workplace, and i had my ways of managing stress, and it would have worked out for me. But I was unfortunate enough to work under a sadistic manager and an antagonistic executive. Miss Sadistic went the extra mile of weaving intrigue; Madam Antagonistic preached love and tolerance that she didn't practice. The stress mounted and compounded with the antagonism, and i felt trapped - which made things worse. Aside from being misunderstood, no one chose to extend the understanding, relationships and tolerance our industry supposedly valued ("we are not an organizatio, but an organism," we used to say). I believe I was a victim of nasty office politics - a conversation with the Big Boss revealed that both Miss Sadistic and Madam Antagonistic put in some unfounded, malicious statements about me; the big boss trusted them so much and wrongly so, that he did not bother to investigate, neither did he bother to hear what I said. He told me, I quote, "I don't care why". I was advised to resign because i was told that they were concerned about my health, but i don't buy that. It was more likely that they wanted me out because that was the easier way for them to handle things (the Big Boss after all said to me I was not a person to be understood but a problem to be solved. So much for the "values" that prove to be all just nice-sounding theory). I mean, if they really were concerned as they said they were, they would have allowed me to take a leave instead of asking me to resign. Besides, if they really were concerned, they would have checked on how i was doing afterward (Miss Antagonistic was especially cruel. She still sought to control me and succeeded in making me feel rejected and unwanted, a mockery of the love and service she supposedly stood for).

I will repeat what I've said before, and I will insist on it. I did not have a breakdown. That was not a classic meltdown. I did not burn out. I had a depressive episode that was stoked to severe levels because of the unnecessary stress. Unnecessary stress mainly from Miss Sadistic and Madam Antagonistic.

It is not true that "that was not the job for me", as other people suppose. The conditions were just unfavorable and made even more and more unbearable. I will not "get better" (in the sense that Bipolar doesn't have a cure), and depressive episodes WILL happen again.

I still think of going back sometimes. It seems more likeable now that Miss Sadistic and Madam Antagonistic have been asked to resign themselves - the former because of unscrupulous practices, the latter due to fatigue (now she burned out) - I schadenfreude in calling that reaping. The former Boss was promoted and so there's now a new one. I imagine it could be a workable arrangement now, but I don't fit anywhere anymore as my positions (yes, plural) have already been taken over by other individuals, and i just don't see where i can fit now. Besides that, I wonder if anyone will be willing to understand, now that rumors have gone around that I went crazy and I was confined in an institution - neither of which happened.

I know this is such a vain, selfish, painfully hopeful thing to think, but I've been wronged, stolen from and gossipped about, and I still desire my vindication. And my promotion.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

the other thing with feathers

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | stable | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx: 1, agit: 1

It's hard to win over - or simply even ward off - the other things with feathers. These don't perch on the soul. They find a recess in it and rape it. The albatrosses seem to pleasure in draping themselves upon my shoulders when I'm alone. The buggers attract flocks of ravens to swirl over my head. I hope not to sit here long enough to draw the attention of carrion-fowl.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

wish i were

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | stable | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx: 1, agit: 1


There's so much I can say about it, but I'd rather not blog about it. I just don't want to do this anymore.

As a way of coping, I slip into schizotypal mode and retreat into a unreal world where everything is pink-and-white tulips and classical guitar music. But i can only employ so much coping mechanisms. Especially when I am needed in the real world.

Oh, I hate you Real World. Screw you for not being pink-and-white tulips and classical guitar music all around.

Someone please just pick me up.

Or give me a quick, clean, painless death.

------------------------------------------------------

EDIT: Four days later.

I read this entry just now (July 16), and .... Hahahaha, that's embarassing. My pride says delete but my lack of it says just leave it alone. Idiotic whino. It looks like something a sixteen year-old would write, only without the sloP tXt spelng.

Been trying to be pleasant these past few. I just don't have enough energy for controversy. Smile like an idiot when I don't know what to say, blink like a sleepy doll when I don't know what to think, mushy up all randomly and kitten-like with the hubby when I don't know what to do.

I've actually been feeling like a zombie, you know, in a consistent state of sleepwake. I'm never really asleep, never really awake. When I am dreaming, i don't know if I am truly asleep or if I'm awake / When i get up, I don't know if I am truly awake or if I'm still dreaming... * Like Edward Norton's character in Fight Club.

I still haven't caught up on rest from the recent ordeal. I don't think I know how. Neglected my meds and my tracking, and I don't know ... wait, what was it I didn't know?

I feel like a slab of raw pork forgotten and fly-drawing on a slimy kitchen counter, sticky and slothlike in my head. I think I think like one now too.

* Lyrics from Dream, Forest for the Trees

Monday, February 9, 2009

Wherefore Art Thou Embittered?

severe elevation|high elevation| moderate elevation|slight elevation|stable| slight depression|moderate depression|deep depression|severe depression||anx: 1, agit: 1


The past few days haven't exactly been peachy-keen, but I'm (kinda) thankful that at least I've only been swinging around the middle zone ; i.e., stable-to-slight. I'd hate to admit it to anyone else (though I wouldn't mind confessing it on my waste of cyberspace) but I've been depressed. Just slightly.

No real reason. It's all just chemical.

... And dear friends who may be visiting this page, don't be alarmed. Depression is just a fact of life. A fact of my life at least. I won't be killing myself anytime soon (though I may muse about it from time to time). I'll be upping my state using a few coping techniques and the friendly yellow pills, and things'll be hunky-dory in no time.
Cheerioh.

Oh, shoot. I just realized I failed to take my regular meds the past four days. Oh noes.

Anyway..

I know I'm depressed when instead of dreaming I'd be mulling over dreams that I can't reach. My personal prayers devolve into a litany of rambling complaints. The fact that I struggle to get out of bed in the morning is a dead giveaway.

A pathetic story from the other day: My bones felt too heavy for getting out of the house, and I was experiencing some muscle pains (caused by some other hormonal factor. grr.) I thought of putting on a DVD to keep my mind away from depressive ruminations. I chose to watch the making of one of my favorite movies ever, Moulin Rouge. I'd borrowed the 2-disc set from my my mother-in-law; I was so excited to watch interviews with Baz Lurhman, the pre-prod anectodes, dance choreography and production design details and other special features. I was so sure I'd be entertained. Well, I was, certainly. But I hadn't counted on getting depressed.

Normally, I would've immensely enjoyed watching something like that. But given that I was already teetering toward depression at that time, it served as a negative trigger. Watching one colorful segment after another highlighted the current blandness of my own life. I was reminded of the dreams I've had when I was younger, and became even more aware of the fact that most of those dreams aren't even close to becoming a reality.

I had wanted to be a theater actress.
I had wanted to be on the team of a kickass production.
I had wanted to the director of a brilliant film.
I had wanted to write a brilliant script.
I had wanted to travel around Europe.

I had wanted to do so many things.

Years ago and back in the neigborhood of Idealism and Romanticism, all those things I dreamed of (and more) seemed certainly reachable (uh ... well, yeah; that might have been a time of mania / elevation, I realize ...) I wanted those things to happen and believed they could and would.

That night that I watched the video, I didn't feel so invulnerable. Instead of feeling inspired, I felt insulted. I magnified the failures of my life and momentarily forgot about the successes and blessings and reasons to be glad to be alive for. I couldn't sleep so I watched another Baz Lurhman film - Romeo+Juliet, hoping it'd pacify me. Wrong move.

There was no rush like I could rule the world. That night I just wanted to let the world roll over me and crush me. Crunch, crunch, SPLAT. Darn the pathetic waste of cellulose and that latent genius that can't ever be expressed. I tortured myself about dead dreams and unrealized wishes and a crummy destiny until I fell asleep the following morning.

Of course I felt much better after I'd gotten some sleep. Even better after getting out of the house and having some contact with other cell-based intelligent lifeforms.

I have a good life.
I have a good life.
I have a good life I have a good life I have a good life.

I still don't feel invulnerable (and probably won't ever again, now that I'm on Lith), but at least I don't feel so insulted right now. B ut I guess I need to surround myself with good company and a few happy-warm-fuzzy DVDs the next few days, just to ward off the saddies. I want the following days to be gorgeous. Chocolates and bunnies. No evil thawts. No evil thawts. Will be reading Peter Pan and other lighthearted reads. Groan.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

unappreciation day

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | normal | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx : 3 , agit : 3


I whine online (insert frowny here) because I am indeed a jerk.

I kept wishing I drank sleeping pills this morning. A still am actually. Wishing, I mean.

I ask myself, what was I thinking, expecting this day to be a good one? I drag myself too early out of bed, dress all dressy and submit myself to the depression-worsening torture of being a prop. An accessory. An extension. An appendage. An escort service. A tool. A decoration.

Banished to the oubliette out of convenience but fetched to be the recipient of certain expectations, worthy of being overlooked and awarded a bunch of ugly ornamental foliage. Go, have your fun, fuss all over him and forget me. Isn't he amazing and ain't I a wonderful accessory. Skills and talents that compliment him - the very things i hoped not to hear. All I am is a talented person, like the guy said, but pretty much useless. Damn their insensitivity. I don't doubt someone will offer the unsolicited harangue of further unappreciation and expectations and such without offering any ears or sympathy. Frustration-dumping and control obtaining that the guy said I deserve under the guise of care. That's the staple. Welcome to the fellowship of the holy and perfect, you must be holy and perfect.

Please don't make me go to the next one if you want me to survive this episode. And don't pretend to care if all you will do is dictate more expectations. I'm too exhausted for any more and I really feel like quitting. Signing off. Taking a bow. Tapping out. Saying good night. No more please. Words don't help unless they are sorry, so please don't bother.

Friday, July 11, 2008

That Thing With Feathers That Perches On The Soul

severe elevation | high elevation | moderate elevation | slight elevation | normal | slight depression | moderate depression | deep depression | severe depression || anx : 1 , agit : 0


A couple of evenings ago, we chatted a bit about hope at our group thing. I paused to think a moment about how I've been doing in the hope department. I'm pretty sure faith's been on a downward trek since last year's fiasco - but hope's an entirely different thing.

Hope is the thing with feathers, right Emily?

Hope is something intangible I can keep though things of value be taken away. Hope is the substance of dreaming, which colors existence into life. Hope feeds my soul when reason falls short. It's a charm grasped in times of darkness, a piece of another reality to aim for when the present one shatters.

Hope gives me a reason to stay alive.