February 24th, 2015

2013, cyd, new

Feckin' cat is on the mouse cable

I was hoping to pick up a little patience and understanding by having Doc read that Cognitive Symptoms article. It has had the opposite effect. Daily attacks are now a thing. I have no regard for him. Everything I do is meant to make him miserable or angry. Everything I say or have ever said is subject to his altering at any time. I am constantly, and he has to believe deliberately inconsiderate towards him. This is what I have to deal with now. Oh, he is also sleeping out here, but I can't watch TV, or roll cigarettes, or play with the animals, or do anything that makes the slightest noise. He is going to yell at me any minute for typing too loud.

Oh, here we go. Blaming this all on me because I'm not on my right meds. This relationship is bordering on the psychologically abusive right now. I know from it. I lived it all my life. And after 15 years, here we are again. I am meant to be alone. I am once again in a place that is hostile towards my illness and symptoms. I need to go somewhere where I am not expected to talk. I just really want to stop talking. I want to be somewhere where no one expects me to try and communicate. It's getting to be too much, talking.

Everything I say to him, he demands an explanation of. When there usually isn't one. It just popped into my head and I said it because I thought it was funny or ironic. And he won't let it go. It had to mean something. People don't just say things with no meaning. Guess what? Crazy people do.

The Next Day . . .

I just got back from the shrink. I told him of my abject failure at getting to be a part of Mental Health Twitter. He suggested I try it in person. I told him it would feel like an AA meeting, and I was not hep to that. I told him that I was having a very hard time finding anyone who is schizoaffective that i can connect with online. Which led to an interesting bit of conversation. The next Diagnostic Bible will be eliminating "schizoaffective disorder" and classify it all as schizophrenia. I'M GETTING A PROMOTION! Right, so I'm not in the best mood. I told my shrink that I wanted to stop talking. Not just to Doc, to everyone. That's when he got really insistent about me joining a group. He seemed really concerned about me. It was weird to see him drop the Doctor facade. He even went through the scripts he had sent in for me, and they were all there. Fuckin' pharmacy. But he wrote me a new script for Cymbalta.

He's going to do some research over the next three months of cognitive deficiencies in schizophrenics. So the next time I go, we can start working on that. There are some alzheimer drugs that may help me. I would like to have a few lucid years before the dementia that seems to follow schizophrenia around.
2013, cyd, new

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2013, cyd, new

A Cry For Help (A Poem -- No Really, I just wrote a poem, I missed NCIS NOLA to do it)

Yeah, so this is the cry for help.
The sloppy,
snot draining,
tear stained,
arms stretched toward the sky,
screaming incoherently, the
long awaited cry for help.
So show me what you got.
A cyber hug?
A homily?
A few platitudes, or
maybe a few bumper sticker talking points?
Reassure me it will get better.
Though I know the truth doesn't live there.
I've been on this hill going downwards
For years and years.
And there is nothing politically correct
that is going to make me any better..
I am not a precious flower.
I am a crass, ass kicking bitch.
And I don't need to be told it will be okay tomorrow
when I know damn well it won't.
And now I know that you just lied to me.
How does that make me better?
This may come as a shock and surprise,
but I get no therapeutic aid in watching
you perpetually promote yourself.
And then there's you,
the one who got all of the info out off me,
then ditched me when you found out
how sick I really was, I want to thank you,
for not pretending, for having the courage
to run away from me at word one.
More people should just show what cowards they are.
It would save us mad people a whole lot of time.
This is my cry for help, and it is messy.
I've given up on suicide.
No matter what I do, I just can't get that ambitious.
Now I'm thinking catatonia -
just shutting down.
A few things stop me.
My animals.
Doc.
Kelli.
My shrink.
If I could just power off when I'm not
dealing with one of those people,
yeah, that would be good.
“I don't think she's quite right.”
“Hush, Margaret, she can hear you!”