Laughing Through the Pain

I must have woken up on the right side of the bed this morning, because my brain was quieter than usual, and although my physical body ached from sleeping in the same position for hours, (thanks tiny human for refusing to sleep in your own bed last night), my mental self feels pretty comical.

Just because I have a depressive disorder doesn’t mean I am melancholy from the start of the day, until my head hits the pillow; I do wake up with thankfulness in my heart, and at least attempt to have a purposeful/meaningful day. Things don’t always work out that way, and there are days, more times than not, that I wake up feeling like I am smothering, but even during the darkest days I try to find something humorous about life.

I don’t like to take life seriously, I never have, and this has often come with rejection, mostly from people who concluded my age didn’t match with my behavior at any given moment. Fuck em’, right!? I enjoy my snarky, sarcastic, smart ass sense of humor, and stifling the comedian in me is something I’m not willing to do.

Life is too serious already. We wake up to hectic work schedules, bills, illness, and massive amounts of responsibility of some sort, so why should we all walk around like uptight adults, trudging through the day with an occasional side smile, and a growing stomach ulcer?

I go through life trying to find the hilarity in things around me. I still laugh at farts, enjoy an embarrassing poop story, sing improper lyrics to popular songs, ( ie: Hold me closer TONY DANZA), and occasionally yell out random words in Walmart. WHY!? Because life is too short to not make a complete ass out of yourself in front of strangers!

My husband lost his grandmother last year, and although it was heartbreaking, and we had our sullen moments, we have one memory of her funeral, and it wasn’t death tears, it was the moment we couldn’t stop gut laughing, during the services, as the priest, who reminded me of Friar Tuck, busted out his acapella version of some catholic funeral hymn. I’ll never forget the way he belted out the chorus, like Kelly Clarkson during her audition for American Idol, I literally almost peed my pants.

Funerals suck, and everyone thinks you have to sit around and be all seriously depressed, and crying the entire day, but knowing Grammy, she wouldn’t have wanted that bullshit! Grammy always got a kick out of my sense of humor, and I know she would have lost her shit had she heard The Pope’s right hand man in all his glory, because it truly was hilarious.

I don’t have a sad memory of her funeral. I can remember her for who she was before she died, and I don’t need some crusty funeral service to be reminded of what an awesome human she was! Instead, I can look back and laugh at that day, because if she was watching, she sure as hell was laughing too!

The purpose of this post is just to remind you to laugh. It’s okay to act stupid, and immature. Be prim and proper when it’s necessary, but when that time is over, just go overboard with the funnies. Who cares who is watching.

You can find humor almost everywhere. So if you are ever in Walmart, and you see a girl imitating the walk of velociraptor, with her pants pulled up past her belly button, shouting, “HEN,” in random aisles, stop and say hello…..I might be able to teach you some of my sick moves.

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Hanging On Until Tomorrow

It’s 74 outside and I sit here bundled up on the couch with a blanket up to my neck, un-showered, and in no hurry to quench my thirst, or feed my growling stomach. My eyes can’t focus on one thing, my brain is moving like a locomotive, with an out of control engine, and every sound around me has me on edge.

If I could see the hypothetical thread I am hanging on by, would I choose to cut it, or would I attempt to make it stronger, as to hold me up longer? Sometimes giving up is easier than pushing through the same shit day after day; FUCK, who am I kidding, I’ve, “given up,” in the past, and where did it land me, the hospital……but damn it, the hospital was like an escape from hell, and I guess an escape is what I am aiming for right now.

Let me tell you something, it’s hard as fuck to fight through this bipolar shit, postpartum, AND deal with additional issues other than my own. Just when I think I am having a good day, some news bombards me, and ruins my chances of having a decent day. If it isn’t news that my mother has lung cancer, it’s a call that she fell again, or that something else fucked up has happened in her life.

You might think there’s a quick fix for this shit, but there isn’t! There isn’t a magic fucking pill that makes me feel better, because NOTHING changes. The pill might stabilize some depressed moods, but it doesn’t make me normal, and OH DEAR GOD HOW I WISH I WAS NORMAL!!!

What is normal? Normal is waking up without thoughts of dying, going throughout the day without anxiety about stupid shit, not worrying about every fucking thing that doesn’t even matter, and being able to properly cope with the massive amounts of family bullshit daily.

God, I hate this; I need a vacation from my own life. Sometimes the urge to die is so strong, but then the baby cries, and it’s like, “ok, hold off for now.” How sick is that crap!? How horrible is it that the one reason why I haven’t attempted to kill myself in the past few months, is because of the baby? Go ahead, judge me for that statement, but it’s the absolute truth. Sometimes I feel like my husband would be better off without me, so leaving him doesn’t seem as bad, but there is something about the way my daughter looks at me, and smiles when I talk to her, that makes me rethink living…..plus, I’ve seen my husband in action, the baby wouldn’t survive a week alone with daddy! Ha, even in the midst of feeling like shit, I find a way to make a joke, go me!!

All I Wanted Was a Shower

The house is quiet, and I am once again alone with my thoughts. I should be snuggled in bed, listening to the sound of my 2 month old’s little breaths, but I am sitting alone, in the dark, in my living room, wide awake, and wondering when my spouse will take the time to ask me how my day was, or stop for two seconds to realize that just because he worked all day outside the house, doesn’t mean his work ends at 5pm. It would be nice to feel like a team, but instead, I am captain, co-captain, and engineer of this ship, and it’s headed for an iceberg.

I can’t help but get emotional as I type this. I feel so lonely, even though I interact with others all day. I FaceTime my family, text my friends, and play with my beautiful daughter for hours, but I feel like I am walking this path alone, and it sucks.

My husband complains constantly about being tired, and while I understand he works a demanding job, and he genuinely is tired, he never stops to think that when I ask him to help me with something, I am running on minimal hours of sleep, and I don’t want to hear, “I’m exhausted.” I ask him to do so little, and yet tonight he can’t find an ounce of energy to do any of the things he’s been asked to do, in fact, he fell asleep, and left me alone to do everything again, which is beyond frustrating.

All I wanted was a shower!

Seriously….I told my husband when he came home that I really needed to get a shower, and would like for him to take the baby for a while, so I could freshen up, and feel like a decent human being for a change, so why, at midnight, am I just getting out of the shower!?…..I’ll tell you why…..because my needs come last!

I feel like I am a single mother half the time. It’s hard enough dealing with a fucked up brain, and forcing myself to get through the days on depression energy, but then to feel like I am doing things alone……it’s a slap in the face. I am the one who wakes up during the night, I am the one who is feeding, medicating, and doing all things baby related, (which is fine), and I am the one cooking the meals, doing the laundry, and making sure the bills are paid. I am not complaining about these things, I am just saying it would just be nice to be acknowledged for the job I do without complaining.

This isn’t a bash your husband post. I love my husband, and I know he loves me. It would just be nice to feel that love a little more. It would be nice to be hugged, thanked, and asked, “how can I help you?” It would be nice to have him offer his time a little more. It would be nice to feel appreciated, instead of feeling like a bitch for having an attitude when my slightest request gets forgotten, and I end up doing it myself. It would be nice to get a shower after dinner, rather than waiting until midnight, when everyone is asleep. It would be nice to have some help. It would be nice to be able to hand the baby to daddy, while mommy takes a much needed breather, but that rarely happens, and it’s overwhelmingly stressful for me.

I end this blog post with heavy eyes, restless legs, a crying baby, a snoring husband, and a shred of hope that things will get better soon.

The Bipolar Bitch

I have contemplated writing this post for weeks now, and every time I started, I would end up deleting it. I’m pretty sure I was just scared at the perception of it all, because I tend to pour my heart out when I write, making me vulnerable, which has always been a scary feeling for me.

I’m just going to say it…..8 weeks postpartum, and I still feel like shit!

Any new mom would most likely say that they take advantage of those hours during the night when their baby is sound asleep, and they can finally shut their eyes for a few hours and catch up on their own desperate need for rest. I do enjoy my sleep, but my brain has a mind of it’s own, no pun intended!

Four nights ago my body decided it didn’t need sleep, and I was wide awake, at 1:30 in the morning, scrolling through Pinterest, Reddit, and watching stupid videos on YouTube. I finally got up and cleaned the house, which included scrubbing toilets, doing dishes, doing laundry, and mopping the floor! At first I welcomed this burst of sudden energy, after all, it was about time I started feeling something other than extreme tiredness, but then I realized what the hell was going on, and knew this energy and happiness wouldn’t last.

My manic periods have never been insane. I don’t see or hear things, and I don’t think I can fly, or doing anything else grandiose…..I just have a lot of energy, and feel like I can conquer the world with my ambitions; I am super happy, positive, and full of life.  The high only lasted three days, and those three days where the best three days I’ve had in a long time. I cooked, the house was spotless, I had energy, I could laugh, I felt alive, and it was good to just feel, “normal,” for a change. I am just gonna say it….. I LOVE BEING MANIC!

Now I am back to feeling like the world is caving in on me. I feel like a horrible mom, who can’t even play with her kid, because I am too tired to function. My life has turned into a Groundhog Day routine, and I hate it. I wake up, just to repeat the same shit day after day, and it’s miserable. Oh how easy things would be if “focusing on the positives” could actually change anything…NOPE… I still wake up with the same fucked up brain chemistry, and a desire to feel an ounce of long lasting happiness day after day. 

FUCK YOU BIPOLAR DISORDER, YOU NO GOOD PIECE OF LIFE ALTERING SHIT, I WISH YOU WERE A PERSON SO I COULD MURDER YOU!

I know postpartum depression can rear its ugly head even worse for those who have prior mental health issues, but for some reason I continue to always think those statistics don’t apply to me. I am also stubborn, so my goal is to always deal with things on my own, even if I know how it’s going to end.

I am agitated, angry, irritable, numb, and have lost pretty much all enjoyment in anything. I’ve lost my appetite, find it hard to climb out of bed, and snap at my husband for every little stupid and annoying thing he does.

The only solution….FUCKING MEDICATION!!

I was on medication prior to pregnancy, and weaned off when I found out I was pregnant. I was doing great during pregnancy, and had no issues, other than the normal pregnancy hormones. My doctor assured me that my issues would return once I had the baby, thanks for that ounce of confidence doc! I was hoping that my brain would be so mesmerized with all the chemical changes postpartum, that it would forget all about how messed up it used to be.

I hate taking meds. It’s a constant reminder that you’re sick and can’t handle shit on your own. It’s a visit every 3 months to the doctor, where they ask you the same annoying ass questions:

Q: have you had any thoughts about hurting yourself?

A: Yes No

Q: how are you feeling now?

A: Numb inside  Good

Q: you would tell me if you were having trouble right?

A: No! Of course

It’s a constant adjustment in medication doses, which increases the already annoying side effects, which then in turn makes you need another medication to counter act the first medications bullshittery! Oh and my favorite are the judgemental nurses who do their intake questionnaires and ask you about why you are taking said medication, and you have to say the fucking word BIPOLAR to them, which is nothing far from horrifying, because then you feel the need to have to explain that you don’t have the kind that makes you go bat shit crazy, or homicidal, but rather the milder version that makes you just feel like shit 24/7, with an occasional, short lived, Mary Poppins moment.

I’m just tired! I am tired of my brain’s inability to filter out the noise, especially when I could use a quiet moment. I am tired of the intrusive thoughts that constantly flood my brain like Hurricane Katrina. I am tired of being broken, and feeling hopeless. I am just simply, TIRED!