Tuesday, February 15, 2011

I Know I Posted Once Already Today...

but can we just talk about the term "liberal elitism?" Where in the FUCK did that come from?

Helloooo, Republicans, when you look at the top 2% of America's wealth, are you seeing a lot of Democrats or other social-justice inclined folk at the top?


You see a lot of cracker-ass white menfolk who get off on controlling most of America's wealth and treading all over women, especially those of color and of lower-income.


Pennyroyal Tea

Goddamnit, dude.

I've gone through fifteen-odd years of therapy, and not once, once, during that time did anyone stop and think, gee, maybe this girl's got a case of the PTSDs.


I'll grant that it's a relatively new diagnosis (not disorder, cause I'm sure it's been around for a very long time), but STILL. And I'm even mad at myself a little, for not recognizing that my symptoms so closely align with it.

I think that's why I never ended up doing psychology as a second major...apparently, professors of Abnormal Psych make a point of saying that students should not diagnose themselves because they probably don't have said disorders.

Well, I do.

I finally, FINALLY seen a psychiatrist to get on mood stabilizers, but the whole experience was jarring--it was at a different office than the website online told me, and the office would not PICK UP THEIR GODDAMN PHONE, and the lady at the place I went to that was the wrong place was rude, condescending, and all-around unfeeling. Betch.

So I sat in my car babbling and crying to myself, desperately trying to get a hold of SOMEONE, but everyone in the world wouldn't answer their phone. And honestly, this kind of thing could happen to anyone, but my mental and emotional states are so precarious that the littlest thing is generally the worst thing that has ever happened EVER. And it's frustrating, because I know I come off as melodramatic, but the way I feel and experience things is so goddamn visceral, and that thing in your brain that tells you not to overreact to things is virtually nonexistent in mine.

The psychiatrist man, who I really loved because he seemed like he was definitely a part of 60s counterculture, prescribed me an anti-psychotic. Which made my brain go O.o because I have never considered myself to be psychotic, just excessively unwell. But then he was all, no, it's cool, it's a dumb name, it just means that it will slow your thinking (in a good way) and help stabilize your moods and sleep.

To which I was all, okay.

Problem is that these types of medications take up to two months to kick in. So I says, "Bro, I can't wait that long."

And he says, "Cool, we'll give you this thing that's effective super fast, and then taper you off to the thing that isn't fast but more effective." And then I was irritated that he didn't give me ritalin.

So right now I am spacey as hell, tired for no reason, grumpy, headachey and nauseated, but I'm hoping that all this will magically go away within a week. Getting chemically balanced is something that I've always aspired to, which is an odd thing to say, let alone aspire to, but when you've got the family history I do, just barely scraping by the normal scale is ballin' as shit.

I read back through this and I think it mostly doesn't make sense. And I used the weirdest phrases. -_-

Saturday, February 5, 2011

CapitalismSMASH v. Kitten Poster Staring Contest

It's a frustrated thing, this disease, this disorder, because at any given moment I'm at one of two extremes. I can do either ALL the things, or nothing at all. There are days when I can singlehandedly dismantle capitalism, de-institutionalize religion, outlaw patriarchy, read Foucault's "History of Madness" as a backdrop for my comp and run a triathalon; there are also days where my mind and body are so crippled from exhaustion that anything beyond lying in bed and staring at a kitten poster is physically impossible.

Yet there are times of in-between too, times when I am neither crippled nor extraodinary, just average, run-of-the-mill, normal--by my standards, at least. These are the moments I cherish the most, the mundane and everyday. They are also the most hurtful, I think. Hurtful? Painful, I guess, is a better way to describe it. Because I know it will go away and I will be extreme again, I will do everything or nothing, and I will not be a normal girl anymore.

I will be me again.

I will be mad.

And the madness will take its proverbial toll.