Facing The Hard Shit

I haven't been posting.  Not on here. Barely on Twitter or FB.  And mostly not about anything important.  Because the things in my head are scary.  Very scary.

I have been on the Risperdal for a little over a month now.  Is it making a difference?  I honestly don't know.  I sleep better.  Which is a plus.  But my moods?  I feel like if anything I'm just cycling more rapidly.  Me alone with P at home is just a disaster.  I don't have the energy to play with him.  When he cries or fusses I can barely handle it.  My mom seems aware of this and runs to him the second he is crying and I've gone to hide in the garage and smoke.  It's humiliating.  I feel as though I should be grateful...but I feel like a horrid mother.

We have made improvements in him sleeping in the crib though and the night time bottle is a thing of the past.  Well, the bedtime bottle.  Trying to use water only in the middle of the night, but that is still a work in progress.  But having the bed to myself is a catch 22.  Hubby is away a lot of the week working so he doesn't have to commute.  Which leaves me alone.  Which is BAD.  But necessary.  So the bed is empty.  Probably going to find myself sleeping on the couch.

When he is home, it means we have the bed to myself, which is a whole other can of worms.  I am numb.  And yet, he takes care of me.  There is always some outside opinion that thinks he doesn't.  He isn't super demonstrative in front of others.  But he pulls up information on insurance if we can figure out how to afford it so I can get in to see the doctors I really should be seeing to get me stabilized.  He is completely on board with me taking an extended trip to New England and the Midwest with P (scary scary scary) even though that means he may not see us for weeks.  But I need to get out.

I am trying to figure out ways to get out of the house.  So this tiny apartment is not as neat as I would like.  Sometimes as much as 4 days a week I stay up with our friend Tattoo Guy (TG) at his house while Hubby is there.  So...nothing gets done here.  I'm wasting money on food and gas.  So now, when I grocery shop, I plan to freeze and can so that the fresh stuff doesn't go to waste.  It's a project, right?  But when I'm there, it's like having a family to care for.  3 kids who adore me, TG who adores me, learning to tattoo, getting ink, photography projects...all things that give me motivation and I enjoy doing.

I need to find a job.  But I don't feel I can work right now.  I had a meltdown so bad the other day I scared TG into tears.  I am a fucking wreck.  I have come close a couple times to taking my uninsured ass to the ER and asking to be admitted.  Yes, it's that bad.  Talking about it makes me cry more.  Without a job we are fucked for insurance.  I NEED insurance.  I NEED to go to County Assistance and apply for food stamps and CHIP for P.  I NEED to get myself better.

I am hoping this trip helps.  A little of the old me getting out and living on the road.  I can't go back to the type of job I had before.  I know this.  I don't really qualify for the ones I would like.  So what the fuck do I do?  It's become obvious that what I do with my days to bring home the bacon very strongly affects my ability to function with my condition.  My good days often occur because I am doing something for someone else.  I.e. avoiding my own shit.  This is not healthy. I take my meds.  I barely make it through the day without Ativan.  I am up to 200mg Zoloft.  And yes, I self medicate with wine.  Because I can't seem to stay calm enough, numb enough otherwise.

Today my anxiety was flaring up...so I shoved my lip rings back in after 8 months.  It hurt.  It worked.  Better than a knife, right?

The last time I was this bad...2 years ago, post IF dx meltdown, I was on paid leave.  No child to care for, depending on me, crying for me.  Days to myself.  I could take care of myself.  Now?  It's so much harder.  I don't know how to heal.  I don't know how to conquer the monsters in my head.  The pain in my heart.

It's not just ONE thing.  I can't just say, "oh, it's this or it's that."  It's so much I feel like I'm drowning.  And right now...it's scary.  I still have such baby pangs every time I hear a pg announcement.  Ummm, hello?  I can't handle this child.  I am cuckoo for cocoa puffs!  But my god I want to be pregnant again.  Which takes money.  A job.  Insurance.  SANITY.  Who am I kidding?  I don't think it will happen.  And honestly, could I handle 2 small children?  Perhaps...if we ever figure out a way to get me functional.

I hate being me.  I hate living right now.  P is my reason for living.  He is why I'm alive.  I know this.  That's what I hang onto in the bad moments.  I can't fuck up his life.  Not after all the fighting to get him here.  I need to be a good mom.  I need to find a way to heal, to be "normal" so I can be that good mom.  Not a mom who goes off the deep end, who can't be dependable, who does crazy things.

One day at a time.  That is all I can do right now.  Barely.

I have support.  I have people I can call, can go to if I feel I am going to do something stupid.  I have more holes I can repierce...yay pain.  TG will tat me until he turns blue in the face.  Tatting him helps.  It gives me focus.  But none of these things move me forward.

I alternate between wanting to stay in bed all day (not possible), scream and cry and beat my head and fists against something or someone (ummm, did that the other day...stopped because I freaked him out), and wanting, honestly, to just not BE anymore.  I want to feel physical pain because it takes it out of my chest for a short time.

I am sick.  I know this.  I don't know how, in our situation, to fix this.  I am just trying not to fuck up more.  To not hurt people.  To not REALLY hurt myself.

Coming on here, admitting some of this...it's very difficult.  Putting out there some of what goes through my mind.  Well, sort of.  Putting out there how much I am struggling.  It's hard.  It's scary.  It's embarassing.

I know this began as an IF blog.  But I've addressed other things as well.  And, well, the focus has changed somewhat.  My IF is still quite obviously an issue for me, one that is certainly a factor in the crazy.  But I can't hide.  I shouldn't be ashamed.  I shouldn't feel I need to hide.  My story...it's not unusual.  It's not anything like that.  It's all too common.  And hiding...it makes it worse.  Just like IF.  Putting it out there, being open and honest...it gives it a face.  It means that maybe, just maybe, someone will read this and know they aren't alone.  And it means I document it.  That can only help.  To have it somewhere.  To have acknowleged it.