Slow, Slightly Productive Sunday

12, 222 Days Alive

7,193 Books to Read

3 Reviews Written

I’ve gotten farther on Baby Bubble’s blanket! Of the actual tree pattern, I’m six rows of fifty five in. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but you can see it starting to take shape already. It makes me want to create a World Tree crochet pattern at some point.

I’ve gotten three book reviews just about done and ready to go live. I need to get some more reading done this week to try and catch up on #200Books. I’ve only read 17 books so far in 2019 and it’s already almost April!

I managed a nap today. My energy level tanked after I popped out to the store for my Darling Wife for something. I also made the terrible mistake of going to the grocery store without having eaten anything first. I came home with two cans of bean-less hot dog chili and some Morning Star Farms “chicken” bits, which I was delighted to discover only have about four carbohydrates per serving! There are many times where I miss being a vegetarian, so I’m always glad when I can skip meat.

The last two or three days have been pretty high on the aching bones scale. Mostly my hips today, but that could be because I lack a proper office chair at home and end up sitting like a pretzel on the couch rather than at my home desk? But rent comes before silly things like that, so it’s a non-priority this week. I’ve tried stretching and such, but I just feel as if I am wound tightly.

That’s the general on the physical stuff. Mental health-wise… I’m not doing great. I’ve been fairly transparent about that, but it still feels like I’m just complaining and not actually doing anything about it. But the thought of therapy makes me exceedingly nauseous. And while I’ve sort of settled into the acceptance stage of my Bipolar 1 diagnosis that kicked off this whole damn blog to begin with, I am not nor likely shall I ever be happy about it. I also feel like my psychologist isn’t listening to me when I tell her I’ve been diagnosed ADD/ADHD since the gorram ’90s. She’s also the one that told me seven year old children can’t have depression. I’m fairly certain that she is wrong as I have. I also know that I have PTSD from the various sexual abuse I have survived since the age of five.

I’m still adjusting to the Abilify. In all honesty, I can’t say that I have noticed it making a difference? But then again, I haven’t been using a mood tracker at all. So maybe I should do that. I have a follow up with Dr. Bee in about a week and a half now.

Also, I just have to say that it is just hellaciously frustrating for mental health doctors to be as obtuse and ignorant of listening to patients as physical doctors can be. I know my mind. I know when I am being manic. I know when I am dealing with hypergraphia or a depressive downswing. I’ve dealt with suicidal urges since the age of eight. Read that again for me: eight. This pain in the ass lump of fat and neuro-transmitters piloting my malfunctioning meatbag is frustrating as hell. I want to do so many things. And I feel like I can’t.

Regarding the suicidal urges: I recently read something, an article, that said it wasn’t that the person themselves that wants to die. They want something in their life or in their mind to die. Mayhap I’ll ponder on that for a while; see if I can figure out what it is I want to unpack and leave behind in the metaphoric backpack of my issues.

Oh, and fuckya-very-much Mercury Retrograde for screwing over my laptop! Nothing says “fun” like hard drive errors, right? Thankfully, I have people in my life that are a glitter wand away from being a fairy godparent, basically. Someone had a spare bit of amazing tech they weren’t using. The charge cord is a brat, but after some bargaining, prayer, and flipping the damn thing the bird, we got her going. And bonus! Where I work affords me a free copy of Microsoft Office Suite!

I’ll still cloud save everything I can so situations like the precarious retrieval of old photos from the current death rattling laptop do not occur again. I literally would be creatively crippled without a laptop. Which, I then immediately feel guilty for having such a first-world problem.

Now, I remember nights half my lifetime ago. The summer I turned sixteen and we were straight up homeless. The nights where I would not-so-secretly sneak into the business center of Anthony House Homeless Shelter after curfew and use their computers to type up stories or homework. This was only allowed when the husband and wife security guard team was on shift; later in life I realized they were hella pagan and knew that my ‘research books’ by Silver RavenWolf were anything but what I said they were. And they were likely the ones who called Child Protective Services on my mother that summer. Either that or the woman who called herself my sister, Regina. While Anthony House was hell on earth, there are a scarce few I miss. But that is not a trip down memory I need to make tonight, beyond that one anecdote.

Ma, if you’re reading this: for fuck’s sake, write your life story down. I’ll pay for an editor myself if I have to. It needs to be told.

Anyway, I have the last review to finish and I need to run through the shower before I go to bed. Take your meds. Write your story. Hydrate.

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